The New Pittsburgh
I told him
"the new-rust-belt-renaissance-Pittsburgh"
he talks about with its shining towers
and tech centres means nothing to me.
I'm a river rat that crawled from the sickly waters
of the "old Pittsburgh" to skulk in the shadows
of shattered bridges, abandoned factories
and rusted out barges tilted awry
as they sink into the muck of river banks.
I'm what happens when steel mills,
coal mines and power plants close
and our fathers don't return from work
or war. Or worse yet, they do, with bodies
crippled from arthritic pain and injuries
sustained on battlefields and job sites
and the medications they're addicted
to causing more harm than the injuries
that are never healed. And the wounds
of the mind turned dark cinema
where loops of death and destruction
play for an audience of one
who can't turn the projector off.
I'm what happens when traumatized fathers
and battered mothers abandon their children
to the predators that hide in plain sight
in classrooms and pulpits. I'm what happens
when a new Pittsburgh is built on the debris
of foreclosed homes, boarded up neighborhoods
and the discarded lives of the old Pittsburgh
that is a city in Pennsylvania
and also every city
everywhere.
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In an old interview with Tyler Cowen, Knausgaard called Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius the greatest story ever written—a sentiment with which Cowen agreed. (Cowen seems to read everything, but there's something about an economist—an orthodox heterodox economist, no less!—making pronouncements on literature that makes me suspicious of the claim. Then again, he once wrote, "Shakespeare is very likely the deepest thinker the human race has produced." No argument there.)
Personally, I might bestow the honour on The Dead, but it's really more of a novella, and I'm admittedly quite the Deadhead. (To be clear, in the high arts a "Deadhead" is the moniker we attribute to readers obsessed with the poetic intensities of swift cessations: Death in Venice, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, the deaths of Sula, Septimus, Billy Budd, and Pierce Inverarity, etc. Indeed, poetic intensities and swift cessations may simply be the novella tout court. On the subject of jam bands—and cheese—I remain mysteriously silent.)
Might Joyce have authored the greatest story, the greatest novel, and the greatest love letters? (Forgive me, sweet Jane, for such futile superlatives against your soul-stirring pen. I am half agony, half cope.) I suppose Borges is more Beethovenian in his revolutionizing of the form, whereas Joyce aimed for a Bach-like perfection as it existed at the time.
Of course, one mustn't forget the dozen or so contenders from Poe, Kafka, and Chekhov, not to mention The Lottery and A Good Man is Hard to Find. What do you think? As always, thank you for your splendid insights! And to the anonymous hundreds reading this, or, at this point in my unsolicited soliloquy, the anonymous dozen skimming, please subscribe to John's serialized novel!
Thank you, David! Yes, I find Cowen dispiritingly, exhaustingly, demoralizingly well-read. Someone I admire on Substack recently gave a list of 10 pieces of advice for undergraduates, and I liked nine of them, but I didn't like the first: everything, he said, is interesting. But everything is not interesting. The undergraduate, the veritable ephebe, is right to be bored by some things. If I found everything interesting, who would I be? I almost cultivate my non-interests. With so many books I do want to read in the world, it's a relief to know there are also many books (books about economics, for example) that I do not want to read. Really, only obsessions matter. The personality, to be a personality, must have its limits, as must the work of art, even if as a novelist, I do aspire in my own way to the "everything and nothing" Borges imputed to Shakespeare, or to the Homeric as against the Virgilian in Mark Van Doren's line that Virgil is a style, Homer a world. Only Borges could be Homeric in a short story, though; for the rest of us—yes, even for Joyce—it takes a novel. A fellow Deadhead, I agree with you that that is a novella in the death-obsessed ranks of the great novellas. I add Heart of Darkness, The Metamorphosis, and Nella Larsen's Quicksand to your fine catalogue.
(Incidentally, when I was in college, a friend dragged me to see a jam band called The String Cheese Incident. They played a theater on the ground floor of Soldiers and Sailors Hall on the University of Pittsburgh campus, upstairs of which the great Gothic scene of Lecter's escape in Silence of the Lambs had been filmed a little less than a decade before. Jam bands don't do it for me; I was heavy bored at that concert, I have to tell you; Chesterton's neglected cheese be damned, poets have their right to silence on some subjects—because, again, everything is not interesting.)
Now to your question. When I think of great short stories, I do not, like George Saunders, think of 19th-century Russians. (19th-century Russians are better at length, when they go on and on and on—even, if you ask me, Chekhov, as I said earlier this year in praise of his novella, The Duel, a great novella not quite belonging to your catalogue inasmuch as it defeats death, more or less.) No, I think of 19th-century Americans. I think of "Ligeia" and "The Fall of the House of Usher" and "The Man of the Crowd," and I think of "Bartleby, the Scrivener" and "The Paradise of Bachelors and the Tartarus of Maids" and "Benito Cereno," and I think of "The Author of Beltraffio" and "The Middle Years" and "The Figure in the Carpet." Above all, I think of Hawthorne, of "Young Goodman Brown" and "The Minister's Black Veil" and "Ethan Brand" and "Wakefield" and "The May-Pole of Merry Mount" and "The Artist of the Beautiful" and "The Birth-Mark" and (my favorite) "Rappaccini's Daughter." A great deal of Borges is already in those stories, these tales or parables or half-allegories—I do agree with both Knausgaard and Cowen that Borges's "Tlön," or maybe "The Aleph," must be the paradigm of the modern story—and a great deal of Kafka, Jackson, and O'Connor, too.
Honorable mention: I am not an expert on the 19th-century French, but "The Unknown Masterpiece" by Balzac is a new favorite, which I read for the first time just this year. A good tale in its own right, but to have anticipated, almost to the point of clairvoyance, the whole future course of art in one short story from the 1830s—!
Caveat: "Rappaccini's Daughter" has 3000 fewer words than The Dead; and "Benito Cereno" is double the length of "Rappaccini's Daughter." Why type some titles in italics and some in quotation marks? The distinction between novella and story must be qualitative rather than quantitative, with the distinction not quite only about death, since all three narratives at least include if they do not dwell upon swift cessations. "Rappaccini's Daughter" and "Benito Cereno" seem to me to be stories because they are about one thing, as opposed to The Dead, which, like The Scarlet Letter, is about several things—and as opposed, of course, to Moby-Dick and to Ulysses, which are, Aleph-wise, about absolutely everything ("[A]ny man unaccustomed to such sights, to have looked over her side that night, would have almost thought the whole round sea was one huge cheese, and those sharks the maggots in it"; "Cheese digests all but itself. Mity cheese"), and make everything as interesting as ever everything can be.
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Hi Bridget!
Are you a poet? Artist? Dancer? Actress?
Where are you from? How is your life treating you?
Really really intresting blog! Wish we could meet one day.
Omg! Yes! I'm actually all of those things :) I'm from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and currently life is treating me well. I'm manifesting what I desire with ease although I'm pretty emotional about everything lol. I really love that idea!!
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i fuckin love tag games
thank you as always @the-cinnamontography-is-amazing!!!!
LAST SONG:
War (Alexander Theatre Sessions) - Poets of the Fall
CURRENTLY WATCHING:
M*A*S*H of course (Death Takes a Holiday)
THREE SHIPS:
mmm... hard question.
- Clannibal (even though they're toxic as all hell)
- Beejhawk (platonically, though I suppose I could still be convinced?)
- Red Oktoberfest (TF2 Heavy/Medic)
FAVORITE COLORS:
honestly? it changes pretty often. usually defaults to teal or turquoise so I guess I'll just say blue-green
CURRENTLY READING:
To Kill a Mockingbird for the 1000th time
CURRENTLY CONSUMING:
Coca-Cola even though it's almost 4 am
FIRST SHIP:
honestly?? as a kid, I thought Atticus/Maudie would be the cutest thing. I read the book too early in life
PLACE OF BIRTH:
Pittsburgh-ish, PA
CURRENT LOCATION:
Pittsburgh-ish, PA
RELATIONSHIP STATUS:
5 years with Patrick <3
LAST MOVIE:
Raiders of the Lost Ark
CURRENTLY WORKING ON:
a sequel to Theories (among other things)
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