overview of
fin-de-twentieth-siècle
American book history.
“I’m doing a chapter on institutional cross-influence—you know, the effect of university writing programs, writer’s retreats, conferences—on the shape of literary fiction. I’ve seen how nasty Fenton can be. At a conference at Iowa, he was having an affair with … well … with a writer whose name you would know, whose fiction has been characterized as defining the female literary voice for the past three decades. He got soused at a party, announced to the gathering that she was a ‘tight-assed little cunt,’ and jammed an ice cube down her cleavage.”
“Jeesh! And I thought academics were bad.”
“Oh, we are.” George was silent as Ralph Brooke passed us on the steps. Ralph inclined his head ponderously. We nodded in response. My companion watched the Palaver occupant until the older man was well past us. Then he said, speculatively, “I didn’t realize anyone still sold seersucker suits.”
I laughed. “Maybe he special-orders them.”
“But where do they get the fabric? I thought the world’s entire seersucker population had died out—oh, say, about 1968.” Then, without missing a beat, he dropped the facetious tone. “Do you know Brooke at all, Karen?”
“He’s new in my department, but I can’t say I know him. Why?”
“He’s such a pompous son of a bitch. He got hold of me at lunch the other day and blathered on about his salad days as a hipster in the Village with Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Delmore Schwartz. I can’t believe you guys hired him. He puts himself forward as a big expert on the Beats, but what he doesn’t know about the fifties …” He let it trail off. “Have you read any of his work?”
“Oh yes,” I replied, “during the hiring process.” I laughed, distracted from my own problems. “To me the most impressive thing about it is the name he publishes under:
Ralph W. Emerson Brooke
. Can you beat that name for scholarly credibility?”
“Rumor has it …” George drew closer. His mood seemed to have lightened. “… that Brooke’s name had no W. in it until he published his first book. Then suddenly, magically, old Ralphie was named after the Sage of Concord:
Ralph Waldo Emerson Brooke.”
I gave him a quizzical glance. “George, what’s going on? It’s not like you to be so bitchy about a colleague.”
He looked a little shamefaced. “It’s just that, well,Brooke’s been lobbying to get the contract for the Library of America edition of the Beat Generation writers, and I had my eye on that little project for myself.” The campus carillon chimed twice, and George hastily scooped up his books. “Gotta run, Karen. Office hours. But remember what I told you. Be careful. Jake Fenton may be a terrific writer, but sometimes I don’t think he’s much of a human being.”
E arlene hangs out in Emerson Hall, the administration building, and after I left the library I cut through the classroom wing on my way to her office. It was warm in the building, and professors’ voices droned out from open classroom doors. Terms such as
epistemological contingencies, cultural relativism
, and
transnational immigration patterns
faded in and out as I traversed the hallway. Harriet Person’s pedantic tones snagged my attention as I approached her classroom: …
due to the objectification of women
, Harriet pronounced. I slowed down. My colleague was teaching Women’s Studies 101, the Intro to Women’s Studies course. Next fall when she went on sabbatical I was slated to serve as her replacement, and I needed some pointers. The prospect of teaching WS 101 intimidated me. How to deal adequately with all the complicated, contradictory, and confusing ramifications of gender—biological, sociological, cultural, economic, political—in one twelve-week course without resorting to reductive sloganizing eluded me. Harriet’s confident voice continued, and I took mental notes:
the persistent
fin-de-twentieth-siècle
American book history.
“I’m doing a chapter on institutional cross-influence—you know, the effect of university writing programs, writer’s retreats, conferences—on the shape of literary fiction. I’ve seen how nasty Fenton can be. At a conference at Iowa, he was having an affair with … well … with a writer whose name you would know, whose fiction has been characterized as defining the female literary voice for the past three decades. He got soused at a party, announced to the gathering that she was a ‘tight-assed little cunt,’ and jammed an ice cube down her cleavage.”
“Jeesh! And I thought academics were bad.”
“Oh, we are.” George was silent as Ralph Brooke passed us on the steps. Ralph inclined his head ponderously. We nodded in response. My companion watched the Palaver occupant until the older man was well past us. Then he said, speculatively, “I didn’t realize anyone still sold seersucker suits.”
I laughed. “Maybe he special-orders them.”
“But where do they get the fabric? I thought the world’s entire seersucker population had died out—oh, say, about 1968.” Then, without missing a beat, he dropped the facetious tone. “Do you know Brooke at all, Karen?”
“He’s new in my department, but I can’t say I know him. Why?”
“He’s such a pompous son of a bitch. He got hold of me at lunch the other day and blathered on about his salad days as a hipster in the Village with Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Delmore Schwartz. I can’t believe you guys hired him. He puts himself forward as a big expert on the Beats, but what he doesn’t know about the fifties …” He let it trail off. “Have you read any of his work?”
“Oh yes,” I replied, “during the hiring process.” I laughed, distracted from my own problems. “To me the most impressive thing about it is the name he publishes under:
Ralph W. Emerson Brooke
. Can you beat that name for scholarly credibility?”
“Rumor has it …” George drew closer. His mood seemed to have lightened. “… that Brooke’s name had no W. in it until he published his first book. Then suddenly, magically, old Ralphie was named after the Sage of Concord:
Ralph Waldo Emerson Brooke.”
I gave him a quizzical glance. “George, what’s going on? It’s not like you to be so bitchy about a colleague.”
He looked a little shamefaced. “It’s just that, well,Brooke’s been lobbying to get the contract for the Library of America edition of the Beat Generation writers, and I had my eye on that little project for myself.” The campus carillon chimed twice, and George hastily scooped up his books. “Gotta run, Karen. Office hours. But remember what I told you. Be careful. Jake Fenton may be a terrific writer, but sometimes I don’t think he’s much of a human being.”
E arlene hangs out in Emerson Hall, the administration building, and after I left the library I cut through the classroom wing on my way to her office. It was warm in the building, and professors’ voices droned out from open classroom doors. Terms such as
epistemological contingencies, cultural relativism
, and
transnational immigration patterns
faded in and out as I traversed the hallway. Harriet Person’s pedantic tones snagged my attention as I approached her classroom: …
due to the objectification of women
, Harriet pronounced. I slowed down. My colleague was teaching Women’s Studies 101, the Intro to Women’s Studies course. Next fall when she went on sabbatical I was slated to serve as her replacement, and I needed some pointers. The prospect of teaching WS 101 intimidated me. How to deal adequately with all the complicated, contradictory, and confusing ramifications of gender—biological, sociological, cultural, economic, political—in one twelve-week course without resorting to reductive sloganizing eluded me. Harriet’s confident voice continued, and I took mental notes:
the persistent
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