Breeds of Misery: Decision, indecision, orphany, psychoanalysis

Best/Worst Verse:"Jenny made her mind up when she was three - she herself was going to trim the Christmas tree. Christmas Eve she lit the candles, tossed the taper away. Little Jenny was an orphan on Christmas Day.

"Poor Jenny! Bright as a penny! Her equal would be hard to find. She lost one dad and mother, a sister and a brother, but she would make up her mind."

So begins the saga of Jenny, an orphan prodigy whose life is filled with adventure and indecision - learning 27 languages, mistressing with 30 or more husbands in different states, mediating between the Roosevelt administration and Latin America, writing her tell-all memoirs at 51, deciding at 75 to become the oldest woman alive, and dying at 76. Is this story of the travails of a Christmas orphan the saddest ever told, or the happiest? I just can't decide!

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists.)

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

Breeds of Misery: Loneliness, incarceration, drug abuse, self-delusion, being broke

Best/Worst Verse: "Hey Charley, for chrissakes, if you want to know the truth of it, I don't have me a husband, he don't play the trombone. I got to borrow money to pay this lawyer, and Charley, hey - I'll be eligible for parole come Valentine's Day."

Yet another American standard from the pen of Tom Waits, as sung by one of the finest voices of the 21st Century. One of my favorite things Neko Case has ever said was in the autobio on her old website: "As I grew into a young adult I was very confused and lacked direction. My parents very much wanted me to become a crack-whore, but I gravely disappointed them by graduating from college." Neko recorded this song in 1999, on the cusp of of widespread acclaim, and I sometimes think of it in context of the narrative of her developing art. Perhaps this is the voice of the child she thought her parents always wanted.

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists.)

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON NEGATIVE CAPABILITY AND THE COCKTAIL PARTY ANALOGY IN MY PERSONAL FAVORITE BAE VOLUME:

"An essay doesn’t have to answer the question it asks. Maybe it doesn’t even ask a question. (I usually find essays that don’t have answers are the most interesting.) Some of the essays Oliver has selected provide possible answers; some don’t, happy to embrace beautiful, heartbreaking uncertainty. Oliver also imagines the essay as “a party to which all subjects are invited: humor, pathos remembrance, declaration, emotions, religious belief, the natural world.” The essays collected here reflect such a party, a rich gathering of subjects and writers, questions raised, questions considered."

ON THE FIRST PARAGRAPH OF GREGORY ORR'S "RETURN TO HAYNESVILLE":

"Now, I am an editor and thus strive to be a patient reader. I practice yoga to, among other reasons, become even more patient. But I confess that I adore a paragraph like this, one that requires no patience, that wastes no time and is nearly a complete story in itself." [Not surprisingly, she likes the rest of the piece too. It's without a doubt one of the best of The Best American Essays.]

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON MALE-NESS:

"What I mean is. John Turturro in Barton Fink. Michael Keaton in Birdman. The boy in the man who is ever what he was. Who LP’s Sticky Fingers or Blonde on Blonde with unclogged reverence. Boys in men other men admire. Who reel highlights, who wash-and-wield a Buick 6, who used to be, if not are, some woman’s used-to-be. Those literary varietals—the stooge incarnate or the male ingénue. Whose sense of self comes at the boy’s behest.

Such is the evidence of several macho-laced essays from 1995...

...

"The reason I may not have recognized male disclosure as liberation then (and the opposite, a codpiece exhibitionism) is I didn’t have the experience of my being the experience of my writing. It took twenty years of authoring to see my gender’s potential for intimacy—and its lack—whether in my essays or those of others. How transparent it is to me now. How utterly seen-through."

ON WILLIAM H. GASS'S WELL-DOCUMENTED SCORN FOR MEMOIR:

"What’s further bedeviling about Gass’s arrogance is that a) virtually no one supports his literary extremism and b) he couldn’t even imagine the memoirist’s esthetic. He doesn’t understand the primal urge to memoir—that authors make books in which their unknowing, their tentativeness and trials with “telling the truth,” becomes the narrative drama.

...

"He’s hyper-allegiant to classic literary forms. It’s a claim that we writers, so severely clubbed by our forebears, in Gass’s view, should know better than to bypass Chaucer’s humor, to forgo Ezra Pound’s dictum that only the French troubadours are worth studying, to think our religious lives must be begin and end with the Bible. Such edifices will crumble—if we let them."

ON JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN AND THE EVER-PRESENT:

"...for despair to be in the writing, it must be in the writer while he essays."

Just a really great piece of literary and self-critique. Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Breeds of Misery: Lying to one's children, one's children lying to their children, one's children's children lying to their children, et cetera, ad nauseam until someone's children realize how many parents have lied to them

Best/Worst Verse: "They sold me a dream of Christmas, they sold me a silent night. They told me a fairy story, 'til I believed in the Israelite. And I believed in Father Christmas and I looked to the sky with excited eyes. And I woke with a yawn at the first light of dawn, and I saw him and through his disguise."

This past weekend, my mom let loose on me one of her Great Regrets: "I wish hadn't ever let you believe in Santa Claus. I never liked going along with that. I always felt like I was lying to you. And it never seemed like you believed me anyway." My adult self held his tongue when I wanted to immediately respond, "But you still want me to believe that an Israelite who was tortured and killed 2,000 years ago is still upset with me for not believing in him either?" But we've already had this conversation, too many times. Instead, I went home and listened to this song.

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists.)

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Breeds of Misery: Generational poverty, playing Santa Claus in a department store, being mugged by a pack of feral boys

Best/Worst Verse: "But give my daddy a job 'cause he needs one, he's got lots of mouths to feed. But if you've got one I'll have a machine gun, so I can scare all the kids on the street."

If the poor black kids of "Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto" are positively begging for a visit from the fat white man, the poor white kids aren't nearly so gracious. This and David Sedaris's great essay on playing a Macy's elf serve to expose the seedy underbelly of the department store Santa trade. 

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists.)

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

ON A WORD I'D SOMEHOW NEVER HEARD BEFORE READING IT HERE:

"Can something still be a uchronia if I lived through it personally?

...

"There are many reasons that I actively work against my own tendency toward nostalgia, the tendency that makes me at times daydream of the early 1990s as a sort of queer political uchronia instead of the actual, messy, fucked up political time-space that it was. One of them is the simple fact that nostalgia in this way prevents us from seeing the past for what it was, or as accurately for what it was as is possible with the divide of time. That has always been clear enough to me. But the other reason, which took me considerably longer to understand, is that nostalgia for the past further prevents us from developing the literary/political/survival tools that are necessary for the present."

ON BAE1992 GUEST EDITOR SUSAN SONTAG:

"She was queer and thought about art and she loved essays, and she had a lot of politics with which I agree, and she also fucked up all the time and said things I find problematic, just as I also am queer (or whatever) and think about art and love essays and fuck up all the time and say things that I later find problematic."

ON PRIMARY VS. SECONDARY SOURCES:

"There’s an essay on pornography and the concept of liberty that managed to bore me out of it and into just streaming pornography instead..."

ON THE VOLUME ITSELF:

"The easier thing would be to discount some of the anthology and celebrate the parts of it that I want to celebrate, but this is a disservice, like when we call something a hybrid rather than letting all of its components exist as a contradictory whole.

...

"If the essay is so invested in the world and in history, as so many writers in this collection claim, then there’s really no excuse for the most boring of these essays, talking endlessly about Hamlet, essays where boring doesn’t just mean boring but instead limited, instead conservative, instead stifling, instead damaging."

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Holy moly, this is really one of the best yet, a real maze of time and history. I'm cutting out slices from just one perspective, but there is so much more here. Read the rest!

ON BEING A WRITER IN 1979:

"'What’s an "MLA?"' I asked. The person I was asking was William Baer, a graduate student poet in The Writing Seminars of Johns Hopkins University. He stood in my office doorway. I was nearing the end of the first semester of my year as a lecturer there. Bill, who was older than I though a year behind me in the program, had asked me, 'Going to the MLA?' In 2013, Bill retired from the Creative Writing Department of the University of Evansville where he had taught for nearly 25 years. 'The MLA,' he said, 'is where you go to interview for creative writing jobs.' I did not know then what an MLA was. I had no idea, then, that there was a way to get a job teaching creative writing."

ON BEING A WRITER IN 1984:

"I return to Johns Hopkins in 1984. I visit the current seminar class, gave a reading. I ask my former teacher, John Barth, how things are going. In four short years the number of creative writing programs has grown from two dozen to over one hundred. I have been teaching at Iowa State University those four years, growing a graduate program, an MA, so as not to conflict with Iowa’s MFA program down the road. In the last four years, Iowa State has hired four new writers—Steve Pett, Jane Smiley, David Milofsky, and Mary Swander—adding to a staff of five already there. 'It is more and more difficult to attract students,' Jack tells me. I ask him where they are going. 'To Syracuse,' he says, 'to work with Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff.'"

ON THE BEST AMERICAN ESSAYS in 1986:

"Michaela Sullivan, an in-house graphic designer for Houghton Mifflin...shows us the new powerful Apple computer in her office and the tools onboard that allow her to create the covers and page layouts. She shows me the cover of a new annual series—Best American Essays—published under the Ticknor and Fields imprint in a boxed set with the established series of Best American Stories."

ON BEING A WRITER IN 1992:

"What was a writer anyway? The greater culture seemed to be moving to clearly define the role through certification, an MFA degree and course of study, though neither one of us had the papers our students would soon possess. As I idle and thrum at high, pidgins circle the obelisk, dive bomb the crumbs scattered on the adjoining plaza. We conclude that we are the last or maybe the first of an old order or a new phylum, the schooled writer, the writing school."

ON BEING A WRITER IN 1995:

"I can only access the World Wide Web from a machine in my office at school. Every house in Syracuse, it seems, had a typewriter, and everyone seems, overnight, not to need them anymore. What to do with the old machines? Take them to the curb. Over time, I bring a few of the carcasses home with me. Walking the streets looking through the heaps for a new model, a different color, a better box, I see a few others scavenging. I tell myself the surplus would be for parts if nothing else, unable to image writing without a typewriter in the uncertain future."

ON BEING A WRITER IN 2000:

"John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction, published in 1983 had been wired into workshops and emphasized transparency and unselfconscious storytelling. This aesthetic insists that a text not call attention to itself, that it create a sustained dream. Its conventions are clear and teachable as craft, and its message coincides with the rapid and vast expansion of writing programs. Ironically, the principle of transparency becomes enforced at the very moment that the machine writers use to compose their writing becomes expansive and expressive. Writers in workshops are encouraged to rig their powerful typesetting machines, now connected to the Internet, to produce finished copy that looks exactly like the product of an early 20th Century typewriter. E. J. Levy is in the class, composing prose from prompts of paint sample strips, photo booth photos, and other graphic interruptions. The time is ripe."

ON BEING A WRITER IN 2001:

"There is a great unease with the complicated communities the great sorting engine of the university tolerates. Writers, I think, think of themselves sometimes as individual agents, unique, original but at the same time long for inclusion, connection."

ON BEING A WRITER IN THE BEST AMERICAN ESSAYS IN 2005:

"The Best American Essays of 2005 is an anniversary issue, the 20th, and the series editor, Robert Atwan, looks backward to the book’s inception in 1986. I consider my contribution, 'Contributor’s Note,' the only time I have ever appeared, to be a fictive essay. I was surprised that it was considered. The piece, in the form of a contributor’s note, traces the biography of a 'Michael Martone' and his life performing public readings of his own work or attending similar literary readings by others in the vast network of creative writing programs and conferences that have emerged in the preceding twenty years. As the piece of writing attempts to defamiliarize the author’s note, the whole volume makes me re-see the history of creative writing program culture. My whole life turns strange for me. In order for a life to have meaning, one must get outside of that life to see what matters in all the stuff that happened. The memoirist, I think, often draws a closed parenthesis, simulates a death, so that the time before can begin making a sense. Think my junior year abroad. Think my childhood. The book for me draws such a parenthesis. I can look back over the cultural shifts and aesthetic arguments I lived through and survived. The 2005 edition also balances on an edge of another era, marking, perhaps, the moment the essay was changing. In what way would the essay and its practitioners enter into an academic setting as the new discipline there—'creative nonfiction.'"

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

What a Sunday afternoon treat! I especially love Morano's descriptions of her family and her marginalia, both of which remind me of my own. (I say this on a Sunday afternoon in bed with my copy of BAE2015 lying to one side of me and my feverish three-year-old sleeping on the other.)

ON THE VOLUME:

"2008. Dark-grey cover with a light grey band at the top. A wrinkled spine and pen marks on every page. How is that possible, I wonder now. Who reads an anthology cover to cover?

ON HER 2008-SELF IN THIRD PERSON:

"Back in the apartment, after the final feeding and the bath and the lotion and powder, after stuffing the five-month-old sausage legs into cotton pajamas that zip to the chin, they dance. The baby loves Lori McKenna’s 'Bible Song,' the up-tempo and slight twang of her crooning about the urge to flee a small-town world. The man holds the baby in one arm and the woman in the other and they sway, dipping their knees, the baby smiling as he looks from face to face. When they get to the verse about the cousin who killed himself, leaving two kids behind, tears fill the woman’s eyes. But she doesn’t stop singing and they don’t stop dancing and she thinks that this is what it means to be a family: anything can happen. The future has thin edges that, if handled the wrong way, can cut to the bone.

...

"Later she will think of these months in Madrid as very happy and, at the same time, very sad, a period when the future was daunting and, at the same time, filled with hope. In the face of all that contradiction, what else could she have done but continue to call that disconnected number, continue to rock and wipe and walk and dance, to wait and withstand, to take notes and to read, above all to read, as if every word on every page were a tiny yawp of prayer."

ON REREADING A GREAT SENTENCE FRAGMENT:

"The back of my neck constricts, just below the hairline, and I feel I’ve been here before, with this same response to these same words. But is that true? Am I remembering reading them, remembering being moved, or am I simply moved anew in a familiar, pleasing way?"

And there's so much more! Read the rest here.

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON TIMELESSNESS AND PLACELESSNESS:

"Best or not best, American or not American, essay or not essay, 1988 or 1841—I don’t really care, I just want to read someone like Simic who dreams, reads, thinks, remembers, and speaks for himself, especially if that self is refractory and drawn to the impossible."

It's ultra-short, so I'm not going to quote any more. Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Breeds of Misery: Various stages in the life and death of Christ

Best/Worst Verse: "Father up above, why in all this hatred do you fill me up with love?"

Few Christmas stories are as depressing and sad and hopeful and soul-destroying as the birth and death of Jesus Christ. Like Spotlight on Christmas from last year's Miserable Twelve, this song begins with the incredibly depressing story of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph as political refugees from the murderous and tyrannical King Herod, lending further support (as if any was necessary) that it is un-Christian to deny sanctuary to Syrian refugees fleeing the murderous and tyrannical Bashar Al-Assad.

No song of the Christ's torment would be complete with the passion; Matthews speculates further on Christ's famous last words while bleeding out from his wrists and feet, "Father why hast thou forsaken me?":

"I came to shed a little light on this darkening scene
Instead I fear I spill the blood of my children all around."

If the story of Christ's birth and death were not enough to solidify the holiday bearing his name as domain of the miserable, he spent his life with the very people populating most of the other songs on this list, "less than golden-hearted drinkers and jokers, all soul searchers." Perhaps it's this search that makes us miserable. If so then suffering on Christmas is ordained, holy, sacred.

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists.)

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AuthorJohn Proctor

IN A DOZEN MIC DROPS:

"...Houghton Mifflin rolled the dice and launched BAE, publishing it as a Ticknor & Fields book. The imprint dated from the early 19th century. It was the house that published Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, and Henry David Thoreau, essayists who, as one wag put it, parted their names in the middle. "

"When BAE was launched in 1986 as a Ticknor & Fields book, there was an air of lavender still hanging about the essay."

"Gay Talese’s introduction to the 1987 collection...was largely an extended retelling of the story of writing 'Frank Sinatra Has a Cold'...itself an extended re-telling of the story of Talese trying to get an interview with Sinatra, making this introduction meta-meta. It read as a paean for a New Journalism that even in 1987 was no longer new."

"Pfaff’s parenthetical jab is snobbery disguised as a critique of snobbery..."

"Epstein’s self-satisfied opening line reveals what he does and doesn’t know about economic class: 'Karl, Friedrich, forgive me, fellas, for never having taken much interest in your class struggle, but the truth is that for the better part of my live I have been a bit unclear about what class I myself belong to.' If were to hazard a guess, Joe, I’d say 'petit bourgeois intellectual.'"

"It is you and I, Gentle Reader, and I suspect that we, like Joseph Epstein, are petit bourgeois intellectuals, or at least, kissing cousins to petit bourgeois intellectuals."

"The label 'middle-class' itself obfuscates. Americans prefer it to more precise descriptors such as 'working-class,' 'petit bourgeois,' or 'capitalist.'...For us, it is disgraceful to say you’re lower class, distasteful to say you’re upper class. Such denial has long been part and parcel of American exceptionalism but it served the Reagan Era especially well.'

"The New Yorker...had always juxtaposed celebrity profiles with hand-wringing liberalism, ads for good scotch and fur coats with cartoons that poked fun at the people who wore the furs and sipped the cocktails, but it was in the 1980s that such self-deprecation soured into self-hatred, and a novel that starred a New Yorker fact-checker on a cocaine binge became a bestseller."

"On the most base level, New Journalism had resulted from a Midtown squabble among Esquire, The New Yorker, and the New York Magazine (formerly the Sunday supplement of the New York Herald Tribune) over the same advertising accounts."

"New Journalism had always been about the cross-pollination of nonfiction by fiction so it made sense that Talese’s volume of BAE would include novelists such as Dunne and Stone. (For partisans of the fourth genre, this choice always suggests that our inferiority complex is right. Essays can be written by fiction writers, real writers, with their left hand.)"

"Perhaps Talese admired Lopate’s piece on its own terms, perhaps they knew each other (though the East Side is further from Brooklyn than one might think), or perhaps Atwan, a fellow Montaignean, pushed for it; in any case, it stands out as more essayistic, more personal, more forward-looking than much of the rest of the volume. It foreshadows the renaissance of the essay that was about to come."

AND FINALLY, THE EXTENDED, ESSAY-ENDING MIC DROP:

"We ended up at the University of Iowa, precisely at the dawn of the essay renaissance the 1987 BAE foreshadowed. Carl Klaus was transforming the old expository writing program of literary criticism and composition theory into a program that focused exclusively on literary nonfiction. He brought Sanders and Lopez in for readings, and Patricia Hampl and Carol Bly for semester-long workshops. We read Montaigne and Bacon, Orwell and Baldwin, Didion and Mairs. We formed study groups and read each other’s stuff. It felt like we were riding a wave that was about to crest.

"Then Lopate’s anthology came out. The Atwan and Oates anthology came out. The John D’Agata anthologies came out. Fourth Genre, River Teeth, and Creative Nonfiction were launched. The Digital Revolution arrived, bringing Brevity and Assay with it. Where once Iowa was one of just a few graduate programs in nonfiction in the country; now there are almost 200. Robin Hemley introduced the NonfictioNow conference. No one longs for the good old days of New Journalism anymore, Elizabeth and I have (almost) raised our two daughters, BAE is in its thirtieth year, and the wave doesn’t seem to have crested."

Read the whole thing here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

SOME THINGS HE WRITES THAT FEEL LIKE MY OWN WORDS:

"I admit that I worry too much about coming off seeming 'stupid.' My ingrained pessimism gets the best of me and prevents me from throwing myself in positions where I’m proven otherwise. Who wants to be told to shut up; we don’t want to hear what you have to say! I grew up with those exact words."

"The older I got, the less I felt I wanted to share what I knew or thought. I turned inward to the safety of my own imagination with my words and books. But a sabelotodo can only hold so much back." (Ok, I wouldn't use the word sabelotodo [just had to look it up on SpanishDict]. I probably say something about getting above my raisin'.)

"I tend to think about the past in patterns. Essays stitch those patterns into something meaningful."

"So, here’s one: I remember when I was seven years old, sitting on a floor and scribbling down words on an old notebook. I had the urge to make meaning but something stopped me. I’d momentarily stare at my words before crumpling them up, stuffing them in my mouth, then chewing them into a scrap of unrecognizable inky goo. I had this habit for years and aside from having pen ink permanently staining my teeth, I never took that urge beyond that point." (The taste of paper is one of my most tactile childhood memories.)

"But what struck fear in me in conversation as it does in essay writing is acknowledging that tiny uncharted space where one can be misunderstood. This lack of control for that gap in understanding has often set me off in a panic, and then I become erratic and squirrely. It took years to feel comfortable in conversations, and took coming to terms with believing in who I was and how I projected that out to others."

"My best friend once told me he admired my ability to be so vulnerable, to lay myself out there in ways he couldn’t. I learned this from my mother. I don’t know how to stop."

"Here’s where my past returns: out of nowhere during my panel at NonfictionNOW, I obsess over what type of writer I am—that outward conversationalist of the world I didn’t grow up in or the inward writer that was born out of necessity? Then I question my own authority about speaking at a conference. Is it the publishing of a memoir or a collection of essays (two things I’ve yet to accomplish) or is simply being a practitioner of the genre enough? How do I know whether I have some incisive thing to say? Who determines all of this?" (I felt the EXACT SAME WAY at the conference, especially presenting on my as-yet-unpublished book of essays.)

"Achievement makes me nervous…"

Amen, brother.

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Breeds of Misery: A year's worth of seething heartbreak, repressed same-sex urges

Best/Worst Verse: "A crowded room, friends with tired eyes. I'm hiding from you and your soul of ice. My god I thought you were someone to rely on. Me? I guess I was a shoulder to cry on."

I don’t know if this counts as a confession, but I’ve always had a deep, abiding love for the music of George Michael. Though many probably think of him (and particularly Wham!) as happy and fun, I think he does morose particularly well (Listen Without Prejudice, Vol.1 was the first CD I ever bought, and his version of Stevie Wonder’s “They Won’t Go When I Go” is possibly my favorite of his songs). “Last Christmas” isn’t necessarily morose, or even serious—in fact it’s probably one of Wham!’s fluffier songs—but it succeeds where Tommy Page failed, assuming its place at the top of a longer-by-the-year list of the most prominent subgenre of miserable Christmas music: the Christmas Breakup Song.

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists!)

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

ON THE ESSAY AS MORE THAN MEMOIR:

"While short memoir is certainly valuable and arguably the most widely consumed nonfiction dish, the essay was a particular thing created to do more than house narrative. Moreover, because the memoiristic brand of nonfiction has roared loudest in the past few decades, it can handle being put into check so that we don’t forget about what an essay might do that is not, primarily, about a writer’s lived experience."

ON DEATH AND DYING:

"Best American Essays 2015 is a book thinking a lot about the approach of death, or dying and what comes after it. Which makes me think, grumpily: If a highly literate alien culture comes searching for traces of nonfiction from 2015, will they think the essay was a genre so personal that it was where the ego went to process its own self-consumption?

...

"BAE 2015 makes me think most about how we are very likely a culture leaving behind texts that are “on death” in the way those written in the wake of some of the great dyings-off were. Like the spiritualist novels following the civil war, a time when few bodies came home to prove human loss, our texts are those that will expect and extend a mass mourning. Inevitably now, death must be more visible than it has ever been, though now it’s death in the most abstract. "

ON SUBJECT VS. OBJECT:

"Here, perhaps I’m asking: When did the “me” replace the “I” in the personal essay? Or, what happened to the essay as a place where the capabilities of the essayist’s mind weigh more than the essayist’s life and how they can retell it?"

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Breeds of Misery: Indeterminate

Best/Worst Verse: "It's Christmas time again, I'm happy for you."

Are you always the one at the office holiday party complaining about being single (or being married)? Are you always sad by December 15th because you've already broken next year's resolutions? When you take an online quiz to see which Christmas special character you are, does it always come up Charlie Brown in A Charlie Brown Christmas? Then this is the carol for you! I’ve been amazed for more than two decades now (this comes from 1992's A Very Special Christmas 2) at how well Gary Cherone can drain a holiday of all the fun, even when he’s singing lines that aren’t even really that depressing.

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists.)

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

ON CONTEXT:

"The Best American Essays 1993 was published before I decided to pursue a PhD at my professors’ urging. Before I was accepted for the Film Studies program at Oklahoma State University in the fall of 1995. Before my boyfriend called in June of that same year to ask, 'PhD or me,' one month before our wedding in Dallas. Before I sat in the Lubbock airport bar, sipping a white wine (before I knew wine) and watching him shuffle toward me in a yellow shirt and maroon sweats to find in his face that the flight I had taken to Lubbock to change his mind had been a waste of energy and money.

...

"But for me, this is not about what BAE 1993 came before; it's about what came before it, something, something I’ve never written about: Best American Essays 1993 was published on November 22. Three days before, on November 19, I had an abortion.

...

"Once I looked up this edition’s publication date and remembered November 19th, I could not read these essays through any other lens, and so, I underlined passages for my twenty-three year old self, because 'certain moments in one’s life cast their influence forward over all the moments that follow.'"

Read Talbot's notes for her 23-year-old self here.

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AuthorJohn Proctor