No rest for the weary: I spent the whole damn day writing the last of four pieces that came due the same week as All in the Dances, my Balanchine book. This one was my monthly Commentary essay, about Solomon Volkov’s Shostakovich and Stalin and Richard Kostelanetz’s Aaron Copland: A Reader (aren’t you wondering how those two books fit together?), and it ended up being four thousand words long. I started it Thursday morning and finished it at 11:30 Thursday night. Now I’m going to bed. Tomorrow (today, actually) I’ll catch a plane to Raleigh, N.C., to spend two days looking at Carolina Ballet, and I’ll be back some time on Sunday.

Until then, there will be no further blogging from me. In fact, there will be no further writing of any kind from me. Not counting the book and the blog, I’ve produced roughly 8,000 words of publishable prose since Monday morning, and that’s soooo much more than enough. Right now you couldn’t pay me to inscribe a copy of A Terry Teachout Reader. (Really!)

Believe it or not, though, it’s nice to be back. I missed you while I was gone, a lot. And though I still have Balanchine-related chores awaiting me next week–I’ve got to choose the illustrations–I plan to spend plenty of time right here at “About Last Night.” So keep your eyes peeled for further cultural bulletins.

See you Sunday.

It’s Friday–do you know where I am? In The Wall Street Journal, of course, reviewing Arthur Penn’s revival of Larry Gelbart’s Sly Fox, starring Richard Dreyfuss and Eric Stoltz, and Barbara Cook’s Broadway.

Sly Fox isn’t perfect, but it’s damned good for what it is:

“Sly Fox” is, of course, Mr. Gelbart’s very loose rendering of Ben Jonson’s “Volpone,” relocated from seventeenth-century Venice to nineteenth-century San Francisco, where the noted conman Foxwell J. Sly (Mr. Dreyfuss) and his not-so-trusty servant Simon Able (Mr. Stoltz) have set up shop for the purpose of fleecing a bunch of equally dishonest folk. In this modernized version, little of Jonson’s play survives but the plot (Mr. Gelbart claims not even to have read Jonson, relying instead on a 1927 German-language adaptation of “Volpone” by Stefan Zweig), atop which are sprinkled several thousand jokes about greed and hypocrisy. All the characters talk like Groucho Marx, squeezing off punchlines like bullets from a burp gun, and while many go wide of their targets, enough hit the bull’s-eye to keep you flailing with laughter….

As Sly, Mr. Dreyfuss is going up against still-vivid memories of George C. Scott and Robert Preston, his predecessors in the role, and though I never saw either of them on stage, my guess is that he falls a little bit short, perhaps because he’s–well, a little bit short. I envisioned Foxwell J. Sly as a Falstaffian rascal, and Mr. Dreyfuss’ finicky voice and compact frame didn’t quite live up to my expectations. Nevertheless, he’s more than good enough to get the job done, and even better as Judge Thunder J. Bastardson, under whose wary eye the cast of “Sly Fox” conducts a seminar on scene stealing that is glorious to behold.

As for Barbara Cook’s Broadway, well, it’s pretty fabulous:

Speaking of old pros, Barbara Cook used to sing ingenue roles on Broadway back in the Fifties and Sixties, the salad days of musical comedy. Now she’s 76 years old and stars in one-woman shows about those same salad days. Her latest such effort, “Barbara Cook’s Broadway,” is running through April 18 at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont Theater, the same house where Christopher Plummer is starring in “King Lear,” also through April 18. (Ms. Cook performs on Mr. Plummer’s days off.) Go see it. She sings 15 wonderful show tunes, some familiar and some not, all interpreted in a totally straightforward style that keeps the spotlight on the songs, not the singer. When not making music, Ms. Cook tells tales out of school, including an anecdote about Elaine Stritch that’s worth at least half the price of admission.

No link. Just buy the Journal, O.K.? It’s only a dollar.

I found this note in my e-mailbox yesterday:

I’m so proud. I saw the the headline “Finishing the Book” and immediately knew you were going to be referencing Sunday in the Park with George.

As someone in my early twenties just emerging from a South Georgia town about the size of Smalltown, U.S.A. (15,000, give or take), I’ve been following “About Last Night” eagerly from its beginning last summer, and it’s been a welcome expansion of my horizons. I’ve got you to thank for Avenue Q, Helen Frankenthaler, and TMFTML, just to name a few. It’s also occasionally been a reassurance. (Maybe there’s not something wrong with me because I don’t love Virginia Woolf; maybe I shouldn’t consider a rural background a permanent sentence to second-class cultural citizenship….)

I’m afraid that it’s a deceptively seductive medium, and I’ve come to feel oddly close to you and OGIC and many of the people in your right-hand column after what’s nearly been a three-season-immersion. There was a little inner debate on whether to address you as “Terry” or “Mr. Teachout.” South Georgia won. I’ve really got no reason to write other than to say thank you.

P.S. Congratulations on the Balanchine book. I hear that sort of thing isn’t easy, any way you look at it.

Right from the start, Our Girl and I hoped that “About Last Night” would be read not just in New York, Chicago, and cities of similar size and presumed sophistication, but all over the country. Well, we got our wish. Yes, we’re most frequently read in the eastern time zone of the United States, but most days we also get hits from as many as thirteen other time zones, along with mail from readers living in the most unlikely-sounding places–only it turns out that they’re not so unlikely after all. Modern communications technology has made the world of art universally accessible to all who care to partake of it, and the Web has gone beyond that to transform the cultural conversation. Time was when people like OGIC and me did all the talking. Now it’s a two-way street.

So to our happy reader from South Georgia, as well as to all the rest of you out there in cyberspace, our thanks for listening–and even more for writing. We feel every bit as close to you as you do to us. And don’t forget to tell your friends what they’re missing.

I went to Harcourt yesterday afternoon to drop off the manuscript of All in the Dances: A Brief Life of George Balanchine, the book whose fitful progress I’ve been chronicling on this blog for the past three months. Oddly enough, I’d never seen the headquarters of my new publisher, with whom I signed a two-book contract a little less than a year ago (the contract was delivered and collected by messenger), so I thought it would be both courteous and fun to bring in the manuscript myself.

I showed up a few minutes early and waited briefly in a lobby decorated with photographs of noted Harcourt authors past and present, wondering whether the day might come when I would be deemed worthy of display cheek by jowl with T.S. Eliot and Alice Walker. Then Andr

“What work I owed I postponed until it had to be churned out in a flush of rage over my being disturbed by it.”

Jack Richardson, Memoir of a Gambler

I jumped in a cab last night and told the driver, “Carnegie Hall, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“Carnegie Hall, please.” Silence. Then it hit me. “Do you know the address of Carnegie Hall?” I asked, trying to conceal my astonishment.

“Er, no, sir,” he replied, tearing himself away momentarily from his cellphone. “I don’t.”

To you this may seem trivial, but I fear it isn’t. I’ve been taking cabs to Carnegie Hall for almost 20 years, and in all that time, no cabby has ever had to ask me where it was–until last night.

I don’t even want to think about what that means.

“‘We have done our best, and must leave it. No one can do more.’

“‘We have done nothing,’ said Maria.

“‘Well, that is usually people’s best,’ said her stepson. ‘Their worst is something quite different.'”

I. Compton-Burnett, Two Worlds and Their Ways

The last time I finished writing a book (as opposed to editing a collection, which feels much less eventful) was on September 4, 2001. I’d actually typed the final words of The Skeptic: A Life of H.L. Mencken years earlier–I wrote the prologue and epilogue first–and I’d completed the next-to-last draft of the book in late August, but it was on the afternoon of September 4 that I finished editing the last draft and started printing out the manuscript. I didn’t open a bottle of champagne or go out to dinner: instead, I spent the evening alone and went to bed early. I’d been working under extreme pressure all summer, and now, at last, the heat was off. I delivered the manuscript to my agent the next day and caught a plane to Missouri to visit my mother the day after that.

I was expecting to feel a touch of post-partum depression sooner or later, as most writers do when they finish writing a long book. Then, five days later, my mother’s phone rang and a caller from the Upper West Side told me to turn on the TV. That was the last time I thought about Mencken, or my book, for the next few weeks.

All these memories came flooding back as I sat at my desk two nights ago and printed out the seven chapters of All in the Dances: A Brief Life of George Balanchine. Unlike The Skeptic, a full-length biography which took me the better part of a decade to research, ponder, and write, All in the Dances is a short biography, about 40,000 words long, and I spent just three months writing it, not counting four or five false starts as I tried unsuccessfully to get the first chapter going. I was still thinking in terms of a full-length book, one that would start with a lengthy set piece describing the making of Serenade, the first ballet Balanchine choreographed after coming to America. That had been my plan more or less from the time I decided to write a book about Balanchine, but it didn’t work. Not until I replaced it with a shorter description of the night I saw my first Balanchine ballet (part of which is in this posting) did the logjam break, and after that the rest was easy. If I hadn’t had so many other pieces to write in February and March, I probably could have wrapped the whole thing up in a month.

As the subtitle says, All in the Dances is a “brief life,” a biography short enough to be read in one or two sittings. I like brief lives (even The Skeptic is a good deal shorter than most full-length biographies), and I’d thought a lot about the form before deciding to write one of my own. A couple of years ago I reviewed Paul Johnson’s brief life of Napoleon, a volume in the Penguin Lives series, and made the following observations:

The premise of these tasty little volumes is that it ought to be possible to sum up the life of a famous person in 200 pages or less. Seeing as how Johnson specializes in really, really long books, I wondered at first whether he was the best choice for the job, but within a few pages I knew that Napoleon is a near-perfect model of what a brief life can and should be: crisp, clear, concise and strongly personal.

In order to write a good short biography, you have to start with an unambiguous point of view….

All in the Dances has one: I believe that George Balanchine, in addition to being the greatest choreographer of the twentieth century, was also a key figure in the modern movement in art, directly comparable in significance to Henri Matisse or Igor Stravinsky, even though he isn’t widely recognized as such outside the world of dance. This premise flavors the whole of my book in a way that would be inappropriately reductive in, say, an 800-page biography. It also makes possible a kind of overarching unity that isn’t easy to create in a longer book. When you’re writing 40,000 words about a man who lived to the age of seventy-nine, you have to be selective, and thus interpretative.

It didn’t surprise me that I had to leave so many things out. What surprised me was how much I was able to put in, and how many of the techniques I used in writing The Skeptic were equally useful in writing All in the Dances. Both books are built around scenes and portraits, though most of the “scenes” in All in the Dances deal not with events in Balanchine’s life but with the premieres of the Balanchine ballets I singled out for description and criticism. Conversely, I used the portraits–of Serge Diaghilev, Igor Stravinsky, Lincoln Kirstein, Jerome Robbins, Tanaquil Le Clercq, and Suzanne Farrell, the six most important people in Balanchine’s life–to keep the narrative moving forward.

If you’ve read The Skeptic, you’ll recall that it’s structured in a similar way, but that didn’t hit me until I looked over the last draft of All in the Dances. Up to that moment, I’d felt as if I were writing a brief life in the style of a full-length biography. Now I’m more inclined to see The Skeptic as a brief life writ large–an interpretative portrait of Mencken, not a first-he-did-this-then-he-did-that chronicle. The big difference is that it’s a lot easier to control the material when you’re writing a brief life: you can hold the whole book in your head at once and give it a consistency of tone that’s much more difficult to impose on a longer biography. I line-edited the entire manuscript of All in the Dances in a continuous ten-hour session, stopping only to eat two quick meals. You definitely can’t do that with a hundred-thousand-word book, though I did my very best to give The Skeptic a similar feeling of unity and sweep.

Another thing that surprised me was that there was room for a certain amount of poetry within the compass of a 40,000-word book. Even though I wrote All in the Dances out of sequence, I saved Balanchine’s death for last, just as I had Mencken’s, and it wasn’t until I actually started writing the death scene that I figured out what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. This is what I wrote, late Sunday afternoon:

His memory had been fading for weeks, and now he was losing the power of speech as well. “I would just sit on the bed,” wrote Farrell, “holding his hand while he slept, but as soon as I rose to go, his hand would grip mine more tightly.” Karin von Aroldingen saw him most often, but most of the many women he had loved made the pilgrimage to his bedside. Tamara Geva was the last. “One day I found him clutching a small icon in the palm of his hand,” she said. “He brought it to my face and repeated several times,