Even better than back at Columbia, a parade of actual saints now begins streaming by, almost three thousand of them—you really cannot fail to invite even one saint—from the early martyrs Peter and Paul and Stephen, referred to as “the Jew,” thought to be the first Christian martyr, beating out Paul; to better-knowns including Teresa of Ávila, Thomas Becket of Canterbury, and Joan of Arc; to the more obscure, ranging from the virgin Bega, patron of bracelets; Guy of Anderlecht, patron of bad business deals; and Nicholas Owen, patron of basements; followed by the last saint to strut in, the virgin Lutgardis, who rejoiced in losing her sight as a God-given means of detaching her from the distractions of the visible world. (I’m not sure that was such a great idea.) For this party, she strides by confidently, without aid. The parade would normally have lasted a full day, but time for now is elastic—the clocks calibrated not by hours but in units of serenity.
There’s no need for speeches on multiculturalism or political correctness at this affair because everyone was invited, and why not? The invitees have all meant something to me, even if I am not always aware of just what it is. In fact, in most cases I am definitely unaware, but the way I see it, that may be irrelevant to their meaning for my life. Which is probably the significance of the thousands of holy bodhisattvas and pratyekabuddhas who file in after the saints. They are followed by the quite extensive cast of the Bhagavad Gita, by the Jewish sages and assorted rebbes (disputing so loudly with each other that you can hardly hear the music), by crowds of bˉo-san from medieval Japan holding beggars’ bowls, by the many spirit gods of old Egypt (a really motley crew), by a huge crowd of gods of the hearth from ancient Rome and gods from pretty much everywhere else in the ancient world (there is even a squirrel spirit from Scandinavia, Loki), and by all manner of other religious luminaries from around the world and across time.
The whole Mount Olympus gang is here. An ancient Greek Chorus has popped up, in full throat—somewhat to the annoyance of many of the guests. Joshua and Moses are among the many eminences who have chosen to participate as well.
Four Sues are here: the one from sixth grade, still ignoring me; the one from high school who finally acknowledged me; the one at our wedding; and, of course, the Sue of today. All the old friends from the Buffalo block have come, too, as well as many other dear friends from my life. Barack Obama, a young revolutionary in his own way, chats with another one, Alexander Hamilton, as they pose with Arthur, Jerry and me—Columbia alums all—for a photograph by Edward Steichen. And while I’m on the subject of Columbia alums, that pinstripe uniform I see across the ballroom with number 3 on the back could be only Lou Gehrig.
Also here: Michael Bloomberg, as gifted at governance and business as he is magnanimous in philanthropy; Justice William Brennan, in so many ways wisdom personified; David Rockefeller, who showed me how to carry myself; President Lyndon Johnson, my former boss in the White House, who bobbled a war but otherwise changed America for the better in many ways; my cherished friend and neighbor, Marty Ginsburg; Herman Wouk, who generously partook of our Jewish heritage with me and who refused to autograph his book Winds of War for six provincial governors from the People’s Republic of China at a dinner in my home because it was the Sabbath; both Paul Simons, the senator and the singer; a zany Rhodes Scholar friend from our Oxford days; Mike, a reader of mine at Harvard Law School, who personified the nation’s terrible tensions of the bottom half of the twentieth century.
I see Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who administered the marriage oath at the wedding of my Kathryn: “By the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States…” Her beautiful human qualities, her intellect and greatness of spirit, are shared by another guest who has honored us by coming, Vice President Al Gore—the two also sharing more than their just due of heartbreaks. And there’s President George Washington himself, complimenting Justice Ginsburg on her omission of the usual word “respectfully” from her historic “I dissent” in Bush v. Gore, and praising Vice President Gore, too, for honorably declining to press his case after the decision went against him.
President Clinton, who appointed Justice Ginsburg to the Supreme Court and convinced Vice President Gore to be his running mate, is hurrying this way as well, beaming with pride.
Now that I have moved on to towering presences, there’s Ford’s Theatre itself, dark and empty just as it was on that memorable day when I stood in the fatal box where Abraham Lincoln had been shot and felt down to my soul a strong connection with him, truly a mystic chord.
The Wizard of Oz original cast and L. Frank Baum are here (Tik-Tok is buzzing around), along with Jimmy Stewart, Bambi, Boris Karloff, Bette Davis, E.T., Marlon Brando, Beyoncé, all the Lassies, Billy Wilder, Edward G. Robinson, Ella Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, and W. C. Fields twisting the ear of a sniffling Baby LeRoy.
Julius Caesar, his ribs covered with bandages, is going over some maps with Alexander the Great. Others I spot: Cyrus the (yet another) Great; Booker T. Washington; Maurice Ravel (a special invite for him in honor of his Mother Goose Suite); James Taylor and John Coltrane; Hamlet’s father, in his ghostly phase, while Polonius explains something or other to Walter Lippmann; Moctezuma, keeping
