Following are a few of the early essays of Woody Allen. There are no late essays, because he ran out of observations. Perhaps as Allen grows older he will understand more of life and will set it down, and then retire to his bedroom and remain there indefinitely. Like the essays of Bacon, Allen’s are brief and full of practical wisdom, although space does not permit the inclusion of his most profound statement, “Looking at the Bright Side.”
Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer is perhaps the most remarkable, with the possible exception of a moose singing “Embraceable You” in spats. Consider the leaves, so green and leafy (if not, something is wrong). Behold how the branches reach up to heaven as if to say, “Though I am only a branch, still I would love to collect Social Security.” And the varieties! Is this tree a spruce or poplar? Or a giant redwood? No, I’m afraid it’s a stately elm, and once again you’ve made an ass of yourself. Of course, you’d know all the trees in a minute if you were nature’s creature the woodpecker, but then it would be too late and you’d never get your car started.
But why is a tree so much more delightful than, say, a babbling brook? Or anything that babbles, for that matter? Because its glorious presence is mute testimony to an intelligence far greater than any on earth, certainly in the present Administration. As the poet said, “Only God can make a tree”—probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.
Once a lumberjack was about to chop down a tree, when he noticed a heart carved on it, with two names inside. Putting away his axe, he sawed down the tree instead. The point of that story escapes me, although six months later the lumberjack was fined for teaching a dwarf Roman numerals.
The true test of maturity is not how old a person is but how he reacts to awakening in the midtown area in his shorts. What do years matter, particularly if your apartment is rent-controlled? The thing to remember is that each time of life has its appropriate rewards, whereas when you’re dead it’s hard to find the light switch. The chief problem about death, incidentally, is the fear that there may be no afterlife—a depressing thought, particularly for those who have bothered to shave. Also, there is the fear that there is an afterlife but no one will know where it’s being held. On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done as easily lying down.
Consider, then: Is old age really so terrible? Not if you’ve brushed your teeth faithfully! And why is there no buffer to the onslaught of the years? Or a good hotel in downtown Indianapolis? Oh, well.
In short, the best thing to do is behave in a manner befitting one’s age. If you are sixteen or under, try not to go bald. On the other hand, if you are over eighty, it is extremely good form to shuffle down the street clutching a brown paper bag and muttering, “The Kaiser will steal my string.” Remember, everything is relative—or should be. If it’s not, we must begin again.
As one goes through life, it is extremely important to conserve funds, and one should never spend money on anything foolish, like pear nectar or a solid-gold hat. Money is not everything, but it is better than having one’s health. After all, one cannot go into a butcher shop and tell the butcher, “Look at my great suntan, and besides I never catch colds,” and expect him to hand over any merchandise. (Unless, of course, the butcher is an idiot.) Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons. Not that it can buy happiness. Take the case of the ant and the grasshopper: The grasshopper played all summer, while the ant worked and saved. When winter came, the grasshopper had nothing, but the ant complained of chest pains. Life is hard for insects. And don’t think mice are having any fun, either. The point is, we all need a nest egg to fall back on, but not while wearing a good suit.
Finally, let us bear in mind that it is easier to spend two dollars than to save one. And for God’s sake don’t invest money with any brokerage firm in which one of the partners is named Frenchy.
Is it better to be the lover or the loved one? Neither, if your cholesterol is over six hundred. By love, of course, I refer to romantic love—the love between man and woman, rather than between mother and child, or a boy and his dog, or two headwaiters.
The marvelous thing is that when one is in love there is an impulse to sing. This must be resisted at all costs, and care must also be taken to see that the ardent male doesn’t “talk” the lyrics of songs. To be loved, certainly, is different from being admired, as one can be admired from afar but to really love someone it is essential to be in the same room with the person, crouching behind the drapes.
To be a really good lover, then, one must be strong and yet tender. How strong? I suppose being able to lift fifty pounds should do it. Bear in mind also that to the lover the loved one is always the most beautiful thing imaginable, even though to a stranger she may be indistinguishable from an order of smelts. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Should the beholder have poor eyesight, he can ask the nearest person which girls look good. (Actually, the prettiest ones are almost always the most boring, and that is why some people feel there is no God.)
“The joys of love are but a moment long,” sang the troubadour, “but the pain of love endures forever.” This was almost a hit song, but the melody was too close to “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
This is no fun at all, and I would recommend almost any other activity. Try visiting a sick friend. If this is impossible, see a show or get into a nice warm tub and read. Anything is better than turning up in a copse with one of those vacuous smiles and accumulating flowers in a basket. Next thing you know, you’ll be skipping to and fro. What are you going to do with the violets once you get them, anyhow? “Why, put them in a vase,” you say. What a stupid answer. Nowadays you call the florist and order by phone. Let him trip through the copse, he’s getting paid for it. That way, if an electrical storm comes up or a beehive is chanced upon, it will be the florist who is rushed to Mount Sinai.
Do not conclude from this, incidentally, that I am insensitive to the joys of nature, although I have come to the conclusion that for sheer fun it is hard to beat forty-eight hours at Foam Rubber City during the high holidays. But that is another story.
1973