Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

kind of person who will then create a new kind of art, acircle of creation that is only now just beginning. It is athrilling moment to be alive! And though I yearn romanticallyfor the classic films of the Forties, I know that they cannever be reproduced since their era is as gone as theDepression, World War II and the national innocence whichmade it possible for Pandro S. Berman and a host ofothers to decorate the screens of tens of thousands ofmovie theatres with perfect dreams. There was awholeness then which is lacking now and neither AlainResnais nor Andy Warhol (the only film-makers ofcomparable stature today) can give us work which is nothopelessly fragmented. I except always \Varhol's SleepingMan, which broke new ground aesthetically and proved aradical theory I had always held but dared not openlyformulate: that boredom in the arts can be, under the rightcircumstances, dull. I find it altogether too satisfying to besitting beside Mary-Ann in the audience that has beenassembled for the Art Linkletter Show. An M. C. is trying towarm us up with bad jokes. In a few minutes we shall be onthe air, performers, technicians, audience, viewers--allmade one by the magic of the tube. I find this particularshow absolutely unbearable, preferring as I do the totalelectronic effect of, let us say, Milton Berle. But I am herebecause Mary-Ann wanted me to come and I usually dowhat she wants me to do for we are now curiously united byRusty's disappearance. Of course she continues to believethat I dislike him and think him an ape, and I do nothing todisabuse her of this notion. I find almost unbearable the