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“A person who does not believe in tomorrow does not repaint his house.” - Henning Mankell, writing about Angola in The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup (2006)

February 23, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Language lives longer than people and therefore its permanence is vital. It moves us from one generation to the next; it’s immortal. Writing isn’t elitist: it’s the deepest thing we have. It’s as essential as breathing. It brings other paradoxes to us through language.” - Edna O'Brien

This year's Irish March will be devoted to the fiction of Irish women writers. O'Brien's The Little Red Chairs is up first. I really enjoyed her Wild Decembers a few years ago.

February 22, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“His writings writhed and ached with twists and turns and tergiversations, inept words, fanciful repetitions, far-fetched verbosity and long Latin-based words.” - Muriel Spark, describing her character, the fictional writer Hector Bartlett, in her novel A Far Cry from Kensington

I really need to finally read Spark.

February 20, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“There is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies.” - Joseph Conrad 

February 17, 2018 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Though I am sure you would enjoy a visit as much as I did, I think that, in the long run, the Scandinavian sanity would be too much for you, as it is for me. The truth is, we are both only really happy living among lunatics.” - W.H. Auden 

February 16, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Mr. Hemingway’s style, this prose stripped to its firm young bones, is far more effective, far more moving, in the short story than in the novel. He is, to me, the greatest living writer of short stories; he is, also to me, not the greatest living novelist.” - Dorothy Parker

February 5, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“…building chicken coops, or possibly, bungalows…

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This is pretty cool: when George Ade, the wildly popular Chicago-based humorist of the late 19th Century, left that city to return to his native Indiana, he built Hazelden Farm along the banks of the Iroquois River, near the village of Brook. The farm included a top-notch golf course. Today, the course still exists, as Hazelden Country Club, as does his house, which is maintained by Newton County as an event facility. Also, adjacent to the property is the George Ade Memorial Health Care Center. And I never realized, until just now, that Ross-Ade Stadium at Purdue University (his alma mater) is co-named in his honor – certainly a very rare distinction for an American writer.

No less of an authority than William Dean Howells was once convinced of Ade's great potential as a fiction writer. From Donald L. Miller's City of the Century:

For a time, Howells believed George Ade might be the one to produce the "great American novel," but Ade squandered his promise by going after the money. In 1900 he left the Record, where he made sixty dollars a week, and began writing fables in slang for a syndicate "wizard," earning over a thousand dollars a week as his "share of the conspiracy." He became further sidetracked when he began writing successful dramatic comedies for the Broadway stage. "The show shops had me hooked," he wrote, "and the syndicate wouldn't let go of me, and between the two I was constantly incited and urged to do the most dreadful things to the English language."

Poignantly, in his later years he reflected on the literary success of his fellow Hoosier, Theodore Dreiser, while downplaying his own material success:

"While some of us have been building chicken coops, or possibly, bungalows, Mr. Dreiser has been creating skyscrapers."

Adjusted for inflation, his $1,000 per week in 1900 is equivalent to $1.4 million per year today. For that kind of cash, I would bet that even Dreiser would have been tempted to forsake serious fiction.

February 5, 2018 in Books, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...various winding, enchanted-looking initials...”

Eudora Welty, from One Writer's Beginnings:

My love for the alphabet, which endures, grew out of reciting it but, before that, out of seeing the letters on the page. In my own story books, before I could read them for myself, I fell in love with various winding, enchanted-looking initials drawn by Walter Crane at the heads of fairy tales. In "Once upon a time," an "O" had a rabbit running it as a treadmill, his feet upon flowers. When the day came, years later, for me to see the Book of Kells, all the wizardry of letter, intial, and word swept over me a thousand times over, and the illumination, the gold, seemed a part of the word's beauty and holiness that had been there from the start.

The book is a collection of three lectures which Welty gave at Harvard University in 1983. I'm enjoying it quite a bit - I love the gentle sweetness of her voice, which is even more prominent in memoir than in her fiction. I'm reading the book as a warmup for my next Welty novel, Delta Wedding. I'm intent on completing my reading of her five novels by the end of next year; after Delta Wedding, there are just two more: The Robber Bridegroom and Losing Battles. The latter figured prominently in What There Is To Say We Have Said: The Correspondence of Eudora Welty and William Maxwell, which I read and loved last year.

February 1, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...this cruelty too will end...”

I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquillity will return again.

Anne Frank wrote these optimistic words less than three weeks before she and her family were discovered and taken away by the Nazis, after more than two years in hiding. I finally read The Diary of a Young Girl after my seventeen-year-old daughter Maddie repeatedly took me to task for never having read it. I’m very glad she did. Simply unforgettable.

January 30, 2018 in Books, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.” - Ursula K. Le Guin

The Left Hand of Darkness is next on my list. 

January 27, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“What is reading but silent conversation?” - Walter Savage Landor

January 25, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...really really bad words...”

Nick Hornby, writing (in 2006) about English footballer Wayne Rooney:

In a game against Arsenal last season, Rooney was estimated to have told the referee to fuck off more than twenty times in sixty seconds. As “foul and abusive language” is supposed to be a yellow-card offense, one can only presume that there are some really really bad words, words worse than the f-word and the c-word, that footballers know and we don’t.

January 15, 2018 in Books, Sports | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Honesty is the best policy. I know. I’ve tried it both ways.” - Richard W. Sears, founder of Sears, Roebuck and Company (quoted in City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America, by Donald L. Miller)

January 14, 2018 in Books, Chicago Observations, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

”...carrying their fate over their shoulder like a sling bag...”

Jean-Paul Sartre, on France during the Nazi occupation:

Everybody was going about their day like sleepwalkers, carrying their fate over their shoulder like a sling bag, toothbrush and soap in one’s pocket, just in case of an arrest. We all lived in transit, between two round-­ups, two hostage-­takings, and two misunderstandings.

Good to see that the French publisher Gallimard is reconsidering its earlier decision to publish Celine’s pre-WWII anti-Semitic rants. There’s already too much racism in our “modern” world. Despite the publisher’s claims of the tracts’ literary merit, I’ve read elsewhere that the writing, beyond being morally abhorrent, isn’t even particularly good. 

January 12, 2018 in Books, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“A fluent stream of words awakens suspicion within me. I prefer stuttering for in stuttering I hear the friction and the disquiet, the effort to purge impurities from the words, the desire to offer something from inside you. Smooth, fluent sentences leave me with a feeling of uncleanness, of order that hides emptiness.” - Aharon Appelfeld

January 9, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

"...the soberest and the most clear-headed..."

Frederick Law Olmsted, writing about the aftermath of the Chicago Fire, in the November 9, 1871 edition of The Nation:

For a time men were unreasonably cheerful and hopeful; now, this stage appears to have passed. In its place there is sternness; but so narrow is the division between this and another mood, that in the midst of a sentence a change of quality in the voice occurs, and you see that eyes have moistened. I had partly expected to find a feverish, reckless spirit, and among the less disciplined classes an unusual current toward turbulence, lawlessness and artificial jollity, such as held in San Francisco for a long time after there - such as often seizes seamen after a wreck. On the contrary, Chicago is the soberest and the most clear-headed city I ever saw. I have observed but two men the worse for liquor; I have not once been asked for an alms, nor have I heard a hand-organ. The clearing of the wreck goes ahead in a driving but steady, well-ordered way.

Quite the contrast to Chicago's reputation, both then and now, as a den of ruthless, lawless incorrigibles. I'm puzzled, though, over the implication that the playing of a hand-organ is as immoral as drunkenness or begging. It must be some dated reference I'm just not catching.

January 7, 2018 in Books, Chicago Observations, History | Permalink | Comments (0)

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"Headmasters, like bishops, suffer from an occupational disability: it is very seldom that people venture to criticize their literary style. The headmaster style is usually an uneasy mixture of semi-ecclesiastical oratory, Government Department English, and colloquialisms intended to disarm the natural hostility of schoolboys." - Robert Graves

January 4, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

"...an enchanted home of Caleb's furnishing..."

In Charles Dickens' The Cricket on the Hearth, the toymaker and widow Caleb Plummer lives with his blind daughter in a hovel owned by his boss, the cold and imperious toy merchant Tackleton.

I have said that Caleb and his poor Blind Daughter lived here. I should have said that Caleb lived here, and his poor Blind Daughter somewhere else — in an enchanted home of Caleb’s furnishing, where scarcity and shabbiness were not, and trouble never entered. Caleb was no sorcerer, but in the only magic art that still remains to us, the magic of devoted, deathless love, Nature had been the mistress of his study; and from her teaching, all the wonder came.

The Blind Girl never knew that ceilings were discoloured, walls blotched and bare of plaster here and there, high crevices unstopped and widening every day, beams mouldering and tending downward. The Blind Girl never knew that iron was rusting, wood rotting, paper peeling off; the size, and shape, and true proportion of the dwelling, withering away. The Blind Girl never knew that ugly shapes of delft and earthenware were on the board; that sorrow and faintheartedness were in the house; that Caleb’s scanty hairs were turning greyer and more grey, before her sightless face. The Blind Girl never knew they had a master, cold, exacting, and uninterested — never knew that Tackleton was Tackleton in short; but lived in the belief of an eccentric humourist who loved to have his jest with them, and who, while he was the Guardian Angel of their lives, disdained to hear one word of thankfulness.

And all was Caleb’s doing; all the doing of her simple father!

I was really moved by this passage, knowing as a father how much you want to shield your kids from all of the bad things in the world - although, ultimately, they will have to face that world on their own, and have to know it as it really is. Caleb finally learns this lesson.

The novella is a sweet, heartwarming story, which is widely characterized as a Christmas tale. This publisher packaged it with A Christmas Carol and The Chimes, although the latter is set at New Years and The Cricket on the Hearth is set during the end of January, and I don't believe either of the lesser-known stories even mentioned Christmas. And it's not just this publisher's marketing angle - I've seen several references elsewhere to these being Christmas stories. Maybe that's how the books have been pitched all along.

January 1, 2018 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Books given, books received

As always, I give almost nothing but books as Christmas gifts to my family (other than Julie and Maddie, for whom I use a bit more imagination). And I receive a few in return. This year, the given are my usual mix of old and new, read and unread-but-looked-interesting. The received are both intriguing - I’m especially curious to see whether Hanks can really write, or if the book is a vanity project that his publisher thought they could make a quick buck from.

Given
C.D. Rose: The Biographical Dictionary of Literary Failure
Kate Chopin: The Awakening
The U.S. Supreme Court Decision on Marriage Equality
Tarjei Vesaas: The Birds
Debra A. Shattuck: Bloomer Girls: Women Baseball Pioneers
Giano Cromley: The Last Good Halloween
Knut Hamsun: Pan
Margaret Atwood: The Handmaid’s Tale
Neal Bascomb: The Winter Fortress: The Epic Mission to Sabotage Hitler’s Atomic Bomb
Stephen Greenblatt: The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve
Elena Passarello: Animals Strike Curious Poses
Alexander Solzhenitsyn: One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
Muriel Spark: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

Received
Tom Hanks: Uncommon Type: Some Stories
Joshua Hammer: The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu: And Their Race to Save the World’s Most Precious Manuscripts

December 30, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“...the quintessence of humanism is to have conversations. There is a deep connection between communication and ‘communio,’ community. Sitting together, eating together, drinking together, talking together. When people stop talking to each other, then you get into war.” - Rob Riemen

December 29, 2017 in Books, Current Affairs | Permalink | Comments (1)

This is just so wrong.

I earned more money from the five tossed-off microfictions that I sold to Le Meridien Hotels in 2006 than Poe earned (even after adjusting for inflation) for “The Tell-Tale Heart”, one of the greatest short stories ever written.

December 27, 2017 in Books, Fiction | Permalink | Comments (0)

Good Reading 2017

Here is my latest installment of the best books I read this year. As always, it's books I read in 2017, and not necessarily books that were published in 2017.

1. Suzanne Mars (editor): What There Is To Say We Have Said: The Correspondence of Eudora Welty and William Maxwell
2. Joseph Mitchell: Joe Gould's Secret
3. Margaret Atwood: The Handmaid's Tale
4. H.G. Wells: The Time Machine
5. Tim Krabbe: The Rider
6. Ben Tanzer: Be Cool
7. Eudora Welty: The Ponder Heart
8. H.G. Wells: The Island of Dr. Moreau
9. Fyodor Dostoevsky: The Gambler
10. Giano Cromley: The Last Good Halloween

Honorable Mention: Robert Ferguson: Enigma: The Life of Knut Hamsun; Edward McClelland: How to Speak Midwestern; Kingsley Amis: Girl, 20; Rosie Schaap: Drinking With Men: A Memoir; Martha Bayne (editor): Rust Belt Chicago: An Anthology

Re-readings: Nelson Algren: The Neon Wilderness; Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol

Thoughts: The Welty-Maxwell letters were an absolute delight - two great writers from extremely different worlds who were drawn together into a warm friendship by a shared love of literature - although maybe not of great interest to anyone who isn't already a fan of either writer...I finally read Joe Gould's Secret at the instigation of my friend Joe Peterson, who saw parallels between the book and Wheatyard, and he's right - and I totally see that too...My “Summer of H.G. Wells” was very up and down, but the two books listed above were great...Welty and Maxwell talked a lot about The Ponder Heart (which first appeared in The New Yorker, with Maxwell as editor), so it was cool to read the novel after experiencing their thoughts on its creation...Three "writers I know" books are on this year's list - Ben Tanzer, Giano Cromley, Ted McClelland - and all are quite good...When I re-read a book, I automatically disqualify it from my Top Ten, due to the built-in bias (I wouldn't re-read a book that I didn't already love) but if I had read The Neon Wilderness for the first time this year, it would have been #1 - the book is a sweet reminder of the greatness of Algren's early career, made somewhat bitter by how utterly he let himself languish for his last twenty-five years.

December 26, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

Merry

Even during the holidays, I'm not a particularly merry person - not that I'm at all glum, just that I'm not boisterous. A second or third cocktail makes me quieter, not noisier. Still, I like the sentiment of George Wither's poem "A Christmas Carol", and particularly this portion:

Hark how the roofs with laughters sound!
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

I'm guessing the cellar is where the merrymakers will discover the trove of hard cider or ale. I wonder if they will ever make it upstairs in time for Christmas dinner.

(Via Patrick Kurp).

December 22, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (2)

"...ten times that amount of continuous soaking..."

In Kingsley Amis' Girl, 20, the narrator, music critic Douglas Yandell, is trying to prevent his friend, the renowned classical conductor Sir Roy Vandervane, from publicly performing his avant-garde work Elevations 9, which Yandell rightly foresees as an utter disaster. Yandell and Vandervane are meeting for drinks, just before the performance.

He seemed to me fairly drunk already. While he spoke to the waiter, I dallied with the thought of plying him with his own drink to the point at which he would be unable to leave the club, or at least mount the concert platform, then put it aside. We must take off in half an hour or less, and ten times that amount of continuous soaking would hardly have been enough to put him under any table I had ever seen in his vicinity.

Very enjoyable book - Amis is typically fine with all things alcoholic - though the dated misogyny (the book was published in 1971) can be trying at times.

December 22, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“I think that the chill wind that blows from English publishers, with their black suits and thin umbrellas, and their habit of beginning every sentence with ‘We are afraid,’ has nipped off more promising buds than it has strengthened.” - Cyril Connolly

December 10, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Those special days are not measured in minutes nor hours but in chapters completed and sentences perfected. They don’t even feel like days, they are periods I spend in a magical place, unbound by the rules of a temporal universe.” - Ayobami Adebayo

I like this commentary, other than the idea of “sentences perfected.” Perfect sentences rarely exist. They are polished, yes, but almost never perfected.

December 9, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...the perishable possibility...”

"4. Early September anywhere in the city, when the sunlight angle has changed and everything and everyone appears kinder, all the edges softened; the torments of the hot summer are over, the cold torments of the winter have not begun, and people bask in the perishable possibility of a gentle city." - Aleksandar Hemon, "Reasons Why I Do Not Wish to Leave Chicago: An Incomplete, Random List" (from Rust Belt Chicago: An Anthology)

December 4, 2017 in Books, Chicago Observations | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Hilarity and drink are connected in a profoundly human, peculiarly intimate way.” - Kingsley Amis 

November 24, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...the splendor of the square window...”

Francesca Falk Miller, from her 1948 novel The Sands: The Story of Chicago's Front Yard:

Her own room was at the top of the house facing the street. It was the nursery during her babyhood, but had later become a schoolroom with the tiny alcove over the stairs for her bed. Tom had the hall bedroom at her back, and there was a dark bathroom between, where often Sulie would see the shine of a roach as it scurried to a hiding place under the tin tub. There was no window to this bathroom, but a square skylight showed blue sky and white clouds on clear days, and the stars on dark nights. Sulie who was never afraid of the dark, hated to light the wall-lamp and so shut off the splendor of the square window on the heavens above the tin tub and the roaches.

“Chicago’s Front Yard” is a misnomer, as the Sands (a desolate, nearly lawless stretch of squatter-inhabited lakefront during the mid-19th Century, long before beach property became fashionable) would have been better described as either Chicago’s back alley or its dumping ground. 

November 20, 2017 in Books, Chicago Observations | Permalink | Comments (0)

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“Prettiness is only clothes I am a truer lover than that. I love it naked. There is beauty to me even in its ugliness … for its vices are often nobler than its virtues, and nearly always closer to a revelation.” - Eugene O’Neill

November 19, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

"...a mask for himself..."

"He had declined to stay in Norwood and live out his life as Pee Wee Gould, the town fool. If he had to play the fool, he would do it on a larger stage, before a friendlier audience. He had come to Greenwich Village and had found a mask for himself, and he had put it on and kept it on. The Eccentric Author of a Great, Mysterious, Unpublished Book - that was his mask. And, hiding behind it, he had created a character a good deal more complicated, it seemed to me, than most of the characters created by the novelists and playwrights of his time." - Joseph Mitchell, Joe Gould's Secret

November 17, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...the farther away you get from the literary traffic...”

Nelson Algren, interviewed in 1955 for The Paris Review by Alston Anderson and Terry Southern:

Interviewers: Do you have a feeling of camaraderie, or solidarity, with any contemporary writers? 

Algren: No, I couldn't say so. I don't know many writers. 

Interviewers: How do you avoid it? 

Algren: Well, I dunno, but I do have the feeling that other writers can't help you with writing. I've gone to writers' conferences and writers' sessions and writers' clinics, and the more I see of them, the more I'm sure it's the wrong direction. It isn't the place where you learn to write. I've always felt strong that a writer shouldn't be engaged with other writers, or with people who make books, or even with people who read them. I think the farther away you get from the literary traffic, the closer you are to sources. I mean, a writer doesn't really live, he observes.

November 11, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

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"We live in a clownish time. We live in a clownish world. When you have a guy like Reagan, who may be the funniest guy in the world except for the fact that people take him seriously, how can anybody be serious unless he clowns as well? Very much like Lear's fool who can say the truth in his own way, Nelson is the clown who deep deep down is very serious in his comments about our world, and his reflections about our time. He teaches us about failures, and it's the failures that turn out to be more exciting than the successes. He's the funniest man around and can therefore be the most serious."
- Studs Terkel, in his 1985 afterword to Nelson Algren's The Neon Wilderness

November 10, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...nothin’ but blind baggage on a silk manifest...”

We heard the freight whistlin' just then and the fellas began to pick theirselves up - all exceptin' Fort. Ford has made up his mind he ain't goin' to hop nothin' but blind baggage on a silk manifest, and I couldn't convince him that there weren't no manifest due on the Soup line before November anyhow, and even that one would be goin' the other way. But all he would say was I will wait here till November then and if it is going the other way I will go the other way too. There isn't any reasoning with Luther when he is in that frame of mind, so I took two of the cans of Sterno and eighteen cents he still had in his watch pocket, and dragged him over to the side out of the way of the brakeman.

- Nelson Algren, "So Help Me" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 10, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...only half a mile out in the woods, which were mined.”

He had turned me in once, at Camp Twenty Grand, when I was cooking up K-rations in my tent instead of remaining on duty guarding the officers' latrine in the rain. The enlisted men had developed an outrageous habit there of using it, instead of their own, during the night; although their own was a perfectly good one only half a mile out in the woods, which were mined. I'd wanted to even up on Witzel for the week of detail he'd gotten me that time, so I grabbed the rifle and shoved it under my coat, intending to drop it down the first convenient sump, but Chief had an even better idea.

- Nelson Algren, "The Heroes" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 9, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...they would play the juke just to keep her from hearing.”

And strange walkers, out-of-step shufflers to nowhere, passed and repassed on the pavement below; beneath her bed she heard the muted laughter of the men she had known in the past months since Christy had left. All like the men the Widow had lived on: they laughed and stood closely together and nodded significantly toward the staircase leading to her room, and she knew even now they were talking about her.

She had seen them saunter to the bar in pairs and speak there in whispers, that she might not hear what they were saying about her: they would play the juke just to keep her from hearing. They were afraid to speak up because they knew in their hearts it was all lies, a lot of big lies. She would pretend to be unaware of them; but she knew, she knew all the time. Mary knew.

- Nelson Algren, "Design For Departure" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 8, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...he knew every shadowed corner of North Clark Street...”

He had no need of any other, having sixty-five dollars. The delightful, varying ways he could distribute this sum, in all the devious city ways, crowded his mind. There was no room, in his anticipation, for anything but the city's changeful colors and the fastest means of spending sixty-five fish.

He had no friend, though he had lived in the city all his life. Yet he knew every shadowed corner of North Clark Street, every poolroom with darkened windows and a fake padlock on the door. All the curtained parlors and the right way to ring: one long and two short and ask for Marie.

- Nelson Algren, "Katz" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 7, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...the kids pointed on me.”

He gave the detail trouble before he was twelve, when he was hauled out of a stolen truck he had crashed into a parked Pontiac on Mother Cabrini Street. He was wearing a pair of women's high-heeled pumps, no stockings, and a pair of overalls that fitted him like an awning. If it hadn't been for the pumps, he assured the detail, they'd never have gotten him: he couldn't run in them. And admitted, when pressed, that he's picked the pumps out of a Goose Island dump and stolen the overalls. That he had quit school "because the kids pointed on me." His small chin jutted, warning the officers that they'd better not point either; while his hair, which was red, hung angrily before his eyes.

- Nelson Algren, "No Man's Laughter" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 6, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...he wasn’t much here any more at thirty-five.”

He had gone to sea at eighteen and had helped chase Sandino, one afternoon in Nicaragua, and now he wished to tell me more about Sierra La Valls. That was pretty little to grant a man, but I took sixes again and thought of him at forty. He'd only have one foot by then, if he was still around. In a way he wasn't much here any more at thirty-five. He too lay among the dead at Sierra La Valls. He'd keep on talking awhile, though, to whoever would listen, about that foggy morning at The Pimple. Then curtains. Game called, darkness.

- Nelson Algren, "Pero Venceremos" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 3, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“They were all beat now...”

Tiny snickered to himself mockingly. They were all beat now, one way or another. One running a ferris wheel at corner carnivals in summer and boozing all winter, one hung up on a morphine kick, another carrying buckets at the Marigold on Monday nights, and another walking around with a load of ties, under which he concealed defective contraceptives at cut-rate prices. "Some clowns," Tiny thought of them with disdain, fingering his discolored eye. "But all a guy like me needs is a million-dollar idea."

- Nelson Algren, "Million-Dollar Brainstorm" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 3, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“Daddy’s a-huntin’ a wild skirt is all...”

"All right, boys! Papooses now!"

"It makes them ferget their little troubles," the guard explained to the ladies.

The boys bowed their heads to their knees and murmured:
"Sleep, little Indian, safe from harm
Daddy's a-hunting the wild fawn."
"Daddy's a-huntin' a wild skirt is all," States offered under his breath. Silly Louie's hands flew to his mouth; when Louie started giggling he couldn't stop. The piano paused and the guard's earnest voice dropped discreetly; then everything stopped but the papooses' persistent murmuring. They rose heavily, one by one, and began a disordered out-of-tune clomping, toothbrushes bobbing, and went on clomping bravely, to minimize Louie's irrepressible tittering.

- Nelson Algren, "The Children" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 2, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...ankle-deep in Kraut mutuel tickets...”

It wasn't an outfit. It was just a couple hundred oddly assorted Tennesseans, Texans and Chicagoans who wanted to go back to their respective hills, ranches, and streets. When we reached the Rhine the Germans were using hazardous fire, over our head, toward an artillery emplacement to our rear. In his haste to get those eagles, The Man had brought us forty miles ahead of our clearing station: they were looking for us to their rear. We were supposed to be ten miles behind them, to evacuate their wounded. Instead we were raising ward tents, ankle-deep in Kraut mutuel tickets, on a bombed-out race track in the woods above Dusseldorf. We put up the whole circus at night, under fire, including a tent to be used as an officers' club - and that one was up before we could erect our own squad tents.

- Nelson Algren, "That’s the Way It's Always Been" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 2, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...the boarded windows and the broken panes...”

The hotel was down by the levee. You could see Kentucky from the front windows. Upstairs, I was told, was the bedroom in which Grant had slept before Fort Defiance. I remember the boarded windows and the broken panes by the river, and the abandoned feed stores facing the moving Ohio. Long freights passed in the woods in Kentucky. Their shadows, as any army's shadows, moved south on the moving waters. I remember their engine boilers lighting fragments, of floodtime in old December, strewn on Kentucky's shore.

- Nelson Algren, "Kingdom City to Cairo" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 1, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...he and the baby would be out the same day.”

She would stand in the middle of the rutted road, a slight girl in a bright Sears, Roebuck printed frock, pointing proudly to her belly. He would cup his hands, the broom beneath his armpit, and call down to her that he and the baby would be out the same day. When she left he would feel so happy that he looked drunken. He would squeeze himself with both hands, wave his arms aimlessly, and would go through a little love dance, pretending the broom was his bride.

- Nelson Algren, "El Presidente de Mejico" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 1, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...the scarred toes of the only decent shoes...”

Rocco didn't blow up. He just felt a little sick. Sicker than he had ever felt in his life. He walked away from the girl and sat on the rubbing table, studying the floor. She had sense enough not to bother him until he'd realized what the score was. Then he looked up, studying her from foot to head. His eyes didn't rest on her face: they went back to her feet. To the scarred toes of the only decent shoes; and a shadow passed over his heart. "You got good odds, honey," he told her thoughtfully. "You done just right. We made 'em sweat all night for their money." Then he looked up and grinned. A wide, white grin.

- Nelson Algren, "He Swung and He Missed" (from The Neon Wilderness)

November 1, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...never rising quite to clarity.”

Now a lamp burned in the kitchen. Men were talking there. He leaned on the gate, he listened intently: their voices came to him in a slow, curving murmuring, in a wave that broke and fell, never falling quite to silence, never rising quite to clarity. They perhaps had been plowing all day. Plowing the brown earth.

- Nelson Algren, "The Brothers' House" (from The Neon Wilderness)

October 31, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...his fingers fumbled, weak as water...”

That night the mild-mannered youth dreamed of the legless man. Lying on his rented bed, he heard a slow and heavy clumping, down some endless gaslit stair well. The legless man was coming. The light was on and he was sitting upright, paralyzed with an unknown terror, watching the doorknob turning slowly, hoping uselessly that it would be too high for Shorty to turn all the way. He still had time to lock it - the key was still in the lock. Moving like a man wading in a slow-motion sea, stiff with dread, it was almost too late, and saw, as the door opened slowly, that there was no one there. No one down a long and fog-lit hall. No one - he knew for sure - in the whole vast hotel. In an access of terror, his fingers fumbled, weak as water, at the key. And wakened at last with the light still burning and the key still in the lock, glinting a little from the light's reflection.

- Nelson Algren, "The Face on the Barroom Floor" (from The Neon Wilderness)

October 30, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...rubbing rawly against the cold sweat of his palm...”

He leaned far over the counter and banged the cash drawer open and saw bills piled there just for him. Tens and twenties and singles and fives rubbing rawly against the cold sweat of his palm - and then the shining dimes and quarters and halves in the last drawer over! He reached over, so far over that he was tottering, and the liquor began coming up in his throat. His lips moved as he leaned, drunk with greed. Heard a coin go tinkling along the floor, saw it was a quarter rolling toward the men's goods department, and followed it anxiously.

- Nelson Algren, "Poor Man's Pennies" (from The Neon Wilderness)

October 30, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...whose brother, right now, was doing ninety days in County.”

When I got home Sissie has already told my old man where I'd been. But the whipping was nothing at all compared to the sense of manhood attained by an afternoon in the clink. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to us. For days we bragged to each other about our various parts in the escapade: who was the most scared, who wasn't scared at all, and whose brother, right now, was doing ninety days in County. For us the kid whose brother was doing a stretch was as distinguished as a kid in another neighborhood whose brother was a college football star.

- Nelson Algren, "A Lot You Got to Holler" (from The Neon Wilderness)

October 27, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)

“...everybody else had always been moaning for home.”

And what, he asked himself abruptly, did he have to go back to Memphis for anyhow? He couldn't sing, he wasn't a pug, he wouldn't shine shoes, and he couldn't boogie-woogie worth a damn. He couldn't play an instrument, he never clowned, and making up berths for the Pullman Company had the same warm appeal for him as shining shoes. He wondered whether he really wanted to go back at all. Maybe he only thought so because everybody else had always been moaning for home.

- Nelson Algren, "He Couldn't Boogie-Woogie Worth a Damn" (from The Neon Wilderness)

October 27, 2017 in Books | Permalink | Comments (0)