Haven’t written in such a long time because I’m swamped with work, and lucky to have a job, but of course those who do have jobs are working twice as hard to compensate for the loss of their dismissed colleagues, and who wants to read about that? So I haven’t written.
But today, I had brunch with a friend of a friend (and hopefully, now, my friend). She is soon to publish a book addressing thrift, an informal history of an underrated virtue (I probably misquote, all errors are mine.) She mentioned at brunch that there were many misconceptions about this country and thrift, that we are told again and again that we used to be a country of savers and this debiting is new to our generation, but all of this is mythmaking, and that, like the economy, the embracing of thrift/savings versus that of spending/conspicuous consumption, has always been cyclical.
After the Second World War, for example (she pointed out), the United States had a huge industrial production cycle going, and the only thing to do to avoid a depression was to encourage consumption. Eisenhower, in particular, advocated this.
“Oh, I remember!” I said brightly. “It was mentioned in `On the Road.’”
She looked dumbfounded.
“Yes,” I confirmed vaguely. “At one point, one of the guys, maybe Dean? Buys something and says he’s doing it to stimulate the economy. ‘As the president suggests.’”
That moment (one of the guys buying – or maybe stealing – something, and saying that the president had encouraged the public to stimulate the economy) and the phrase “love is a duel” are my only take-aways from “On the Road.” I missed the joy of most of it, as I consider it a foreboding precursor of the “buddy movie,” where impecunious dropouts sponge off others, especially women, as they discover themselves (oh, yes, I remember one more moment – when they’re all sitting around stoned and decide that something must be done. What must be done is that some hapless girlfriend should scrub the floor.)
Anyway, I can’t find the reference, because “On the Road,” like most of my copies of great books, has gone astray. I imagine that I lent it to someone and never saw it again.
After brunch, I went forth to “stimulate the economy.” I had a few presents left to buy, and headed for The Strand Bookstore. Apart from anything else, I needed something to read. Something good. Something guaranteed good, and for that, I decided, I needed a book of the essays of George Orwell.
I have a “collected essays”, but it is the lack of satisfaction in this that sent me forth. That is, the collection has one piece from “Burmese Days,” one from “Why I Write,” one from “Down and Out in Paris and London,” and so on. But I wanted to read something by him from cover to cover.
By the time I arrived at “Literary Nonfiction” at The Strand, my arms were already full of holiday presents. Most of the recipients on my “list” will receive books.
I have to say that gift-wrapping a book I have specifically chosen for someone I care for is an activity I find enormously pleasant.
I stepped over a college-aged young man who was sitting in the aisle, cross-legged, taking up a lot of room, writing something in felt-tip pen on a sheet of paper he had primed against his backpack. He was absorbed. Oblivious. And in my goddamn way. I had already squeezed by, stepped over, stepped on, been stepped on by, hundreds of shoppers. The Strand was unbearably crowded, even for The Strand.
Prancing around this teenager, and his bulk making my search cursory, I found nothing. I squeezed by, shoved into and stepped on several hundred more New Yorkers, then found a clerk. I asked her where I could find a collection of essays by George Orwell, and was directed back to where I came from.
“I couldn’t find anything there!” I lamented.
“His stuff goes pretty fast,” she admitted. I thought this would have gratified old Eric Blore greatly, so I shoved and stepped and squeezed my way back to find the same young man sitting in the aisle, talking on his cell phone.
“I’m sitting in the aisle,” he said to his cell phone. “Way in the back, on the left.”
I waited until he had concluded his call, and then explained politely, “I’m sorry, but you’re sitting right in front of Orwell.”
“Oh!” He scooched over, like a kid at a campfire.
“Sorry, it’s just that I want something to read.” I said. “Something good.”
“Hey!” His friend arrived and flopped down like a puppy. “I need poetry.”
He said it in the way a boy his age might have said, “I need a beer.”
“This is poetry,” said the scribbler, gesturing at the stacks.
“This is literary nonfiction,” I corrected, in the tone I no longer mind having. “Poetry’s the next aisle.”
The friend scrambled; the scribe kept his eyes on his (now that I focused on it, quite elegant) writing. “You read poetry?” the scribe asked.
“Yes, I’m the one.”
“Who do you like?”
“Well, among the living, I like James Fenton, Mark Strand, Billy Collins, and Julia Kasdorf. She’s from Pennsylvania,” I added for no reason I can fathom, since I hadn’t presented the origins of any one of the other poets. “Billy Collins is good for a beginner,” I went on (a little patronizing, yes), “He’s funny and accessible and was the Poet Laureate.”
“Do you know Robert Hass?” asked the boy on the floor.
“Name sounds familiar.”
“He was the Poet Laureate, too.” He held up a paperback copy of a collection of Hass’s poems. “I’ve written down the people you recommended.” He displayed his sheet of paper, the tiny list he had made in the corner.
“Robert Hass,” I repeated, to let him know that I was listening, as his friend returned, triumphant, with slender volumes in hand. They both beamed up at me. I wanted to adopt them.
I selected a copy of “Why I Write” by George Orwell and added it to the silly and sundry stack of books I will present to myself and others as tokens of the holiday. The line at The Strand was crazy long, but I pointed out aloud, in my George Bailey mode, that it really was a wonderful life, when a bookstore at Christmas time could still be so crowded. The people in line smiled and perused.
It was extremely gratifying.
Labels: Billy Collins, George Orwell, James Fenton, Julia Kasdorf, Kerouac, Mark Strand, On the Road, Poet Laureate, poetry, Robert Hass, The Strand
Elizabeth Bales Frank
