inner life of its protagonist, Hyacinth Robinson, into sharper relief.
Duke Ellington, The Blanton-Webster Band (1940–1942). There are three names in the title: the composer and pianist Duke Ellington, a leviathan of American jazz, and two members of his band of the early forties, the bassist Jimmy Blanton and the tenor saxophonist Ben Webster. The title leaves out so many more who made this music, including the arranger Billy Strayhorn, the alto saxophonist Johnny Hodges, and more. But you’ll find them soon enough when you immerse yourself in this music, which ranges from near-novelty up-tempo songs to the saddest dirges.
Groucho Marx, You Bet Your Life (1950). Groucho was long past his prime as a vaudevillian and movie star when he agreed to host this not-very-interesting game show. What made it good, and then great, was his willingness to engage with the contestants, to lead them into genuine conversation and/or put them at the spear-end of his wit. Groucho to young actress: “Now suppose you became a famous actress, and then you met somebody you liked and got married. Would you be willing to quit acting and be a housewife and a mother?” Young actress to Groucho: “Well, I think if you keep your feet on the ground you can combine both. That’s what I’d like to do.” Groucho to actress: “Well, if you keep your feet on the ground, you’ll never be a mother.”
Charles Laughton, The Night of the Hunter (1955). The great actor Charles Laughton directed only one movie, this Southern Gothic tale of crime, punishment, innocence, and (especially) evil. Robert Mitchum personifies the last, as a preacher who roams around the countryside marrying vulnerable women and then snuffing them out. Shelley Winters is also superb as one of those women. But the real star is the direction— particularly the art direction, which results in several moments that are almost Goya-like in the way they combine terror and profound morality.
Stanley Elkin, The Dick Gibson Show (1971). Elkin struggled with multiple sclerosis for most of his adult life, yet regardless of how his illness limited his physical energy, he was one hell of a dervish on the page, turning out a series of genuinely unhinged but impeccably written comic epics.
Swamp Dogg, Cuffed, Collared & Tagged (1972). There are very few genuine moralists/ironists in soul and funk music. Swamp Dogg is one. He’s been doing it for forty years, and he’s not done yet. The fact that he recorded a song for my novel
Joy Williams, State of Grace (1973). The world can be a terrifying place where certainties wither and die and what’s left behind are either husks or seeds. This novel, by Joy Williams, goes straight into the middle of the strangeness of people—particularly her conflicted, half-lidded heroine—and it’s one of the most poetic books of the last half century.
Mary Margaret O’Hara, Miss America (1988). There are eccentrics in pop music, and then there are Eccentrics: artists who put every last bit of their elusive, misshapen, but still beautiful personality into their work. Mary Margaret O’Hara’s one of the archetypal Eccentrics, and her sole solo album,
Paul Beatty, Joker Joker Deuce (1994). I read lots of poetry, but I don’t understand it. Or rather: I love watching words play, but not all of them are my kids. Or rather: I like it when I see someone walking around, shining like a high-watt bulb, phrases and fragments spilling out of his pockets. Or rather: Sooner or later, someone was going to fuse the verbal energy of hip-hop with the formal rigor of poetry with the confusion of modern life.
Acknowledgments always give me cottonmouth. How can you possibly measure who contributes to a book of short stories? Some people were models for characters, with consent. Others were models for characters, less consensually. Some people provided support. Other people provided competition. Others still sat near me in an airport or a restaurant, just for a minute, but had a look about them that got me thinking. There are hundreds of unknown collaborators and co-conspirators who cannot be named, and of those who can be named, I will expose only a fraction of them. Thanks to Cal Morgan, for editing and publishing me. Thanks to Ira Silverberg and Ruth Curry, for representing me. Thanks to Gail, for marrying and tolerating me. Thanks to Daniel and Jake, for being top-drawer kids. Thanks to Lauren, for being a top-drawer friend. Thanks to my parents, Richard and Bernadine, and to my brothers, Aaron and Josh. And thanks, finally, to the novelists, short story writers, song-writers, and filmmakers whose work I depend upon every day of my life for…well, for life. By making things, they make the world and have helped me come a long way from unaware.
BEN GREENMAN is an editor at
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover painting by Alyssa Monks, Bed, 2003, Oil on Linen, 80 X 36 inches, Courtesy DFN Gallery, New York.
The following stories have appeared, in slightly different form (and in some cases with different titles), in other venues: “What He’s Poised to Do” in
In addition, the stories “What He’s Poised to Do,” “The Govindan Ananthanarayanan Academy for Moral and
