Midweek Diary Ressurection: Lit.Ed.
“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting–it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Franny Glass, in “Franny” (1955)
Quite a statement from a character born in the mind of a man who once strode around New York City as a poor student proclaiming to all who would listen that he would one day be the greatest author of his generation. This is of course Jerome David Salinger, who passed away at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire, on January 27th. Despite a surprisingly small body of work Salinger became a legend, perhaps as much for his attitude toward literary notoriety as for his published short-stories, novellas and his novel. The Catcher in the Rye has been as influential as any novel can be, and its repercussions in the American mindset of its time cannot be exaggerated. But what about the time after that, our time, my time? Many of my friends know only of the novel by its Danish title, Forbandede ungdom (or by Klaus Rifbjerg’s newly translated title from 2004: Griberen i rugen, a direct translation), and few have read it or even know who the author was. As a result, the death of J. D. Salinger went largely unnoticed in my social circles in Copenhagen, though American and British newspapers continue to publish stories and features about everything Salinger. It is fair to say that whatever impact Salinger’s novel had has long since been made into an integral part of American consciousness, something subtle, and apparent perhaps only when specifically looked for. He had passed into legend and out of the public’s eye, and now he has passed on. Rest in peace.
I know it’s kind of late for an obituary, and I apologize for the dark nature of this return, but remember that one of the first pieces in this column mentioned the death of Eve Sedgwick, and maybe death is an occasion for revival as well, a beginning. Everything has been kind of hectic since late last summer, and I regret not having the time and energy to do this column for the past five months. This will hopefully mark a return to form, though I dare not promise that I will be able to post something every week. As always, I will attempt to perform some daring feat of update in regards to literary and cultural stirrings in this particular corner of the world, and if nothing much is happening, well, then I’ll just ramble on a bit.
This week, returning first to our beloved New York Times’ Book section, we find and interesting review of Joe Hill’s latest, Horns. Joe Hill is the son of Stephen King, which should be interesting, albeit I’m not well read in King. His book on the art of writing, called simply On Writing, is remarkable, however, in being an inspired meditation on the craft while also being a sort of confessional autobiography. When King admits that he does not remember writing Cujo due to his cocaine and cough syrup abuse, one doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Let’s hope Joe Hill knows which of his father’s footsteps to follow and which ones to avoid.
Up in the Old Hotel
Speaking of authors who like(d) to binge out once in a while, LIFE has an impressive photo gallery of authors, playwrights and poets notorious for just that. There are some really beautiful photos here of people who will never be forgotten.
In reading, there is one book from these past months of silence that I would very much like to recommend. Up in the Old Hotel is the collected works of Joseph Mitchell, a staff writer for The New Yorker for more than thirty years. His pieces make for an impressive and heartfelt peek into bohemian New York City, and to a lesser degree a thorough introduction into the various fishing communities in New York State. This may not sound intensely exciting, but Mitchell’s flair with words is amazing and the writing alone will bring a smile to the face of anyone who likes good reporting and honest observation. Of special fame and interest are the two lengthier pieces on Joe Gould, eccentric would-be poet of Greenwich Village.
Finally, a quick heads up: The Oscars. Sunday night. What would have been the highlight (Jeff Bridges singing “The Weary Kind” from Crazy Heart) apparently won’t happen, seeing as the Academy has thrown out the live musical performances. This makes for a dreary year, though it will be nice to see Bridges hop off with a deserved statue after four previous nominations. For a touching tribute to the awesome Jeff Bridges, check out this blog entry by Jeff Dowd, the inspiration for the Dude in The Big Lebowski. Other than that, all fingers crossed for The Hurt Locker come monday morning.
Stay tuned.
The other day during a much needed lunch break a few colleagues and I got into a conversation about social drug use. What else would a group of new Ph.D. students be talking about in the dark corridors of the academy! I think I started us on our downward spiral as I was complaining that in Denmark I can’t get any, no I’m not going there, strong over-the-counter flu medicine. One needs a doctor’s prescription for anything heavier than paracetamol and you’d be unlikely to get anything in the first place for something so benign as the flu. Infections, yes. Viruses, no.
