January 6, 2014 Our Daily Correspondent Love in a Cold Climate By Sadie Stein Photo: Sebastian Dooris I moved to Greenpoint, in North Brooklyn, on the heels of a breakup, and although I lived there for years, in my memories it is always somehow winter. While I was hardly a pioneer in the neighborhood—a recognizable mumblecore actor lived one fire escape away—ten years ago it was still a far cry from today’s full-on Girls-level gentrification; friends still griped about taking the unreliable G train to come visit, and more than one said that the rent had better be pretty cheap to justify the schlep. It was. To those who know the area, this was just off of Monsignor McGolrick Park, a twelve-minute walk from the Nassau Avenue station. At first glance the apartment was unprepossessing, but after I had pulled up the stained carpet, painted the walls a vivid blue, found a copper leaf sculpture at a thrift store, and sewn a gaily-patterned bark-cloth curtain to separate the bedroom, I fancied it was cheerful, in a vaguely retro-modern way. There was also a fire escape large enough for a table and chairs, not to mention a few pots of nasturtiums and some basil in the summer, even though, again, my primary memories involve snow. I had chosen the neighborhood because it was one of the few where I could both afford to live alone on my shopgirl salary and also feel safe walking alone at night. But I had not been living there long when I met M., and he kind of just moved in by osmosis. It was never a formal arrangement, but I didn’t like going to his roommate-filled bachelor pad three trains away, and we were young enough that this sort of thing seemed normal. Read More
January 6, 2014 Bulletin, Our Daily Correspondent Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes By Sadie Stein Dear friends, There are going to be some exciting things happening here at the Daily! For starters, after nearly two years of editing the site, I’m going to be shifting my focus to writing: as a contributing editor and sort of house writer, I’ll now be appearing here on a daily (no pun intended) basis! As to the editorial side, I’m delighted to hand things over to Dan Piepenbring, who has graciously made the westward trek to lend TPR his talents, smarts, and musical acumen. (One of these days I’ll actually get all my perfume bottles, matchbooks, and ink bottles out of his desk.) Watch this space to see the wonders he works. As ever, Sadie
January 2, 2014 Our Daily Correspondent, Quote Unquote New Year’s with Burroughs, Surprisingly Tame By Sadie Stein Firecrackers and whistles sounded the advent of the New Year of 1965 in St. Louis. Stripteasers ran from the bars in Gaslight Square to dance in the street when midnight came. Burroughs, who had watched television alone that night, was asleep in his room at the Chase Park Plaza Hotel, St. Louis’s most elegant. —William S. Burroughs, the Art of Fiction No. 36
January 2, 2014 On the Shelf, Our Daily Correspondent Happy Birthday, Isaac Asimov (Maybe), and Other News By Sadie Stein Happy birthday, Isaac Asimov! Maybe. Probably. Newbery winner Kate DiCamillo has been named Ambassador of Young People’s Literature, a position which has been around since 2008. Sure you can find plenty of lists of best of 2013, but what books were unfinishable? (Well, for Laura Miller?) Ruth Rendell: “Reading is becoming a kind of specialist activity and that strikes terror into the heart of people who love reading.”
December 27, 2013 First Person, Our Daily Correspondent Almanac By Sadie Stein All this week, we are bringing you some of your favorite posts from 2013. Happy holidays! “What would Ben Franklin make of this, if he were sitting here right now?” mused my father. We were driving on the West Side Highway. I was living with my parents following a breakup. This was fairly typical, topic-wise. “I’d have to explain, Dr. Franklin, you are sitting in a conveyance known as a ‘car.’ These horseless carriages you see are also cars. They operate via combustion engines. Those lanterns you see there are powered by something called ‘electricity.’ And then, of course, I’d have to explain about movies. Dr. Franklin, those large posters you see are advertising something we call ‘films.’ You go into a large room and see a talking picture projected onto a screen by means of—” “Why do you have to say ‘talking picture’?” demanded my mother irritably. “Why can’t you just say ‘movie’?” “That would be too confusing. I have a lot of ground to cover, acquainting him with the modern world. And I’d say, Dr. Franklin, perhaps I shall take you to a moving picture. Would you like to see a comedy? A romance?” “Take him to see a period piece,” I put in eagerly. “Then you could acquaint him with some of the historical events that occurred in the intervening period!” “Good idea,” he said. “Now, Dr. Franklin—” “Why are you calling him doctor?” said my mother. “He was given an honorific by the Royal Academy!” said my father impatiently. “It was what everyone called him. It was what he preferred to be called! That’s common knowledge, Priscilla! “Okay, okay.” I suppose you could call this a low point. I lived in my childhood room. I commuted to and from my job every day via MetroNorth and spent most of my free time with my family. For the first time, I went to see a therapist. This was kind of a big deal, since no one in my family really did therapy. Once, in the eighties, my mom and dad had gone to a marriage counselor, who suggested they get divorced. Anyway, this woman and I hated each other on sight, and she told me I should disengage from my parents. This seemed impractical, under the circumstances. Read More
December 25, 2013 Arts & Culture, Our Daily Correspondent The Best Christmas Card Ever By Sadie Stein At the Paris Review offices, several of us were lucky enough to receive, in recent days, a mailing from a friend and contributor to these pages. It was a plain cream Christmas card on which was printed, “‘Merry Christmas!’ the man threatened.” —William Gaddis We all agreed it was quite the best Christmas card we had ever seen. The quote comes from Gaddis’s first novel, 1955’s The Recognitions, which, like the rest of his work, is noted for being challenging. (In his Art of Fiction interview, Gaddis objects to this characterization, preferring to think of the labor involved as “a collaboration between the reader and what is on the pages.”) And while he may not seem the most festive of authors, Gaddis might have approved: in a letter he sent his mother from Harvard in 1943, young “Bill” writes, Have got Christmas cards—fifty—do you know where that plate I had for engraving is? It must be perhaps in my desk or somewhere—I’d like to have them done and mailed from here if possible—would appreciate it if you should run across to send it up— Merry Christmas, Bill!