<stern's "lillian harvey"> 2003-05-08.10:29 p.m. Lillian Harvey Gerald Stern This is lovesick for you--Charles Koechlin covering his paper with tears, he shushes his wife and his children, he is crying for Lillian Harvey-- or this is lovesick--sending his wife to meet her, he is too shy to go, and he is married; when she comes back he asks a thousand questions: What was she wearing? Does she like his music? How old did she look? Was she like her photograph? But he never met her, she whose face haunted him, although he wrote a hundred and thirteen compositions for her, including two Albums for Lillian, and he wrote a film scenario and score, which he imagined, fantastically, would star the two of them. He was himself twice in America, both times in California, but they couldn't meet--it would be a violation. I know that agony myself, I stood on one foot or another four or five times and burned with shame and shook with terror. You never go yourself. I know he must have waited outside her house, a crazy man, he must have dialed her number a hundred times, even risked his life for her. But you never go, you never stand there smiling--he never stood there smiling, he never reached his hand inside her dress, he never touched her nipple, he never pressed his mouth against her knee or lifted her thighs. For she was the muse. You never fuck the muse. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad