fiction

One day last year, as I was walking home from work, so wrapped up in my own furiously careening thoughts that I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the general direction my feet were taking me, I found myself momentarily halted in the middle of a crowd alongside Gramercy Park. As I looked around, it dawned on me that the men in the crowd were all wearing fedoras, like 1950s Madison Avenue executives, most of the women wore long pleated skirts to the knee and some had gloves on, and at the same time I realized that all the cars parked on the street were vintage models I remembered from my childhood. This prompted an eerie moment of disorientation before I realized that I had stepped into the middle of a movie shoot, in this case Revolutionary Road, based on the novel by Richard Yates. I clearly remembered the story of Frank and April Wheeler, whose lives in 1955 suburban Connecticut become inexorably and tragically unglued, but was strangely distressed to learn that a book by an author who was always sort of a secret treasure of mine was being given the big-time Hollywood treatment. Soon, I imagined, I’d be spotting people on the subway holding movie tie-in paperbacks with photos of Leonard DiCaprio and Kate Winslet on the cover. Yes, great books are meant to be shared--but the act of reading them is inherently a private one, the emotions they engender are deeply personal, and I confess to a smug satisfaction in keeping certain books to myself.

It isn’t even that Yates is so much of a secret any longer. At the time of his death in 1992 he was out of print, virtually forgotten, his name and books known only to a select and cultish group of readers and a few admiring fellow writers. Much of this neglect was due to the fact that these novels and stories are not comfortable reading. Yates knows who you are: your weaknesses and cruelties, the humiliations you receive and inflict, even the lies you tell yourself in order to get through your day. His fiction is fashioned without a hint of contrivance or fabrication, wherever absolute truthfulness will lead, no matter how painful.

Now, sixteen years after his death, Yates is probably better known than at any time in his life. The current revival of interest was sparked by Random House’s 2000 edition of Revolutionary Road and its thoughtful introduction by Richard Ford, who praised the novel’s “complete accessibility, its luminous particularity, its deep seriousness toward us human beings, about whom it conjures shocking insights and appraisals.” A magnificent biography appeared in 2003, which should be required reading for all creative writing students whose dreams of literary glory need to be tempered by the harsh reality of the writer’s life; particularly this writer’s life, which was largely spent in an empty room, in front of a typewriter set on a coffee table, working doggedly between bouts of alcohol abuse and increasingly harrowing episodes of mental illness (he began to believe that he had shot Kennedy). A number of Yates’s other novels and the Collected Stories of Richard Yates are finally back in print, and all are worth multiple readings. Especially fine are Disturbing the Peace, which contains vivid scenes based on Yates’s own experiences in Bellevue, and The Easter Parade, compressing the lives of two sisters in just over 200 pages, lives which go wrong because, as Yates explains, his characters “can’t help being the people they are.” Today I’m sure Yates would be surprised to find he even has his own website. Although I’m probably betraying my own literary secret (which I hope I’ve made clear is not really such a secret), Yates’s books are now widely available, including at branch libraries, where they can be borrowed. (Only his last published novel, Young Hearts Crying, is found exclusively in the General Research Division collection, where it must be read.)

I will probably not see this movie when it is released. Nowadays I tend to avoid popular American movies, feeling about them the way, as a vegetarian, I feel about meat: it doesn’t bother me that it exists, I just don’t regard it as edible. And it is a good rule of thumb that, while a mediocre book might make a great movie, a great book almost never translates well into the other medium. No matter how much acclaim this movie receives- -or how embedded in the canon of twentieth-century literature Richard Yates becomes--I will continue to hoard his work in the small pocket of myself I reserve for secret books.

I’m a more-or-less rational person. Anything with even a whiff of mysticism strikes me as a great yawn. And I believe dead is dead. Case closed. La commedia è finita.

Curiously, I’m also a fan of ghost stories. Contradictory? Maybe it’s that I’ve been working at New York Public Library for so long, I’ve come to feel like a ghost myself, haunting its marble corridors.

Not to split genre hairs, but I’m not so enamored of horror stories--or movies, for that matter--particularly not modern ones, whose main purpose seems to be to dispatch as many people (frequently teenage girls) as gruesomely as possible. If I wanted to be horrified, I’d read the newspaper. I much prefer the quiet suggestiveness of the classic ghost story, whether it takes a fusty antiquarian approach or a cool modern one--as long as it’s based on the notion that the most frightening possibility is what might be lurking in the shadows. The minute we find out that the shadows contain some drooling, rat-faced thing with tentacles is when the giggles start.
 
 
 
 

My father moved into my Brooklyn home about 10 years ago when my mother died, and thus began my career as his personal librarian. When he first moved to Brooklyn, I showed him how to use the bus system so he could travel to and from the Brooklyn Central Library. I gave him a simplified explanation of the Dewey system; telling him what I tell everyone who comes to the reference desk, “think of the number as the address where the subject or book lives on the shelf.” I knew my father’s reading preferences very well and it was with assurance that I sent him to the 940’s to find exactly what he would like. For the most part he took care of his reading material himself, with his weekly jaunts to the library. I would pepper his selections with other books I thought he might enjoy from the collections at Mid-Manhattan. Favorites in the category were Samuel Pepys: The Unequaled Self by Claire Tomalin , Sweet and Low: A Family Story by Rich Cohen, Wild Swans:Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang, The Color of Love: A Mother’s Choice in the Jim Crow South by Gene Cheek and much more. His reading was varied, but mainly it was WWII history he loved and always non-fiction. While at my house he watched no TV. My father just read for his entertainment. As far as I could tell he loved it.

A year and half ago my father became quite ill. I had noticed he did not seem himself so I forced him to go the doctor. I was informed that my father was very sick with congestive heart failure, a common affliction of the elderly. He was so sick there was cause for concern whether he would even live. For 10 days I maintained a presence at the hospital. I sadly watched him turn old right before my eyes. I brought him books while at the hospital but they remained unread. I surmised he was distracted by his plight. Naturally he became depressed. Life was now different and he would have to adjust, or not. The trips to the library would now become memories. Within a matter of days his world became miniscule to what it had been. Miles of travel would now be reduced to blocks, if he was lucky. There was nothing neither he nor I could do; this was life, cruel and ironic.

Once home my father tried to manage a hefty depression. He now had to get used to a new self and that new self would be drastically different from a few weeks before. I brought him books, foolishly thinking reading would be a welcome distraction. How wrong I was. The books gathered dust and their beckoning was left unanswered. I finally broke down and bought him a TV and had cable installed. My kids were thrilled and my father became a zombie in front of the blue screen. He watched for hours and would sleep and then watch more. It broke my heart. He seemed unable to focus on a book. Outwardly he seemed fine, but to me he had become a mere shadow of himself. He no longer seemed an active participant in life, but rather a passive ride taker. I became resigned to my new father and just tried to make him comfortable.

There came a time recently when I brought home two books, the book I was reading A Death in the Family by James Agee and Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides the book I planned to start reading afterwards. My father is Greek and our family is from Detroit so I made a point of showing him Middlesex because of the Greek author and the Detroit setting for his book.

My father in his old age has developed a keen interest in everything Greek. I thought the Eugenides book would interest him, if not to read then to simply marvel at the author’s heritage. To my surprise it was the Agee book that caught his interest. He said about the Agee book, “I always wanted to read this book.” With that, I said “here pops, take it, you read it.” That was months ago and my father has been reading fiction every since. Perhaps by reading fiction my father has been able to recapture a part of life that he has lost in his own life. Author Paul Theroux once said “fiction gives us a second chance that life denies us.” I bring him mysteries like: Georges Simenon, Henning Mankell, Elmore Leonard and other works of fiction from Ian McEwan to Somerset Maugham and many more. I am happy to be of service to my father for as long as it lasts. I am also so thankful to be working at Mid-Manhattan, with such an incredible collection of fiction to choose from.

Easy Rawlins is very near and dear to my heart. If he was real I would be in love. Instead I must admire him from afar, through the written word. The man I have the biggest crush on exists only on the page and in my mind’s eye. He is the protagonist of the acclaimed Easy Rawlins series created by noted author Walter Mosley.
I discovered Mosley by accident. I was visiting friends a few years back and I was hungry for something to read, something fun. We got on the topic of books and I mentioned my desire. Mosley was suggested with the added endorsement of Bill Clinton considering Mosley a favorite. That night I looked Mosley up in Novelist (how I miss that database) and discovered the Easy Rawlins series. The next day I got the first book, Devil in a Blue Dress. I read practically the whole book in one sitting. I loved it. I then went on to the third and fourth and within a matter of time I had read the entire series practically in one long sitting and I was hooked. There were so many things that I liked about Easy Rawlins: he was smart but not arrogant, he made mistakes, he was human, he had tremendous humility that he wore like a well fitting suit, and lastly he aged in each installment.
Mosley uses the backdrop of an historical milieu, sometimes using significant events like the Watts Riot to set a story. Mosley’s writing is top notch, graceful and powerful. His sentences often warrant a second look. His secondary characters are well thought out and purposeful.
There is tragedy and humor to the East Rawlins series. They often make me cry.
When I started doing programming, in the back of mind I thought how wonderful it would be to have Walter Mosley come speak at the library. I fantasized about what the night would be like. I seriously wanted to meet Walter Mosley and tell him how much of a fan I was of Easy Rawlins. So in this frame of mind I fired off a letter to Walter Mosley, then two and three, all of them passionately inviting him to come speak at the library. His publicist tried to let me down gently, but I would not give up. After many months and many more letters I did finally give up, putting my school girl crush on Easy Rawlins to rest. I thanked his publicists (there were two or three) for their help and I put the idea of Walter Mosley coming to speak at the library away.
Then last year I was strolling the aisles of the Book Expo at the Javits Center and as luck would have it, I came across the Little Brown & Co. booth and right in front was promotion for the 10th installment of the Easy Rawlins series Blonde Faith. I can’t tell you how excited I was. I gently inquired about having Walter Mosley come to the library. The reception of the request was warm but they would have to check with the author first. I requested business cards and went on my way.
Once back at the library the work began, I composed an email to Walter Mosley’s publicist and waited a week. No response. I re-sent the email with a new email on top. This time a response. It went this way back and forth for a about a month, maybe two. I finally was able to secure a date and with that my heart raced with joy. Getting a solid date of NOV 20 2007 erased the feeling of inadequacy that accompanied my previous attempt to get Walter Mosley to come to the library. Now I was elated and proud. But all the work that went into getting Walter Mosley to come to the library and the great feeling of joy I felt was for naught. In September I was notified by his publicists that Mr. Mosley would not be coming to the library after all. I was frustrated and extremely disappointed and there was nothing I could do about it.
Yesterday was Christmas Eve. I finished Blonde Faith, the 10th installment of the Easy Rawlins series. I happened to be on the train and there it was: the last page, then the last paragraph and finally the last sentence. I shut the book, looked up and thought to myself what a great book it was and how much I love Easy Rawlins.