Blaise Cronin
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PRAISE FOR BLOOMINGTON DAYS
“Why did I purchase six copies of Bloomington Days for Chanukah and Christmas presents last year? Blaise Cronin’s hilarious yet affectionate words capture the bucolic surrealism of B-town for its happy inhabitants and for those misguided souls only passing through.”
Susan D. Gubar, Distinguished Professor of English, Indiana University, and author of Rooms of Our Own.
“A wonderful blend of deft writing, wit, and critical observation.”
Adelheid M. Gealt, Director, Indiana University Art Museum, and author (with George Knox) of Domenico Tiepolo: A New Testament.
“If you found Blaise Cronin's first book on Bloomington to be perceptive, witty, and a little spicy, then look forward to an escalation of all three in Bloomington Daze.”
Kenneth R. R. Gros Louis, University Chancellor and Trustee Professor, Indiana University.
“Bloomington Days blur into Bloomington Daze in this second volume by Blaise Cronin, an immigrant like many of us to Indiana University. With his native Irish wit, Blaise bursts many pretensions of both Town and Gown, as at the same time he praises what is “best of both” in Bloomington IN. For those of us who live in Bloomington and love it, I am not sure which is better or worse, to be mentioned, or not mentioned (as Oscar Wilde might have put it). But altogether it is a joy to read.”
J. Michael Dunn, Oscar R. Ewing Professor of Philosophy, Professor of Computer Science and Informatics, University Dean of Informatics, Indiana University.
“The best laconic wit from the cutting edge of Blaise Cronin.”
Professor Sir Graham Hills, University of the Highlands and Islands, former Principal & Vice Chancellor, University of Strathclyde.
Blaise Cronin was born and raised in Ireland. Trinity College Dublin and the Queen’s University of Belfast graciously granted him the degrees necessary to avoid working for a living. He came to Middle America via London (England) and Glasgow (Scotland). In one sense, he has never looked back; in another, he has never stopped looking back.
Opening night and the MAC is aglow from within. The apprentice police force, wheeled out more for experience than from necessity, is conducting the traffic with much seriousness of mien and movement. These buzz-cut Barenboims and Bernsteins of the beat have colored lights in lieu of batons, adding to, for want of a better word, the enchantment of the moment. Which brings to mind the (apocryphal?) story of John Cage who, when asked by a journalist if he went to the opera, replied: ‘No, I listen to the traffic.’
Don’t expect white ties and tails, opera glasses and silver-topped canes, though on a really memorable night you may just espy a few of each. Sir Fopling Flutter is nowhere to be seen and punctilio is in short supply. Le tout Bloomington tries its level best, but, with very few exceptions, sartorial heights are not scaled. Even those with dusted-down finery of sorts seem content to partner sequined velvet with black trainers, Brooks Brothers with L.L. Bean. We amble, not altogether comfortably, around the foyer, watching out for colleagues, friends and rivals, silently rehearsing our greetings and bons mots, unfortified by at-hand alcohol. Somehow there is never a proper buzz, just a general flatness, so at variance with what is about to transpire on stage. It may be a function of the foyer’s brutish design and acoustics, but for whatever reason all sounds of merriment are muffled. Even a matinée at Glynbourne on a squally Sunday makes a gala night at the MAC seem autistic.
If you’re thirsty, there’s water. No G&T, no bubbly, no liquor of any kind. The mere idea of a crush bar in the Midwest is presumably unimaginable. If there is such a thing as Calvinist opera, this is it.
