Category: reading

American poet Langston Hughes was a guest at Yaddo in the early sixties. The Yaddo Authors’ library has four or five volumes of his short stories. I didn’t even know he wrote short stories. I’ve been reading The Best of Simple. Simple is a wisecracking Harlem rooming house living workingman night owl barstool philosopher. Funny, fast-talking and street-smart, these stories have got me started calling people daddy-o. In honour of the one glass of whiskey I drank at the open studio last night, one being enough to fuzz my head, here’s an excerpt from “Vacation” in which, Simple has just returned to Harlem having cut short a vacation in Saratoga Springs:

“What’s on the rail for the lizard this morning?” my friend Simple demanded about 1 A.M. at 125th and Lenox.

“Where have you been all week?” I countered, looking at the dark circles under his eyes.

“On my vacation at last,” said Simple.

“You look it! You appear utterly fatigued.”

“A vacation will tire a man out worse than work,” said Simple.

“Where did you go?”

“Saratoga – after the season was over and the rates is down.”

“What did you do up there?”

“Got bug-eyed.”

“You mean you drank liquor?” I enquired.

“I did not drink water,” said Simple.

“I though people went to Saratoga Springs to drink water.”

“Some do, some don’t,” said Simple, “depending on if you are thirsty or not. There is no water on Congress Street, nothing but bars…”

Langston Hughes, “Vacation” in The Best Of Simple, NY: Hill & Wang, 1961, p 34.

. . . . .

I was delighted to discover that New Zealand author Janet Frame was a guest at Yaddo in the late sixties. All the eight or so of her books in the Yaddo Author’s library are signed. Authentically, I think. The spectre of the post-mortem Plath autograph still haunts me. And speaking of haunting… here are the first paragraphs of The Reservoir, a short story which originally appeared in The New Yorker:

It was said to be four of five miles along the gully, past orchards and farms, paddocks filled with cattle, sheep, wheat, gorse, and the squatters of the land who were the rabbits eating like modern sculpture into the hills, though how could be know anything of modern sculpture, we knew nothing but the Warrior in the main street with his wreaths of poppies on Anzac Day, the gnomes weeping in the Gardens because the seagulls perched on their green caps and showed no respect, and how important it was for birds, animals and people, especially children, to show respect!

And that is why for so long we obeyed the command of the grownups and never walked as far as the forbidden Reservoir, but were content to return “tired but happy” (as we wrote in our school compositions), answering the question, Where did you walk today? with a suspicion of blackmail, “Oh, nearly, nearly to the Reservoir!”

The reservoir was the end of the world; beyond it, you fell…

Janet Frame, “The Reservoir” in The Reservoir: Stories and Sketches, NY: George Braziller, 1963, pages 1-2.

It’s hard to say why I love this story so much without giving the ending away. In the end, nothing happens! They all come out of it unscathed. And this is thrilling. A shock, after all the build-up. If I remember correctly, one of Frame’s sisters drowned in a reservoir. If that’s true, it makes the story all the more chilling. If it’s not true, it’s a testament to how chilling the story really is that I’m now convinced that someone drowned even through in the story no one did.

On a lighter note, Yaddo also has a beautiful illustrated children’s book by Frame: Mona Minim and the Smell of the Sun, in which: “Once upon a time, not long ago, almost now, there was a young House Ant called Mona Minim who was preparing to make her first journey out of the nest.” Here’s what Mona Minim wants to know: “What is the smell of blue when you are flying in the sky and the smell of the sun and of the wind that never blows close to the grass and earth? What is the smell of the sun?” Having already ruined the ending of one story I won’t divulge the answers to these very good questions.

Janet Frame, Mona Minim and the Smell of the Sun, NY: George Braziller, 1969.
. . . . .