Literary Criticism
I was on the F train back from Brooklyn one evening sitting across from two female hipsters engrossed in a deep (and loud) discussion. I left my headphones at home and was in no mood to scroll through my phone, so I decided to listen in on what they had to say.
6 stops later, I learned a little bit about these two ladies. They both lived in Williamsburg, which was becoming “unbearably trite”, one had a “transcendental” experience the night before with a burrito, and they both shared a mutual hate for an “odious” barista with a receding hairline at Charlotte's Patisserie who also made the most “offensive” cappuccinos. Needless to say, I was amused, this was one of the best conversations I had never been a part of.
What made their exchange so engaging? It was a perfect combination of mundane topics laced with very specific details, executed perfectly with dramatic, yet flawless word selection. This amalgam allowed me to go beyond simply hearing their conversation, it enabled me to feel their conversation. By stop 7 I too was starting to feel agitated and “emotionally perturbed” by the “revolting and bromidic fashion trend” that was the male skinny jean.
I often think about these two ladies and how their little packaged, albeit harsh, words made me laugh. They were a skilled duo. A skill generally seen in hyper-observant individuals who read no less than 3 books a week or any liberal arts major from Oberlin or Amherst. I am in constant admiration of these individuals.
I decided to share some absurd excerpts from writers who share a similar gift to the two ladies on the F train. These are from articles and books that I have come across over the past month.
A man put at ease when his political nemesis showed up dressed like a fool:
“When he saw him, adequate as a political demonstration, it was obvious that, as a tailoring, Don Calogero’s tailcoat was a disastrous failure. The material was excellent, the style modern, but the cut appalling. The word from London had been most inadequately made flesh by a tailor from Girgenti to whom Don Cologero had gone in his tenacious avarice. The tails of his coat pointed straight to heaven in mute supplication, his huge collar was shapeless, and what is more, the Mayor’s feet were shod in buttoned boots.” from Giuseppe di Lampedusa, The Leopard
A woman’s expectations get tarnished by ordinary and literary cliches:
“A few years ago, in London, I went to what I’d been led to believe would be a harrowingly glamorous party. The friends who dragged me along pitched it as an ordeal, something I would look back on with an awed shudder. I would feel dusty and provincial among these metropolitan demigods, and though I would probably not enjoy myself in the moment, I would be glad of the experience overall. Something to aspire to, a social Everest I had no hope of scaling. It was exciting. I see now that my expectations were far too high going in, but still, the speed with which they were dashed was remarkable.
Within minutes of our arrival, it was clear that I’d been had. It was just a normal party, full of people on normal drugs, with normal art on the walls... Even standing far away from the bookshelves, in the dim light, I could tell that the books were just like the ones on the shelves of people I knew in Cape Town.
I was sure there would be a copy of Anthony Kiedis’s Scar Tissue among them. I whispered this to the friend I’d arrived with, and he nodded grimly. ‘There are two copies,’ he said. ‘Also a copy of The Fountainhead. I already checked.’ I was crushed by this. To arrive at a party in your best dress, ready to be cowed by the untouchable elegance and sophistication of the hosts, only to be confronted with not one but two copies of the autobiography of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers frontman and a copy of The Fountainhead? So deflating. Such a slap in the face.” Other Peoples Shelves, Rose Lyster
Which is worse: Being a writer or a choreographer? A New York author has some thoughts.
“I’m such a slow writer I have no need for anything as fast as a word processor. I don’t need anything so snappy. I write so slowly that I could write in my own blood without hurting myself. I think if there were no such thing as men, there would be no word processors. Male writers like them because they have this sneaking suspicion that writing is not the most masculine profession. This is why you have so much idiotic behavior among male writers. There are more male writers who own guns than any other profession except police officers. They like machines because it makes them seem more masculine. Well, I work on a machine. It’s almost as good as being a mechanic.
I have a real aversion to machines. I write with a pen. Then I read it to someone who writes it onto the computer. What are those computer letters made of anyway? Light? Too insubstantial. Paper, you can feel it. A pen. There’s a connection. A pen goes exactly at your speed, whereas that machine jumps. And then, that machine is waiting for you, just humming “uh-huh, yes?”
It reminds me of when a choreographer I know was creating a ballet. He was stuck, and he asked me to come help.
I said, How could I help you choreograph a ballet?
He said, I’d like you to come and sit there while I’m doing it. You’re so judgmental I would find it helpful.
So I went to his studio several times while he was making the ballet. I saw the only job that was worse than writing. My idea of pure hell. The dancers sit there waiting for him to come up with something. It would be as if the letters were sitting there, or the words, smoking cigarettes, staring at you, as if to say, Well? OK, come on.
Plus they are paid by the minute. And a piano player is sitting there as well. Twenty-five people sitting in the room staring at you while you are thinking. I can’t believe anyone has ever made a ballet.” - Fran Lebowitz in an interview with the Paris Review in 1993
Key Takeaway:
Next time you see two people deep in a conversation, take your earphones out and put your phone down. You too may come across this rare breed of incredibly well-read individual whose knack for observation and precise snap judgments will make you laugh out loud.
Warning, I would recommend to stay out of their line of fire as their verbal bites will definitely require stitches.
This post is dedicated to my dear friend Saba. The funniest person I know.