{"id":144447,"date":"2020-04-20T13:00:16","date_gmt":"2020-04-20T17:00:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=144447"},"modified":"2020-04-20T13:47:25","modified_gmt":"2020-04-20T17:47:25","slug":"the-art-of-distance-no-5","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/04\/20\/the-art-of-distance-no-5\/","title":{"rendered":"The Art of Distance No. 5"},"content":{"rendered":"

A month ago,<\/em> The Paris Review launched<\/em> The Art of Distance, a newsletter highlighting unlocked archive pieces that resonate with the staff of<\/em> the magazine<\/em>, quarantine-appropriate writing on the<\/em> Daily, resources from our peer organizations,<\/em> and more. Read Emily Nemens\u2019s introductory letter here<\/a>, and find the latest unlocked archive pieces below.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cLove letters, fan mail, business correspondence, even missives to a future self: letters can bring us together across time and space. The connection they offer feels particularly welcome in our disjointed moment. There\u2019s something special about letters between friends, diary entries, and even appeals sent into the unknown\u2014see this week\u2019s pieces from the <\/em>Paris Review archive to prove my point. Pen to paper does still create some alchemy.\u201d \u2014EN<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

With little to do these days but sit inside and look out the window, I\u2019m very aware of my neighbors, for better (the kid in the high-rise across the street airing her stuffed animals by letting them down from the window on strings) and for worse (the man downstairs playing music that shakes my floor). Mavis Gallant is, too, only she makes her Paris neighbors immortal characters of a tiny, finely wrought serial. Her \u201cDiaries<\/a>\u201d remind me that to set down observations of the world honestly, precisely, and completely\u2014however physically small that world might be\u2014is to find the inevitable story in it. \u2014Jane Breakell, Institutional Giving Officer\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m running late, I\u2019m sorry.\u201d Just about every writer has had to deliver this news to her editor at some point, but only in the hands of Dylan Thomas does a mea culpa become its own adventure, with equal parts writerly despair and linguistic playfulness, with a veritable menagerie thrown in for good measure (I count several birds, a frog, and black sheep). Thomas\u2019s letter to Botteghe Oscure<\/em> editor Marguerite Caetani<\/a> offers a window into a singularly talented writer facing his steepest uphill. The piece he is overdue on? His classic play Under Milk Wood<\/em>\u2014the last piece he\u2019d finish before his death.<\/p>\n

When we decided to feature this letter in Season 2 of The Paris Review Podcast<\/em>, the challenge of casting a reader gave me the slightest pause. Dylan Thomas\u2019s sonorous boom is unforgettable, so rather than seeking out an imitation, we opted for another iconic British voice. Listen to Salman Rushdie read excerpts from the letter in Episode 15<\/a>. And speaking of menageries \u2026 those caws? Straight from the birds outside Thomas\u2019s boathouse in Laugharne. \u2014EN<\/strong><\/p>\n

David Sedaris writes about his family with the touch of a Greek dramatist, canonizing each member in his own personal mythology. Sedaris\u2019s \u201cLetter from Emerald Isle<\/a>,\u201d which appeared in issue no. 222, recounts a Thanksgiving spent with family at their North Carolina beach house. Each line is haunted by those who have passed, as the author contemplates his youngest sister\u2019s suicide and the efforts of those who remain to heal. Now, I am confined inside with my own immediate family, and it feels more than ever like Sedaris is writing directly to me: embrace the strangeness of familial life, he advises, along with its manifold comforts. \u2014Elinor Hitt, Intern<\/strong><\/p>\n

Renee Gladman\u2019s diary entries<\/a> are undated and all start with the phrase \u201cI began the day\u2026\u201d They capture exactly how thoughts wax and wane from abstract to mundane through the course of an unstructured day. These entries are wonderful odes to the indulgence of solitude, of having no one to talk to but yourself. A foil to Gladman\u2019s diaries are Jan Morris\u2019s<\/a>, which are more nineteenth century\u2014the way they take into account Morris\u2019s impressively learned frame of reference (they start with a bang: \u201cI have always rather envied the poet Ovid, who was banished from Rome by the emperor Augustus, you may remember, to a remote place called Tomis on the shores of the Black Sea\u201d). Unlike Gladman, Morris is not alone but with her wife, Elizabeth, in their home in the English countryside. Maybe that is why they are more outward-facing, but both Gladman and Morris are examples of how brilliant minds sit with the impressions of their days. \u2014Lauren Kane, Assistant Editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve always liked this Peg Boyers poem, \u201cOpen Letter to Alberto Moravia<\/a>,\u201d in which she imagines a letter from Natalia Ginzburg to Moravia, chastising him that \u201cpublicity, that siren, has seduced you.\u201d After reading that, I suggest you follow it with our Art of Fiction interview with Moravia<\/a> from 1954, and then stay in the fifties with issue no. 17, which features a work of nonfiction from the poet W. S. Merwin<\/a> that draws on his diaries concerning his trip home to America after seven years in Europe. Merwin\u2019s entries sum up that peculiar, familiar sense of never quite feeling attached to a place: \u201cThey say that after seven years every cell in your body has changed. You are a different person.\u201d Reading this as I shelter in place, I find myself fantasizing about trains, airplanes, boats, and moving vans. \u2014Rhian Sasseen, Engagement Editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

Isolation and time, for me, make a space that is swiftly filled by memories of faux pas and anxious rumination over the meaning of old messages. Nothing captures the game of hunting for clues and puzzling out phrase and intention better than this correspondence between May Swenson and Elizabeth Bishop<\/a>. Ostensibly, it begins as a series of letters about songbirds, out of which Swenson shapes a brilliant and teasing poem, \u201cDear Elizabeth,\u201d reflecting her words back at herself. It is a true exchange\u2014for Bishop, as much as it is from Bishop\u2014and that to and fro makes it all the more beguiling. \u2014Chris Littlewood, Intern<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sign up here<\/a> to receive a fresh installment of The Art of Distance in your inbox every Monday.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 looks to favorite letters, diaries, and addresses from the archive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[63638],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-144447","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-art-of-distance"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Art of Distance No. 5 by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 looks to favorite letters, diaries, and addresses from the archive.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/04\/20\/the-art-of-distance-no-5\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" 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