James L Kennedy

I wrote the article below for The Owl, the student newspapers here at Regis High School. 

While composing his masterpiece collection of short stories, Dubliners, James Joyce wrote in a letter: “I do not think any writer has yet presented Dublin to the world.” Despite being the “second city of the British Empire,” Joyce noticed that his home city had not been written about in a major work of fiction.   

In his debut novel, Eddie Joyce (no relation), presents another place that resides on the periphery of an empire: Staten Island. A native himself, this Mr. Joyce paints the “fifth of the five boroughs” with the same detail that the legendary Irishman wrote into his famous collection. The novel is replete with local color that those Regians who “take the boat” will immediately recognize: Denino’s pizzeria, the Forest Avenue St. Patrick’s Day Parade, the neighborhoods of Dongan Hills or Great Kills. While older now, I will ever remain one of those Regians, and it is from this perspective in particular that I found Joyce’s novel worth recommending.

Staten Island is a borough for families, and thus Small Mercies is a family tale. Joyce portrays the Amendola family as they continue to cope with the loss of Bobby, a firefighter who has died in 9/11. They are a quintessential Staten Island family. They are Irish and Italian-American, an ethnic mix that more than half of my own graduating class from Sacred Heart shared. One parent has made the journey from Bay Ridge, while another is a died-in-the-wool Staten Islander. One son wishes for nothing more than to escape his parochial home and so becomes an affluent lawyer, working in Manhattan. Another becomes a firefighter. They all love basketball.

The family’s saga is told in an engaging manner. Joyce shifts perspective with each chapter, and while the novel mostly revolves around the family matriarch, Gail, several other characters take the spotlight at different points. Joyce depicts these characters coping with grief in their own ways, some more destructive than others. While Joyce struggles, at times, to differentiate the voices of these characters, he does succeed very much in bringing each consciousness to light in an evocative and realistic way.

In addition to building characters with depth, Joyce is a talented craftsman when it comes to language. His dialogue captures the gruff directness of Staten Islanders’ speech, but is balanced with a narrative voice that is lucid and often lyrical. Joyce is particularly good when describing aspects of daily life on Staten Island such as the ferry or the Verrazano Bridge. For example, “The bridge is beautiful, a majestic baby blue span in the sky, soaring above a strip of water called the Narrows, giving all who cross it a panoramic view of New Jersey, then Staten Island, then Jersey again, New York Harbor, the Manhattan skyline, the low-lying infinitude of Brooklyn, and finally, a glimpse of eternity in the Atlantic Ocean.” Not bad for a Staten Islander who was a lawyer for ten years before becoming a novelist.

    A surprising and subtle aspect of the novel is Joyce’s interweaving of Catholic spirituality throughout the text. I won’t say too much about this enigmatic element of the story, but Joyce’s title serves to unite the various characters and his own commentary on grief and suffering.

    This novel is a must-read for any fellow native Staten Islanders. Indeed, I owe a debt of gratitude to another Staten Island native, Mrs. DelPriore, for recommending this book to me. It is also recommended for anyone interested in family narratives, like Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, especially those told from multiple perspectives, like Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. This novel should also be added to the canon of great NYC novels that address the lasting impact of 9/11. (Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland comes to mind.) Regis’s own famous author, Matt Thomas (’93), has called it both “the best Staten Island novel ever written” and “the best novel yet at capturing the human suffering that resulted from the 9/11 attacks.”

With Paris-Robaix coming up this weekend, I’ve been thinking a bit about cycling and WWI. Northern European races tour many WWI battlegrounds and the announcers are always fetishizing “glory” and “suffering.”  

Found this alluring advertisement and also this interesting documentary about a bike experiment in the American military: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNnTSD219GA 

The Figure 5 in Gold Charles Demuth 1928

Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red firetruck moving tense unheeded to gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city.

Newsweek is running a cover story about David Foster Wallace this week. In part a review of the recently released David Foster Wallace Reader, an anthology of his most notable works, in part an introduction to Wallace and his work, this article doesn’t say anything earth-shattering or eye-opening about the late writer.

Nevertheless, it does provide a thorough and clear overview—a fitting goal considering that the Reader does the same—and also has some very catching descriptions. Such as this sentence, a solid definition of what many have called the New Sincerity:

"His voice seems geared to the overeducated American college graduate plodding toward adulthood, tired of sarcasm but resorting to it too often, suspicious of belief but desperate for faith, awash in meanings but lacking Meaning."

Nazaryan announces his “fanboy” status, one which I share, so don’t expect a circumspect view of Wallace. It’s more like the many hagiographies of St. Dave. But it’s still worth the read, especially for someone interested in Wallace and seeking to learn more about the scope of his work and life.

I do have one issue with this piece. I disagree with the author’s dismissal of the David Foster Wallace Reader as a gimmicky Christmas gift. (My own caveat emptor: yes I did receive it as a Christmas gift.) I think the reader serves a more important purpose: it allows those new to Wallace to read excerpts from his toughest, longest pieces, which may be too intimidating for most to tackle in whole, right away. As noted in the introduction to The Reader, it may be especially useful for students, who would be hard pressed to read Wallace monster-works in a survey course. I find the selections from Infinite Jest and The Pale King are all compelling, and even Wallace devotees will find the book useful as a compendium of some of the most memorable passages.

Two weeks ago, the NY Times Blog The 6th Floor published George Saunders' graduation address to the Syracuse class of 2013. Immediately, comparisons to David Foster Wallace's "This is Water" abounded. The two speeches are in fact remarkably similar. Both authors address the tropes and expectations of the genre of commencement address. Both tell simple, touching parables to advance a point about ethics. Both conclude with a vision of the good that is both secular and Christian. Thus it comes as no surprise that, like "This is Water," Saunders' speech will be published as a stand alone book, titled "Congratulations, by the way." 

Can we see this vision of goodness and the good life reflected in the fiction of Saunders? Does/should fiction lead us to become (spiritually, ethically, politically, emotionally) better people? (Please comment below.)

If you'd like to explore Saunders depiction of goodness in the face of crisis, check out the bookend stories in his latest collection Tenth of December. "Victory Lap" and "Tenth of December" offer perhaps the strongest reflections on goodness and human relationships. Both place characters in crises--crises of real and present danger, as well as crises of conscience. In fact, "Victory Lap" seems especially reminiscent of the personal anecdote in the speech, insofar as it places a young man at of crossroads of action and inaction. In both stories, Saunders reminds me of Flannery O'Connor, particularly "A Good Man is Hard to Find," as the characters seem off-kilter and the mood all-too-tense, but grace seems somehow triumphant. 

  Two stories that fold our nation's current political situation--economic and military--into Saunders' reflections on goodness and justice are "The Semplica Girl Diaries" and the acclaimed "Home." The former address the destructive qualities of greed and materialism in America. Saunders satirizes America's implication of third world persons--especially women--in our unending acquisitiveness. (He also hints at the innate empathy and goodness of children, a theme that runs through other of his stories.) "Home" joins several good stories and novels that address the difficulty soldiers face when returning from America's wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I can see why this story gained critical acclaim: it is a great example of Saunders' control of voice and a powerful political statement about inclusion and healing, in the wake of war trauma.

"The Semplica Girl Diaries" is also one of a few stories with a science fiction element. In this way, his collection is reminiscent of Infinite Jest and the final story in Jennifer Egan's "A Visit from the Goon Squad." All of these authors include in their works subtle science fiction aspect, while being otherwise quite realism. Saunders seems to channel Aldous Huxley in the two sci-fic highlights of this collection: "Escape from Spiderhead" and "My Chivalric Fiasco." Both stories address consciousness and the impact that future pharmaceutical developments may hold for our sense of the human experience. Both stories also address language and its intimate relationship with how we understand ourselves and the world. Finally, both stories also depict humans trying to be good in the midst of chemical alteration. 

Saunders' stories are far too strange, even mysterious, to be simple parables about goodness. Such a direct comment is more the task of a graduation speaker than an author of fiction. Yet, his stories are engaging because they bring us into contact, through his incredible command of voice, with the complicated, strange, imperfect quality of consciousness and conscience. Saunders' characters struggle (and thus we struggle) with questions of goodness, obligation, justice, acceptance, and faith throughout Tenth of December. While Saunders' excellent speech straightforwardly inspires us to do good and be good, his fiction explores the same themes from a deeper thoughtfulness and offers a more complex depiction of human experience. 

Woody Allen's newest film, Blue Jasmine, remakes "A Streetcar Named Desire," the Tennessee Williams play made famous by Marlon Brando's iconic portrayal of the male lead, Stanley Kowalski. Blue Jasmine also hinges on a masterful acting performance, but this time from Cate Blanchett portraying the female lead: Jasmine French, Allen's version of William's Blance DuBois. 

                         (some versions of this story lead our focus to Stanley, as indicated above) 

Though Allen claims he did not see Blanchett on stage in Liv Ullman's excellent production of "Streetcar," it is clear that the actress's study of Blanche informed and inspired her portrayal of Jasmine. When I saw Blanchett as Blanche at BAM a few years ago, she embodied Blanche with her upright posture, her at-once delicate and urgent way of moving about the stage, and her expert voice modulation to be dainty at one moment, and desperate at others. Allen's camera lets us get much closer to Jasmine. Blanchett still moves like Blanche--rummanging her bag for pills, obsessively fixing her appearance--but as Jasmine we can see the expressions of pain on her face, especially haunting in the final scenes.

                                (Allen's version in a nutshell: more focus on Blanche/Jasmine and her mental/emotional journey, less focus on raw sexuality) 

As director, Allen capitalizes on the unique ability of film to tell the story more vividly than is possible on stage. Allen uses flashbacks, presented unannounced, to give us insight into Jasmine's past. The hints of Blanche's past in "Streetcar" are also central, but they are presented in a clunky ways: first in a long, melodramatic confession to a lover; later as the results of Stanley's friend "spying" in Blanche's hometown. In Blue Jasmine not only do flashbacks allow much more elegant, efficient, and pleasing access to Jasmine's troubled past, but they also give viewers a sense of how viscerally the past haunts the female lead. At first, viewers have a hard time distinguishing past from present, a confusion that very much places us in the vulnerable position of the traumatized Jasmine. 

In a move that is at-once classically Woody Allen but also faithful to William's script, jazz music plays a major role in giving access to Blanche's psyche. Allen picks up on a minor detail in the Williams script, expands it, and re-imagines it to a very successful end. As the NY Times reviewer points out, Allen's use of "Blue Moon" "evoke[s] the blue piano that, as Williams wrote in “Streetcar,” expresses 'the spirit of the life which goes on here.'" I add that "Blue Moon" plays a double role in Allen's take on the play: not only does it evoke Williams's "blue piano" but also it functions as the Varsouviana, a polka tune that plays when Blanche confronts her first love, Allen, about his homosexuality. Jasmine and Blanche obsess over "Blue Moon" and the Varsouviana for the same reason: the song reminds the women of the early moments of love but also the trauma that ensues.

Allen's version of "Streetcar" is an engaging version of Williams 1947 play. In addition to bringing viewers closer to Blanche/Jasmine's mental and emotional unraveling, it also captures the socioeconomic and cultural disparity that Williams highlights in his play. But in Allen's version, the NYC/Hamptons financial elite replace the old South plantation owners of Williams's play. San Francisco's Mission district is a good substitute for Williams's New Orleans: a bit grungy but charming; diverse and working class. (It seems that this movie continues Woody's series of romantic urban portrayals--from Manhattan to Match Point, from Barcelona to Paris. The single most eye-catching shot captures the SF Bay at a moment of great potential and grave mistake for Jasmine.) 

Two things are missing from Allen's version that pervade the original play: race and sex. Is Allen suggesting that we live in a post-racial society? Though Jasmine disapproves of Augie and Chili for being "below" her sister, there is no sense of the continuing racial judgment that plagues American society. Why aren't there any Latino or black or Asian-American characters in a movie set in San Francisco? Is Chili meant to allude to Cannavale's character's Latino roots? Or is it just a mechanic's nickname. Allen missed the opportunity to recast Blanche's derision of Stanley as a "Polack" to greater effect in this film. 

Though the plot of both revolves around romantic relationships, the play maintains a much stronger depiction of human sexuality, while the sexiest thing in the movie is Blanchett's fashion. Baldwin's adulterous seduction is boring, as is Louie CK's. Cannavale's Chili is far from Stanley Kowalski. While he does have a moment of violent masculinity, he is ultimately a decent, caring guy, which makes him both blander but also more likable than Brando's ultimately monstrous Stanley. Is this Allen's comment on male sexuality today? 

In William's play--right down to the title--sexuality is a driving force in many regards; in Allen's movie trust is the focal point. This reflects our time well: sex may be boring, but trust--between lovers, between the public and our financial and governmental leaders--still makes for a good story. 

    A few final notes: 

Louis CK: when I heard that Louis CK and Woody Allen were working together, I was thrilled. The promise of two NY, smart comedians collaborating is not fulfilled by CK's minimal screen time and flat role.

Andrew Dice Clay is in this film. In a serious role. And he is actually moving. (Though Allen should have included him telling filthy nursery rhymes to lighten the mood and for posterity.) 

I just finished rereading East of Eden for the first time. Up until now, I had been promoting this novel as my "favorite" on the basis of the two features that I have revisited countless times since first reading the book: Steinbeck's dedication to his friend Pascal Covici and the first chapter, which gives the natural and political histories of the Salinas Valley. Other than those two relatively short passages at the beginning, I barely remembered the story and was beginning to feel like a fraud, or at least very anxious about whether the novel itself is any good.

                                                                  The dedication indicates Steinbeck's grand ambition, earnest tone, and personal sources for writing the novel. As the teenager who first read the novel, I was attracted to this kind of frankness and self-revelation. Then and now I have obsessively kept shoe box upon shoe box of ticket stubs, mementos, letters, cards, photos, and other sentimental reminders of past encounters, romances, experiences; past selves. When reading Steinbeck's dedication, I fantasized about what it would mean to transform the breadth of experience and depth of emotion contained in that memory box to words and story. Though East of Eden has notable flaws--the ending seems forced and rushed, as the Hamilton story is inadequately resolved; his depiction of Kathy as Eve/pure malice/whore perhaps participates in a misogynistic reading of the Genesis story; the too frequent use of Lee as an authorial voicebox--Steinbeck does follow through on his promise to open, explore, and share his box of human experience and wisdom with readers. 

East of Eden is a story about good and evil, family, and free will. It strikes me that Cormac McCarthy's The Road shares the same themes, while being a much tighter novel from a craft standpoint. I considered The Road one of my favorites, too, and now I can see that the two novels share a philosophical scope and earnest tone. Neither book is clever in tone nor avant-garde in approach. In fact, both books are boring in some respects. But Steinbeck and McCarthy's novels stand in opposition to the irony and flippancy that pervades our culture, while their earnest and sincere discussions of morality are pertinent and powerful. 

Though I have critiqued Steinbeck's technique in a few ways, I stand by the first chapter as one of the most beautiful pieces of descriptive writing in the American prose tradition. Steinbeck was obsessed with the Salinas Valley, which is itself a beautiful place, and he depicts his country with love and nostalgia. The story begins, "The Salinas Valley is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay." The first sentence is a model for direct, concise English prose. (Perhaps no surprise that Steinbeck was a journalist, in addition to a novelist.) The second sentence remains direct, while adding more poetic touches; it also sets up the novel's central theme, since he will go on to the detail the two mountain ranges, Galiban and Santa Lucia, as representatives of good and evil respectively.  

(From Fremont Peak in the Galiban Range, looking over the valley, covered in its signature fog, towards the Santa Lucia Mountains). 

The chapter progresses in a similar fashion, Steinbeck mixing journalistic reporting with more personal "I remember" statements. For example, he acknowledges the destructive power of nature when describing occasional floods but also includes poetic moments such as, "They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love." He captures the American landscape in a tone that hovers between the scientific naturalism and nostalgic romanticism. This dynamic tension of the real and the remembered, the seen and the imagined, captures well man's relationship to places and experience overall. 

East of Eden is no longer my favorite novel. In truth, it hasn't been for many years. I don't know what the question "What's your favorite novel?" is meant to achieve or learn and I don't know how to decide on the best answer. But Steinbeck's earnestness and sincerity, his grand, philosophical ambition, and his landscape painted with words, will always retain my admiration.