The Cabin: Reminiscence and Diversions

by David Mamet. Vintage Press, 157 pages.

It is, I think, a glorious thing to read any essay by David Mamet, especially in a moment of disillusion. He has the ability to cut through the great chafe of life and, in a prose that is lean but never anorexic, reveal wisdom in all areas: art, lust, guns, even campaign buttons. I will probably forever remain undecided whether he is better served to be known for his plays and films or his essays: the former are more popular  and something has to be said for that. Then I read "The Cabin" for the twentieth time and I think "Hmmm...."



Although "The Cabin" is essentially a memoir, it is one without chronology or the sort of self-aware memorializing that has become the standard style. And yet in a series of unrelated essays that take us from his childhood to a summer in Quebec to the premiere of his film Homicide at Cannes, Mr. Mamet manages to whisk us through his entire life. Memorable episodes include the consumption of matzoh brai in his quest to "engage in embraces" with a young woman; his rant against music in public places; and the opening essay concerning a childhood with a family who terrorized him and his sister.

Much of the power of this book lies in the prose, which is short and blunt and doesn't waste a lot of time. Like his plays and films, the words and thoughts are deftly arranged. Yet for all the precision of the sentences, this remains a dense book that is weighted with both profound moments and self-effacing humor as he ridicules the arrogance of his younger self.  Perhaps my affinity to this work has to do with the way I identify with Mr. Mamet and many of his opinions - I too recall my arrogant past with mockery, affection and a wee bit of envy. (Arrogance, after all, is a form of ignorance and we all know what bliss that can be...)

Although I am a great fan of Mr. Mamet's work, this book always leaves me a little sad because each time I read it I am struck by the suspicion that Mr. Mamet and I will probably never be friends. Not because we will never meet, but because if we did meet, I don't know if we'd get along. We all fantasize about being best friends with those artists we admire, but I sense Mr. Mamet and I differ on a great many things. I have never owned a gun and would be miserable in a cabin in Vermont. He has this fascination with weaponry that I simply can't share. Our opinions on art are similar, so perhaps we could have a discussion on that; but that would only take an hour or two, at which point there would be an awkward silence and I would have to leave, less I confess that I have always had a tiny crush on his wife.