MAN OF LETTERS
a memoir
by
WILBURY J. KRANKDICK,
author of the timeless classics
SUNDAY MOURNING EPISTLES
GO THITHER, SON
ALONG CASCO BAY
and others, as well as the book of poetry
LINES UPON MY FACE
and the critical masterpieces
FINNEGANS WAKING UP
A DISCOURSE ON HETEROGLOSSIA
LICKING KANT: AESTHETICS RECONSIDERED
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
Causing much speculation in the most esteemed literary communities, I had given up writing all together for well over two decades. Yes, twenty-two tranquil, reclusive years I spent in a small apartment in the woods in Maine, its plain wooden walls my only décor, the occasional deer or fox in my back yard my only company—aside from the too-frequent visits from the neighbors or the maintenance man. Having no intentions to return to any sort of literary lifestyle again, instead choosing to live the remainder of my life in blessed anonymity (nobody in that part of the country had ever heard of me, much less read my works; nevertheless, I adopted the infallible pseudonym of William Gray). With no distractions or tireless admirers begging for interpretations or meaningless autographs, I had the luxury of passing hour upon hour seated at the picnic table or lying in the grass, identifying bird songs and practicing my own bird calls, with indescribable satisfaction.
Thus, I was living the ideal lifestyle—the very one every decent writer hopes to adopt after the nescience of his or her seminal masterpiece (although I of course delivered three). And I truly did give up writing all together for those twenty-two years, never once putting pen to paper or tapping upon my now dusty typewriter. But having been lured one Thanksgiving holiday a few weeks back to join my family for that rather common celebration, I fell into conversation with, if I may make such a judgment, a surprisingly sophisticated young man whom my daughter had the kind pleasure of introducing to me as my own son-in-law. While he had never actually read any of my books, he had once perused the Cliff’s Notes summary of one or other before an exam during his undergraduate coursework, so he had a fair understanding of my importance.
In the course of my chat with this pleasant fellow—he enjoying his cranberry sauce, mashed potato, and turkey, I enjoying my more healthful but equally satisfying (and more kind to nature’s lot) cabbage and leek stew—he came to asking me why I ever did give up writing and ostracize myself from the world, including most of my family. He commented that my daughter, his wife, had not seen me in some ten years, and that she was rather shocked to hear of my being cajoled by a favorite cousin to come home for the holiday. I explained him that it was simply the sort of thing writers are wont to do, and that such a reason would have to suffice. Although he seemed unsettled, I was satisfied with my answer. But he was incessant, and continued on. “Do you never think of writing again?”
“Hardly,” I assured him. “I have written all that I had to say, and left my legacy on paper for the world to chew up and digest for centuries. My own daughter will eventually pass away, and so will any children you may or may not currently or prospectively have with her. But my works are permanent, so long as the language is read and the words are preserved.”
Although I cannot conjecture at how he absorbed this humble response to so prying a question, he supplied some hint in his own rebuttal: “What of your own life? While your ideas may live on forever, what of your life? Your own daughter knows so little about you; I can’t imagine that any accurate biographies have been written about you!” I was struck. The prospect of a manuscript recording my personal history had never occurred to me, although it was a painfully obvious one. Every great writer has an equally great life’s story. He continued: “What with the recent craze for memoirs, it would be a prime opportunity for you to return to the literary scene with your final words, a description of where you came from, what inspired you, you know, the usual memoir material.”
I confess, I was somewhat intrigued by what he said that day, and considered it continually. Even as I lay out in the snow, bundled up and listening for the occasional bird whistle (but mostly just hearing the caw of ravens), I was distracted by this memoir craze my son-in-law told me about. Somewhat reluctantly yet with indescribable angst, I journeyed to the local book store and began perusing these contemporary memoirs, which were easy enough to discover. It took only a few pages of reading to recognize their great literary quality and to verify their unwavering veracity; ere long, I was at the check out with a stack of memoirs, a handful of small-press poetry magazines (in order to see if contemporary poetry, too, has taken so proficient a turn), and, for good measure, a recent copy of The New Yorker to see if it too has improved with the literary scene or remained entrenched in the stagnant literary bog I trudged out from back in the ‘80s.
Dear reader, I need say no more than that I was captured immediately that evening upon returning home to my apartment. Instantly, I knew how great a turn the literary world had turned during my absence, and understood how important it would be for me to jump on the band wagon in order to fully guarantee my legacy as a man of letters. So often have I lamented having been brought into this world in a different era than Chaucer’s, Shakespeare’s, Swift’s, or Joyce’s. To have published beside such great names would assure one of immortality; such an opportunity did I see in these contemporary memoirs. More so, I was astounded by how clear and vivid the poetry I discovered in the best literary magazines was. Every poem seemed to be crafted with great skill, observing such clever uses of metrics and rhythm to doubly affect the reader with that musical quality of poetry that made it survive orally so long. More so, I found each one to be universally relevant; that is to say, none was even the remotest bit obtuse, or of a nature where one would need to know the poet’s biography, political stance, literary heroes, diet, height and weight, marital status, or frequency of defecation to appreciate it. Indeed, in the reading of these poems, I was more fully able to understand how great a thing is my fellow human—which I always have held to be one of the chief aims of poetry, nay, of literature all together—for which experience I am indebted.
And so, dear, dear reader, you who have waited these twenty-two years for my return to writing, I have found it expedient to write my own memoir now. Of course, I have heard recently that some memoir writers are guilty of falsification, of fabricating scenarios or padding situations in order to sell more copies, tantalize readers, or to make up for their own lame existences. Well, let me assure you now, that every word I write throughout this memoir will be absolutely true, as any member of my family would attest to. So never doubt what I share, no matter how fantastic, unlikely, or disturbing it may seem, for I would never mislead my reader in order to seek the benefits of any of the above mentioned transgressions. -WK
Causing much speculation in the most esteemed literary communities, I had given up writing all together for well over two decades. Yes, twenty-two tranquil, reclusive years I spent in a small apartment in the woods in Maine, its plain wooden walls my only décor, the occasional deer or fox in my back yard my only company—aside from the too-frequent visits from the neighbors or the maintenance man. Having no intentions to return to any sort of literary lifestyle again, instead choosing to live the remainder of my life in blessed anonymity (nobody in that part of the country had ever heard of me, much less read my works; nevertheless, I adopted the infallible pseudonym of William Gray). With no distractions or tireless admirers begging for interpretations or meaningless autographs, I had the luxury of passing hour upon hour seated at the picnic table or lying in the grass, identifying bird songs and practicing my own bird calls, with indescribable satisfaction.
Thus, I was living the ideal lifestyle—the very one every decent writer hopes to adopt after the nescience of his or her seminal masterpiece (although I of course delivered three). And I truly did give up writing all together for those twenty-two years, never once putting pen to paper or tapping upon my now dusty typewriter. But having been lured one Thanksgiving holiday a few weeks back to join my family for that rather common celebration, I fell into conversation with, if I may make such a judgment, a surprisingly sophisticated young man whom my daughter had the kind pleasure of introducing to me as my own son-in-law. While he had never actually read any of my books, he had once perused the Cliff’s Notes summary of one or other before an exam during his undergraduate coursework, so he had a fair understanding of my importance.
In the course of my chat with this pleasant fellow—he enjoying his cranberry sauce, mashed potato, and turkey, I enjoying my more healthful but equally satisfying (and more kind to nature’s lot) cabbage and leek stew—he came to asking me why I ever did give up writing and ostracize myself from the world, including most of my family. He commented that my daughter, his wife, had not seen me in some ten years, and that she was rather shocked to hear of my being cajoled by a favorite cousin to come home for the holiday. I explained him that it was simply the sort of thing writers are wont to do, and that such a reason would have to suffice. Although he seemed unsettled, I was satisfied with my answer. But he was incessant, and continued on. “Do you never think of writing again?”
“Hardly,” I assured him. “I have written all that I had to say, and left my legacy on paper for the world to chew up and digest for centuries. My own daughter will eventually pass away, and so will any children you may or may not currently or prospectively have with her. But my works are permanent, so long as the language is read and the words are preserved.”
Although I cannot conjecture at how he absorbed this humble response to so prying a question, he supplied some hint in his own rebuttal: “What of your own life? While your ideas may live on forever, what of your life? Your own daughter knows so little about you; I can’t imagine that any accurate biographies have been written about you!” I was struck. The prospect of a manuscript recording my personal history had never occurred to me, although it was a painfully obvious one. Every great writer has an equally great life’s story. He continued: “What with the recent craze for memoirs, it would be a prime opportunity for you to return to the literary scene with your final words, a description of where you came from, what inspired you, you know, the usual memoir material.”
I confess, I was somewhat intrigued by what he said that day, and considered it continually. Even as I lay out in the snow, bundled up and listening for the occasional bird whistle (but mostly just hearing the caw of ravens), I was distracted by this memoir craze my son-in-law told me about. Somewhat reluctantly yet with indescribable angst, I journeyed to the local book store and began perusing these contemporary memoirs, which were easy enough to discover. It took only a few pages of reading to recognize their great literary quality and to verify their unwavering veracity; ere long, I was at the check out with a stack of memoirs, a handful of small-press poetry magazines (in order to see if contemporary poetry, too, has taken so proficient a turn), and, for good measure, a recent copy of The New Yorker to see if it too has improved with the literary scene or remained entrenched in the stagnant literary bog I trudged out from back in the ‘80s.
Dear reader, I need say no more than that I was captured immediately that evening upon returning home to my apartment. Instantly, I knew how great a turn the literary world had turned during my absence, and understood how important it would be for me to jump on the band wagon in order to fully guarantee my legacy as a man of letters. So often have I lamented having been brought into this world in a different era than Chaucer’s, Shakespeare’s, Swift’s, or Joyce’s. To have published beside such great names would assure one of immortality; such an opportunity did I see in these contemporary memoirs. More so, I was astounded by how clear and vivid the poetry I discovered in the best literary magazines was. Every poem seemed to be crafted with great skill, observing such clever uses of metrics and rhythm to doubly affect the reader with that musical quality of poetry that made it survive orally so long. More so, I found each one to be universally relevant; that is to say, none was even the remotest bit obtuse, or of a nature where one would need to know the poet’s biography, political stance, literary heroes, diet, height and weight, marital status, or frequency of defecation to appreciate it. Indeed, in the reading of these poems, I was more fully able to understand how great a thing is my fellow human—which I always have held to be one of the chief aims of poetry, nay, of literature all together—for which experience I am indebted.
And so, dear, dear reader, you who have waited these twenty-two years for my return to writing, I have found it expedient to write my own memoir now. Of course, I have heard recently that some memoir writers are guilty of falsification, of fabricating scenarios or padding situations in order to sell more copies, tantalize readers, or to make up for their own lame existences. Well, let me assure you now, that every word I write throughout this memoir will be absolutely true, as any member of my family would attest to. So never doubt what I share, no matter how fantastic, unlikely, or disturbing it may seem, for I would never mislead my reader in order to seek the benefits of any of the above mentioned transgressions. -WK
ALONG OCSAC RIVER
The Ocsac River was lapping the dirt off my knees as I sat on the bank with my worn-out toys, a pair of Spider-Man dolls—one of the hero himself and one of his enemy, the Green Goblin. They fought in the murky, muddy current, and I had some notion that I controlled their destinies. Even from that young age, I suppose I had the writer’s gift; I knew someday I would control people’s lives, however indirectly. With frequent glances through the trees, checking to see if my father and grandfather had the canoe ready yet, my attention ricocheted frequently. I was eager to move on the next bit of leisurely entertainment while still enjoying my present entertainment. The tension between the current fun and the impending fun caused sparks in my chest.
My toys inconsistently demanded my attention, nevertheless. The urge to play with them was becoming unnatural, yet still it was irresistible. They supplied only meager pleasure, for my efforts to make good triumph over evil in imaginary epic battles seemed inane, futile, and impractical.
When they finished loosening the ropes, my father and grandfather slid the canoe off from the top of the suburban. It lay on its side, teetering, as Dad fished through the compartments in our pop-up camper. He was probably looking for oars, or his tackle box, or maybe some fishing poles. I couldn’t see well enough to tell, because of the trees.
As my hand splashed Spider-Man about in the water, a raven flew from my left, over the river against the direction of the current. It cackled, and I interpreted it as laughter at me and my toys. I glanced back toward the camper and saw my father and grandfather preparing to lift the canoe. As my head swiveled back around, I noticed a girl to my left emerging from a trail. She was as far away from where I played as the swings at school were from the slides. Even from that distance, I knew she was pretty and only a few years older than I. She wore a bathing suit that concealed little. I noticed her differently than I had ever noticed anyone else before; I felt that the urge to watch her was unnatural, yet still it was irresistible, a vaguely familiar feeling.
Slightly uncomfortable, I stood up. My father and grandfather were following the trail from the camper toward where I sat. The rest of my family trailed submissively behind: my grandmother carried a tote bag, and my mother and sister carried a cooler. I complained later that all they packed for me were kid’s drinks—juice boxes and the like.
I shamefully held a towel in front of me, awkwardly, until that uncomfortable feeling went away. I reluctantly glanced once more at the girl as I clambered into the canoe, feigning interest in the river’s flow. No one was looking at me anyway.
As we prepared to set off on our trip, I realized that the river had washed away all of my toys. I made no disturbance, gravely accepting this omen. I looked ahead with uncertainty, anticipating our journey down the Ocsac River.
I knew I probably wouldn’t really miss my toys anymore, anyway.
The Ocsac River was lapping the dirt off my knees as I sat on the bank with my worn-out toys, a pair of Spider-Man dolls—one of the hero himself and one of his enemy, the Green Goblin. They fought in the murky, muddy current, and I had some notion that I controlled their destinies. Even from that young age, I suppose I had the writer’s gift; I knew someday I would control people’s lives, however indirectly. With frequent glances through the trees, checking to see if my father and grandfather had the canoe ready yet, my attention ricocheted frequently. I was eager to move on the next bit of leisurely entertainment while still enjoying my present entertainment. The tension between the current fun and the impending fun caused sparks in my chest.
My toys inconsistently demanded my attention, nevertheless. The urge to play with them was becoming unnatural, yet still it was irresistible. They supplied only meager pleasure, for my efforts to make good triumph over evil in imaginary epic battles seemed inane, futile, and impractical.
When they finished loosening the ropes, my father and grandfather slid the canoe off from the top of the suburban. It lay on its side, teetering, as Dad fished through the compartments in our pop-up camper. He was probably looking for oars, or his tackle box, or maybe some fishing poles. I couldn’t see well enough to tell, because of the trees.
As my hand splashed Spider-Man about in the water, a raven flew from my left, over the river against the direction of the current. It cackled, and I interpreted it as laughter at me and my toys. I glanced back toward the camper and saw my father and grandfather preparing to lift the canoe. As my head swiveled back around, I noticed a girl to my left emerging from a trail. She was as far away from where I played as the swings at school were from the slides. Even from that distance, I knew she was pretty and only a few years older than I. She wore a bathing suit that concealed little. I noticed her differently than I had ever noticed anyone else before; I felt that the urge to watch her was unnatural, yet still it was irresistible, a vaguely familiar feeling.
Slightly uncomfortable, I stood up. My father and grandfather were following the trail from the camper toward where I sat. The rest of my family trailed submissively behind: my grandmother carried a tote bag, and my mother and sister carried a cooler. I complained later that all they packed for me were kid’s drinks—juice boxes and the like.
I shamefully held a towel in front of me, awkwardly, until that uncomfortable feeling went away. I reluctantly glanced once more at the girl as I clambered into the canoe, feigning interest in the river’s flow. No one was looking at me anyway.
As we prepared to set off on our trip, I realized that the river had washed away all of my toys. I made no disturbance, gravely accepting this omen. I looked ahead with uncertainty, anticipating our journey down the Ocsac River.
I knew I probably wouldn’t really miss my toys anymore, anyway.
I suppose we should get in the habit of posting comments in a sort of regular way, but I'll leave that to everyone else to decide how that way should be.
ReplyDeleteThe preface I especially enjoyed. I love the classic, almost haughty, voice you have given this writer--very believable that it could come from a great. I also love the obvious, though not too obvious, sarcasm you are giving when describing modern poetry. It suits you.
My criticism (more a question, really) is, did you intend to continue this voice in the following chapters? I didn't hear it quite as clearly in your first.
Also, because I'm interested, how do you plan on making the piece itself a satire? I see how the IDEA of writing a memoir is a satire, especially in his decision to write one, but I'm looking forward to those jibes you hinted toward in the preface.
Much love,
Andrew
P.S. Thank you for making the first jump, my boy. I thank you. NAH thanks you.