My Mistake (26 page)

My need for an antagonist in authority (and a corresponding hero, William Maxwell) must stretch back in part to my family's reflexive demonization of those in power. We drew sustenance from being
against.
And from being for those who seemed of pure heart. One of the strongest recollections I have of my father is sitting with him and watching
Meet the Press
in its earliest days and listening to him mutter, “What a liar!” This reflex has given me not only a lot of trouble but also an incentive to persevere, to prove wrong those who I think or imagine doubt me.

The Library's
New Yorker
archives end in 1984 (with a little material going forward to 1988), so there's no Tina Brown dashing around in there, getting lost without anyone to tell her which way to turn to get to the Royalton. But I recall clearly the astonishment Jay and I experienced when we began to sift through those files. It was as though we were in Oklahoma in 1896 and had just struck oil. Here's what the archive's general description says at the start:

 

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY HUMANITIES AND SOCIAL SCIENCES LIBRARY MANUSCRIPTS AND ARCHIVES DIVISION

The New Yorker

Records

Compiled by Francine Tyler Library Technicians Sandra Carpenter Sato Fleite Jeremy Megraw Gregory Poole Alexander Thurman 1994

Text by

William Stingone 1996

 

SUMMARY

Main Entry:
The New Yorker
Records

Title:
Records ca. 1924–1984

Size:
875.8 linear feet

Access:
Two boxes, #1302–1303, labeled “Eccentrics, 1969–1975,” are restricted until 2050; otherwise access is unrestricted.

Source:
Gift of
The New Yorker,
1991.

Historical Statement:
The New Yorker
magazine began publication on February 21, 1925.

Description:
Included are general and editorial correspondence; editorial memoranda; holograph and edited non-fiction, fiction and verse manuscripts; critical notes on writings and ideas for articles; files, called “Copy and Source,” containing materials to be published in each week's issue; reprint and permissions requests; letters to the editor; press releases and newsclippings; original art work called “spots” and tearsheets of thousands of cartoons; photographs, posters, and sound recordings.

 

Eight hundred and seventy-five linear feet! Two football fields, plus everything but the Red Zone of a third. (And don't I yearn to know what's in boxes 1302 and 1303, the “eccentrics” from 1969 through 1975!) So I decide to go back to the Library and look at some of the documents from the earlier part of my time, 1969 through 1984. Not so much because
The New Yorker
looms so balefully and dominatingly over my whole life, I hope, but because those years seem to me formative and transformative for my “career”—a word, you'll recall, that William Shawn hated, as he hated “gadget” and “balding”—and must contain some of the adjustments and correctives and enlightenments I'm hoping to gain from this project.

So down to the Library I go. The records are on the third floor of the imposing building, which happens to be on the verge of a major reconstruction, with many of its research resources to be stored elsewhere but supposedly available within twenty-four hours. A big controversy over that. Getting into the research room is more complicated than I remembered. You have to get buzzed in, as you would to a gold-buying store on the second floor of a building on West 45th Street, a few blocks north. You can't take any tote bags or briefcases or backpacks in there. For fear of purloining, it must be. Then you have to fill out a form, stating your purpose, your affiliation (university or publisher or whatever), and so on. The woman who hands me the form is wearing a turquoise sari and seems formidable. She looks at the tote bag I have inadvertently brought in with me and the guard outside must have missed. “You have to go back out,” she says. “Those bags are not allowed.” She is prim about this. Another woman in the small nest of desks and counters arranged in a square in the center of the research room says, “It's OK, sir. I'll just store it here in this cubby for you. You don't have to go back out again.” The sari looks at the other woman with disapproval. I hand over the tote bag. The sari hands me the form, on a clipboard, and a pencil—one of those stubby things that they give you with your miniature-golf scorecard—and I take a ballpoint pen out of my shirt pocket and start filling the form out. The sari, who has looked away, and everyone else go about their business. I have some trouble getting the sari's attention after I've finished—ever since the Tote-Bag-Gate I have felt a little like Ralph Ellison in here—but when I do, and hand her the clipboard, she looks at it as if it were a stool sample and says, “It's supposed to be in pencil.” I hand her back the pencil, as if it were a peace pipe, and she shakes her head sadly and gets ready to hand it back and give me another blank form. “It's OK,” the tote-bag forgiver says—she must be the sari's supervisor. “You don't have to fill out another form.”

Finally I sit down at one of the computers and a librarian gives me a brief briefing about how the archives are indexed, and I begin to troll and scroll through them. Their extensiveness is overwhelming. I begin to take some notes about the box numbers I'd like to see when the librarian comes back and says that I have to order the boxes I want to see and they will be found and made available in that room a day or two later. This is a relief. I have almost panicked while I looked at the Fiction Department correspondence index for a single year, 1976—my first year as an editor—and then beyond:

 

2 Adams, Alice

3 Allen, Woody 4 Ashbery, John 5 B–Baz 6 Banks, Russell 7 Barthelme, Donald 8 Baumbach, Jonathan 9 Be–Bez

10 Beattie, Ann 11 Berryman, John 12 Bi–Boz 13 Bishop, Elizabeth 14 Blount, Roy, Jr. 15 Borges, Jorge Luis 16 Boyle, T. Coraghessan  17 Br–Brz 18 Bradbury, Ray 19 Brickman, Marshall

FICTION CORRESPONDENCE, 1952–1980

371

A NEW YORKER RECORDS GUIDE

20 Brinnin, John Malcolm 21 Brodsky, Joseph 22 Bromell, Henry 23 Brown, Rosellen

24 Bu–Bz 25 Buechner, Frederick 26 Busch, Frederick

FICTION CORRESPONDENCE, 1952–1980

885 1 2 Cain, James M.

3 Calisher, Hortense 4 Carruth, Hayden 5 Casey, John 6 Ch–Clz

7 Cheever, John 8 Cheuse, Alan 9 Ciardi, John 10 Co–Coz

11 Coetzee, J. M. 12 Collins, Christopher 13 Colwin, Laurie  14 Conroy, Frank 15 Coover, Robert 16 Cotler, Gordon  17–18 Cu-Dez 19 De Andrade, Carlos Drummond 20 DeLillo, Don 21 De Vries, Peter 22 Di–Dz 23 Dickey, James 24 Dillard, R.H.W. 25 Diller, Phyllis 26 Disch, Thomas M. 27 Dixon, Stephen 28 Domini, John 29 Dubus, Andre 30 Dufault, Peter Kane 31 Durrell, Lawrence

886 1 2 Eberhart, Richard

E 3 Elkin, Stanley

C-Caz

372

NEW YORKER RECORDS GUIDE

4 Ellis, H. F. 5–6 F 7 Friedman, Bruce Jay 8 Friel, Brian 9 G-Giz 10 Gallant, Mavis 11 Garcia Marquez, Gabriel 12 Gardner, John 13 Geng, Veronica 14 Gl–Goz 15 Gluck, Louise 16 Gordimer, Nadine 17 Gordon, Mary 18 Gr–Gz 19 Gunn, Thom 20 Gurganus, Allan 21 H-Haz 22 Hale, Nancy 23 Hall, Donald 24 Hampl, Patricia 25 Handke, Peter 26 Hannah, Barry 27 Hazzard, Shirley

FICTION CORRESPONDENCE, 1952–1980

373

887 1 2 Hecht, Anthony

3 Helprin, Mark 4 Hemenway, Robert 5 Ho–Hz 6 Hollander, John 7 Howard, Richard 8 Hughes, Ted 9 I 10 Irving, John 11–12 J 13 Jhabvala, Ruth Prawer 14 Jong, Erica 15 Jordan, Neil 16 Just, Ward 17 Justice, Donald 18 K–Kez 19 Kanin, Garson

NEW YORKER RECORDS GUIDE

20 Keillor, Garrison 21 Ki–Kz 22 Kiely, Benedict 23 Kingston, Maxine Hong 24 Kumin, Maxine

25–26 L-Lem 27 Le Guin, Ursula

FICTION CORRESPONDENCE, 1952–1980

374

888 1 2 Levine, Philip

3 Lewisohn, James 4 L'Heureux, John 5 Lorde, Audre 6 M–Maz

7 MacLeish, Archibald 8 Mamet, David 9 Mansfield, Katherine 10 Mazor, Julian

11 McA–McZ 12 McCarthy, Mary 13 McElroy, Joseph 14 McEwan, Ian 15 Me–Mi 16 Meehan, Thomas 17 Meredith, William 18 Merrill, James 19 Merwin, W. S. 20 Mo-Mop 21 Molinaro, Ursule 22 Mountzoures, H. L. 23–24 Mor–Mz 25 Munro, Alice

889 1 2 Nabokov, Vladimir

N

3 Nordan, Lewis 4 O 5 Oates, Joyce Carol 6 O'Brien, Edna 7 Ozick, Cynthia 8 P–Phz 9 Paley, Grace

NEW YORKER RECORDS GUIDE

10 Percy, Walker 11 Pi–Pz 12 Pinsky, Robert 13 Plumly, Stanley 14 Pound, Ezra

15 Pritchett, V. S. 16 R–Rz 17 Reid, Alistair 18 Rhys, Jean

19 Ri–Roz 20 Roethke, Theodore 21 Ru–Rz 22 Rudman, Mark 23 S–Saz 24 Saroyan, William 25 Sarton, May 26 Sayles, John 27 Sc–Sez 28 Settle, Mary Lee

FICTION CORRESPONDENCE, 1952–1980

375

890 1 2 Shelton, Richard

3 Simpson, Louis 4 Sissman, L. E. 5 Sm-Spz 6 Smiley, Jane

7 St-Stez 8 Stafford, William 9 Steegmuller, Frances 10 Sti–Sz 11 Strand, Mark 12 Sullivan, Frank 13 Swan, Jon 14 Swenson, May 15 T–Toz 16 Taylor, Peter 17 Theroux, Alexander 18 Theroux, Paul 19 Tr–Tz 20 Tullius, F. P. 21 Tyler, Anne 22 U–V

Sh-Slz

NEW YORKER RECORDS GUIDE

23 Updike, John 24 Van Duyn, Mona 25 Vivante, Arturo 26 W–Waz 27 Walcott, Derek 28 Walker, Ted 29 Warner, Sylvia Townsend 30 Warren, Robert Penn

FICTION CORRESPONDENCE, 1952–1980

376

891 1 2 White, Edmund

3 Wideman, John Edgar 4 Wilbur, Richard 5 Wo–Wz 6 Woiwode, Larry

7 Wolff, Tobias 8 Wright, Charles 9 Wright, James 10 X-Y-Z 11 Yevtushenko, Yevgeny

 

Phyllis Diller?

It's hard to say what is more daunting here—the vastness of the archives, the enormous literary distinction they represent, or the feudal-seeming cataloguing system. I leave. But not before yet another librarian stops by to visit and shows me how to go online and research the archives at my leisure—and possibly sedated, I'm thinking—and order boxes in advance. These listings are like a glass window behind which the overall magnificence and singularity of the institution of
The New Yorker
are on full display, and up against which my face is now mashed. It disables the ironic-distance function of my brain: OK—it's great, no matter all its eccentricities, mistakes, indulgences, superior attitudes masked by modesty. I don't even hate to admit it, and I feel very lucky to have been part of it.

Anyway, in view of this overwhelming display, I switch my research focus to my own papers. To call them “papers” is like calling a dog's breakfast crème brûlée. I go back up to the country, where my crème brûlée is moldering, but start using the Library's online search capability so I can order at least a few randomly representative boxes for later on, if I dare to go back. I look through “my” years—1969 through 1984. Guess whose name I look for first in the index. Now guess whose name is nowhere to be found. But it's probably in there somewhere. Because I worked with some of the writers named—Mavis Gallant, Harry Montzoures, V. S. Pritchett, Peter De Vries, Alice Adams, Frank Conroy, Ted Walker, Sylvia Townsend Warner—and because files like “Me–Mz” may well contain the odd note to or from me, or a galley or legal query or payment note I might have passed along.

But it all still seems like too much. So I go offline, and in between dog walks (and, as always these days, awaiting my next follow-up thoracic CT scan, which will show whether the radiation therapy last winter has worked or whether I'll be fucked sooner rather than later), I root around in the files and folders I took with me when I left the magazine and have continued to collect ever since. They are Lilliputian to the Library's Gulliverian, but still too plenteous, and also disorganized.

In the scrum of these documents, I find nostalgia, occasional straight-setting, re-inflammation, and amusement—or all four:

• A piece by the novelist and short-story writer Andre Dubus—whom I edited at
  The New Yorker—
  in the November 1977 issue of
  Boston
  magazine. It's about publishing short fiction in magazines and quarterlies in general and, climactically, in
  The New Yorker.
  About, at its most emotional moment, the magazine's often opulent advertising: “What angers me is seeing art juxtaposed with advertisements for things that have no use at all except to decorate the body, to turn people into Christmas trees, to turn their vision away from where art is trying to take them.” Later in the piece, he says, of his current
  New Yorker
  editor, who is almost certainly me, “The man at
  The New Yorker
  loves commas more than Henry James did, but he never inserted one without asking my permission.”
  
• A note from Helen Wolff—a well-known and highly respected editor, especially of books in translation, at the publishing house Farrar, Straus & Giroux—that included a complaint from Max Frisch, the internationally acclaimed Swiss writer whose novella
  Man in the Holocene
  appeared in
  The New Yorker.
  It came out well enough to move Frisch to say, in a quiet note later on, that it looked better in the magazine than it did in the book. But before that, when the text was first set into
  New Yorker
  galleys, Frisch told us, through Mrs. Wolff, “I have only one worry.
  The New Yorker
  takes it on itself to insert or eliminate spacing in the text. I have to insist, as a non-negotiable condition, that my text be printed with exactly the same spacing as in the German edition. The reason why: because I tried to make the reader visualize, by the typographical arrangements, the thought leaps of the protagonist, and his memory lapses. Please tell all concerned that this is of the utmost importance to me.”
  
• A note from Harold Brodkey from 1988. I think it is a condolence letter about my father's death. The timing is right, but it's hard to tell: “Dear Dan, I believe that the way we are conceived as organisms—the long journey from that to here—insures that life not seem very real, so that we are always on the edge of heroism or madness—men, I mean—and our parents and then our wives and children point out to us how to live, or, rather, they keep some chant or mechanism going more or less of life is real. And then one of them dies. So it wasn't so real, and isn't, but then again, it is. I wish I could defend my notion that ordinary writing lies about things fatal to us and for us when life happens, and the opposite. But I can't defend it. My arguments in favor of life are all on the page, in that other language. One day, soon, if you want, we can talk. At the moment, I'm busy being a public fool, someone whose opinions I wouldn't believe if I wasn't me. —HB”
  
• The first manuscript page of that 1976
  New Yorker
  book review by the renowned psychoanalyst Robert Coles—bedecked with my original editing, in pencil.
  
• An “opinion” on a story titled “Patterns,” by Tama Janowitz. Shawn's pencil scrawl at the bottom says, “Miss Cravens from Shawn: Sorry, but I liked this far less than the rest of you did, and I don't find it funny. The paragraph on p. 5 that Menaker found virtuoso comic writing I find intolerably broad.”
  
• Eight or nine handwritten letters from Alice Munro, one of them about “The Albanian Virgin,” which was the centerpiece of
  The New Yorker
  's first Fiction Issue: