Ice – Elizabeth Tallent

Elizabeth Tallent – August 8, 1954

In the introduction to The BASS 1981, Calisher takes the reader aside and discusses what she feels is the typical New Yorker story. She does so right after mentioning that she requested “Ice” be placed into the collection - it was not a story that had been included by Ravenel.

I have no problem at all with the editor of the volume taking some liberties in the selection (Stephen King did so when he was editor), and I think that it can add a bit more substance to the collection. I’m not knocking Ravenel – she does a wonderful job in her selections as the series editor for the volume editor.

Calisher, in her description of the typical New Yorker story states that “Ice” is not a typical “New Yorker” story.

I’d have to disagree with her.

What I mean with mu disagreement is that in 1981, she placed a New Yorker story in The BASS that would fit perfectly in the New Yorker magazine today.

In the 1970s, New York City was still holding on pretty tight to the lead spot for all things lit in America.

Publishing, criticism, the talent – all there.

I can’t help but wonder if the blood of NYC lit is still tainted with what was established and driven into the souls of writers, editors, publishers and the critics of the 70s and 80s.

-As I read “Ice” I saw NYC and “The New Yorker” all over it.

A story from the 80’s that tastes of today.

Now, after thinking about all of the above and re-reading passages of “Ice” once again, and coming to the final line –

“You know, don’t you, that you are not yourself?”

This last line was written long before Tallent had any clue where it was going to be published.

I think that what I felt about this story could be best attributed to what Stephen King wrote about in the NYT Sunday Book Review back in 2007:

"What’s not so good is that writers write for whatever audience is left. In too many cases, that audience happens to consist of other writers and would-be writers who are reading the various literary magazines (and The New Yorker, of course, the holy grail of the young fiction writer) not to be entertained but to get an idea of what sells there. And this kind of reading isn’t real reading, the kind where you just can’t wait to find out what happens next "

Wissler Remembers – Richard Stern

Richard Stern - born Feb. 25, 1928

The story of a Professor recalling his past students – all too easy for me to relate.

The total number of students I instructed back in Negresti during my two years there should be around 250.

I wonder from time to time where some of those students are today. I am absolutely sure where two of them are (successful cell phone salesmen in northern Romania).

The others – no clue.

It’s wonderful to think that they could be out there in the world using the English skills that I taught them over ten years ago.

But, let’s be real.

On a trip back to Negresti about 4 years ago, I ventured into a cell phone shop in an attempt to buy a SIM card to place into my phone so that I could make in-country calls.

The woman behind the counter was acting a bit squirrelly and I quickly dismissed it as just her reaction to a foreigner. After stumbling through the pronunciations of some technical words in Romanian, she switched to very broken English, catching me off guard.

“Mr H......”, don’t you recognize me?

I did a step back, looked her over and shook my head side to side.

“It’s me, Oana B......”.

I let a few words of surprise trickle out and finished off the incoherent sentence with the obligatory “how are you?”

This girl had been sitting in one of my classes only 6 years before...

This girl that I had scolded for smoking in a bar...this girl who I had counseled for bad grades on homework. - was married and had a child.

All of this raced through my mind as we attempted to get the SIM card to work (we never did).

After a few minutes, I wished her well, and made my way out of the store – attempting to hide my obvious state of shock as I made my way back to the bloc.

I hate to let reality intrude on my memories such as it did when I encountered Oana.

Oana was working at a cell phone store.

She would go home in the evening and fulfill her domestic duties.

Tend to a child.

Prepare dinner for a husband.

Purchase bread and salami.

Worry over finances.

And - If the above was the height of her worries, it would be wonderful, but we all know, that things are probably much worse for Oana.

I became so attached to these students, these children, these individuals.

I will forever keep the memory of my students set at the age where I first met them. 14,15,16,17 and 18 year olds.

They will never grow up-.

To place them into the reality that I know- the reality that exists for them within my minds eye, is so painful.

They deserve so much more. Life is not, and was not fair to them.

But, we know that. And so do they.

The St. Anthony Chorale - Louis D. Rubin Jr.

Louis D. Rubin Jr. – 1923 -

A wonderful story - I’ve met Rubin before in this series. He was the author of Finisterre. A wonderful southern writer.

The setting of this story takes place in Virginia and in a region that I happened to visit just last spring. Being familiar with the region allowed a more vivid picture of the story to develop in my head.

What really drew me into the story though was the similarity between the main character and the person that I was between the years 1998-2000.

You see, I spent a great deal of time alone in a single room just as the main character did. I spent time alone in a room in a small town, in a region of Romania that could be best compared to the Southern United States.

This story brought forth pleasant memories, difficult memories, but they were memories of what I once was.

And reflecting back on them makes me feel good.

I spent as much time alone in my single room before I sought out the companionship of others.

I can be solitary for a longer period than most people. Actually, I sort of take pride in this. But, my loneliness, homesickness and just the desire speak from my heart to another person drove me to seek others.

I found comfort in the form of a friendship with a man of questionable character. He was bumped up a few rungs of the social ladder by publicly being associated with me. We fed off of each other – as most friendships do.

Our haunts were cold, dark, smoky bars. 500 gram vodka shots went down pretty easy with him.

Once, twice – lost count.

He was someone I could complain to. Someone who would listen to me as long as he had a drink in front of him. We were seen together almost always after school and into the early evening and then sometimes after dinner. It was all too easy to find us at the bars.

We talked about our lives, America, Romania, money and the lack of it. Women and their beauty...and the desire to be with women.

Countless times, I wandered home to my cold room after hours of drinking and smoking. I’d stumble through the dark streets and alleys of the town with footing designed by my liquid consumption. Stray dogs and gypsies lurked in the shadows. Smoke wafted from chimneys.

And I’d stop. And listen to the world. And hear the beauty in the silence. Silence of my solitary life.

As previously posted, - In 1982 Rubin and Shannon Ravenel, a Hollins graduate, founded Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, one of the most successful commercial trade publishers outside of New York.

The Shawl - Cynthia Ozick

Cynthia Ozick - April 17, 1928

As I’ve mentioned countless times in other posts, I wish to use this journal/blog as a record for my thoughts upon reflection of my past and then my future life.

Instruction – a guide, a tool for introspection.

The Shawl – is the first in this series that almost made me cry.

The reaction I had to this story was brought out by the skilled writing that Ozick is known for.

It’s a wonderfully written story – if “wonderful” could be used to describe Holocaust literature.

I suppose that this story was a reminder to me of the evil that exists in all of us.

I like to default to the thought that people are generally good, but after reading this, my setting gets pushed back a bit.

I have no doubt that Nazi’s threw children into electrified fences. I have no doubt that they did far worse things to children. I’ve seen movies, documentaries of the atrocities...with the knowledge that similar atrocities are still occurring today and will continue – forever.

So, the lesson?

Evil exists and will continue.

Presque Isle - Joyce Carol Oates

Joyce Carol Oates - June 16, 1938

One of the reasons why I enjoy reading Oates so much is that she writes with just the right amount of rawness that leaves you to question if you should be reading what she has written.

Sometimes the raw nature comes though the entire theme of the short story – sometimes in a sentence, a paragraph, sometimes it’s just a word, placed ever so perfectly within a dialogue.

The passages that pulled me out of my rhythm of reading are below.

Now Oates and other writers that I enjoy, really do wonderful things why they employ their little tricks like the underlined passages above illustrate.

Stilton cheese – her introduction of this cheese into the scene pulls you into the room with the mother and daughter. Stilton is a cheese with a smell that stays with you –forever-.

Next, as a male, the mention of female body parts hits a part of the brain that awakens certain reactions within most men. Oates casually places those sentences causing stimulations where interesting connections develop in the brain.

Oates does this quite often in her writing. The reader is cruising along at a nice pace, having become comfortable with the story – even if it is of the “disturbing” type, you’ve adjusted - and then, BAM! - she picks you up and drops you into another part of the room, slaps you across the face and forces you to look at something that was hidden from you before – and what you see, shocks you for a moment – perhaps because it is something that you have never read before – or perhaps it causes a reaction in you that you may find disturbing – a physical reaction – a skipped heartbeat, a pulse quickened, skin tightening, a thought of the sexual nature...

Does she do this for “shock value”?

I don’t necessarily think so.

Her style of writing over the years has been pretty well defined, and she includes enough violence, perversion and death in her stories not to draw the conclusion that she is just writing about the above to “shock”.

I think that regular readers of Oates come to expect to read the perverse, the violence or death contained within her writing, - and those that happen to stumble across her in a magazine are either turned on by what they read or are repulsed.

I enjoyed this short because Oates does a fine job of lifting the sugary gloss off our lives and showing us what really exists under all the sweetness. The early 1980s turned into a nice dip tank to peel off the sweet innocence of American life. Sure, it had been going on for some time, the peeling, but bubbling to the top was the drugs, the greed, the sex, and the deviant that ride along beside us daily... just out of sight.

Other writers can do this, but not the way Oates does it (see above).

I’ve certainly been in situations, and I think you could draw a similar conclusion, where I have come across a bit of information concerning a family member or a friend, and the acquisition of that knowledge causes a radical shift in what I think of that person. That information usually exists in the realm of the taboo, which makes it even more disturbing – exciting?

Looking inward at our own scars and paper cuts - We all have weaknesses, and Oates peels the bandage off those little cuts and drops a bit of salt into each - drawing just the right amount of recognition to them. She causes us to see ourselves, our families our friends and lovers in a new light – an honest and sharply focused light – a blazing raw 150 watt bulb in the face light.

And what is so wonderful about this is that it needs to be done more often – by more writers. We need to be lifted out of our Soma daze.

This woman will jack your junk up!!!

Wood – Alice Munro

Alice Munro - July 10, 1931

In “Wood” I think I have found another tale that points me towards the importance of seeing the world, situations, problems etc. from different vantage points. The value of doing so will allow you to make better decisions, clearer decisions, decisions that may have been influenced by powerful external forces such as love, jealousy, pride, envy, greed...you get the general drift.

Again, the value of a cataclysmic event can be a wonderful first step on a ladder towards awareness – not just self awareness but an awareness of a given event.

An accident, a statement, a promotion, a job loss...anything that refocuses our “reality”.

One of the many reasons why I run, and push myself to the distances and to the pain of running those distances is to find the true reality that I live in.

There is a clarity that surfaces after miles and miles of running and thinking.

I listen to my breathing, I hear my footfalls, I feel my heartbeat, I strain against the pain in my legs, neck and shoulders – all of this reminds me that I am alive – .

But how alive?

Where am I?

I really appreciate Munro in this selection. I have held, and still hold something deep within me against her for a reason that I’m not quite sure of.

I think it is my lack of appreciation for her writing. I feel that still has something to prove to me before I place her on my favorite list.

The Mountains Where Cithaeron Is - Amelia Mosley

Amelia Mosley – ???

And yet another mysterious woman writer.

I love a story that pushes the bounds of reality. A story that does so while also maintaining readability...one that pulls the reader in and does not push him away with the attitude of “holier than thou” weirdness. Does that make any sense?

I’ve come across a few stories in these collections where it seems too obvious that the author fell victim to a certain popular genre or style of fantastical writing, and they tried too hard, and they were told that they did a good job by an editor and in the end, the story is a tough read aliening the reader, but propelling the author even higher in the lit-world because he is misunderstood so he must be a genius ------ bullshit.

You write and are read and appreciated because what you write is... good.

It’s like everyone saying Bjork is a genius.

She has a few good tunes, but most of her stuff is rubbish.

Absolute crap that can be created by a 13 year old with a Powerbook. She knows it and plays the role. Why? Because we feed her and she gives us what we think we want.

This little dance has happened quite often in literature, and it continues today.

I love artists. But I love smart artists that know their place. Artist that produce for their pleasure. Artists that are true to themselves. Artists that struggle for years in silence just to please the voice in there head...and are not appreciated until they have disappeared – like Mosley.

A story like the one Mosley wrote is refreshing because it is a little hiccup in our reality. It reminds us that things as they are today may not be what they could be tomorrow. It just takes a shift or a bump in the universe to throw everything off.

The story once again explores relationships and ones that exist between men, women, brothers, mothers and lovers. The labels are removed and barriers we have in our world are breached.

Breaching barriers can be good. Breaching mental and barriers of perception can be quite healthy, and this story is a wonderful exercise to remind us to shift our vantage point in this world from time to time.