February 21, 2013 § 1 Comment
Aaron Gilbreath offers an appreciation of the iconic New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell’s first new work to appear in forty-eight years. Below is an excerpt, or jump here for the full posting:
With little fanfare or announcement of its arrival, not even a perfunctory tweet, the piece was slipped inside The New Yorker’s February 11, 2013 issue with all the ceremony of a subscription card.
Entitled “Street Life,” the piece is one of three excerpts from a memoir that he started in the late 1960s and early ’70s and never finished. After filing his classic profile “Joe Gould’s Secret” in 1964, Mitchell never submitted anything else for publication. For the next thirty-two years, the magazine kept him in their employ. He regularly came to his office, dressed in suit and tie. His colleagues heard typewriter keys tapping behind his closed door. They passed him in the hallway and rode the elevator with him. This is how it went until he died in 1996 at age eighty-seven. No one knew what he was working on, and no one seems to have asked …
…The voice, the declarative sentences, the catalogues of details, many of the hallmarks of Mitchell’s canonical nonfiction are here. What’s different is the volume: that recognizable voice often takes a maximalist tone, what Remnick describes as “more Joycean.” Mitchell is still pushing the boundaries of the form, seeing how much material he can include before the paragraphs bend and narrative snaps. But the lengthy sentences, long lists and repetition that defined pieces like “Old Mister Flood” and “Mr. Hunter’s Grave” now exhibit a manic quality. Where older pieces contained direct quotation that ran between four and ten straight pages, here we have a sentence on the first page that contains four hundred and thirty-nine words, thirty-one commas, one emdash, one parenthetical remark and a semicolon. Many paragraphs in “Street Life” reach such a dizzying pitch that you question the author’s mental state, even wonder if some sort of psychological collapse caused his forty-year silence. For some readers, the voice will try their patience and cause them to turn to the next piece. For others, the voice will deliver exactly what we’ve been missing.
August 21, 2009 § Leave a comment
Not sure what is more amazing here, the close inside look at what it means to be a New Yorker staff writer, or the fact that it is all conveyed in tweets, as in ‘on Twitter. ‘ Here’s an excerpt, but anybody who wishes she wrote for the “slicks” should read the whole thing for a sobering perspective:
It took me seventeen years to break into the New Yorker. I’d been a freelance journalist that long, and had sent in
Proposals from time to time. I never even got rejections. The New Yorker doesn’t send them. If they don’t want the
Story, they simply don’t respond, so filing to the New Yorker is like filing to the dump. You send in a proposal, and
If you’re smart, you forget all about it.