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That, of course, was before he raised as much money as the vice president and began leading him not just in New Hampshire but in New York; before he put Gore on the defensive, prompting him to change everything from his clothes to the address of his headquarters. That was before respected political journalists like the Washington Post's David Broder began writing columns with headlines like script for an upset, and the Gore campaign team's disarray was repeatedly – almost luridly – displayed on the front page of The New York Times. His endorsements include those from Senators Bob Kerrey and Daniel-Patrick: Moynihan, Wall Street heavy hitters Lou Susman, managing director of Salomon Smith Barney, and Thomas Labrecque, retired chairman of Chase-Manhattan' Bank, and Lakers-coach and former Knicks teammate Phil Jackson. (“Why did he take the job with the Los Angeles Lakers? It was not-because he thinks the Lakers can be champions – it is because it’s apart of my Southern California strategy. Make no mistake about that."- Barry Diller gave him a fund-raiser in L.A.; fans as disparate as designer Tommy Hilfiger and investment tycoon Herbert Alien round up checks for him in New York. He is running a big-league campaign in every way—except stylistically. So the question now is, Will the style sell?

Bradley doesn't just want to be president; he says he wants to change the way presidential campaigns are waged. In the beginning, he conducted what amounted to a floating seminar – introducing himself to small -groups of voters: probing, pushing, _finding out what their daily - concerns were, begging for their "stories." He was, he said, putting together a "narrative," a word not often the mainstay of a stump speech. Meanwhile," he steered clear of what he cafe "contrived" settings and exchanges. In a race in which we know, for example, that George W. Bush reads the Bible every day, Bradley will not discuss religion. In a race in which we knew that Mr. Popper's Penguins was Al Gore's favorite childhood book, Bradley has-declined to "go down the road" of the favorite book. ("What if I said Crime and Punishment! People might say I identified with a killer;") After Bush flunked a reporter's pop quiz on foreign leaders, the same reporter sprang a similar quiz on Bradley, and he simply refused to play.

It is something he does often. At the first Democratic town meeting in Concord, New Hampshire, Gore's staff distributed five press releases in 38 minutes, correcting Bradley, touting Gore. Bradley barely bothered to dispute Gore's estimate of what Bradley's own health-care package would cost. After Bradley's performance that night, Bob Woodward said he communicated a "presidential, almost Olympian calm." But Bradley is a bred competitor (former Boston Celtic John Havlicek says he still has his old opponent's handprints on his backside); it is more than calm he's demonstrating—it's an act of will. "It requires some discipline, yes," Bradley tells me one afternoon in Davenport, Iowa, scraping soup out of a plastic container. "You always can resort to the elbows, but you make a judgment about what the politics of our time needs and what you can offer. You wanna win, but you wanna win in a certain way."

He is, he says in almost every speech, trying to "respect people" by running a "positive campaign." That he is trying to save his "outrage for those things that I want to change," and his ‘ingenuity to try and figure out, how do we get everybody to see that we’ve got to head in the same direction?’’Vogue,12.1999.

6. A charmed circle

I’m in the wig room. For those of you who don’t have one, it is a small room where footmen powdered your, or more likely your husband's, wig. The house was built in 1588", so there are many such nooks and crannies, just perfect for me, the spy. So many young mothers are spies. They have to be, watching their child covertly, for clues, for signals, for some way to comprehend what is going on in that secret new bundle of nerve ends, tender flesh, brains, and biology that we almost inadvertently create over a long nine months.

I’m in the wig room, putting away linen. It might be a charming image – a young matron, keys at her waist – but in fact I'm in a froth of rage about the whole business of being a mother. What I want back is what I was, as archetypal mother/writer Sylvia Plath put it, “before the bed, before the knife, before the brooch and the salve fixed me in this parenthesis.”

I have three babies at this time, and I love them. At first they were adorable, noisy blobs; now, somehow, worryingly, they are fast growing into people with wills of steel, and there are times – and this is one of them – when I want not to be a mother ever again. For a start, I didn’t realize that they were going to be there forever. I thought in my innocence that you could, as it were, dip into babies, and I remember once at the very beginning driving into Bath and realizing as I parked that I had a tiny baby and she was sleeping in an empty house some 20 miles away. I had work to do. Writing. And she wouldn't let me.

The wig room is off the nursery, which has a big old window seat, like in Jane Eyre, and Rose and Daisy, two of my three daughters, are sitting there. I know this not because I have seen them, but because they have come in together, talking, intimate, and something about their tone, the urgency of their words, has made me freeze. Rose is six; Daisy is five. I know in my mind's eye how they look on the seat, blonde heads soldered together, their earnest, beautiful faces turned to each other, two philosophers with fat little lips.

I am famished by love of my daughters. How did this happen? Motherhood had always been an uninviting prospect to me. I'd had enough of the receiving end. The word mother carried a message I didn't want to hear-or repeat. Trammeled lives, little cruelties, a turntable of defeating busyness, and no joy in sight. I watched my own mother to make sure I would not become like her, though I was sure there was a dark angel ahead waiting to drop her image over me like a second skin turning me into the Mother. It seemed to me there was no way of escaping the destiny of repetition. So, easy answer, I would not become one.

And yet here I was, a mother of three stacking up fine linen and feeling a wedge being driven into my heart so that I could almost feel it creaking apart. I didn't know at the time that these wedges are necessary to widen the heart up, since it has either to widen or to break. I was in a rage because I wanted to have my life of such a short time before back, back to when I was a free woman, an adventurous spirit, an editor at Vogue and a protegee of Diana Vreeland – back when a heart was a Chanel motif, to be worn on the sleeve, a bauble outlined in diamonds.

I first met Vreeland in 1964, when I was nineteen and working as features editor at Vogue in London. The offices were open-plan, with partitions and bookcases at shoulder height, and so I first saw her as this extraordinary apparition, gliding along above the level of the filing cabinets. Then she swung round the corner between the cabinets and stood there burnished and shining in front of me like an Aztec goddess, with that unique stance that Cecil Beaton has famously described: “the Vreeland medieval slouch, pelvis thrust forward to an astonishing degree and the torso above it sloping backwards at a 45-degree angle.” Enormous stretched red canyon of a mouth; high, red cheeks; black-on-black lacquered hair; edge and cut and glitter; slanting eyes that missed nothing, nothing to do with the body, and as I came to know, missed many a thing to do with the soul. She came to a standstill in front of me, her retinue behind juddering to a stop. Her eyes swooped about, editing what she was seeing into what she wanted it to look like. I sat transfixed.

I'd joined Vogue only a short time before, and my first article, about the playwright John Osborne, had just been published. His seminal play, Look Back in Anger, had changed British theater at one blow. He'd become an icon, worshiped and loathed in equal measure. So when I wrote to ask for an interview, I didn't have much hope that he'd give one. It never occurred that I could actually have access to one of my great heroes. I'd as soon see Shelley plain or say hello to-Balzac. But I got a sweet note back suggesting we meet for lunch; we talked all afternoon. And then, ten a cable came into the office that I have still pinned to my heart. It simply said, “Osborne/Devlin text superb.$500 for first American rights. D.V.” In my lingo, D. V. meant Deo volonte, “God willing.” Something we were taught in convent school always to use when speaking or writing of the future, presumably to preempt presumption. That first, enabling cable was from Diana Vreeland, and I loved her for it.

My stock rose within the London office, since American Vogue rarely lifted pieces from other magazines in the Conde Nast family. I was puffed up with pride, but the pride was as nothing compared with the prospect of $500 for those mysterious first American rights. Five hundred dollars then was the equivalent of six months’ salary, but it was much more than that to me. It was a recognition that could write, that my writing was worth something, that people would pay to read it. And now here was the reality of “God willing” in front of me, talking nineteen the dozen and offering me a job at American Vogue.

I'd read Vogue avidly since I was a young girl in a remote part of Ireland, 1eading such an atavistic life that turning those glossy pages was like accessing an archive from the future.

The past hung around Ireland like a shroud, and Vogue was gleaming and shining and soaring. The world of Vogue was so brightly lit - everything was illuminated, the shine on a string of pearls, the gleam on the curve of a cheek, the sheen on a satin ball dress. At home, shine was the sun on the lake, the reflection of brass harness on a horse's neck, the gleam of leaves in the chestnut tree. In Vogue, there were articles on cars as fashion accessories. At home, there were only two cars in the district, the priest's jalopy and ours. The world of Vogue sparkled night and day—flashlights, footlights, headlights. At home at night, the silence was palpable, the darkness profound.

The world of Vogue under Diana Vreeland, as I came to know it, was all invention, eclecticism, and style. The world I had come from knew nothing of invention; everything was old, organic, decaying—a place I think she'd have been amazed to know still existed, a culture on the brink of extinction, the ragged ends of a dispensation that had lasted for centuries. The world of the horse and cart, of silence and lapping water, dark colors that didn't show the dirt, religion and madness. Trapped in this Irish world, I had entered the Vogue talent contest and won it, which was how I had landed on the staff a year later.

Diana Vreeland showed me how to reinvent myself, though I'm sure nothing could have been further from her mind: She wasn't interested in me personally - indeed, I don't think I ever met anyone less interested in the person behind the persona. She loved surface, and I learned from her the great art of invention; that to be inventive with your life is creative; that invention has nothing to do with truth or lies but is a means of escape, a means to change places, to break a pattern. She taught me such a valuable lesson that I didn't know its worth until much later in life: that to dream, to reach out, to be unashamed of how you are, never mind who you are, to aim for the unreachable, is essential, that there is no such thing as ordinary.

But of course one of the things that made her extraordinary was that she never tried to be fantastical or larger than life. It was all-natural to her, if the word natural could ever have been used-with-in her aura. She said, “I figure that if I like something, the rest of the world will like it, too. I think I have an absolutely solid ordinary point of view.” True eccentrics do think that. They think they are perfectly normal. Perfect, yes. Normal, no.-She possessed all kinds of arcane knowledge, yet she never went to the person behind the image. She didn't want to; she didn't want to be disturbed. I was always amazed when I remembered she was a mother and a wife and heard that she adored her children.

I am silent in the small room. I hear Daisy ask Rose, her elder sister by a year, therefore an oracle and Delphic in her pronouncements: “Rose; what would you do if you had a mother like mine?”' I carefully, carefully close the old door and try not to rustle with laughter, with love, with the understanding that I have heard a profound question. I have hearer for the first time the word mother used in connection with me, as a definition of myself. For all my laughter, I understand that I have also heard on of life's great truths; that every child in the same family has indeed a different mother. I know I am an irreconcilably different character to each of my three, and that this brings problems. I know, too, that whatever else happened to me in that journey – short in time but infinite in compass – between me on the; eighteenth" floor of the Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue and me here in the nursery, I have broken the motherhood! pattern laid down for me. Or at least broken it down enough to have given Daisy the power to think she could “do” something about me. In that earlier dispensation, adults, parents were monolithically immutable – children were powerless. That went without saying. You suffered in silence or in sobs. Yet here was Daisy talking with a hint of brisk killer instinct that warned me I'd better change my ways. And my ways, it transpired, was the amount of time I still devoted to writing for Vogue. Because although I'd left, I still did work for it, and this necessitated my leaving home. I wondered how Diana Vreeland had dealt with the perennial problem. I didn't know then her history, or her history as she told it, of a mother who, she surmised, died at 55 because she could find nothing more to interest her. “She was quite young and beautiful and amusing and mondaine and splashy,” Diana Vreeland said, “all of which I'm glad I had in my background – now. But I've had to live a long time to come to that conclusion.” Diana Vreeland was magic. She sometimes called it fantaisie, sometimes called it faking it – “the most intoxicating release from the banality of the world.” But if you believed in her, it rubbed off on you. I never quite believed in her, but I recognized my luck in working for her, though she was daunting. Not that I exactly did work for her, since I was in the features department, a separate world, a kind of unnecessary adjunct to fashion. I was poised between the two departments – no, I wasn't, I was never poised in my life, I was on a hamster wheel between them – and I had lunch with Diana Vreeland when she wanted me to do something for her side of the dunes.

For someone who had lately arrived from a world where the rule of thumb for decoration was “kitchens is brown and landings is buff,” Diana Vreeland's office was a visual education. A big black-lacquer desk, a leopard-skin carpet, leopard-skin upholstery, and scarlet walls covered in images she had culled, including the notice EVERYONE LOVES A LORD. The floor was awash with spreads for the next issue. Here was a woman who had a map of her desk so that everything on it would always be exactly in the same place. At lunch, I would try to order something I could eat unobtrusively, and she'd tell me what she wanted. No, she wouldn't. She'd emote, and I'd try to guess.

“They wa-a-a-de deep into the Thames,” she said without preamble, “and turn them up. The turners-up are dressed in a certain costume, a livery. They stamp their bottoms—and my God that causes quite a flurry. I believe they all are in-the queen's gift.”

The sandwich between my teeth became intractable. I tried for clues. I said, “Boats?”

“Well, I don't think they use boats,” she-said. “I think they use a – not exactly a hook – a crosier.”

It must be bishops, I thought. Bishops are appointed by the queen. And they do have lovely costumes and pink frocks. But having their bottoms stamped…? Does she mean “smacked”? In the Thames? Some kind of baptism? Total immersion?

“Bishops?” I ventured. “An article on bishops?”

“That's a good idea,” she said. “That wonderful pink. You can only get it in a little shop in the Vatican City where they sell the cardinals' silk stockings. But we need to get the Swan Upping article first.” Swan Upping turned out to take place once a year on the Thames at Maidenhead, when liveried men did indeed “turn lip” the swans and mark them as possession of the queen. Vreeland commissioned Snowdon to take the Swan Upping photographs and saw all this and more as the cutting edge of fashion.

I worked for her for two years. Then, suddenly, I was married and soon after, from having a future that belonged only to me I became irrevocably linked to three solipsistic baby beauties who had no idea that I existed outside of their needs. From an apartment on Eighty-eighth Street next door to the Guggenheim, I found myself in deepest Gloucestershire with a husband and three babies without practice or training. They had no practice, and I had no training. They grew up in a flash that still dazzles my perceptions and illuminates my life. I remember I devised a fairly simple method of memorizing particular moments. I would look hard at three blonde heads over a book – or a four-year-old Rose in yellow sou'wester and little else running through the rain, Bay in a tutu that didn't fit, Daisy solemn in a lilac negligee – and register the mental snapshot. I have only to close my eyes, and those images are there, my lost children, running away from me. I know those children. I know all about them.

Where are they? Well, Daisy is working for Vogue, forging her own future, living the circle that binds us together in its lovely and ratifying spin. I believe in magic. We all have extraordinary powers, if only we could access them. One way of accessing them is to be happy. One sign of the magic of happiness is how things connect, of how you do one thing that seems arbitrary at the time and then turns out to be the first and most necessary step in a process that leads to fulfillment. So much is circular. Vogue lay in my past, I thought, but it was streaming through my future, and that child who was pondering the vexed question of what to do about me was already connected to Vogue.

I see Daisy now and yet continually also see her as she has been through all the stages of her life. I see her different ages, different sizes, image superimposed on image, growing up in an endless shadow play, always herself in all her different manifestations, one melding into the other, a magma, an archaeological dig that only I can turn up. And yet she could always escape me. The child who asked what could yon do with a mother like me saw that I was a spy and took her own measures. She silently slipped away, withdrew from the tempestuous encounters endemic to the rest of the family.

Do you know that poem by Seamus Heaney about the hare?

Choose one set of tracks and track a hare

Until the prints stop just like that in snow.

End of the line. Smooth drifts, where did she go?

Back on her tracks, of course and then took a spring

Yards off to the side; clean break; no scent or sign.

Daisy was like that; all the evidence of her was there. Room like an ice palace, possessions in place. But the impeccable girl had sprung. I think about her all the time. Does she remember what it was like to cry passionately over a sad story, to mourn a dead bird, to lie awake dreaming of hunting with her pony?

What goes around comes around. I remember showing a beautiful-limned big-eyed silent young girl with hair like a polished blade around the Vogue offices in the Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue. Her name was Anna Wintour. She is now Daisy's editor. I doubt if she would remember. But the fact that the circles are so clean and fitting is a sign of hope to me, a sign that we are all linked, that the magic that is coincidence and synchronicity works, that the world is not an arbitrary place.

I recently came across an article Daisy had written for a newspaper. She hadn’t bothered to tell me. In it, she wrote, “I wonder at our shared blood. I pore over photographs of her, not just at the way she looks, but to try to gain some sense of her. It still mystifies me that she bore me, that we are of the same ilk.” I am glad I am no longer the oracle or the know-nothing, neither the solution nor the problem, neither the dispenser of justice nor the very opposite. Where once I went ahead, and they followed, I now follow in their footsteps, an old page to their young Saint Wenceslas. I have all the time in the world and all the space I need. And at some level, I want to be back in the wig room to see them on the window seat discussing what to do about the most important person in their world. I telephone to ask her how she is, She’s in her new office, in Times Square. I am looking out at a fox stalking across a field. There's no one at the magazine who remembers me. Except her. My daughter, who works at Vogue. Vogue, 12.2000

7. People are talking about books.

What happens when smart, ambitious female writers marry smart, combative male writers? Good books, bad marriages.

Or so would appear the lesson of David Laskin’s illuminating new book Partisans: Marriage, Politics, and Betrayal Among the New York Intellectuals (Simon and Schuster). Focusing on the women of The Partisan Review, the magazine that started in 1934 and for the next three decades reigned as New York’s most influential journal, Laskin brings a fresh perspective to the lives, careers, loves, and marriages of such literary legends as Vassar grad and the Group author Mary McCarthy, novelist and essayist Elizabeth Hardwick, and Boston Adventure author and Pulitzer Prize – winner Jean Stafford.

Of course, they didn’t sleep their way into the boy’s club of the PR, but rather were published and listened to because of the quality of their writing and the acuity of their opinions; yet the women in McCarthy circle were what Laskin calls “sexual adventures”. Indeed, they racked up numerous – and some overlapping – lovers, many of whom were editors and writers for the PR. McCarthy and Hardwick both slept with PR editor Philip Rahv; both Stafford and Hardwick were married to Boston aristocrat and poet laureate Robert Lowell. And get this: It was her then – boyfriend Rahv who first sent McCarthy out to have drinks with critic Edmund Wilson to try to woo him for the magazine. Eventually Wilson did, but not before he had bedded and wedded McCarthy.

Given that all of these marriages between men and women of letters were veritable knock-you-out cocktails of ambition, talent, and passion, it’s unsurprising that they would be ruinously affected by intellectual and sexual competitiveness. As McCarthy once told an interviewer, “There is no real equality in sexual relationships – someone always wins.” Laskin concedes, “even in a marriage of well-matched literary luminaries, one career usually takes precedence over the other. Rivalry poisons the atmosphere or smothers one or another’s flame.”

Laskin also suggests that the era in which these intellectuals were living and loving played a huge role in their marital dissolutions: “Lowell and the literary men of their generation were all bigamists of a sort and their marriages broke under the weight of their double desires, for the women they married could never play both parts [that of wife and of writer] and hold on to their sanity. Either they drank and cracked up, like Jean Stafford; or They divorced and had affairs, like Mary McCarthy; or they toughed it out for as long as they could stand it, only to be chucked in the end, like Hardwick.” Not only did Lowell leave Hardwick for another woman, he doubled the blow by subsequently quoting entire sections of her private, desperate love letters to him in his published poems.

Stafford, McCarthy, and Hardwick. What these American women had in common besides being supremely talented and tough and “marriers to the core” is that all came to New York from disparate places to carve out lives for themselves as writers. Stafford was from Boulder, Colorado; McCarthy from Seattle; Hardwick from Lexington, Kentucky. Of course, coming to New York to be a writer wasn’t a new phenomenon when McCarthy and her group were doing it, nor is it one now. In fact, what becomes strikingly evident when you compare the women of the PR with the new wave of writers like Melissa Bank (author of The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing), Amy Sohn (Run Catch Kiss), and other practitioners of the relationships novel is that there has been a New York School of young female writers whose collective pen has focused on the relationships between men and women. A New York male school of fiction is not so easy to identify. So, in the end, Partisans not only serves as a well-researched, unobtrusively written history of a fascinating group of female writers in a prefeminist era but also sheds light on many facets of today’s writing and dating scene.

Of course, there are substantial differences between the PR’s heyday and now: Intellectual culture is probably less vibrant and certainly more diffuse today, and politics doesn’t play as much a role in the writings of our new belletrists off the bedroom. Not to mention that when today’s young New York School of female authors write about their characters’ relationships, they tend to detail the dating game itself rather than marriage. And what about the men these women fall for? They’re more likely to be bartenders, aspiring musicians, or filmmakers than critics, writers, or even McCarthy ‘s famous archetypes of The Man in the Brooks brothers Shirt. However, it is curious, though not wholly unsurprising, that the most intriguing suitor in The Girls’ Guide – and the one who sustains the protagonist’s enduring interest – is a well-regarded, aging editor who could have been around long enough to throw back a few stiff drinks with those intellectuals who once upon a time wrote and lived for The Partisans Review. – Vendela Vida. (Vogue December 1999).

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