There’s a new movie: “Beyond The Candelabra”. Based on the autobiographical novel about the tempestuous 6-year relationship between Liberace and his (much younger) lover, Scott Thorson.

Michael Douglas plays Liberace and Matt Damon plays his young lover. I guess these actors who have traditionally played very macho type roles, relished pushing the artistic envelope with this movie.

Liberace had a phenomenal talent and technique for the piano. What he did not have or deliberately chose to avoid was taste. He could easily have had a major classical career, but was instead drawn to the theatrical and the bigger money. His music was like his wardrobe and his homes – ornate, garish, cloying and so sentimental it made my teeth grind. I didn’t dislike him personally. I was just not a fan of his act.

During his time it was very damaging to be known as gay, so he never came out. He had a huge fan base among middle-aged and older women and he didn’t want to alienate them. I have to guess they were as knowledgeable and sophisticated as a raw potato. How could they not know he was gay?

I won’t be watching this movie and one reason is that I think this particular affair was very painful for him. I’m not into watching pain of this kind. I think he was a tragic figure, and was probably ill used by his various friends.

About my Kindle, it is hard to find library books I want to read that don’t have a waiting list, or that are available for the Kindle format. I am resisting buying electronic books. Because I had to wait for what I really wanted, I decided to try E. L. Doctorow, thinking he is famous and acclaimed and I might have a new experience. He spends the first 30 pages or so explaining the why and how of the insights that led to this book. Tedious doesn’t begin to describe his thinking. I couldn’t follow his convoluted thought processes, his logic eluded me, and eventually I came to the conclusion that it was excruciatingly self-involved and egocentric. Or maybe I am just not the intellectual I need to be to read him properly. I went on to the play itself and put the book down after three pages. I think if his writing were a painting, it would be by Hieronymous Bosch.

Many years ago I read The Magus by John Fowles. This book has been critically acclaimed. I remember almost nothing about it except that it is set on a Greek island. I hated the ending so much I threw the book across the room.

Then I read Sophie’s Choice. I put it down after about 40 pages because I didn’t believe in the motivation of any of the characters. Moreover, the narrator, the hanger-on, enthralled with Sophie and her sick-o lover, was very annoying. One wanted to scream at him, get out of there and get a life.

After those experiences, I spent the next 40 years reading biographies and essays and avoiding fiction. Or maybe all I needed to do was avoid the New York Times bestseller list. I only began reading fiction again when I discovered mysteries after I married Ed

Besides Doctorow, I recently tried to read Joan Didion. She never gets to the point and that drives me nuts.

There is in literature, some of the same self-congratulation one senses when someone says they love atonal music. It’s sort of “Only the ignorant cannot understand it. But I, a deeper thinker, a person of more exquisite sensitivity, I understand it and that makes me special.”

I am also reminded of an exhibit at the Brooklyn museum -- a painter used feces as his medium -- it was all the rage.

Now you know how incredibly unqualified I am to judge the arts.

xx, Teal