Who Is Greg Jackson?
The first thing I did when I read Greg Jackson’s short story “Wagner in the Desert” from the July 21 issue of the New Yorker was go back through it and underline all the sentences I was jealous of. The second thing I did was Google Greg Jackson, because I’d never heard of him and wanted to see what I’ve been missing. The New Yorker isn’t generally in the business of christening new talents, but rather capitalizing on talent once it becomes inevitable (a la Lena Dunham).
A 1971 Novel About Brooklyn Gentrification Collides with a Modest Mouse Show (in my head)
Yesterday, I read the second half of A Meaningful Life, by L.J. Davis, finishing it in the early afternoon under the shade of the orange umbrella on my porch. It is not a well-known book. Published in 1971, it was plucked from obscurity by NYRB Classics, the imprint run by the New York Review of Books that is dedicated to reissuing out-of-print books undeserving of that fate (it’s available from Fort Greene’s Greenlight Bookstore on Strolby). But had Brooklyn not become the 15th century Florence of the 21st century, that plucking almost certainly would not have happened. The novel follows a guy named Lowell as he grows up in a small town and then gets to go to Stanford, where he meets his Brooklyn-bred wife. From here, the plot could be going anywhere, but where it ends up is in a dilapidated Fort Greene mansion primed for renovation in the 1960s.
Here are the authors in Process, organized by whether or not they had children (this is the first in what will be quite a few posts in which I organize these authors by certain biographical traits):
F. Scott Fitzgerald
America, God Bless It
From Nicole Krauss’s The History of Love, which is more flawed this time around but the story line with Leo Gursky is still the best:
It was early. We’d been the first customers. Give me a jelly and a powdered, Bruno said. Give him a jelly and a powdered, I said. And I’ll have a small coffee. The man in the paper hat paused. It’s cheaper if you get a medium. America, God bless it. All right, I said. Make it a medium.
I Finally Had the Time To Come Across this Great Passage from The Flame Throwers
For the first time in over a year, I woke up this morning with nothing particularly urgent to get done. Last week I turned in the final revisions of Process to my publisher, who has since sent it into production. Also last week S. Jam Fitzgerald and I moved out of the Gramercy apartment we’ve been sharing for almost three years. Now all I have to do is lounge around in Rockaway working for Strolby and pretending to search for a new apartment while S. Jam is in Lebanon/Italy/Myanmar for an extended work trip.