Vale Stoppard

Spent $160 on buying a first edition signed copy of Travesties, hopefully genuine.

I remember my first visit to London, on the way to some matinee, and walking past a rare book shop that had a signed copy of Rock N Roll, and firstly being poor enough (says the man who could afford a holiday to London and Paris) that I didn’t want to spend the 100 quid or whatever on a play that wasn’t one I was emphatically attached to, and secondly not wanting to buy an indirect signature. I prefer to have something signed for myself, for sentimental reasons. Now I will take indirect, and be grateful.

Just last month I read Lord Malquist and Mr Moon for the first time. I have a habit of not wanting to complete an oeuvre to give myself something to look forward to. A habit that becomes more dangerous with each passing year, as I progressively risk undershooting my reading rate. And what a stupid idea, honestly. Should I endeavour to get consolation from the last work of an author on my death bed, or should I enjoy the fruits of it, then the refruits, then the triggered memories and conversational possibilities of earlier osmosis?

I had been thinking for many years to send a letter, attached with my own copy of Travesties to hopefully be signed, but I never did. Something about my wanting to have made something of myself first, before sending up a flare of gratitude. And that was what it was going to be, I think. A thankfulness for a lifelong interest in theatre that might not otherwise have been.

The STC, at the wharf, had an exhibition with costumes from old shows, with an inducement to donate some money. And they had the Travesties suit of Henry Carr’s, I think? One of the suits. But way up high behind a balcony railing, where I couldn’t get a close look, or an illicit feel. Still to this day (and before this miniature expo), there is the coin bag from Rosencrantz in a perspex box on the wall.

This was how the letter would’ve started, mentioning the full circle moment of me seeing the Travesties costume, however many years later.

I wonder if there are any other works, incomplete or otherwise, that’ll rattle out over the next few years. One can only hope.

I’m finding myself waylaid in London for a fortnight next year – my fourth visit – and I’m intending to watch something – at the moment the idea is Jumpers – at the National Theatre Archives. Will hardly be up to NT Live quality, but it will be an experience nonetheless. Or The Invention of Love. If I was immensely wealthy, I fantasise about being a theatrical patron. I would fund a production of The Coast of Utopia, purely for my own selfish pleasure.

Last year, I did an around the world trip, where I went to Broadway for the first time, then London with a couple of day foray to Edinburgh, and back home. A little under three weeks. 29 shows I saw (a record I doubt I’ll beat), including The Real Thing at the Old Vic. (Better than the Sydney production.) Stoppard wasn’t involved in any of the press, so I assume he didn’t have much involvement in the production, but it’s nice to hope that he did.

Sigh.

Life moves so quickly, and now Tom Stoppard has passed on, peacefully and surrounded by family, which is all one can hope for, really. To have such a proximity of love around that you never have the chance to feel that cold draught of death on your toes.

I was thinking on a walk last month that it would be a nice idea to only have the year you were born on your gravestone. Four numbers and an eternal dash. 1937 –

Anyway.

Thank you for all the words, Sir Stoppard.