You walk into the Beer Kave at the Circle K on High Street
in Ellsworth or just about corner store from Main Street to Broadway and you
are going to find some Miller Lite. Likewise
if you browse a used bookstore, you are no doubt going to find a collection of
essays. The definition of the essay is
vague and can encompass a wide field of writing, but you know a good one when
you read one. I particularly like essays
on the arts, be it literature, film, art, music, or architecture. Like with Miller Lite, I can indulge in a
pack of literary essays all day long.
I stopped at a used bookstore in Blue Hill, and I found a
case of lite beer from Kenner.
Historical Fictions by Hugh Kenner to be exact. A collection of book reviews, occasional
writings, and other flotsam and jetsam from the academic writing life. No Pound Era here; these essays are not
pounders by any stretch but pony bottles on whatever caught Hugh’s fancy or
whatever he was assigned by an editor to write on. Pound (of course), Beckett, Harriet Shaw Weaver,
Nabokov, Riddley Walker, Pope, Leslie Fiedler.
The essays taste great and are less filling than The Pound Era, but
there are still enough intellectual calories and alcohol content to stick in
the old grey matter and give you a bit of a buzz.
I have just dipped into the book thus far, and I am thoroughly
enjoying myself. It is like spending a pleasant
happy hour by some water at sunset. You
just hang out, dip into your Kenner Lite and look out over the horizon
contemplating Pound’s conception of Odysseus via Dante and Homer. What a way to spend an evening.
Take Kenner’s review of a biography on Harriet Shaw Weaver
of The Egoist. The review is not a rave,
but Kenner wonders if anybody could do Weaver justice and if, in fact, given
Weaver’s guarded nature and penchant for silence, whether such a biography is
possible. Kenner concludes, “Perhaps
only Henry James could have written an intelligible biography of Harriet Shaw
Weaver, and he would have been guessing.”
That is a nice finish to a lite beer.
Very satisfying.
In a review on The Collected Stories of Seán O’Faoláin,
Kenner has a few throwaway lines on the story story and the magazine
format. He writes, “One thing the short
story in English can’t quite shake off is its magazine provenance. It is the commercial form par excellence, and
the more accomplishment you bring to it the more you court slickness,
contrivance, the neat nail driven home, the quick paraphrase to assist the dentist’s
office browser.”
Reading such a line at a happy hour in the evening, you
might be encouraged to think of the Mimeo Revolution and how the great true
mimeos, like C, Floating Bear, Ole, and Fuck You, have little to no story
stories in them. Essays, reviews, plays,
maybe, but not “the commercial form par excellence.” And those mimeos that do feature the short
story, like Berge’s Center, seem very concerned with grants and subscriptions. In fact, those mags that print short stories
often view themselves as a minor league to the big, corporate publishers. Succeed with a well-polished, though maybe experimental
short story, then you might get called up with a contract for a full collection
that leads to a gig with a creative writing program.
The publications that I view as participants in the Mimeo
Revolution were not members of a minor league at all; they took their ball into
their communities and played a different game altogether. For themselves and for the fun of it. Something like a neighborhood softball game
with coolers of beer and pot smoke in the twilight. Something like that documented in Toni Basil’s
short film of the Semina Circle, Game of the Week.
JB
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