What a whimsical, bizarre experience is Gertrude Stein, and an interesting foil to the glittering self-importance of the SF Opera's opening night. Last night with my aunt, I saw The Mother of Us All, an opera by Virgil Thompson (music) and Stein (libretto), about Susan B. Anthony. The opera impressionistically concentrated more on creating scenes and moods than advancing the story, and at times it was absurd, infusing important moments with Stein's characteristic repetitions and banalities. I still can't make sense of some of the characters, like the blood-spattered destructive innocent Angel More. But despite its strangeness, I liked it. In general I've liked more modern operas than classical - Wozzeck and The Consul seemed real, while La Boheme, that early classical one I saw whose name I can't even remember, and even Carmen (at times) just got tiresome.

Here's a statement about men from The Mother of Us All: "They hearten themselves in their fear by crowding together and following each other." There were a few other good ones, but alas, not memorable enough for my feeble memory. :~)