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Is it wrong to post a paragraph from someone’s essay for no real reason other than to share it? I’m not sure. This passage in Benjamin Kunkel’s “Colorado” chapter in State by State is so killer, though, that I’m going to risk it. I’ve had it in my head since reading it about two weeks ago. Maybe by putting it down here, I’ll get over it and feel like it’s okay to write something of my own even though it will be less lovely. Or maybe I’m just copying it to know what it feels like to type these words!
…”in the pure light like a bright, immaculate wound.” I don’t know why this language of hurt should attach to alpine Colorado, or why, in the best-known version of the traditional song, the man of constant sorrow (“I seen trouble all my days”) should be bound for Colorado (“where I was born and partly raised”). Unless I do know why: The pure light and gin-clear air can’t be matched by your life. They will only put a hurt look into your eyes, whether you stay or go.
I read this line–“The pure light and gin-clear air can’t be matched by your life”–about fifteen times before I was sure I understood. Now that I do, I think I would be too scared to ever venture west to Colorado.
As I was reading Personal Days by Ed Park, I found myself remembering The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Patchett. The two books have next to nothing in common, so it took me a second to come up with the link, memory being somehow a step ahead of consciousness.
What it is, I finally discovered, is that each novel is divided into three distinct parts. In The Patron Saint of Liars, related characters each narrate their own third of the book. In Personal Days, the first section is a collective first person / omniscient third person account of the drudgery and drama of office life. The second chunk is not incredibly different from the first except in terms of organization–rather than being structured under subheadings, its mini-sections are presented in outline form: II (A) iii:. The last third is a more radical departure. It is one long narrative presented as an email from one coworker to another.
After reading her last gratuitously miserable story in the New Yorker, I vowed never to read Annie Proulx again. But when I made this vow to Dan’s mom, she mentioned that she’d already lent me her copy of The Shipping News. I had no choice but to amend my vow and so set out to find that copy. It took me a while because I’d put it in the wrong spot on my bookshelf (which is arranged in a strange, intuitive manner, that makes sense only to me, and only sometimes). But then I found it and started it and was completely transported.
Vow broken–Ms. Proulx is on my triple gold star list now.
I almost had to stop reading her again, from sheer envy, when I hit this, on page one, a paragraph full enough to constitute an entire flash fiction story:
Hive-spangled, gut roaring with gas and cramp, he survived childhood; at the state university, hand clapped over his chin, he camouflaged torment with smiles and silence. Stumbled through his twenties and into his thirties learning to separate his feelings from his life, counting on nothing. He ate prodigiously, liked a ham knuckle, buttered spuds.
!!!
And, at the top of that page, as at the start of every chapter, an image from The Ashley Book of Knots:
This Friday, as part of the New Yorker Festival, Alice Munro will be reading. For me, this event ranks right up there with another I attended last October–Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden. I’ll bet that, unless you know me very well, you’ve never heard these two artists mentioned in the same breath before. So let me tell you why I admire each of them, and why the comparison makes so much sense.