We regret that due to an administrative misunderstanding, the cover and the cover story of our Nov. 23 number used unauthorized photographs of the work of the visionary German anatomist Dr. Gunther von Hagens. As longtime Press readers will know, the paper, (and especially Jim Knipfel, whose story “Graverobbers” graced our cover) has the utmost admiration for the doctor, to whom we extend our most sincere apologies. Those who saw the image but did not read the article may have been of the impression that Dr. von Hagens’ work is somehow associated with graverobbing. Let us not mince words: Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, as the article made clear, Dr. von Hagens’ work is one of the most honorable and useful things that can happen to the flesh once the spirit has departed.
—The Eds.
OBVIOUSLY WE'RE NOT
Among its many inaccuracies and personal attacks, Robert Clark Young’s article is guilty of what is called “libel per se” in two of its claims about me. [“A Charming Plagiarist,” Nov. 30], The implication that my job was ever in danger and the statement that “the University Press of Mississippi threatened to pulp” my story collection, Red Stick Men, are false, which is ironic considering that this article is supposedly about print ethics. If New York Press is truly interested in ethics or honest journalism, it should retract both of these statements.
Tim Parrish, via email
THE HACK SMEARS
More innuendo from Mr. Clark. [Soapboxing, Dec. 7]. [We have no idea why Baush keeps referring to Clark Young as Mr. Clark. —The Eds.]
Well, the facts are as I reported them. And a man hurling unfounded accusations can go on hurling them I guess. Mr. Clark would have done very well during Senator McCarthy’s time—everybody’s guilty who was anywhere in the vicinity of anything.
Take this quote:
“In my opposition to cronyism, I rejoice in the hilarity of Richard Bausch denying no fewer than six times that he has ever had anything to do with Brad Vice. Rather than accusing Bausch of protesting too much, I will take him at his word and offer Bausch’s frenetic distancing as an excellent ethical model for all of the writers and academics guilty of greasing Vice’s career.”
In the first sentence of this unfortunately deranged paragraph, your article writer, in the purest hysterical McCarthy-esque language, launches into rhetoric that accuses me of lying. Then seems to indicate that he’ll take me at my word, while leveling the charge that I’m “frenetically” distancing myself—again, in pure McCarthy-esque terms—thereby establishing his first charge, that I’m lying. The tone of this, the really weird and rather scary divorcement from reality, is appallingly like McCarthy toward the end of his career.
I would be very circumspect before calling another man a liar, especially in print. I wrote to set the record straight concerning slanderous innuendos about me, and I’m now adjudged in this disturbingly unbalanced frothing to be guilty of whatever your article writer thinks I’m guilty of because I “denied” those innuendos?
In point of fact I didn’t deny anything. I spoke to set the record straight concerning me and I also expressed my suspicion that either the writer of the first screed was in a workshop at Sewanee or Bread Loaf and didn’t get the genius tag he supposed was due him, or he was listening uncritically to someone who had that experience.
The only charge I made was that the article writer didn’t check his facts. I did say he isn’t fit to tie Barry Hannah’s literary shoes, but that was in response to the cruelty of his depiction of Hannah, the clear personal vendetta in the sentences, the use of one negative review to imply—well, you know, to imply what, exactly? It would be difficult to get much more contemptful of one’s audience than to suppose a smart reader would take THAT on face value.
But I was not attacking the messenger so much as I was voicing what appeared to be the case in the circumstance—and it turns out that this IS the case.
Your article writer WAS a student at Sewanee, obviously seeking to take part in the very thing he claims he despises—something he imagines mostly, and we have his behavior as a measure of how disappointed he is that he didn’t find it the way he thought it was, still thinks it is for others less deserving in his eyes, than he.
I won’t dignify this unhappy affair by responding further; I don’t care whether you choose to print this. I am putting the final touches on a new novel for HarperCollins, and I have other matters to attend to.
But you ought to be aware that you are not printing the work of a man concerned with ethics or with so-called ’cronyism.’ This is someone with a private agenda who is spiralling out of the range of any reasonable discourse or response. I feel nothing but pity for such a person, and I wish there was something for it. Yet I also know that his smearing of my good name is something for which there is recourse in law. I feel sorry for his paranoia, but I don’t feel I should have to bear the brunt of it either.
Richard Bausch, via email
ROBERT CLARK YOUNG REPLIES:
Two independent sources confirm that Tim Parrish used the names of real people in the hardcover edition of Red Stick Men. Corey Mesler of Burke’s Books in Memphis confirms that Parrish told him, at a signing in the store, that legal pressure was being put on Parrish to change the names in the paperback edition. Editors at Parrish’s publisher, the University Press of Mississippi, confirm that the names were indeed subsequently changed. In a written description of the hardcover, Mesler states, “Due to some legal folderol this hardback edition has been declared out of print. All remaining copies at the publisher were pulped. A new edition will contain some changed character names.” Any reader is free to compare the hardcover and paperback editions and examine the name changes. Using the names of real people in short stories is a violation of literary ethics. Southern Connecticut State University continues to employ Parrish as a creative-writing professor, despite the ethics issues with the hardcover edition of his book.
Richard Bausch admitted, in his previous letter, that he takes advantage of guest editorships in order to publish his colleagues. His defense is a strange one: I am not a crony of Brad Vice; I am a crony of these other people instead. Since Bausch is involved with magazines run by state-supported universities, taxpayers might wonder if they wish to continue to fund Bausch’s arrangements to publish his friends.
I have never been a student at Sewanee. Upon publishing my recent novel, I was a guest fellow there, gave a reading, and provided one-on-one feedback to students, just as I’ve done at seven other conferences, including Bread Loaf. The only time I’ve ever been a conference student was at Squaw Valley in 1998. Unlike others, I have never used my conference teaching as an opportunity to trade blurbs or other literary favors.
Bausch’s disregard for the facts, his name-calling, his publishing of his friends, his lack of concern for Brad Vice’s plagiarism and his attacks on works he has never read all combine to throw a shadow on his status as a serious thinker, scholar, and writer. And in every “outraged” letter he sends us, he pauses long enough to mention he has a novel forthcoming from HarperCollins. It’s a great relief to see he’s not a careerist.
WHITE WOMAN’S RAGE
Nowadays, it is becoming increasingly difficult to figure out what is being said when Americans open up their mouths and speak. [“A White Woman Explains Why She Prefers Black Men,” Dec. 7]. Many of my less generous compatriots have taken the view that the art of lying, far from being the preserve of federal employees, has in fact become the national pastime. However, in my years studying that fascinating nation to the north, I have developed a novel and considerably less harsh understanding of this phenomenon.
I believe that Americans, far from being liars, practice an extremely nuanced form of English in which traditional meanings of words act merely as a figurative shroud. Many words in American English have a whole array of hidden meanings and implications which cannot be found in any dictionary in print, yet which are nevertheless understood by the population at large. To a foreigner traveling within the United States, it is important to acquire this stealth vocabulary, which varies with the voice of the speaker, and without which American expression is unintelligible.
To illustrate this principle let us consider Susan Crain Bakos’ dispatch on why she, a white women, prefers black men.
In order to develop the necessary lexicon, we must first understand that the author is an AWW (American White Woman). For those living outside of the US, the image of the AWW is very difficult to avoid: she appears on the covers of fasion magazines, on movie screens and on television—the empire’s approved feminine paradigm. For this reason, an AWW has an enormous sense of self-worth and entitlement. However biology is the great equalizer, so that when an AWW reaches the age of 40, like her less privileged counterparts throughout the world, she becomes less attractive to men within her class. This sudden loss of interest can be very difficult to accept and results, especially among AWW’s who are single and without children, in what I refer to as “white woman’s rage.”
We are now ready to attempt a reading of Bakos’ article.
1) The correct translation of the title is “A White Woman Over 40 Explains Why She Is Enraged at White Men.”
2) “I craved [black skin] more than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes.” Here the author is telling us that she has watched (a lot of) the American TV show Sex and the City, a show about a group of four single and wealthy AWW’s struggling to hang on to their extended childhoods as they approach 40. Translation: Help, I’m over 40.
3) “The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age… now as I did when I was thirty.” Translation: the word “truth’” appearing in any sentence constructed by an American usually indicates that what follows isn’t exactly the truth. My guess is that while it may be true that the percentage of available white men has not changed, the percentage of desirable white men interested in the author has plummeted.
4) “But in truth, black sisters, we’re after the sex, not the ring… and these guys aren’t the marrying kind anyway.” Here the word “truthg” is used again to telegraph insincerity. Translation: I was after the ring, but it didn’t work out. I’m using black men to “punish” white men for their lack of interest in me. Note: The use of “black sisters” is an attempt to justify this particular manifestation of white woman’s rage by establishing an affinity with the struggles of black women. This sort of appeal is rarely effective.
5) “White bitch in heat.” Translation: AWW drying up.
6) The rest of the article consists of a sequence of long and meandering attacks on white men. While this section contains a good many well-turned phrases, almost every statement contained therein is demonstrably false. The reader may thus understand the remainder of the article as linguistic hyperventalation induced by white female rage. Translation: Zero.
I hope this letter has been of some use to your readership.
Cuatemoc Blanco, Mexico
DEP’T OF CORRECTIONS
Ernie Koy refers to himself as a “writer.” [“Mistaken Release,” Dec. 7]. I think more accurately he should refer to himself as a “shitty writer.”
Brain O’Hara, Manhattan YOU’RE WELCOME
Thanks very much for bringing back Kaz’s Underworld. It’s always been a consistently hilarious comic strip, and I’ve missed seeing it every week.
Of course, I’m especially pleased that you took the advice in my March 28, 2001, letter to the paper—And it only took four years!
R. Sikoryak, Manhattan
NOXIOUS
You could have easily changed the author’s name from Susan to Sam Crain Bakos, and provided a rationale for why white men avoid white women. [“A White Woman Explains Why She Prefers BlackMen, Oct. 7]. White ladies are often self-absorbed, spoiled and deluded (and frequently out-of shape). That’s why many white men prefer non-white woman. The bottom line is that there are noxious people of all sexes and races.
Barton Lewin, Manhattan
WHITMAN MEETS JOYCE
While I am not sure if On the Road was to Mojo Lorwin’s liking or not, I do feel that Kerouac’s contribution to American literature has not been really spelled out in a way that is truly representative of his commitment to his artistry. [“Poor Kerouac,” Nov. 22]. On the Road is essentially Viking Press’s version of what it should like back in the early to mid-1950s. The day it’s published verbatim in its original raw form, we can then accurately assess his work. Also, in March 2006 Viking will publish Kerouac’s Book of Sketches, a prose poem 400+ pages long which documents his journies across America. I first read this work in his own hand in the New York Public Library — it is a document more touching in ways than On the Road ever accomplishes. Read that work and then give another try at what Kerouac is all about—he is our 20th century Whitman and our American Joyce.
Paul Maher Jr., editor, Empty Phantoms: Collected Interviews With Jack Kerouac
BITTER, NOT HUMBLE
Your recent “Bitter Lit” issue [Nov. 29] touched a raw nerve, prompting me to synthesize my own criticism of the current publishing scene. How’s this for bitter?
I’m shopping my fourth book, a comic historical novel set in 1830s America. Another week, another rejection letter arrives.
Admittedly, my work is quirky. All my novels share a dry, almost arid, sense of humor. I poke fun at things that people take very seriously, such as politics, corporate life, academia and especially art and literature. I’ll be the first to confess that my writing isn’t for everybody—a lot of sacred cows get butchered. However, I can confidently say that it resembles nothing being published today. I would think that this would be attractive to an editor motivated to publish something with an unexpired freshness date.
But no. The commercial fiction market continues to be led by tiresome psychologically driven novels, which have been predominant, oh, forever. Otherwise, “transgressive” content is the trend. If your protagonist is a dick-less man or a dildo-clad woman, and he/she/it is sufficiently sympathetic, then editors might pay attention. Have readers really gotten so jaded that only characters from extreme subcultures capture their interest?
A couple of years ago Poets & Writers Magazine published the profiles of several young editors at major houses. To a person they declared they were on the hunt for new and different fiction. Yet when presented with such work (mine, for example), editors young and old reject it. They’re clearly in cover-your-ass mode — they take zero chances to preserve their career prospects. They’re not interested in advancing literature, only themselves and the media conglomerates that employ them.
Indeed, editors younger than I, say, in their 20s and 30s, don’t get my work at all. Coming of age in the post-Raymond Carver era, they wouldn’t recognize what a damn picaresque novel was if it reared up and bit off their tits. HELLO! Character psychology isn’t uppermost in my mind; rather, social manners and cultural clashes are. Sometimes I fear that mine (I was born in 1961) is the last truly literate generation.
What’s the alternative to commercial publishing? Art for art’s sake literature published by academic institutions. Only language matters to these people —fuck plot, character and setting—the more surreal and nonsensical the better. David Foster Wallace is the most mainstream exemplar of this tendency in which logorrhea is confused with genius. Christ, can nobody write a decent yarn anymore? Am I the only writer who feels swallowed down a publishing black hole wherein my work isn’t commercial enough for trade publishers and not “experimental” enough for academic presses?
That leaves the small press. Here you’d think that risk taking and bold thinking were paramount. But small press publishers often don’t get it either. My observation has been that when they’re not publishing fiction for microscopic niches, they’re publishing cookbooks and gardening manuals or, worse, rarified letterpress editions of poetry or, the very worst, poorly conceived and designed chapbooks. The single area for which there seems to be an unlimited publishing market is crappy poetry that is evenly distributed among academic journals and grassroots presses.
I realize that the above rant sounds like sour grapes. Press readers are probably thinking, “If your writing were really that good, it would find a publisher.” But my work has in fact been published—by magazine editors looking for writing that’s not been workshopped to death in MFA programs and by one brave book publisher that actively sought new, challenging voices. (Alas, he closed up shop a few years ago, frustrated by distribution hassles.)
Only lately have I been stymied in my publishing efforts. Is it too much to ask that editors open their minds, meet us writers halfway in trying to understand what we’re doing, and not summarily reject our work because it doesn’t fit the publishing herd’s preconceived notions? They may be surprised and sell a few books.
Back in 1984 my creative writing professor at the University of Idaho nicknamed me “Jonathan Swift.” Just my luck to have been born in the 20th century instead of the 18th.
Tim W. Brown, Dobbs Ferry, NY
WE RESPECTFULLY DISASGREE
I agree with practically everything Armond White said in his insightful dissection of recent elitist American movies [“Smugness,” Nov. 29]. The “practically” is prompted by White’s reference to “[Noah] Baumbach’s mother, an undistinguished film critic.” For my money, Georgia Brown remains The Village Voice’s best first-run film reviewer since Andrew Sarris.
Dale Thomajan, Manhattan
ICY PERFECTIONS
“There is hope in honest error; none in the icy perfections of the mere stylist.” —Charles Rennie Mackintosh
I enjoyed “The Fiction Machine.” [Sam Sacks, Dec. 7]. It’s an excellent take on the culture of mediocrity that, unfortunately, seems to permeate much of contemporary fiction these days. I’ve often had the same WTF reaction to reading short fiction in many of the literary journals I’ve picked up. Managing a so-called Fiction-Writing Career often takes precedence over the work of creating something new, unusual, artful, and worthwhile to read.
Richard Hellinga
GREAT
Not to take anything away from Joe Frazier´s ring greatness, but when he says, “George Foreman beat me up pretty good,” it’s a great understatement. [“Joe Frazier Speaks,” Dec. 7]. Foreman beat the living daylights out of Frazier. He destroyed him, he mopped the ring floor with him, so to speak. As Howard would say, “Call it like it is.”
Putting up his son up to be Mike Tyson´s punching bag didn’t score any points with me either.
Cesar Diaz, Denia, Spain
OUR ARTICLES NOMINATED
Susan Crain Bakos says “I want black men. They want me.” Well, whoopdie-do, and who cares? [“A White Woman Explains Why She Prefers Black Men, Dec. 7]. Her reasons for excluding everyone else (blacks, according to her, flirt better, have smoother skin and harder pensises) propel her article right into the running for Most Superficial Crap Of The Year award. Considering the derogatory generalizations she makes, and the overall nastiness of her tone, I can thoroughly understand (and, hey, I’m an Italian white man, a category she hasn’t quite dropped yet!) why the last white guy Bakos dated seemed “at least mildly depressed”—he was with her!
Jerry Peragine, Harrisburg, PA
DEATH, SPACE PIRATE
There are two types of people that like to hate on Neckface: wack taggers who consider themselves “true bombers” and jealous people who consider themselves “real artists.” [“The Neckface Has No Clothes,” Dec. 7]. Molly Crabapple falls into the latter category and as much as she tries to hide her jealousy of Neckface’s success, it escapes through the smartass asides that clip each paragraph. While she was “sitting with a friend at the since-closed Espresso Bar, drinking something iced and girly, gesticulating wildly about French Expressionism,” Neckface was swinging from a billboard over the BQE freezing his ass off trying to make a name for himself.
Molly asks “Ski mask? Is The Man trying to take him down?” Uh, graffiti is ILLEGAL, remember. Yeah sure, art galleries are a lame hypocrisy, but so is Molly’s other talent: being a softcore pin-up, ex-Suicide Girl and burlesque girl. It’s all come hither sexuality with none of the come.
And “Worst graffiti artist ever?!” Save that for those all those faceless scribbles on white vans. Molly, your over-garnished tattoo doodling ain’t nothing special, honey. Not everybody was born with your cash-cow titties and some people actually have to work hard to get noticed. So step off the Neck, stop flappin’ your lip, and get back to jigglin’ your jugs.
NY Press is still cool, though.
Death (don’t we all love pseudonyms!),
via email
Dear Death,
Be serious. Hanging over an overpass, ski mask or no, does not an artist make. We like “real artists,” not talentless self-promoting whores. And we’d suggest dropping a letter to Dr. Dot (drdot@drdot.com) about your nasty feelings about women and their lovely breasts. —The Eds.
DEFINITELY OR SOMETHING
Born to Run is an album that influenced scores of musicians such as myself. [Born to Run, 30 years later,” Nov. 23]. It’s much like a Hemmingway novel—10% real, the rest interesting. It is an embodiment of angst, hope and happiness.
Jonathan Leaf may be on drugs or something.
Chris C., via email
