On Writing Well was American writer and teacher William Zinsser's attempt to capture the nonfiction writing course he taught at Yale. The book's most useful parts come in the first nine chapters, which need only 66 pages in my 2016 Harper edition. I very much like Zinsser's approach because I think coaching good writing (teaching good writing is usually impossible) has much, much more to do with focusing on principles rather than mechanics. Zinsser stresses the basics: simplicity, cutting words, and rewriting. In addition to principles, Zinsser relays a few anecdotes, and he quotes examples of good nonfiction writing. Among the best tips he offers are to read aloud what you write and approach writing as a process rather than a means to a product.
Zinsser calls nonfiction writing a craft; he even calls On Writing Well a craft book. I wish he had explored this claim further. He does not define craft or contrast it with art.
The latter chapters of On Writing Well mostly focus on particulars about specific forms of nonfiction writing, like the memoir, travel writing, interviews, and so on. The book's earlier chapters are not only more useful, I found them to be better written. Zinsser gets too conversational for me as the book pushes on.
Notes:
- This book reminds me of my other favorite book about writing, Writing with Style, by John Trimble.
- On Writing Well was first published in 1976; Zinsser updated the book as times and technology changed. Zinsser died in 2015 at age 92.
Kirk Douglas (1916-2020) was a star in a generation of greats. He was more accessible than John Wayne, Cary Grant, and Charlton Heston, and he combined the complicated humanity of Henry Fonda with the versatility and authority of Burt Lancaster. He was a confident and squarely handsome man with a distinctive cleft chin. I always thought one of his greatest assets was how his grin seemed to suggest a mischievous inner life.
Now Kirk Douglas is gone. He will be remembered primarily for his role in the great Kubrick film, "Spartacus." Other favorites of mine include "Last Train From Gun Hill" and "Lonely Are the Brave." "Last Train From Gun Hill," released in 1959, co-stars the great Anthony Quinn; Douglas and Quinn are friends pitted against each other in an old West-style battle of wills. "Lonely Are the Brave," from 1962, is a great late Western, and, as Roger Ebert said of Lee Marvin's "Monte Walsh," "like a lot of recent Westerns, it's about the end of the old West."
Unbothered runways press out to a deafened, mud-washed fringe of trees. Most
people drive here. And away. Inside, neutral pop plays over the PA and
suppresses mood. An unattended bag, a wilting plant in public space. How many rough mornings have there been at the Hampton Inn & Suites Providence Airport? Say goodbye to me and Massachusetts' shrunken head.
Critics of academia often mock liberal arts studies of obscure and apparently unprofitable subjects like basket weaving (does such a degree even exist?). Critics also diagnose academia with a fatal case of aloof pretentiousness. But William Deresiewicz is a fierce proponent of the value of a classical liberal arts education.
Deresiewicz has criticisms of his own. Excellent Sheep: The Miseducation of the American Elite and the Way to a Meaningful Life starts on the offensive, putting a harsh light on modern trends in higher education—especially at elite institutions. But then Deresiewicz quickly pivots to an impassioned defense of the university. Excellent Sheep argues for the personal and social benefits of higher education.
I used to read William Deresiewicz's weekly columns in "The Chronicle of Higher Education." A few columns stuck with me: "Get Real," published in 2012, is my favorite. My fondness for those columns steered me toward Excellent Sheep, which was published in 2015 and grew out of Deresiewicz's experience as a professor at Yale.
The pilot pulled us up to our gate at Reagan. The old couple in the row
in front of me immediately stood up. Husband had the aisle seat; wife
had the middle. Deplaning is a slow process. One by one, starting in the
front, the passengers stand up, gather themselves, step into the aisle,
open the overhead bin, pull down luggage, check themselves one last
time, and then head for the exit. So the old couple in row 14 waited.
The
wife had to hunch over, as all middle-seat passengers do when they
stand up. The husband, in the aisle now, stretched. And he shifted,
readying himself, sort of, as if he was deplaning imminently. But the
Southwest deplaning process proceeded as always: indifferently. The
old husband lifted his hand to his wife's shoulder and made a rubbing
motion. Then he gave her two slaps on the back as he would the Pontiac
after a successful road trip. The slaps said, "You made it, and I respect
that." She held steady, elbows propped on the headrest in front of her,
and faithfully absorbed the wordless encouragement her husband offered.
Welcome to Washington, D.C., and thank you for flying Southwest.
Jonathan Lethem’s A Gambler’s Anatomy scratches out a few ideas but steers clear of story. The novel follows Alexander Bruno, an international, handsome-but-aging playboy who engages in high-stakes backgammon games arranged by his shady, mostly absent business manager. We meet Bruno as he contemplates his faded youth and a growing blind spot in his vision. The blind spot turns out to be symptomatic of a seemingly inoperable brain tumor that forces Bruno through the German healthcare system and into the office of an eccentric surgeon in California. On his rapidly unraveling journey, Bruno, suddenly broke and alone, is warily reunited with high-school classmate Keith Stolarsky, who is a wealthy California real estate owner. Of course, a few women hang around and complicate things. Although Stolarsky and Bruno have no apparent attachment or affection for each other, Stolarsky bankrolls Bruno's surgery and convalescence. The surgery wrecks Bruno's looks, forcing him to wear a mummy-like mask; the scalpel also destroys Bruno's telepathic powers, which have no consequence whatsoever in this novel. This surrealistic series of events lends the novel a Thomas Pynchon-like quality. I did not enjoy it.
A Drinking Life is a memoir by Pete Hamill, a New York-based columnist, journalist, and author featured in publications like the New York Post and The New York Daily News. I expected a deep-dive into alcoholism, but Hamill was never your bottoming-out alcoholic. Drinking, it appears, was something he did while killing time socializing in bars; it was not a preoccupation. This memoir, published in 1995, was born 20 years after his last drink. Hamill came to view alcohol as destructive and decided to quit. His sobriety does not sound like much of a struggle, which explains why addiction and destruction do not seem to be central themes in the arguably mis-titled A Drinking Life. Hamill's life, as relayed by the author, sounds mostly fine—so I found this a little dull and want to say only that there are far more interesting and compelling memoirs out there.
Machines begin searching Earth for materials to build more machines.
I am a fan of the 1997 film, Affliction. In that film, Nick Nolte and James Coburn deliver rich performances depicting stricken men. The film is based on a book, published in 1989, by Russel Banks. Seeking other works by Banks, I found The Sweet Hereafter, which was published in 1991.
The Sweet Hereafter is divided into a series of first-person narrations of a fatal school bus crash and the devastation it brings on lives in a small town in rural Upstate New York. Most of the children on the bus die, but a few survive, along with the bus driver and a father whose daily commute follows the bus route. Lawyers, news media, and deep pain visit the town in the aftermath. The narratives are focused and contained, and the stories never get entangled. A gritty, emotional realism characterized by resignation imbues the novel—a feeling that is also prominent in the film adaptation of Affliction. This was a very good read.
Notes:
The Sweet Hereafter is loosely based on an actual bus crash in Alton, Texas.
The film Affliction was directed by Paul Schrader and costarred Sissy Spacek and Willem Dafoe, who, as one would expect, were also great. I have always particularly enjoyed this short exchange in the film:
Rolfe Whitehouse (Dafoe): I was always careful around Pop. I was a careful child. And I'm a careful adult. But at least I was never afflicted with that man's anger.
Wade Whitehouse (Nolte): That's what you think.
David Letterman remains one of my favorite people ever on TV. So I read with great pleasure Letterman: The Last Giant of Late Night, by Jason Zinoman. Blurbs describe this effort as the definitive work on Letterman—and for good reason. A lot of research, thought, and care went into this account. I found myself remembering Letterman moments I had forgotten or not fully appreciated at the time. Like when the show returned from the night's first commercial break and the camera moved to Letterman as he pulled out a corded phone and dialed. Whatever happened next was good television. Letterman's guest interviews always promised a chance for the unexpected—an unscripted, awkward moment between the host and guest and the camera cutting to an uncomfortable older couple shifting in their seats in the audience.
Directors, writers, producers, and network executives are all accounted for here. Throughout this cohesive, substantive, fluid narrative, Zinoman offers his own judgements on aspects of Letterman's show and character. While I did not always agree with those judgements, they are always reasoned and offered in good faith. This was a very rewarding and enjoyable read.
Note: Zinoman writes comedy criticism for The New York Times.
Here is a conversation piece, "Justice Served: A Conversation Between RuPaul and Judge Judy."
I did my first interview for 60 Minutes 26 years ago, and Morley Safer said to me, “What direction do you think it’s all going in, and will it get any better?” And I said to him, “It’s going to get worse. A lot worse.” It’s like what you said before—you watch my program because there’s linear thinking. But there is an element of dumbing down that has been embraced by others, which suggests to me that these rules of civilization are being dulled.
This so-called conversation has a few interesting parts, but this statement stood out to me. The whole civility discussion. When she was a real judge working in New York City's child welfare system, Judith Sheindlin was accused of being insensitive. Real Judge Judy was trying to scold and scare lazy social workers, addict parents, and wayward kids into doing what she thought was right. But it was only going to get worse, so she took her chance to cash in.
The
people in Judge Judy's TV courtroom have histories and circumstances that
figure into why they are fuck-ups getting sued for $2000 in back rent
and $750 for caving in their landlord's car windshield with a brick.
Real Judge Judy and the law cannot factor in any of that. The fact that the
plaintiffs and defendants are mostly all fuck-ups is part of the formula to the show's
appeal.
I remembered a girl who thought of herself as scribblings on scraps of paper. Notes made here and there—notes that are only briefly relevant. When those notes are rediscovered after a time, they don't make sense anymore, and it is best to throw them away.
In Truman Capote's classic novella, "Breakfast at Tiffany's," Holly Golightly often appears to be a mean, awful person. But she cries on Fred's shoulder the first time they meet. We quickly see that Holly is a contradiction, a "real phony." She feigns an aloof, carefree attitude to protect herself from rejection; she acts refined and educated to disguise the fact that she comes from extreme poverty. She is very vulnerable, which makes her very dangerous.
Capote is a sentimental literary genius because he knows how to cut edges around his open heart. During a crucial, heart-wrenching scene in which Holly reunites with her pitifully naive first husband, Doc, Capote inserts a scream from Holly's upstairs neighbor: "Shut up! It's a disgrace. Do your whoring elsewhere."
This novella's many wonderful lines include the following:
You can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky.
And
So the days, the last days, blow about in memory, hazy, autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I've lived.
A woman, Sue, from the policy division, stopped by the office Friday afternoon. She complimented Marcy on a photo Marcy keeps on her desk—closeup photo of a dog. Marcy said thank you. Then Sue reciprocated. She told us that she had her dog's DNA tested, and that the results revealed that quite a few varieties of dog contributed to its making. She provided us with her take on how each of the various breeds were represented in her dog's personality. Sue also shared some stories that illustrated each personality trait.
And a nearby coworker, Debbie, as it turns out, also has a dog. Of course, I knew this and much more beforehand, as she has mentioned it several dozen times. Debbie told us how her dog has started shitting on the two rugs her husband brought from Istanbul to the States. The dog wears diapers now. And, twice monthly, a patch of actual grass is delivered to Debbie's home; her odd son keeps this patch in his room for the dog to shit and piss on.
A heart that beats but feels nothing at all. There are years and years that I don't recall.
The first professional golfer to catch my attention was John Daly. He was fat and could drive the hell out of the ball. Golf television broadcasters alluded to Daly's unconventional ways, which, of course, invites the viewer's curiosity. My curiosity was mostly satisfied by a 60 Minutes profile in 2006. The profile painted, unsurprisingly, a pretty accurate picture. Daly's full story is told in his autobiography, My Life in and out of the Rough (I assume, given the timing of its publication, that the book likely inspired 60 Minutes to profile Daly for the show).
Daly, with writing help from Glen Waggoner, turns in a breezy read. Daly's life is told in his honest, colloquial voice. A couple of chapters were just question-and-answer style, and one consisted only of bits of numerical trivia. The most interesting parts are when Daly declares that he does not think he is an alcoholic, despite the fact that he drinks a ton and has tried to cut down or stop. This is an autobiography that makes no demands and centers on a one-of-a-kind in his sport. I felt a little disappointed because Daly is not insightful in his thin moments of introspection. But, overall, this is not a bad read.
I wrote an awesome book about a guy, Johnny Blast, who has to drive a truckload of drugs somewhere to save his hot wife's life. He barely makes the delivery, and then he kills the bad guys and keeps the drugs. His wife dies, though.
I did not previously appreciate how much Poe wrote that was not macabre. A review of selections from this collection enlightened me. I particularly enjoyed "The Black Cat" and "The Man That Was Used Up." And there are a lot of poems in this edition, but I still haven't read a Poe poem better than "Annabel Lee."
Note: This was the Modern Library edition.
Meditations is a collection of personal reflections written by
Marcus Aurelius (121-180), the Emperor of Rome from 161 to 180 AD. The
writings reflect the life of a Stoic. The Stoic philosophy is not like
asceticism, which is a lifestyle of abstinence and frugality. Stoicism, as
represented in Marcus Aurelius' writings, is closer to Zen; the Emperor-author
emphasizes focus, moderation, self-control, and harmony.
I
appreciate how Marcus Aurelius begins the day by
focusing on the values he wants to live and exhibit through his
behavior. I also love this lesson and promise: "From Alexander the Platonic,
not frequently nor without necessity to say to any one, or to write in a
letter, that I have no leisure; nor continually to excuse the neglect
of duties required by our relation to those with whom we live, by
alleging urgent occupations."
Note: The version I read was translated by George Long and was published in a
Harvard Classics edition that also includes Plato's The Apology, Phaedo,
and Crito, as well as Epictetus' The Golden Sayings.
