*Removing previously posted additional half-star. Dialogue is just so repetitively moronic; overly-affected as ignorant. Even for the Irish class (or lack of it) at that time. Oxymoron.
What we have here are two Bowery books; "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets" or just "Maggie" for short, and its companion piece "George's Mother." Followed by "Other Tales of New York" written during the infamous period of the Five Points slums (see "Gangs of New York") with the Bowery bordering its east side. By a young newswriter who failed to graduate from journalism school using not even his own name, but his own money--spending it all to be self-published. Crane correctly assumed that his first novella would not be well-received since its style (later coined American Naturalism) was a literary upheaval not yet known to a public in 1893 that favored romanticism over the ugliness and brutality of urban realism. Politics would prevail. Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle" in 1906 reiterated horrible working and living conditions to not just rub realism in the public's faces, but to advance socialism. Crane's language is blunt; fighting words crudely rendered in the style of an Irish brogue (comes from the term describing an ugly, thick Irish shoe). It is the slurred, raving, uneducated tongue of the forgotten classes and destitute. An outcry from the city's immigrant denizens--their predetermined fate ordained by poverty--literally fighting (that word, again) for survival in the squalor of Manhattan's south side. John Sloan, whose painting is on the cover, and his brethren--the so-called "Apostles of Ugly" in the Ashcan School whose unflinching realism parallels Crane's literary style--depicts the hopeless conditions of skid row; over-crowded tenements, flophouses, saloons, filth and garbage (children abandoned to the streets) shadowy figures beneath the oppressive cavernous recesses of the Third Avenue El. The never-ending screeching, squeeling, brakes and window-rattling clangor of New York's first elevated iron road; its commuter railway running along the city's oldest, most-infamous thoroughfare; the Bowery. The plot is simple: A fallen fair maiden (a flower in the mud puddle) whose innocence, simplicity, sensitivity, and hope for romance, is betrayed by every hypocrisy, Maggie is turned out unjustly to fend for herself on the streets with the only other means available to her beyond working for pennies in a sweatshop; getting married to an abusive, drunken, violent, unfaithful husband--the same psychopathology as demonstrated by her parents and surving mother; or, that failing, prostitution. Which she pursues spiraling further into despair, inevitably driven to her premature demise; a grim outcome being mysteriously left to one's imagination. Where she encounters a greasy, fat, tattered specimen in rags, a low-life in the gloomiest of districts along some industrial river's edge. "He laughed, his brown, disordered teeth gleaming under a grey, grizzled mustache from which beer-drops dripped. His whole body gently quivered and shook like that of a dead jelly fish (fairly graphic enough). Chuckling and leering, he followed the girl of the crimson legions (?). At their feet the river appeared a deathly black hue. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily (interesting word) against timbers. The varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence." The girl of the crimson legions. Well, that's it. We learn soon thereafter that she has died. Murdered? Suicide? Yes. Going on, as her heartless alcoholic mother wails, to be judged for her sins and for which she forgives her for shaming the "fambly." Not a happy ending. Nor do those stories which follow promise anything uplifting--ending as futilistic twists of fate. But Crane's prose suffices. Not the stuff he would forever be remembered most for. His classic experiential take on the Civil War for which he was an instant success--a war ironically in which he never fought--was, of course, "The Red Badge of Courage." He was also a poet and much-inspired (or taken) by the theater of war and its toll for admission. Considered physically unfit for the Spanish-American war in Cuba, he served instead as a war correspondent--dying from TB just a few years later in June, 1900, at the age of 28 in a German sanitorium. In "Maggie" and his short stories, he frequently refers to an urban lifestyle as that daily battle to which one must reckon. In a comedy of sorts (shorts) called "Mr. Binks' Day Off," a banker takes his citified family to the country for a much-overdue springtime escape. The peaceful tranquility is a shock to their systems. "They had always named the clash of the swords of commerce as sin, crime, but now they began to imagine something admirable in it. It was high wisdom...in light of their contempt for this stillness, the conflicts of the city were exalted. They were at any rate wonderously clever." Not what you'd call stilted prose so prevalent in the final years of the 19th century. Stephen Crane seemed ahead of his time but was prolific notwithstanding his few years the fates granted. I'm mooching this from the inside jacket: "He reported from the American West, Mexico, Greece (that war with Turkey), Cuba, and New York with stories and sketches, his experiences fictionalized as some of the best short works in American literature." Was a resident the last years of his life in England. As lowly as the drinkin' 'n' foyghtin' immigrant Irish are portrayed, he was welcomed there beyond what was afforded, no doubt, to ordinary Yanks from abroad. The British Imperialist Empire versus the Irish. That's another story.