Dear readers,
I make no special claims about New York except that it is the city I know best. Well, that and the fact that people are actually talking very about real estate, a subject that somehow manages to be exhausting and exciting, extreme and impersonal all at once.
The other day I cried on the subway. That in itself was no big deal. If you’ve lived here long enough, the law of averages dictates that at some point you’ll end up crying on a train at the top of town 2 while people studiously avoid your eyes or occasionally glare at you with faint irritation. It always felt like a safe place to cry – a kind of international waters.
Of course, in this case, I ran into someone I knew a little from kindergarten. We ignored the fact that I was crying and talked vaguely about real estate and our plans to skip an upcoming reunion. I got off two stops early for our sake, bought a large pineapple juice and thought about EB White.
—Sadie
“To any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will give the gift of solitude and the gift of privacy,” this essay begins. White grew up in Mount Vernon and is probably as connected to New England as any place, but no one has ever conquered the city the way he does. I feel silly recommending it, but if someone who has never done it before gets it, then it would be worth it. “Here Is New York” has nothing to do with glamour. it is the opposite of glamour. “It can destroy a person or it can fulfill them, depending on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless they are willing to be lucky.”
It’s not just that White is one of the best American prose writers (though he is) or that his work is steeped in dispassionate humanity. What makes his love-hate New York letter so enduring is its realness – and his admission that luck is a young man’s game. For a while I was giving a copy of the book to any friend who moved away. Once, I gave one to a family of French tourists in Central Park. I wonder what they thought of that.
Read if you like: “One Man’s Meat,” “Little Fugitive,” Dawn Powell
Available from: Central Park bookstores, libraries, or proselytizers, or online through Yale University CampusPress
Do you cry on the subway? It’s only Tuesday. But laugh — now, that’s a fact. One of the only books that has ever made me laugh out loud, alone, while commuting, is “After Claude,” Iris Owens’ wildly insane story about a woman, Harriet, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, a breakup, a piled-up sofas in the city centre, a few spiritual awakenings, a relentless barrage of insults and a rainbow of kaftans. Is our deluded heroine being unceremoniously kicked out by a sly Frenchman who has no interest in being with her? It depends who you ask. And honestly, Harriet doesn’t care what you think. “If there’s anything on this earth that pisses me off, it’s when a trashy, frosty, ex-nymphomaniac assumes my tongue is hanging out, thirsting for wedded bliss.”
Read if you like: “The Goodbye Girl,” “The Sullivanians,” Renata Adler
Available from: New York Review Classics, Internet Archive
Why not…
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Hide your demons? Some time ago, a kind friend who knows me very well went to Edward Gorey’s house in Yarmouth, Massachusetts, and brought me back a memento: a model of the creature who stars in Gorey’s macabre and strange (redundant when discussing Gorey) Black Doll: The Silent Screenplay. This object – featureless, armless, somewhat humanoid – is terrifying. I have it hidden in my closet and I swear it gives me nightmares.
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Let fate decide? A rather less disturbing giveaway is a massive 1978 compendium called “The Quotable Woman”, which a friend found in a book barn. It’s a rather arbitrary collection of quotes. I like to randomly open it when I wake up. And this morning? “Today is spring!” —Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949). (It was!)
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Be a pervert? I know this newsletter will arrive in your inbox on 4/20, but I don’t care. Reading about someone’s gonzo stoner experience is like being a set guide: Nothing is as funny as you think. By all means, try to change my mind — but it won’t be easy. (Sorry, I’ve been spending too much time with “After Claude.”)
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