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How to e-mail a professor The Old Reliable, now with a not-behind-a-paywall link to Ben Yagoda’s essay “What Should We Call the Professor?”

[Note to The Chronicle of Higher Education : moving items from one side of the paywall to the other and back again is unfriendly to long-term links.]

For handwriting

New York Times readers strike back: “Why Handwriting Is Still Important.” They’re responding to Anne Trubek’s opinion piece, “Handwriting Just Doesn’t Matter.”

I especially like the windshield-wiper story.

Related reading
All OCA handwriting posts (Pinboard)
Handwriting, pro and con

How to improve writing (no. 66)

A partial sentence from a short piece at The New Yorker website:

I stopped by Three Lives & Company, one of the best bookstores the city has ever made a home for — Zadie Smith, Patti Smith, the late Oliver Sacks, and other luminaries are devotees of the small, elegant, intimate space — to find out that it may have to look for a new home.

There’s a rather odd and awkward problem: the present tense will not work with that sequence of names. A possible revision:

I stopped by Three Lives & Company, one of the best bookstores the city has ever made a home for — Zadie Smith, Patti Smith, and other luminaries are devotees of the small, elegant, intimate space, as was the late Oliver Sacks — to find out that it may have to look for a new home.

But now the distance between “I stopped by” and “to find out” feels vast. And Three Lives & Company, the antecedent of it , seems lost. A better choice is to recast what’s here as two sentences:

I stopped by the bookstore Three Lives & Company, only to find out that it may have to look for a new home. Three Lives is one of the best bookstores the city has ever made a home for: Zadie Smith and Patti Smith are among the devotees of the small, elegant, intimate space, as was the late Oliver Sacks.

You’ll notice that I’ve omitted luminaries , but that’s just me. I hope that Three Lives doesn’t vanish from New York.

Related reading
All OCA How to improve writing posts (Pinboard)

[This post is no. 66 in a series, “How to improve writing,” dedicated to improving stray bits of public prose.]

A short post about Mike Love

A New York Times review of Mike Love’s Good Vibrations: My Life as a Beach Boy notes that “boasts and grudges overpower the writing style.”

Boasts and grudges? From Mike Love? Say it ain’t so!

Related reading
All OCA Beach Boys posts (Pinboard)

[Arthur Schopenhauer: “A precondition for reading good books is not reading bad ones: for life is short.”]

PBS, sheesh

O PBS NewsHour , if you want me to pay attention to the brief essay a writer is reading aloud, don’t play Glenn Gould’s 1981 recording of the Aria from the Goldberg Variations underneath the writer’s voice. Bach — and Gould — are is not for background.

*

August 31: It’s not the Gould recording. Thanks to Sean at Contrapuntalism for pointing that out.

Related reading
All OCA sheesh posts (Pinboard)

[I liked the background better.]

Robert Walser, Girlfriends, Ghosts, and Other Stories

Robert Walser. Girlfriends, Ghosts, and Other Stories . Translated from the German by Tom Whalen, with Nicole Köngeter and Annette Wiesner. New York: New York Review Books, 2016. 181 pages. $15.95 paperback.

                Famous authors can have a sobering
                effect, whereas a total unknown can
                invigorate us.

                Robert Walser

Who was Robert Walser (1878–1956)? A contributor to newspapers, a writer of several novels, a holder of menial jobs, a man who spent the last twenty-three years of his life in a sanitarium, where his purpose, he said, was not to write but to be mad. Given the ever-growing twenty-first-century interest in his work, one might think of Walser in this way: the total unknown as famous writer.

Walser is made for our time: he presents himself in his short prose pieces as awkward and self-deprecating, irreverent and knowing. If he is, to borrow a melodramatic phrase from James Joyce’s Dubliners , outcast from life’s feast (“It goes without saying I lived eternally alone”), he is happy, still, to notice whatever may prompt incongruous delight: “I may only live on the outskirts, but at least my room has a parquet floor.” His celebration of the everyday and unspectacular can reach hilarious heights: “Early each morning, my Daseinlust , or pleasure-in-being, refreshes itself with the finest Dutch cocoa.” Or he can puncture the pompous and preening with exact description: “Once he had kissed the golden shoes of an artiste. The gold didn't shimmer, instead it simply lay pale, as if applied like a thin, vacuous coating of varnish.” And Walser turns tragedy into self-mocking, Beckettian comedy: “I remember once I had for a time a severe toothache. In order to numb the pain, I ran into the fields and roared there like King Lear.” A life shot through with pathos, a body of work filled with comedic high spirits: Walser reminds me of the American poet David Schubert, another writer who had the misfortune to be too far ahead of his time.

Delight in the ordinary marks Walser as something of a parodic faux-naïf modernist. Again and again he draws upon and reinvents scenes that suggest children’s stories, picture postcards, theater sets: a mountain path, a quaint village, a restaurant, a castle. Familiar figures appear as if on cue: children at play, farmhands, a kindly grandmother. The only figure who cannot be accounted for is he who writes, solitary and forever passing through (to where?), forever noticing what’s odd (a restaurant patron who plays a succession of musical instruments and makes animal noises) or what’s oddly haunting:

I stepped under the roof of a summerhouse that stands on the rocks. Everything green quickly became dripping wet. Down on the street a few people stood under the dense foliage of the chestnut trees as if under wide umbrellas. This looked so strange; I don’t recall ever having seen anything quite like it. Not a single raindrop pushed its way through the densely layered mass of leaves.

And Walser notices women. But there are no girlfriends in this volume, really. Or if there are, they are ghosts, or feminine traces: eyes, feet, voices, faces hidden behind hats. (J. Alfred Walser?) Women, as Walser often imagines them, are remote and powerful, exercising their will benevolently or despotically, as if following a handbook of courtly love. (See the illustration above, by Walser’s brother Karl, with a woman who seems to be awaiting or moving toward someone else, even as she’s being serenaded.) In one prose piece, a goddess sitting on a cloud descends to an elegant main street and surveys the crowd with her “large blue kind eyes.” Elsewhere, a woman notices Walser staring at her and returns “a long and deep look of pride and protest,” which Walser then imagines dropping onto him from above, “dark brown and blazing.” On a rare occasion, things go further, if only in imagination: a “forest woman,” “wild, large, beautiful, unfamiliar,” wearing a straw hat and little more, allows the writer to see and kiss her legs.

The most extraordinary encounter with the feminine takes places in “Lake Piece,” which seems to prefigure Wallace Stevens’s “The Idea of Order at Key West.” It is a beautiful summer night:

As I walked over an arched bridge, I heard from below, out of the water, a wonderful voice making its way up to me; it was a brightly clad girl in a gondola who was passing by, and I and perhaps one other, who was also intrigued by the tender voice, bent over the railing to listen with utmost attention to the charming song that, in the amphitheater or concert hall formed by the gentle night, warmly and brightly faded away. We two or three, we who were listening, admitted to ourselves that we had never heard such beautiful singing, and we said to ourselves that the song of the sweet-tempered singer gliding onwards in the almost invisible skiff was tremendous, less through art and magnificent vocal talent than through a wonderful intensity of soul and the rapture of a dear, generous heart.

The singer towers “like a figure into the air,” and as she continues to sing,

The song was like a royal palace growing to a fabulous size, so that one believed one saw princes and princesses dancing and galloping past on splendidly festooned horses. Everything transformed itself into sonorous life and into a sonorous beauty; the whole world was like kindness itself, and one could no longer find fault with life, with human existence.

The beauty of this song is the beauty of a moment, without the grand reordering of reality that follows in Stevens’s poem. This song is not a matter of abstractions in conflict, imagination contending with reality; Walser’s singer is engaged in a battle against “shyness and ordinary behavior.” Her song loses itself “in the distance,” and the writer moves on, to the next prose piece, and the next, and, finally, to his own silence. One of the last pieces in this volume seems to point to the end of Walser’s work in writing: “He was gripped by an illness he could not resist, and leaving memories behind, let it lead him away.”

Girlfriends, Ghosts, and Other Stories includes eighty-eight short prose pieces written between 1907 and 1933, arranged chronologically and translated into beautifully lively English. This book is a major addition to the body of Robert Walser’s work in English translation. Publication date: September 13.

Thanks to the publisher for a review copy.

Related reading
Robert Walser’s Looking at Pictures (my review)
All OCA Robert Walser posts (Pinboard)

[The phrase “outcast from life’s feast” appears in the story “A Painful Case.” Cover image from the publisher’s website.]

Domestic comedy

[Describing an e-mail.]

“It was written in the passive-aggressive voice.”

Related reading
All OCA domestic comedy posts (Pinboard)

Word of the day: any road

From the Oxford English Dictionary , it’s the adverb any road :

Chiefly Eng. regional (north. and midl. ).

As sentence adverb: at any rate, in any case = ANYWAY adv. 2a. Also used to end a conversation, change topic, or return to a topic after an interruption; = ANYWAY adv. 2d.

There’s a wonderful Beatles clip in which John Lennon introduces “Help!”: “The next song we’d like to sing is our latest record, or our latest electronic noise, depending on whose side you’re on. Any road, we’d like to carry on with it.”

Henry meets Alfalfa

[Henry , August 28, 2016.]

Having seen a possibility for revision, I could not unsee it.


[Henry revised, August 28, 2016.]

Related reading
All OCA Henry posts (Pinboard)

“We’re all here”

In The Zen of Bennett (dir. Unjoo Moon, 2012), Tony Bennett talks of his friendship with Ella Fitzgerald and of her affection for his children:

“Every Christmas we'd go to her house, and she'd cook for us and everything. And whenever she saw me, she said, ‘Tony, we’re all here.’ And I never forget that, you know? In the world — that we’re not Italian, we’re not Jewish, we’re not Christian, Catholics. We’re all here. People are all here. And it’s amazing that people don’t realize that. We still have to grow up — the world has to grow up. We still all have to learn the beauty of just being alive and being good to one another. We have to start putting down the greed of the world, ‘I got mine, the hell with everybody else.’ That’s the opposite of the word ‘love.’  You have to think in a human way and say, ‘Is this good for all of us?’”

Related posts
Tony Bennett at ninety : Tony Bennett’s pencil