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.