Harold and Maude - Softcover

Higgins, Colin

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1613731264 ISBN 13: 9781613731260

Verlag: Chicago Review Press, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

Nineteen-year-old Harold Chasen is obsessed with death. He fakes suicides to shock his self-obsessed mother, drives a hearse, and attends funerals of complete strangers. Seventy-nine-year-old Maude Chardin, on the other hand, adores life. She liberates trees from city sidewalks and transplants them to the forest, paints smiles on the faces of church statues, and “borrows” cars to remind their owners that life is fleeting— here today, gone tomorrow! A chance meeting between the two turns into a madcap, whirlwind romance, and Harold learns that life is worth living, and how to play the banjo.
 
Harold and Maude started as Colin Higgins’s master’s thesis at UCLA film school before being made into the 1971 film directed by Hal Ashby. The quirky, dark comedy gained a loyal cult following, and in 1997 it was selected for inclusion on the National Film Registry at the Library of Congress. Higgins’s novelization was released with the original film but has been out of print for more than thirty years. Fans who have seen the movie dozens of times will find this a valuable companion, as it gives fresh elements to watch for and answers many of the film’s unresolved questions.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Colin Higgins was a screenwriter, director, and producer of films that included Harold and Maude, Silver Streak, Foul play, 9 to 5, and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. He died in 1988 at the age of forty-seven.

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Harold and Maude

A Novel

By Colin Higgins

Chicago Review Press Incorporated

Copyright © 1971 Colin Higgins Trust
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-61373-126-0

CHAPTER 1

Harold Chasen stepped up on the chair and placed the noose about his neck. He pulled it tight and tugged on the knot. It would hold. He looked about the den. The Chopin was playing softly. The envelope was propped up on the desk. Everything was ready. He waited. Outside, a car pulled into the driveway. It stopped, and he heard his mother get out. With barely a smile he knocked over the chair and fell jerkily into space. In a few moments his feet had stopped kicking, and his body swayed with the rope.

Mrs. Chasen put her keys down on the entrance table and called to the maid to take the packages out of the car. It had been a boring luncheon and she was tired. She looked at herself in the mirror and absently pushed at her hair. The frosted wig would be fine for dinner this evening, she decided. She'd cancel her appointment with René and take a nap for the rest of the afternoon. After all, she deserved to indulge herself once in a while. She went into the den and sat at the desk. As she flipped through her book for the hairdresser's number, she listened to the Chopin playing softly. How soothing, she thought, and began to dial. René would be furious but it couldn't be helped. The phone buzzed, and she settled back, drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair. She noticed on the desk the envelope addressed to her. She looked up and saw, suspended from the ceiling, the hanging body of her son.

She paused.

The body swayed slightly from side to side, making the rope around the large oak beam squeak rhythmically to the sound of the piano.

Mrs. Chasen stared at the bulging eyes, at the protruding tongue, at the knot stretched tight about the grotesquely twisted neck.

"I'm sorry," said a tiny voice. "You have reached a disconnected number. Please be sure you are dialing the right number and are dialing correctly. This is ..."

Mrs. Chasen put down the phone. "Really, Harold," she said as she dialed again. "I suppose you think this is all very funny. Apparently it means nothing to you that the Crawfords are coming to dinner."

"Oh, Harold was always a well-mannered boy," said Mrs. Chasen to the elderly Mrs. Crawford at dinner that evening. "Yes, indeed. I had him using a little knife and fork at three. He was never any trouble as a baby, although he was perhaps more susceptible to illness than the average child. He probably got that from his father, because I've never been sick a day in my life. And, of course, he did inherit his father's strange sense of values — that penchant for the absurd. I remember once we were in Paris, Charlie stepped out for some cigarettes and the next thing I heard, he was arrested for floating nude down the Seine — experimenting in river currents with a pair of yellow rubber water wings. Well, that cost quite a bit of enfluence and d'argent to hush up, I can tell you."

The younger Mrs. Crawford laughed appreciatively, as did Mr. Crawford, Mr. Fisher, and Mr. and Mrs. Truscott-Jones. The elderly Mrs. Crawford sipped her champagne and smiled.

"Are you ready for dessert?" Mrs. Chasen asked her. "Is everyone ready for a delightful Peach Melba? Harold, dear, you haven't finished your beets."

Harold looked up from the end of the table.

"Did you hear me, dear? Eat up your beets. They're very nutritious. Very good for the system."

Harold looked at his mother and then quietly put down his fork.

"What ever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Chasen. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"I have a sore throat," he said softly.

"Oh, dear. Then perhaps you'd best go up to bed immediately. Excuse yourself and say good night to everyone."

"Excuse me," said Harold, "and good night everyone." He got up from the table and left the room.

"Good night," everyone echoed.

"Take some aspirin," Mrs. Chasen called after him. "And lots of water." She turned back to her guests. "Dear me," she said, "I don't know what I'm going to do with that boy. Lately he's become quite trying. I'm sending him to Dr. Harley, my psychiatrist, and, of course, my brother Victor — the brigadier general — keeps telling me the Army is the answer. But I don't want him off in some jungle battling natives. That's how I lost Charlie. Of course, Charlie wasn't battling. He was photographing parrots in Polynesia when that —"

"More champagne!" cried the elderly Mrs. Crawford, and burped.

"Mother!" said young Mrs. Crawford.

"Mother, please!" said Mr. Crawford.

"I'm sorry," said the elderly Mrs. Crawford. "I thought I saw a bat."

A momentary silence overtook the table until Mr. Truscott-Jones said that he had never tasted such a wonderful Peach Melba, and Mrs. Chasen told the story of how she had got the original recipe from a tenor in Tokyo who claimed to be Dame Nellie's bastard son.

Why they bring that old woman to parties, thought Mrs. Chasen as she sat down at her vanity table and took off her wig, is beyond anyone's comprehension. After all, she is practically senile. It's always so embarrassing, particularly for the family, and, of course, so trying for the hostess.

Why don't they put her in a home? she asked herself, picking up her dressing gown from the bed. She could be well taken care of and be able to live there with her own kind until her time comes.

She stopped by her bathroom door and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Throwing back her shoulders, she patted her stomach. Not bad, she thought. Staying young is purely a question of staying slim.

She opened the door and turned on the bathroom light. Harold lay wide-eyed in the bathtub, his throat slashed, and blood dripping from his neck and wrists.

"My God! My God!" shrieked Mrs. Chasen. "Ohhh! Ohhh! This is too much. Too much!" She turned and fled crying down the hall.

Harold turned his head and listened. In the distance he could hear his mother's hysterical wailing. He looked at himself in the blood-streaked mirror and broke into a faint, satisfied smile.

"We have had several sessions now, Harold," Dr. Harley said, "but I don't think we can truthfully say there has been much progress. Would you agree?"

Harold, lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling, nodded in agreement.

"And why is that?"

Harold thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said.

Dr. Harley walked over to the window. "I think it is perhaps your reluctance to articulate or elaborate. We must communicate, Harold. Otherwise, I'll never understand. Now, let's go over these pretended suicides of yours once again. Since our last session your mother has reported three more. As I calculate, that makes a total of fifteen. Is that correct?"

Harold looked intently at the ceiling. "Yes," hesaid, thoughtfully, "if you don't count the first one, and the time the bomb in the greenhouse exploded overnight."

Dr. Harley ran his hand over his thinning hair. "Fifteen," he said. "And they were all done for your mother's benefit?"

Harold considered that for a moment. "I wouldn't say 'benefit,'" he concluded.

"No," said Dr. Harley, "I suppose not." He sat at his desk. "But they were all designed to elicit a particular response from your mother, isn't that so? For example, the squashed-skull incident we talked about last time. You placed the dummy with the cantaloupe behind the rear wheel of your mother's car so that when she backed over it she thought she had run over...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Chicago Review Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2015
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1613731264
• ISBN 13: 9781613731260
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 144
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Chicago Review Press; https://www.chicagoreviewpress.com/; ; 814 North Franklin Street; Chicago; IL; 60610; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar