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Profiles of the Early Beats: Hubert Selby, Jr.

April 11, 2017

Profiles of the Early Beats: Hubert Selby, Jr.

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Here is Seymour Krim’s profile of Hubert Selby, Jr. in the anthology The Beats written long before Selby’s best works: The Room (1971), Last Exit to Brooklyn (1964), and Requiem for a Dream (1978).

“Hubert Selby is a natural, one of the most sheerest powerful of the new writers, a rammer whose stories build like a storm and whose richest work is just on its way to being written. A Brooklyn guy with a pair of eyes and a heart that won’t lie; some of his sex stories are as powerful as Henry Miller’s and will fight their way into print by sheer muscle. A little nasty beauty of his called ‘Another Day, Another Dollar,’ will be found in the 1960 New Directions annual. The one we’re printing here [“Double Feature”] swings too, with a mounting, barking rhythm. Go, Hubert, go baby!”

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Paul Varner

Profiles of the Early Beats: Phillip Lamantia

April 10, 2017

Profiles of the Early Beats: Phillip Lamantia

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Seymour Krim’s profile of Philip Lamantia in his 1960 anthology The Beats surely must be one of the most colorful description of the neo-surrealist poet. One thing about Philip Lamantia often forgotten is that he read his poetry that famous night at the Six Gallery when Allen Ginsberg first read Howl.

“Lamantia is a flamethrowing Roman catholic and can really light up the poetic pinball machine 1 out of every 4 shots. His whole bent is mystic, ecstatic, sensuous, dangerous. But when he hits, he hits for a high score. Sometimes the work gets vague and shrill; but the misses are what have to be suffered in order for him to get his rare, charging highs which sweep into the memory like an army of Christian neon lights. Hot stuff here, always a hair’s breadth away from over-statement. But the real spinal shudder when he makes it.”

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Paul Varner

Illuminating the Beats From Their Shadow: Re-Blog from NY Times

Books | American Beauties

MINOR CHARACTERS
By Joyce Johnson
265 pages, Penguin Books, $16.

Joyce Johnson was 21 and not long out of Barnard College when, in the winter of 1957, Allen Ginsberg set her up on a blind date with Jack Kerouac.

She took the subway downtown to meet him at a Howard Johnson’s on Eighth Street in Manhattan. “I push open the heavy glass door, and there is, sure enough, a black-haired man at the counter in a flannel lumberjack shirt slightly the worse for wear,” she writes.

“He looks up and stares at me hard with blue eyes, amazingly blue. And the skin on his face is so brown. He’s the only person in Howard Johnson’s in color. I feel a little scared as I walk up to him. ‘Jack?’ I say.”

Kerouac was older than Johnson, 34, and still largely unknown. The book that would make his reputation and upend American literature, “On the Road,” had yet to be published.

He was broke, hungry, distraught. She bought him a plate of frankfurters. He followed her back to her small apartment. A door had swung open in her life.

Thus began an off-and-on relationship that lasted nearly two years, years that witnessed the publication of “On the Road” and life-altering fame — not only Kerouac’s but also that of many of his closest friends, other Beat Generation writers.

Johnson captures this period with deep clarity and moving insight in her memoir “Minor Characters” (1983). It’s hardly an unknown book. It won a National Book Critics Circle Award, and it has remained in print since it was issued.

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Joyce Johnson in 2009. More than a memoir of her time with the Beats, “Minor Characters” is a riveting portrait of an era. Credit Schiffer-Fuchs/ullstein bild, via Getty Images

I’m including it in this series of columns about neglected American books because I so rarely hear it mentioned, and because I continue to think it is hideously undervalued and under-read. “Minor Characters” is, in its quiet but deliberate way, among the great American literary memoirs of the past century.

Johnson’s book takes its title from her realization that — as was so common in every sphere of cultural life in the 1950s and beyond — the Beats were a boy gang. She would always be, at best, on its periphery. Her memoir braids and unbraids, at length, the meanings of this fact.

She recalls how the women at the San Remo and other bars, hangouts for writers and artists, “are all beautiful and have such remarkable cool that they never, never say a word; they are presences merely.” Johnson and her friends wanted to be among the yakkers, the all-night arguers.

“Minor Characters” is not just about the Beats. It’s about many different subjects that bleed together. In part it’s a portrait of Johnson’s cloistered middle-class childhood on the Upper West Side. Her parents wanted her to be a composer.

She longed for escape and began sneaking down to Washington Square Park to be among the musicians and poets. She was round-faced, well-dressed, virginal. She’d never tasted coffee. It was “my curse,” she writes, that “my outside doesn’t reflect my inside, so no one knows who I really am.”

Her book is a riveting portrait of an era. It contains a description of a back-room abortion that’s as harrowing and strange as any I’ve read. Johnson had the abortion because she didn’t love the boy and wasn’t ready for a child.

“Sometimes you went to bed with people almost by mistake, at the end of late, shapeless nights when you’d stayed up so long it almost didn’t matter,” she writes. “The thing was, not to go home.”

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Alessandra Montalto gets credit for the image
actually published with this article./The New York Times

“Minor Characters” is a glowing introduction to the Beats. There are shrewd portraits of not just Kerouac and Ginsberg but people like Robert Frank and Hettie Jones.

Johnson has a knack for summing up a character in a blazing line or two. Here’s how she describes the Beat-era figure Lucien Carr, for example, at the moment he first met Kerouac: “This rich, dangerous St. Louis boy with the wicked mouth who’s already been kicked out of Bowdoin and the University of Chicago, who’s amassed a whole dissipated history by the age of 19.”

Best of all, perhaps, this book charts Johnson’s own career as a budding writer. She worked in publishing when she was young; she was secretary to John Farrar of Farrar, Straus and Cudahy (later Farrar, Straus & Giroux). He wanted to promote her; she left instead to visit Kerouac in Mexico and write. She published her first novel, “Come and Join the Dance,” when she was 26.

By then, she and Kerouac had separated for good. There was a final scene on a sidewalk. “You’re nothing but a big bag of wind!” she shouted at him. Kerouac, constitutionally unable to remain with one woman, shouted back, “Unrequited love’s a bore!”

Johnson looks back on the young woman she was, while with Kerouac, and realizes she was “not in mourning for her life. How could she have been, with her seat at the table in the exact center of the universe, that midnight place where so much is converging, the only place in America that’s alive?”

I remember tracking down a first edition of “Minor Characters” — this was harder in the late 1980s than it is today — to give to my college girlfriend as a graduation present. She looked at its title, wrinkled her brow and asked, “Why this book?” Why a book, in other words, about women who are minor characters?

I fumbled my answer. I knew only that I loved the book and wanted to share it. What I wish I had said is this: “Minor Characters” is better than all but a handful of books the boy-Beats themselves wrote. It’s a book about a so-called minor character who, in the process of writing her life, became a major one.

Follow Dwight Garner on Twitter: @DwightGarner

American Beauties is a column by Dwight Garner, appearing every other week, about undersung American books of the past 75 years.

A version of this review appears in print on April 7, 2017, on Page C21 of the New York edition with the headline: Illuminating the Beats From Their Shadow. Today’s Paper|Subscribe

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Paul Varner

Profiles of the Early Beats: Norman Podhoretz

April 7, 2017

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Well, Norman Podhoretz wasn’t really one of the Beats. In fact, he represented the essence of Squaredom. Just as Kerouac, Ginsberg, and gang were stirring up the nation’s youth to wise Beatnickery, along came a spoil-it-all kid of the same generation who was developing what would become a distinguished career as a critic and journalist and doused the whole movement with a widely-read essay “The Know-Nothing Bohemians.” Seymour Krim in his anthology The Beats reprints the essay and actually shows a modicum of respect for the guy. Here’s Krim’s profile:

“Podhoretz is a highly shrewd young guy who got an entrenched literary position at a very early—perhaps too early—age; position means responsibility means gray hairs means no rockandrolling in print. Norman is a little teacherish for his years, but he’s solid without quite taking himself for his own statue. He’s got a mature head, a wife, several kids. His perceptions are formidable and really illuminating when he lets his mind go to town; here he’s grinding an anti-beat axe which restricts him to the chalkline, but still is sharp. This was written in early 1958.”

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Paul Varner

Profiles of the Early Beats: Ray Bremser

April 6, 2017

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Here is another post I am publishing based on Seymour Krim’s 1960 anthology of the Beat Movement. Before each Beat writer Krim featured he wrote a short profile. What’s so fascinating about Krim and his little book is that it was written and published when the Beatnik culture was dominating America’s 1950s. So he writes from the perspective of the moment and with the crazy Beatnik vernacular that often was fodder for cartoons, satire, and ultimately Hollywood movies.

Here’s Krim’s profile of Ray Bremser, in prison when The Beats came out. In fact Bremser missed the excitement of the crazy Beatnik days courtesy a prison warden. But he got out and went on to marry the eventually more famous Bonnie whom he abused and sex trafficked in Mexico. She went on to write her memoirs.

“Gaunt, tall, unshaven, GI-jacketed, Ray Bremser twangs out rich imagistic poetry in the New York coffee shops and makes the college circuit as well. He can be hard and ironic; learned his wounds well, and some of the world’s dishonesty, while in New Jersey stir for 6 years on an armed robbery count. Is subtle as well as lavish. Shy as a shadow also, with fiendish jollity rising up within the prison walls of his hard-earned loneliness and individuality. You rarely see the cat’s gleaming eyes behind his mother-loving sunglasses. Spooky-real Ray Bremser! Bad news as this book goes to press: Bremser is back in jail for violating his parole—the poor sucker fell in love and got married, which is of course against Democracy’s penal laws.”

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Paul Varner

Today in 1997 Allen Ginsberg Died

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And the screen remains empty.

April 5, 2017

On this date in 1997 Allen Ginsberg died in New York at age 70. Here’s what Seymour Krim said about a young Ginsberg in the crazy Beatnik days of the 1950s, from The Beats, published in 1960.

“Allen Ginsberg, chanter of the scorchingly present-tense ‘Howl,’ is one of the true lunar voices rising about the skyscrapers; he has the courage of his imagination, and is keening a mighty song for his generation. Ginsberg is both an exciting and highly readable human poet. His fever is that of thousands: but nobody of his age and time threw the sick-room back at life as he did, and thus redeemed us all as well as himself. Society’s fangs await his beautiful phantasmgorical songs, if only to insure their validity; but he who would be an atom-age Shelley must have a price on his head. The stakes demand it. Ginsberg is really a bit of a miracle.”

Seymour Krim printed Ginsberg’s famous “Death to Van Gogh’s Ear” in The Beats.

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