A Year in Reading: John Lingan


I just reread Hellfire because Nick Tosches died in October and I needed to pay some kind of tribute. 2019 turned out to the year when I became a “music writer” above all else, and years ago Tosches, more than any author, inspired me to consider music as a literary subject in the first place. Over the course of his career, he wrote about opium dens, the mob, boxing, Las Vegas–and that doesn’t even include his fiction, which I resolve to read in 2020. Those novels are filled with devilry, literal and metaphorical, and have an uneven reputation. But he started by writing about music, first as a critic and essayist for early rock magazines like Creem and Crawdaddy, then as a biographer.

In Country (1974), Hellfire (1982), Unsung Heroes of Rock n Roll (1984), and Dino (1992), he wrote a sordid history of American pop culture stretching from blackface minstrelsy to the Rat Pack. His research was always thorough (I believe he was the first person to identify the early-19th-century origin of the term “honky-tonk”) but ultimately secondary. His real interest was mythology. He described musicians as primordial forces borne from holler shacks, bereft steel towns, and Pentecostal villages, fated to carry earth-shaking messages and ultimately self-destruct.

Hellfire is considered a biography of Jerry Lee Lewis, but it’s really more of a nonfiction-novel, right from the preface in which Tosches depicts the painkiller daydreams of Graceland-era Elvis. That’s the first of many, let’s say, unverifiable assertions and scenes, though others exhibit incredible archival work and original interviewing. The book is written in a mock-Biblical cadence that casts the creator of “Great Balls of Fire” as a flesh-and-blood venue for a cosmic battle between the forces of sin and grace. Here is how Tosches narrates the most cliched rock-bio requisite, infidelity:

Women had thrown themselves on him for five years. Wherever he went, it seemed, cheap-perfumed thighs parted, lithe and yielding in the windblown reeds of Turtle Lake–had parted first to receive whatever scrap of garish, stinking fame and glory they might, then later to receive the grotesque wraith of that fame and that glory. Every time he disgorged himself in the mouth in the mouth of whoredom, he cursed all women for what they had to him shown themselves to be.

Tosches was foremost a stylist: He seemed to choose new subjects and stories purely in order to make the same observations over and over again. He wanted to rub his readers’ faces in the mildewed underland beneath show-business glamour, and thus the entire American project. He insisted on the fundamental lasciviousness of intimate human behavior, no matter whose. And he saw everything–business, entertainment, seduction, literature–as work, as a racket, a word he often used. He was a cynic’s cynic, but also a true working-class voice in contemporary mainstream publishing. In interviews he described growing up in postwar Newark, cleaning his father’s bar in the mornings before school. He never went to college. In The Nick Tosches Reader, one of the liveliest collections in existence, he rattles off payment details about his assignments and publishing contracts. When he was cruising at full altitude (Dino, about Dean Martin, is the masterpiece), he was as inspired and fearless as any writer I know. He was well-suited to music in part because he had such incredible rhythm in his prose, and such nightclub crudeness in his worldview. 

The best books I read in 2019 all reminded me in some way of Nick Tosches. There was the psychological intimacy and pointillist structure of Penelope Fitzgerald’s Human Voices. The scope and obsessiveness of Taylor Branch’s America in the King Years trilogy. Gayl Jones’’s Corregidora and Patrick White’s Riders in the Chariot had the same unflinching closeness to human cruelty and transcendence. Maud Martha, Gwendolyn Brooks’s only novel, and William Carlos Williams’s Pictures from Brueghel are both quasi-documentaries organized around patterns of human speech and interior thought. Even the lyrics of Purple Mountains, the record that turned out to be songwriter David Berman’s final testament, had Tosches’s barfly-magus sense of humor and musical history.  

Toni Morrison died this year too, of course, and it was Melville’s bicentennial, two good reminders of the fulminating, visionary branch of American literature. Nick Tosches fit right in there, even if he only associated with the type of people who don’t really fit in anywhere. I’ll miss him. 

Everything Worthwhile Is Very Far Away: An Excerpt from the New Introduction to ‘Poor White’


In 1919, after his first marriage had ended, his family had dissolved, and his career as a mail-order businessman had been tossed aside for artistic dreams, 42-year-old Sherwood Anderson published Winesburg, Ohio, his fourth book of an eventual 27. A quiet, stark volume of nearly plotless biographical sketches, Winesburg was a two-fold Big Bang in American literary history: Its prose style, a deviously intimate third-person omniscience that left no character’s innermost shame unexamined, invented an entire branch of our country’s fiction focused on anonymous, troubled lives, while its overlapping, episodic structure inaugurated the “novel in stories.” These are powerful legacies, perhaps too powerful to overcome: A century on, Anderson is rarely thought of for anything but Winesburg, Ohio, when he is thought of at all.

That famous book’s syntax is so spare and haunting and its simple concept so well-executed that curious readers of Poor White, the 1920 novel that immediately followed it, might feel confused or exhausted over the course of its winding plot and frequent pugilistic asides. Here, Anderson is narratively diffuse rather than precise, socially as well as emotionally minded. Winesburg is a catalog of human loneliness and regret, whereas Poor White is, at least by appearances, a decades-spanning rags-to-riches epic. Going from one to the other, as contemporary readers are likely to do, feels like leaving a one-room log cabin for a taxidermy-festooned hunting lodge: there’s a shared sensibility, a familiar woodsy style, but the scope and intention aren’t even comparable.

I suspect these curious readers will persevere despite the confusion. For all its imperfection, Poor White spills forth with the same stylistic beauty that Winesburg demonstrates, especially Anderson’s knack for heartbreakingly dense narration. And while the plot does wobble—beginning as an allegory, switching to a new character’s perspective and concerns almost halfway through, and culminating in previously unimaginable violence, without anything resembling emotional closure—it does so from grand intentions, and never without a unifying force of vision. If Winesburg, Ohio created a new literary language to map the human capacity for self-recrimination, then Poor White is an attempt to scale up those techniques and indict the entire industrialized world. Anderson sought to dramatize the creation of a Winesburg and its spiritually flustered denizens, and he sought to show that this one town’s ills are those of its age and its nation. It is an odd book but a great one, thematically and stylistically contiguous with its more well-known predecessor. Ultimately, Poor White may even be more immediately relevant to readers a century on, as we contend with a berserk and unsettling new industrialism of our own.

Poor White opens about a decade after the Civil War, when Hugh McVey is born to a Missouri layabout who lives in a shack on the banks of the Mississippi River. When Hugh reaches the cusp of manhood, “a railroad pushed its way down along the river” and he takes a job as a station attendant. Soon he is adopted by his new employers, displaced Northeasterners named Henry and Sarah Shepard, and the latter enlists him in the Protestant work ethic: “It is a sin to be so dreamy and worthless,” Hugh hears from his new mother, and he takes this warning as his creed.

These early pages have a whiff of pastiche: Anderson essentially piles on national archetypal images (the mighty river, the life-changing encroachment of trains, industrious New Englanders named Shepard), while Hugh’s quiet intellect and dirt-poor upbringing recall Huck Finn or even Abraham Lincoln. “If I do not move and keep moving, I’ll become like father,” Hugh worries during one of his “dreamy” spells alone in the train station. His anxiety, his fear-driven need to make something of himself, by himself, is emblematic as well, in keeping with what Anderson, in his famous story “The Egg,” called “the American passion for getting up in the world.”

The Shepards move on, and Hugh, compelled to some undefined notion of material success, keeps moving as well. He experiences “three years of wandering” throughout the Midwest, passing for the first time through farmland and hill country. On this pilgrimage he takes a variety of manual labor jobs and realizes, looking at the communities around him, that:
a quaint and interesting civilization was being developed. Men worked hard but were much in the open air and had time to think. Their minds reached out toward the solution of the mystery of existence.
This is the late 1880s, and one of the greatest pleasures of Poor White Anderson’s crystallization of his native Midwest at the very moment of its romantic enshrining. He gives us loping fields of wheat and cabbage, hilltop barns aglow with kerosene lamps, and dirt-road towns where farmers arrive in horse-drawn wagons to purchase supplies or visit the haberdasher—a semi-cartoon naturalism like Thomas Hart Benton and Grant Wood would manage in the visual arts soon after. Anderson’s depiction is romantic and pastoral, but he also writes as a cultural historian, telling us what these people read and what they think. He writes often in a collective third-person, sweeping the whole region along with summaries of industrial development and even occasional flash-forwards to describe what a certain building is “now,” that is, in 1920. Change becomes the guiding principle of this sainted land, not beauty or quiet or, god knows, the individual propensity for philosophical thinking. By the end of the novel’s second book, we have moved from pastiche to historical documentary, just as Hugh has finally arrived in Bidwell, Ohio, the scene of his most prosperous years.

Well, not quite Bidwell. He is initially stuck at the train depot in nearby Pickleville—named, we learn, for a pickle factory that has since gone out of business. Sitting in the shadow of this empty factory, attending to the very occasional trains that pull in, Hugh once again begins to dream, this time in “the spirit of the age.” While not concerned with profit, he nevertheless occupies himself with thoughts of labor and invention. One night he surreptitiously observes cabbage pickers in a field and thinks up a machine that could do the backbreaking work on their behalf.

This would be the moment of grand triumph in a typical saga of American fortune, but here is where Anderson really begins to interrogate the idea of the self-made man. It isn’t Hugh’s own ambitions or talent that brings his invention to profitable life, it’s blind chance and the desperation of others. Steve Hunter, a would-be magnate who embodies the 1890s’ obsession with riches, needs something to impress investors and assumes that the perpetually doodling, socially awkward man down at the Pickleville junction has some idea they can throw money at. Indeed he does: a mechanical planter, and soon the pickle factory is back up and running to manufacture them. Hugh, who was born in destitution and has yet to acquire so much as a friend, suddenly becomes, in his neighbors’ eyes, “the man who belonged to the new age of iron and steel.”

Anderson is not coy about his feelings toward this age. As a young man, Hugh has a vision where he experiences himself as “part of something significant and terrible that was happening to the earth and to the peoples of the earth,” and this turns out to be prophecy. The success of the planter and his subsequent agricultural inventions quickly buries Bidwell’s placid farmland under pavement and factories, and longstanding social conventions are crushed as well. The metonym for this ravaging loss is Joseph Wainsworth, a talented harness-maker whose expert craftsmanship is made obsolete overnight by mass-production. “I know my trade and do not have to bow down to any man,” Wainsworth says when the machine-made harnesses arrive, but he is unconvinced even then, and his growing anger is the most important plot development that Anderson slowly builds under his main story.

In Anderson’s vision of socioeconomic progress, both the visionary inventor and the overwhelmed craftsman are like weathervanes spinning in the wind. Things are always happening to his characters, like the railway line that “pushed its way” into Hugh’s early life. Anderson’s artistic breakthrough was his exquisite depiction of this powerlessness and the pain it brings. “All men lead their lives behind a wall of misunderstanding they themselves have built,” as he writes in Poor White, “and most men die in silence and unnoticed behind those walls.” They are all like the local boy Ed Hall, one of many who gathers to see and celebrate newly rich Hugh McVey once the planter becomes nationally known. Standing in an awestruck crowd, Ed wonders aloud, “They say he’s smart. I suppose he wouldn’t tell me nothing. I wish I was smart enough to invent something and maybe get rich.”

The book’s only major character who comes close to a life on their own terms is a woman, Clara Butterworth, daughter of Bidwell’s biggest landowner. Clara “did not want stupidly to accept life” and goes to college to find wisdom, experience, and friendship. The closest she comes is a formative relationship with a radical student named Kate Chancellor, with whom, Anderson implies, she had an unacted-upon romantic affinity as well. But life draws her back to Bidwell nonetheless, where, angrily aware of the social requirements for any successful woman, she accepts that she needs to marry. She chooses Hugh McVey, or as Anderson unromantically puts it, “a chain of circumstances…hurled them into marriage.” Despite their wealth, they remain hesitant, incompatible partners, perpetually unhappy and barely even capable of physical intimacy.

Anderson himself knew this condition all too well and returned to it throughout his work, including in “The Egg,” which is part of a small group of his stories set in Bidwell. His central theme was man’s tendency to feel “swept aside from his purpose by the complexity of life,” as he writes in Poor White. But this novel is even more frankly autobiographical than his other tales. He may not have been a river rat like Hugh McVey, but Anderson grew up in poverty at the exact same time in history, with a father who underperformed at a series of careers, including, briefly, harness-making. “A man, if he is any good, never gets over being a boy,” he would later write in the novel Tar: A Mid-West Childhood, and he was forever committed to avoiding his father’s waywardness. Anderson took to heart the various midwestern economic koans he heard as a boy, including “Money makes the mare go.” He went into business early and did his first writing as an ad man before eventually taking over his own catalog company and starting a family in Elyria, Ohio.

That first marriage, to a worldly, wealthy businessman’s daughter named Cornelia Lane, was joyless and increasingly suffocating. Anderson’s interest in literature and writing took root in an attic workspace where he sequestered himself to escape from the daily trials of young children and money-chasing. In his memoirs he recounts and episode where, bereft and lonely, he returned from a nighttime walk and spotted Cornelia pacing in their yard. Rather than approach or comfort her, he kept his distance and peered through the shrubbery, watching her suffer in solitude. Much as Hugh McVey witnesses cabbage pickers through the bushes and vows to end their pain, Anderson took this furtive glimpse of quiet dread and built his entire aesthetic and worldview around it.

His achievement in Poor White is a kind of double-vision, an ability to dramatize personal angst and national tragedy as one story. Anderson saw the machine age as a betrayal, and felt profit-maximization was a goal unworthy of decent people. He had his own psychic break with that life, a fugue state in 1912 that precipitated his heedless turn to fiction writing and gradual separation from business. Anderson knew the misery that metastasized in the commerce-centered life and wrote this grand, occasionally high-blown novel to warn people that industry will only create more awful nights in the yard for everyone it touches. He had poetry in his soul, and his earnest, mournful writing is saved from bathos by his insistence that everyone else does, as well.

In the 21st century, a Midwest-set novel titled Poor White surely spurs thoughts of opioid casualties and postindustrial decay. Anderson’s story is like a prologue to that current one, a warning that the industrialization of the country’s most fertile agricultural region was a rotten idea from the get-go. But its other warnings—about the instant and unregulated accrual of wealth, and the haphazard sorting of fortune and luck in boom times—ring louder to my contemporary ears.

Poor White, above all, is about change. It concerns the great lost opportunities of industrialization, which might have improved people’s lives materially but moved them farther away from that concern for “the mysteries of existence” that Hugh McVey notices in his countrymen before the machinery arrives. The parallels with the information age are almost too obvious to mention. Armed with the widest access to knowledge in human history, American society has grown more economically unequal. Middle-class wages have stagnated while the effective and actual costs of education, housing, even food, have skyrocketed. Unions are under perennial attack, just as they are in Poor White’s final pages. Blessed with unbelievable convenience in all aspects of life, we produce a literally life-threatening amount of garbage and struggle to find political consensus that the planet is even worth taking steps to save.

In response to this hopeless reality, there is currently a widespread belief among readers and writers that fiction teaches empathy. I find this argument wrong and even wrong-minded, but certainly all good writing shows us potential ways of seeing the world, and few writers have widened the scope of what American literature could show as much as Sherwood Anderson. He took our most cherished national myths of self-reliance and continuous societal improvement and slowed them to a crawl, revealing the confusion and dissociation that result from this gospel of eternal striving. He doesn’t ask us to empathize with other people so much as he forces us to confront our own unquestioned presumptions about ourselves.

“Everything worth while is very far away,” thinks Clara on an automobile ride at the end of Poor White. Almost no one in Bidwell has a car at this point, but her father, “who now talked only of the making of machines and money,” unsurprisingly does. She could be speaking for the residents of left-behind towns in contemporary Ohio and elsewhere, or for the millions of us who feel the levers of power are accessible only to the hyper-wealthy. She could be speaking for anyone who reflexively refreshes a social media feed to stave off anxiety. It is the right time for us to rediscover Sherwood Anderson, who interrogated subconscious American assumptions as well as any other writer in our history. What a thrill to have this complex book back in print, to see the ways in which a genius can recognize the culture’s ills in its residents’ sadness—and his own. Poor White is a social history that reaches uncomfortably deep into its subjects’ psyches, a still-relevant tract that aches with raw feeling. We might still yet heed its example, and appreciate its vision.

Excerpted from John Lingan’s Introduction to the new edition of Poor White by Sherwood Anderson, part of Belt Publishing’s Belt Revivals series. Reprinted with permission from Belt Publishing, copyright 2018.

The Zen of Joe Brainard: On The Collected Writings

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I finally finished my piece about Frank O’Hara. It’s good, but of course it’s not good enough. It makes me want to write pieces about all my friends before they die. It’s so awful to have to say someone was this or was that. As opposed to is. Because was is so final. I mean, it carries too much authority.

—Joe Brainard to Ron Padgett, October 1969

When the artist Joe Brainard died of AIDS-related pneumonia on May 25, 1994, he hadn’t put on an exhibition of new work in nearly 15 years. He had barely made anything in that time, only a few covers for friends’ chapbooks and occasional collaborative projects. It was enough for this once-lauded collagist and painter to nearly drop from the public view, and Brainard’s closest friends, particularly the poet Ron Padgett, who met him in the first grade, began rectifying that situation immediately. Since the mid-1990s, Brainard’s most noteworthy prose collection, I Remember, has come back into print; his work was the subject of a long article in ArtForum and multiple retrospective exhibitions in New York and elsewhere; and Padgett published a hybrid biography and memoir, Joe, in 2004.

A new collection from the Library of America, The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard, is the latest and most assertive effort in the quest for the man’s canonization. At first glance it looks overly familiar. Edited by Padgett, it comes accompanied by blurbs from some of the same friends who blurbed Joe, including Edmund White and John Ashbery. It reprints many letters and journal entries that appeared in Padgett’s earlier book. And the same cast of characters — Anne Waldman, Kenward Elmslie, Frank O’Hara, James Schuyler, Ted Berrigan — are all here once more, vacationing in Vermont, giving group readings, and pairing up for strange little one-off collaborations. Brainard had his first solo show in 1964 and was more or less retired by 1981, which means that his friends have now spent as many years commemorating the man’s art as he spent making it. Both Joe and The Collected Writings are filled with diary jottings and journal entries, meaning the day-to-day comings and goings of Joe Brainard have now been documented almost as scrupulously as Samuel Pepys’. Even though he was a central figure in one of the most vibrant periods in New York artistic history, the repetitiveness of these panegyrics ironically begs the question of whether Brainard was really all that important to begin with. Since the man’s biggest boosters are all people who knew him intimately, I couldn’t help wondering whether the work could still speak for itself. Perhaps you had to be there.

But then I opened the book, and found that to read Joe Brainard is to befriend him. I’ll leave it to his loved ones to make the case for his near-holiness, as Edmund White did in a 1997 essay, “Saint Joe”; I think his work’s greatest assets are its casualness and humor. The Collected Writings is like a manual for how to live more creatively. It bubbles over with deeply personal vision and a contagious passion for the smallest things in life — what Brainard calls “my faith that everything is interesting, sooner or later.”

The Collected Writings of course opens with I Remember, the simplicity of which still beggars belief more than 40 years after it was published. It’s literally 134 pages of free-floating statements all beginning with the title phrase. And don’t be misled by the fact that Brainard grew up gay in less-than-enlightened Tulsa, Okla., in the 1950s, or that he lived through Vietnam and the Civil Rights movement — nearly all of his remembrances are about food, personal hygiene, sexual fantasies, and ritualistic tactile experiences. The observations aren’t grouped chronologically or substantively, though sometimes a memory-association game appears to play out in real time:

I remember that my father scratched his balls a lot.
I remember very thin belts.
I remember James Dean in his red nylon jacket.
I remember thinking how embarrassing it must be for men in Scotland to have to wear skirts.
I remember when Scotch tape wasn’t very transparent.

Brainard manages to concoct a deeply personal autobiography without ever really revealing anything about his life. His father barely appears beyond that one sentence, and no other family members come up even that often. There are no insinuations that Brainard’s childhood was uniquely difficult; he’s an American boy through and through, his mind ingrained with brand names and the initiations of pre-adulthood: “I remember my first cigarette. It was a Kent. Up on a hill. In Tulsa, Oklahoma. With Ron Padgett.”

He was born in Arkansas and moved to New York when he was only 18, but Tulsa arguably had the biggest effect on Brainard’s personal sensibility. Even his charmingly flat prose style sounds like the prairie looks, a distillation of the region that fellow Oklahoman Woody Guthrie described as “Peace, pretty weather. Spring turning things green. Summer staining it all brown.” In a letter to Padgett from 1965, Brainard explained, “I find myself with a certain talent that Frank O’Hara has, and that is to say something quite simple so absolutely that one, without even thinking, assumes you are of course right.”

In his own book, Padgett claims that Brainard’s confidence and talent were obvious from a very early age. The two boys formally met in high school, and even founded a literary magazine, The White Dove Review, that published work by Allen Ginsberg and LeRoi Jones. (They knew Ted Berrigan, eight years their senior, while he was still teaching in Tulsa at the time.) Nevertheless, it’s clear that Brainard needed to leave Oklahoma in order to find the personal comfort and self-awareness that informed his art.

Brainard first left to go to art school in Dayton, Ohio, but he dropped out after only a few months. He then went to New York, where Padgett was studying at Columbia. He shared an apartment with Berrigan, subsisted on an alarmingly small diet, got the occasional cash gift from back home, and generally experienced the quintessential starving-artist lifestyle. He also had his first significant sexual experiences and finally came to accept his homosexuality. Many of his new friends — O’Hara, Ashbery, Elmslie, Joe LeSueur — were the first openly gay people he knew, to say nothing of their being committed to artistic careers. These men and the other artists he met, including Anne Waldman and Kenneth Koch, surely inspired Brainard to pursue his own idiosyncratic artwork, which never settled into a single medium or style. He created a constantly evolving jumble of collages, nature paintings, cartoons, sketches, book covers, portraits, and sculptures. He was similarly prolific and resistant to classification in his prose work, but it was all, as he put it in the wonderful mixed-media Bolinas Journal, “this ‘trying to be honest’ kind of writing.”

His New York friends were the first people that inspired him to be so honest, and the first people to celebrate the work that resulted from that honesty. In a 1977 interview with Tim Dlugoss, quoted in Joe, Brainard insists,

I had no intentions of being a writer. Everything was against me. I had no vocabulary. I can’t spell. I’m inarticulate. I have sort of learned to use that. But this happened because all my friends are writers. I wrote a short story, the first thing I remember writing, and I showed it to Ted [Berrigan] and he said, “It’s very good.” So I kept at it.

He experienced a joyful, if belated, reconnection with his younger brother, John, who came to New York in 1976 and found a box of Brainard’s autobiographical writings in his apartment. The two became very close, bonding over their shared secret of the older brother’s homosexuality. But so far as Joe and The Collected Writings convey, his parents never learned the truth about Brainard’s personal life while he lived.

Brainard had a couple great romances, particularly with Kenward Elmslie, whose house in Calais, Vt., was a cherished retreat for their New York crowd. But Ron Padgett was the only person who watched Brainard’s transition from shy, skinny teenage Okie to accomplished, beloved artist. More importantly, Padgett watched his friend evolve as a man. His tone in Joe is nearly befuddled, like he still, 10 years after the death of a person he knew for four decades, can’t quite believe that he had the good fortune to know the guy at all:

His draftsmanship had a magical effect on me. Watching him draw always elicited a pleasant tingling in the back of my head and down my neck, as if someone were gently tickling me, and I would start to feel drowsy, like a child drifting off into an afternoon nap…When I look at Joe’s best drawings…[m]y eyes are experiencing something too happy for thinking, and somewhere inside me there is an onrush of gratitude, for once again I feel as if I am in touch with how amazing and beautiful the world looks.

Padgett writes that Brainard possessed a “seemingly natural ability to say the most perceptive things in the simplest way,” and a “gentle manner.” He was “kind, generous, loving, and compassionate,” with a “spirit [that] moved continually toward honesty, openness, and clarity.” He had the qualities, in other words, that reveal themselves most fully to close acquaintances and deepen over time. Padgett and Brainard’s relationship encompassed years of personal and artistic turmoil and triumph. They reinvented themselves, Brainard most dramatically, by seeking and finding a vibrant artistic community far away from home. They watched each other’s work grow and their most important relationships blossom. Padgett had a child in the late 1960s with his wife Pat, who was nearly as close to Brainard as her husband was. Brainard was ever-present for little Wayne’s childhood, acting as a combination surrogate parent and older brother. Padgett’s book is not simply a case for an undervalued artist; it required years of archive-searching and interviews, all in the service of commemorating an inspiring personality that Padgett witnessed in its youth, maturity, and early death. Joe is a record of profound fraternal devotion, one that The Collected Writings brings to a presumable close.

The two books beg to be read together, since Padgett’s adoration is even more powerful in light of Brainard’s obvious love for intimacy and friendly communication. Even the journals that he presumably didn’t intend to publish are addressed to an unidentified “you.” He often worries about boring this phantom reader or about being too self-indulgent. It’s an unfair criticism, since even his most mundane and “uninteresting” pieces are funny, short, and utterly charming. His work performs the same magic act that all good memoir does, achieving such individual specificity that it becomes universal. In his journal on March 27, 1973, Brainard writes,

Reading Isherwood — I am thinking about the difference — the possibility of the difference — of writing about yourself as “me” as opposed to “a human being.” And I suspect that yes, there is a difference. And that, tho I pretend to write about “me,” I am secretly more aware of myself (writing-wise) as “a human being.” And that this may well be my salvation!

As I write this, there’s a wedding invitation from two dear friends perched on my desk. John and Mollie will say their vows in May at John’s family farm, where our group of friends all grew close during high school. Another wedding, for friends I’ve known nearly as long, will take place after Labor Day. As my friend Ian quipped two summers ago, we’re in the thick part of the bell curve as far as these big adjustments are concerned. People are moving and settling down all at once. Meaningful decisions are getting made, kids are being born — the concrete is drying all around us. With hindsight, this may end up looking like a particularly active and meaningful chapter in our friendships, even though we see each other less and less. A few of my closest friends will meet my 10-month-old son for the first time at these upcoming weddings. Others will see my five-year-old daughter for the first time in years. These are people whose music I’ve been hearing since before I could drive, people who are now scattered across California, Chicago, New York, and Utah but who I knew when they were still pimply. The emotional vertigo of watching them play with my kids has yet to wear off.

I’ll admit that Joe’s procession of mundane details often bored me early on. But when I think about one of these friends dying young, Ron Padgett’s compulsive attention to Joe Brainard’s short life seems only appropriate. I can barely remember key details of relationships that have lasted a third as long as theirs did. Joe and The Collected Writings were like cold splashes of water to my face, reminders to pay more attention to the people who somehow manage to remain in my life despite mutual changes in geography, careers, and interests. It’s not pure narcissism that animates Brainard’s obsession with sex and food and friends and other ostensible non-literary banalities — it’s his ongoing attempt to find meaning and beauty in every moment he can.

The Collected Writings is above all a welcome document of a sui generis talent. Brainard was a colloquially profound writer who in the same journal entry (August 29, 1967) could write, “One thing about me, I really am a nice person. At least I think I am,” as well as, “You know what I’d like to have? I’d like to have a giant dick,” without ever coming off as self-absorbed. But the book is also a testimony. It’s another thank-you note from a grateful man who can’t believe how lucky he was to meet the right guy in 10th grade. We all have relationships like this, and Ron Padgett has done us a dual service: he’s resuscitated an accomplished career, and given us two guidebooks for how to be more appreciative and loving friends.