Southern Bookman

Frank Bascombe's Return

Frank Bascombe acolytes stirred last week when Slate reported that Bascombe had unexpectedly returned. Richard Ford in an appearance at New York City's 92nd Street Y delighted his audience with the surprise reading of a new short story about Bascombe, Ford's iconic everyman character whose progress from young manhood to late middle age was shown in three novels.

The excitement bubbled over because Ford had previously said that he would not bring back Bascombe following the last novel "The Lay of the Land," in which Bascombe is a semi-retired realtor beset by prostate cancer. In the new story, Bascombe has aged another decade or so, living in post Hurricane Sandy New Jersey. In the novels, the affluent suburbs of northern New Jersey are transformed into one of literature's mythical places.

Bascombe first appeared 30 years ago in "The Sportswriter," a generation-defining novel for many who came of age in the late 1960s and early '70s. Like the TV show "30 Something," the book reflected the closing of possibilities, the arrival of maturity and its disappointments. Plus, it had for male readers one of American fiction's most intriguing, mythical, generational muses, Bascombe's former wife, identified only as X. Like Gatsby's Daisy, X embodies the golden sexuality and transcendent cool of American femininity. The long awaited second book, "Independence Day" was a letdown, while "The Lay of The Land," while not as epochal as "The Sportswriter," aptly defined the edgy atmosphere of the post Sept. 11 era.

Each book was associated with a holiday: "The Sportswriter," Easter, and "independence Day" and "The Lay of the Land" the American celebrations of the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. Ford told radio great Bob Edwards that he would shun linking a fourth Bascombe novel to Christmas because that holiday's symbolic and cultural weight would be too difficult to navigate.

Perhaps Bascombe will live on in short stories or a new novel not connected to Christmas. No matter the form, Ford fans will welcome the return of Bascombe, like John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom a character who defines a generation as it ages and reacts to time and history.

Robert Lypsyte Bites the Hand

Robert Lipsyte has positioned himself as a morally virtuous sportswriter in a lonely quest against sports' hypocrisy, myth-making and corruption. So Lipsyte's appointment as ESPN's ombudsman appeared a classic joining of opposing forces. ESPN, seen by many as the worst influence in sports, will be policed by the virtuous town marshal Robert Lipsyte.

Lipsyte's new role bade me to read his memoir "An Accidental Sportswriter," in which he repeatedly claims to be outside the "lodge" of "jock culture." Yet the book is a saga of his many guises as a sports insider, as a New York Times columnist and TV reporter and commentator. His tone of moral superiority is grating coming from one who has made a nice living from the very culture he so condescendingly criticizes.

Lipsyte condones Lance Armstrong's drug use; the book was published before Armstrong's crashing downfall, so perhaps he like other of Armstrong's media admirers would change his position now. He also blesses baseball players' steroid use, but then blasts baseball writers for not uncovering it.

The book is readable, reaching its high points when he drops his moralizing and editorializing and relates events he's witnessed such as a meeting between Muhammad Ali - then Cassius Clay - and the Beatles. His memories of his painful childhood and his relationship with his father achieve dramatic power.

But his claims of being a sports outsider are unconvincing. ESPN has hired the perfect lodge brother.

A Child's Garden of Books

With my birthday today, I'm thinking about how much books have meant to my life. My mother died just two months ago, so my bookish thoughts begin with her, who did so much to nurture my love of reading.

I grew up in a bookish home - one of my first memories is of "Kerry the Fire Dog," probably one of the Little Golden Books with their gilt-edged bindings. I vaguely recall others - one about a truck that delivered coal in New York. The stars of our first grade readers, Alice and Jerry, still run through my mind with their dog, Jip. Later, we spent the school year with a family touring the United States - they started off in Virginia in the fall and ended in California by spring.

Thinking of my mother, I remember vividly her buying me Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses" at a book fair at Glasgow Elementary School in Baton Rouge. I can remember the afternoon light streaming through the classroom's louvered windows, the books laid on the tables, and my excitement when she bought the book for me. Did I pick it out, or did she give it to me as a surprise? I think the latter.

I loved Stevenson's "Kidnapped," re-reading countless times the edition that had on its cover the actor James MacArthur, star of the Disney movie version of the book, which might have been one of the first movies I saw in a theater. However, I never could finish "Treasure Island" and Long John Silver, although I remember the atmosphere of the tavern where the pirates hung out in the early chapters.

My reading was often like the fast food just coming in big - the Hardy Boys, Chip Hilton. I loved a series of biographies for children with distinctive blue covers and silhouette illustrations and titles like Abe Lincoln, Young Railsplitter, and Ernie Pyle, Young Reporter. The world of comic books was another pleasure.

Other books glow in my memory - one about a crusty old fisherman who sank to the bottom of the sea. Another had a cover of a blond girl reading a book whose cover was same girl reading the same book, whose cover was the same girl reading the same book, and on and on, smaller and smaller, into eternity. Looking at it cast a mesmerizing spell upon me.

I had a huge love for sports - I must have read Lou Gehrig, Young Ballplayer, a hundred times. Willie Mays was another hero encountered in books as well as on the TV Saturday game of the week, which followed Howdy Doody and Pinky Lee and Gummy and Industry on Parade. Strange to think about it now, but boxing and its history intrigued me. Golf, football, even lacrosse and track with the great wronged Indian hero Jim Thorpe. A collection called "100 Sports Heroes" taught me about legendary figures like Ben Hogan who had overcome serious handicaps, and Mickey Mantle's book on courage I considered a bible. Later, I understood that the Mick probably had not written a word of it and wondered which sportswriter of the time had ghost-written it.

Sports gave a glimpse into the adult world - I relished every ribald moment of Bill Veeck's memoir "Veeck as in Wreck," co-written with Ed Linn. I also reached ahead of my years to read a few of my father's Book of the Month Club selections, the most memorable a history of the Battle of the Bulge.

Those avidly consumed books lay the foundation for all of the serious "adult" books that fill my shelves today. Now I enjoy e-books as well. I've rarely though found the pure joy given me by Kerry, the orphan Dalmatian with his bright red tongue who rode the fire truck to every fire.

E-books Hit the Stacks

Anthony W. Marx, head of the New York Public Library, in a New York Times op-ed article today praises the Big Six (not the Original Six - that's hockey) book publishers for increasing the library's access to e-books. Yet Marx's piece makes clear that the publishers have placed severe restrictions on e-book circulation.

Marx, in another context under fire for plans to renovate the library's Fifth Avenue crown jewel, sees e-books as the future. My take-away is that limits on e-book circulation widen the "digital divide" between those who can buy the newest devices and e-information and those who can't. At least Marx is consistent - his plans to rip up the hallowed Fifth Avenue library reading room and create some kind of Internet cafe gave a collective shudder to the intellectual class horrified that the plan would be taking democracy too far, block that cappuccino!

Meanwhile, the irrepressible Tom Friedman, in his adjacent column, comes up with another of his glib concepts. Nowadays, it's a "401 (k) world," says Mr. Tom, meaning that unlike in the old pension-Social Security world, workers have to fend for themselves and acquire ever more rarified skills to survive in the "hyper-connected" world. Mr. Tom finds "a lot of this scary," although it can be presumed that his 401 ( k) looks pretty good. It's cold out there for a pimp, but Mr. Tom can charge nearly $1,000 a head to attend his seminar on this scary, scary hyper-connected world.

As Marx says, - Anthony, not Karl - more and more people are using the library for Internet access, to check e-mail and increase those skills Friedman discusses. Yet library funding goes down and the profit-hungry publishers place limits on e-books.

After all of this, I felt a bit queasy to find on the business page that cash-heavy Apple, the leading maker of smart phones and tablets for easy e-book enlightenment, is issuing millions in bonds, essentially acquiring more cash by raising debt. Apple reportedly will use some of that money for dividends to shareholders. If only I had bought Apple Stock, my 401 (k) would look much brighter and I could afford to acquire whatever skills Mr. Tom somewhat murkily says I will need for the scary 401 (k) world. I might even be able to attend one of his seminars, or figure out how to download e-books from the library to my Apple-made I-Pad. Marx says many folks don't even know they can download e-books from the library. I tried to download some to my Nook, but all the books I wanted had a long waiting time, as admittedly is the situation with old fashioned paper books. Marx's article makes clear why.

Perhaps we could go back to that other Marx and say "workers of the world unite" but that boat has apparently already sunk in our 401 (k) world. Groucho Marx might give us a bit of insight too; I'm sure his clips can be found on You Tube.

If the Big Six makes you dizzy, there's always the Original Six: all of them are in the NHL playoffs for the first time in ages. The best bet for the Stanley Cup, an ESPN analyst says, are Pittsburgh and Chicago, two cities that make me nostalgic for the old non-hyper-connected world.

"On the Road" Film Out of Gas

Add Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" to the list of American novels that result in disappointing movies. I'd read negative reviews of Walter Salles' film, but decided to give it a go when it showed up on the Comcast On Demand menu at the same time it's still in theaters (which can be a sign of a flop).

The movie is even worse than the reviews. I was going to give a detailed condemnation but decided not to waste the words. Suffice it to say that the most interesting part of the movie are the cactuses in one visually gorgeous shot.

Will the newest " Great Gatsby" succeed where other films of the novel have failed? We wish it luck, although I have my doubts about Leo as Jay. Too short.

More Writing Tips From John McPhee

John McPhee in this week's New Yorker continues his primers for writers, discussing how he goes through several drafts before giving his articles and books that trademark polish. His confession of despair, turmoil and frustration in producing the all-important first draft offers encouragement to struggling scribes.

For grammar nerds, McPhee's piece devolves into a discussion of such points as when which can be used to modify a restrictive clause. He affectionately recounts tussles with the New Yorker's formidable copy desk, giving tribute to the magazine's longtime grammarian, Eleanor Gould, whose name lives on when copy editors "Gould" a proof. McPhee's piece brought an amusing follow up from copy editor Mary Norris on the New Yorker's web site about why the magazine spells traveler traveller.

...The Wall Street Journal today had a charming piece about sax player Sonny Rollins. I was amused at Rollins's (New Yorker style, as McPhee discusses) comment that at age 81, he has less energy for practice, often playing his instrument for just three hours. Three hours! I'm lucky to last for 30 minutes at the piano.

...Farewell to George Jones, one of America's great originals. A distinctive voice and a wild character.

Salinger Letters Show Writer's Youth

Nine letters written by J.D. Salinger in the early 1940s to a young woman in Toronto have been purchased by the Morgan Library in New York, The New York Times reported this week.

The letters reveal a breezy, flirty, gossipy young man, not yet darkened by his World War II combat. He mentions the New Yorker buying a short story featuring a young character named Holden Caulfield. The story, "A Small Rebellion Off Madison," was not published until after the war. The Times quotes Salinger as saying the magazine expressed its interest in other stories about the disaffected young boy. For whatever reason, Holden remained in his imagination, at last culminating in the classic "A Catcher in The Rye."

Salinger, who fought extensively in Europe, including D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge, suffered severe mental trauma and eventually made himself a recluse toward the end of his life. "For Esme With Love and Squalor," perhaps his finest achievement, tells of a young soldier's correspondence with a young woman, starting with light-hearted letters before the experience of combat and ending with war-haunted letters outlining the soldier's severe emotional collapse.

"Esme" was based on his letters to another young woman, not his Toronto pen pal, who's still alive and in her 90s. But the newly discovered letters reveal the same exuberant joy of living whose loss is registered in "Esme." The new letters show Salinger's love of slang and colloquial speech. That wit and gift for the vernacular lived on in "The Catcher in the Rye," "Nine Stories," "Franny and Zoey" and " Raise High the Roof Beams Carpenters." Along with his fresh American language, the deepening of his tragic sense because of the war made him one of our great writers, despite his small body of works.

Of Libraries and Parades

I recently read a piece by someone named Rod Dreher about returning to live in St. Francisville, La., after years in Washington or New York City. I believe Dreher, an LSU alum, is one of those conservative writers I usually can't stomach. The piece on returning home was OK, if overwrought.

He made one point with which I wanted to take issue, saying that he returned to Louisiana although it's a place that devotes more resources to parades than libraries.

The reason this struck me is that I've been amazed at how my hometown of Baton Rouge has succumbed to celebrating Mardi Gras in the 40 years or so since I left. When I was growing up, Baton Rouge all but ignored Mardi Gras. To see a parade, you had to travel 80 miles down the Mississippi River to New Orleans.

Baton Rouge in those days devoted hardly anything to parades. But the libraries were fine. One of my fondest childhood memories was our frequent summertime visits to the East Baton Rouge Parish Bookmobile that parked on a scalding concrete lot on Hyacinth Street in Southdowns. How nice to escape the blazing heat and climb the steps into the bookmobile's air conditioning and books stacked high on shelves. I always left with 10 books or so.

I don't care one way or another that Baton Rouge now has several Mardi Gras parades. For all I know, the bookmobiles are no more. But the city still cares about libraries; I've read in Baton Rouge's soon to be sold newspaper about plans for a new central library.

Dreher also makes a crack about the university caring more about paying football coaches exorbitant salaries than keeping professors, appallingly true. But Intelligent design champion Bobby Jindal, the hero of conservatives like Dreher, has been slashing LSU's budget more than any governor in history. No matter: LSU's grammatically challenged football coach appeared at Bobby's re-election celebration.

The James Salter Band Marches Again

Every decade or so with the publication of a new James Salter book, the literary chatterers start chattering about how Salter is our best undiscovered writer and a writer's writer, blah, blah, blah. Salter's made quite a handsome career out of this attention. Now, at 87, he has a new novel out, "All That Is," and the amen chorus is in full voice. I've seen a couple of profiles, including one in the New Yorker, and reviews that claim Salter fashions the finest sentences - exquisite nouns, verbs, direct objects! - in the English tongue.

Many years ago, when a similar Salter wave appeared, I bought a new Modern Library edition of "A Sport and a Pastime," which recounted a love affair between a young American man and a young French woman. Most of the action took place in bed. The over-cooked erotic language reminded me of Lenny Bruce's vulgar but on target quip about the difference between pornography and fine writing, "if you knock off a piece of ass with class, it's literature." This is all too literal in Salter's case: the lovers in "A Sport and a Pastime" always indulged in anal sex, a fixation that resurfaces in the new book, according to the one skeptical review I've read. There's no doubt now that Salter is our finest writer about anal intercourse, heterosexual version.

Perhaps I'll give Salter another try, but only if I can obtain "All That Is" for free or at a heavy discount. His other books, including "Light Years," could have used a bit of Elmore Leonard's advice to authors to not write sentences that sound too much like writing.

Pushcart Prize Anthology Uneven

For years, I've enjoyed reading the Pushcart Prize Best of the Small Presses anthology, so was tickled to come across the 37th edition. While Bill Henderson's project boosts of its grass-roots authenticity, it's gained over the years some institutional pomposity; the collection is slickly published, along with the volume number in Roman numerals, à la the Super Bowl. Henderson's introduction espousing the literary virtues of the pieces gleaned from the nation's small publishing entrepreneurs has a smug, self-congratulatory quality.

Indeed, the contents are uneven, especially the poetry, chosen by Bob Hicok and Maxine Kumin. Hicok and Kumin talk like battle heroes of choosing from hundreds and hundreds of poems, which is scary, since the poems I've encountered so far strike me as amateurish, overwrought, poorly considered, and unfinished. A typically sentimental and banal Ted Kooser poem made the most of an impression. Henderson points to a poem by a fourth grader. Perhaps it will raise the intellectual and artistic level.

On the prose side, the most notable piece so far is one of Marilynne Robinson's mind-stretching essays, "On Beauty." The late Harry Crews shows the best of his macho style with a memoir fragment. I started but grew bored with a short story by Karen Russell, the new it girl of short stories a few months ago. I've liked Laura Kasischke's poems, but her short story reprinted in the anthology, "The Barge," strikes me as something a talented high school girl would produce. While discovering some new voices, the anthology has its share of familiar names such as Joyce Carol Oates, Wendell Berry, Jane Hirshfield, Andrew Huggins, and Adam Zagajewski.

I'll keep browsing; surely a jewel or two will be found.