Photo (c) Jerry Bauer
From LAKE EFFECT:
The New Yorker offices were then on 44th Street between Fifth and
Sixth avenues. In those halls it was still the old martini-fueled New
York, writers sleeping it off on daybeds. I would deliver mail and
packages around the city or lounge around in the messenger room, which
was as forlorn as a train station out in the sticks. The messenger
department was run by a wispy guy who protected his boys, most just out
of college. We argued, competed, complained. Between errands, I ducked
into the magazine's library, where I tried to give myself the education
I had not gotten at college.
The most revered figure at the magazine was Joseph Mitchell, who, in the
1930s and 1940s, wrote his mystical stories about the lost characters of
New York, legendary books of reporting on rats and shad fishermen and
eel pots. Joe Mitchell published his last story in 1963, and his books
had since gone out of print. You had to hunt for them in secondhand
bookstores; there was a kind of underground traffic in his work. By the
time I reached the magazine he had become a sainted figure, an elegant
man with white hair, often in seersucker, who seemed to reflect a
distant world. He came into the office each morning and worked at his
typewriter all day and produced nothing. To ask after his writing was
considered bad form, so I admired him from afar, his comings and goings,
past and present. I knew he had grown up on a tobacco farm in North
Carolina, that he began his career during the Depression as a reporter
for one of the now defunct New York dailies. I had been in search of the
real world beyond the theme park which has taken the place, or so it
seems to me, of every city and town in America. In Joseph Mitchell, I at
last found proof of this other world--of the authenticity that Jamie too
was after. His writing was modern and exotic, a guide to a city that had
ceased to exist, a Constantinople lost under decades of advertising and
noise.
One afternoon, though I had been told Joseph Mitchell was a recluse and
the last thing he wanted was to be bothered by someone like me, I said,
"To hell with it," and went to his office. I was nervous, of
course--about the possibility of an icy reception and how the real man
might shatter the image. But when I knocked, the door flew open and
Mitchell leaned back in his chair and said, "Come in, come in," as if he
had been waiting for me. He wore a rumpled suit, the sleeves rolled up,
his eyes the same soft blue as the fabric. I explained my admiration for
his writing, and he asked about my hometown and told me about his. He
got excited as he talked and rubbed his palm along his bald head and
stammered, as if the right words eluded him. When he could not explain
just what he wanted to say, he showed me photographs of old New York,
pier sheds and town houses. Pointing to a sign high on a brick wall, he
said, "That is a ghost sign. It advertised a store that had already been
gone for eighty years. To me such signs have always been strange and
scary."
I told Joe Mitchell my biggest fear--that I had reached the city too
late and that the world itself had become a kind of counterfeit. "I felt
just the same when I got to New York," he said. "I was too late. I said
it to myself again and again: 'Too late. Too late. Too late.' And then
one day, in these offices, way up on the wall, I noticed those same
words, 'Too late.' And I began seeing those words everywhere: 'Too late.
Too late. Too late.' I found out it was James Thurber, from a world far
older than mine, who had been writing them. So you see, even Thurber
thought he had come to the city too late. And the people before Thurber?
Well, they thought they had come too late too! That's the human
condition. Wherever you go, you are by definition too late. You missed
the whole show. Which, if you think about it, means that wherever you
go, you cannot help but be right on time."
C. S. LEDBETTER
"The Education of a Writer"
It might be said that the literary career of Richard Cohen was born in
the eye of a storm. More precisely, The New Yorker magazine,
around the start of last century's penultimate decade. Much had
transpired in the years leading up to his arrival. After sixty-five
years of constancy, the storied magazine changed owners and directions.
It's second editor (only the second!), the legendary William Shawn, was
deposed in favor of a younger if not necessarily hipper sort, book
publisher Robert Gottlieb. The editorial changes that followed have
been chronicled so thoroughly that it has become for the insular world
of magazine publishing a species of modern history roughly equivalent to
the fall of the Berlin Wall.
Richard came to The New Yorker in the midst of these upheavals,
and it was during this time that I came to know him. He was nearly two
decades my junior, but a shared sensibility and a similar taste in
authors cleared the way for a friendship that still endures. There were
certain things about him that one noticed right away--a mid-western
openness tempered with big-city irony, an often dazzling wit, an
inscrutable fondness for the Chicago Cubs. He was hungry for writerly
experience, and eager to distance himself from a world that was too
confining. In a profile of Joseph Mitchell for The Oxford
American, his backward glance at the Chicago suburb where he grew up
occasioned some of his best writing:
It's a place devoid of an epic heritage. There is not now, nor has
there ever been, a seedy or shameful or interesting quarter in this
town. There no dark alleys, no teeming streets, no outdoor markets
or bazaars. Like most suburban-spawns, my early life lacked variation
and adventure. Anything seen as dangerous or subversive was corralled
and contained in the library or movie house.
His most conspicuous trait was a passion for good sentences -- reading
them -- and making them. It must have been a heady time for a
twenty-two- or-three-year-old who suddenly found himself working for a
magazine he'd read greedily since adolescence, the magazine that gave
shape to his young imaginings and fed his dreams of wanting to be a
writer. I never heard him come right out and say it, but I have little
doubt that -- at least subconsciously -- he felt it his destiny to be
walking the halls where E. B. White, James Thurber, Liebling had
walked. It was not so much a job as a legacy.
This was never so apparent as when he discovered Mitchell. It was one
of those remarkable revelations, once common among devout men of austere
religious orders, and now reserved for worshipers of the printed page,
serious readers and aspiring writers hunched over library tables. In
The New Yorker library is a repository of thick bound scrapbooks
containing the every word that every writer has ever published in the
magazine. For a time it was impossible to walk past Richard's desk
without seeing an imposing stack of such volumes atop it, all but
obscuring him from view. Book by book, he was reading through the work
of White, Thurber, Ian Frazier, George Trow, and seemingly everyone in
between. But it was Mitchell who proved to make the most profound
impression, they were his sentences that became lodged in the
reader's consciousness, defining once and for all what it meant to be a
writer. Through scrapbooks, some as much as seven inches thick, he
devoured the tales and reportage which had later been collected in such
classics as JOE GOULD'S SECRET, THE BOTTOM OF THE HARBOR, and McSORLEY'S
WONDERFUL SALOON. These books would shortly be republished after many
years of being out of print, thus heralding a much deserved, if belated,
re-acknowledgement of the author in his final years. It was a wonderful
piece of symmetry -- and good fortune -- that their careers overlapped.
By this time the legendary writer had lapsed into silence, but it was
rumored that he was working on something, perhaps a grand summing up, a
monumental masterpiece. He'd gotten used to being sought out by the
curious -- fans, journalists, young people who dared to become writers
and hoped, faint-heartedly, to catch a glimpse of the old magic at work.
Richard seemed to occupy another category altogether -- a serious young
writer who knew he had talent, someone less interested in magic than in
mastering the craft of writing. This alone fueled the feverish foraging
through those piles of scrapbooks; it was the motive behind his seeking
out every writer he could find who might be inclined to disclose
something about work habits and perhaps lend an ear to a younger man's
vision of the future.
When he began to publish in the magazine it was clear that he'd learned
quickly and well. His pieces for the "Talk of the Town" and "Notes and
Comment" revealed a plucky sure-footedness and surprising range. Soon
he was writing for other publications as well, travel pieces, profiles,
journalistic snapshots of contemporary Americana. Overnight, it
appeared, he developed a style, a brand of reporting that owed more to
journalism's golden era than to the present.
Richard was still in his early twenties when he left The New
Yorker. What might have been one of those long marriages to the
company that distinguished the careers of scores of predecessors was
abruptly abbreviated. A week or so after his departure, I looked up what
I think was his very first "Comment." It was an essay he'd composed in
the aftermath of ex-Klansman David Duke's failed campaign for a seat in
the state legislature of New Orleans. He wrote,
Duke has also reminded people that the
electorate has baser instincts and that these are easily manipulated. In
order to expand his constituency, such a candidate must soften his
language and compromise his pronouncements. David Duke, whether he was
telling the truth or not, was forced to disavow his past, and in the end
this disavowal may be the saving grace of the entire incident: a
reminder that, although democracy isn't capable of repressing evil, it
seldom fails to dilute it.
I remember thinking, "We're going to miss this voice."
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