so i wrote my college essay, the big one, the common app essay, the personal statement, about leonard michaels. did i begin my notes about "sylvia" with that? i'm sure i did. it will now remain always the most relevant aspect to me about leonard michaels. i just checked; yes, i did. the difference between the collected stories and sylvia is that my college essay wasn't about sylvia, which is a "fictional memoir," it was about the short stories, the short stories of leonard michaels. i mean it wasn't about leonard michaels. as i said in the notes on sylvia. i don't want to repeat myself. the point is that leonard michaels has unfairly been invested with a lot of power, private power. not just because of the college essay, but the college essay crystallized that power, if you will, made it manifest, inescapable, gave it all the power given to every writer i have been encouraged to and wanted to venerate. i found sylvia by chance in a used bookstore in evanston. by chance, because it was sylvia. not by chance, because it was leonard michaels, and for years i have looked for leonard michaels wherever i go. some months later, in my senior year, i found the collected stories not by chance in skylight books in los feliz. i don't remember exactly when, but i probably have the receipt taped in a moleskine, and could check, but i remember it was early, too early, to read it. early as in might not have submitted all my college applications yet, and i felt i could not submit college applications featuring an essay written by a self who had not yet found leonard michaels when i had indeed become a self who had now found leonard michaels. so i didn't read the stories. they sat on my bedroom carpet along with other books, many other books, for months, languishing, unread. my books have been colonizing my bedroom carpet, spreading, in no particular clean shape; i could make a metaphor here about the way cancer cells grow in a petri dish; i have been asking for another bookcase in my room for over a year; months passed. I submitted my college applications. I got into various colleges. Months passed. Now it is the summer before my first year of college, just a couple weeks shy of a year since I by chance found Sylvia, and I will be attending college about twenty miles away from the used bookstore in Evanston, and finally I picked up the stories by Leonard Michaels, which I admit I had been avoiding. Books cannot withstand the private power, the hope, you invest in them, if that hope is, what's the word, I can't remember the word, for now let's make up "reasonless." Not unreasonable, but reasonless, almost arbitrary.
What did I want from Leonard Michaels? I don't know. If I knew what reading is for, why people should read, why I read, then I would know. It's unfair for Leonard Michaels, I guess, because I have found in writers what I looked for in Leonard Michaels, but one doesn't like to think the search is over, if the discovery at the end isn't as obviously life-changing or life-defining as one thought. One, also, has a fondness of obscurity; one wants to be hip. What I have looked for in Leonard Michaels I've previously found in Virginia Woolf; in David Foster Wallace; most recently I've found it in Zadie Smith.
This is unfair. Here are some things to say about actually Leonard Michaels, about actually the stories of Leonard Michaels: his early work is zippy and quick and wild, much wilder than I thought it would be, more savage, more fragmentary, more sexual, more Jewish. He makes use of the same characters through stories; I didn't expect that, either. Phillip Liebowitz, mainly, They are raw and slightly surreal sometimes. These are his two story collections. They're short. There is a turning point. "Journal." It's something between the occasional collected vignettes in his second collection and the tone of his later stuff. It is, I think, something near a fictional memoir. The stories afterward are, for the most part, middling. The Nachman stories are good, very good. Different from the early stories, very different. Nachman is far different from Liebowitz. But related, they're related, I suppose. They sound and feel more like how you expect short stories to sound and feel, besides the endings, like all his endings, which are only the endings of sentences, as if the rest of the life is spilling outward into a page you can't see. That is what keeps his stories grounded, real, somehow believable no matter how strange they occasionally get: the sense that they continue, that nothing Ends, not even in the way of a Short Story Ending where you're confused and surprised and not everything's resolved. Not even in that way, though these emotions happen. What happens in the stories feels unresolved in a life way, because life doesn't have plots and conflicts and resolutions, as opposed to being unresolved in an Interesting Writing way, which isn't exactly hollow, because it's all most good writers can do, but makes you too aware of the page when you aren't always meant to be aware of it. This is Leonard Michaels' achievement.
I watched a movie recently, "You Can Count On Me," and one of my favorite parts about it was the way certain scenes you expect were often elided. Because you knew what would happen in them. There was no point. I guess most good fiction, drama, film, what have you, most successful stories, do this, they only put in what you need to see/read/hear, but this movie was the first time I was so aware of it; it did it intentionally, wanted to make you aware of it, the elision. Sometimes so as to wonder what happened there, in between. I thought about this a lot with Leonard Michaels; there's a lot of elision here, both textually and metatextually. It happens with the characters he focuses on, like Liebowitz and Nachman, whom we see at various discrete points in their lives, various different times. Nachman is reliable, steady, changeless—we read about him mostly in middle age, just once in college, always a mathematician. Liebowitz comes and goes, flits in and out of time, not chronologically—teen, young man, child, adult, nearing middle age...always with a different girl, in a different job, always scrambling, always Liebowitz, but a different shade of Liebowitz, how did he get here. Then with the stories made up of separate vignettes; the journal. And then the greatest elisions, unintended: his second collection published in 1975, is next piece of fiction, the journal, from a collection that came out in 1990. The Nachman stories from the 90s, the early 2000s. The transition of focus from Liebowitz to Nachman, the change/maturing in writing style from the franticness of the 70s to the superficial calmness of the 90s. I'll admit I'd read a Leonard Michaels story before I bought this book—the last story in the collection, the last Nachman story, "Cryptology." Well, I didn't read it. I'd listened to it, it had been on the New Yorker Fiction Podcast, which for me is pretty close to never having experienced it at all. I'm a bad listener. Being a podcast-listener is for me practically purely aspirational. What I'm saying is I knew how this would end, kind of. The last word of his last story is "infinity." By which I mean I knew nothing at all, because of the way he plays with people and time.
I should mention, because I never stopped noticing it, that Leonard Michaels is weird about women. I think I spent most of my notes about Sylvia talking about this. It was not limited to Sylvia. His men are all fairly gross at at least one point or another. Never before had I been so convinced of the inherent helpless perversity of people as I was while reading Leonard Michaels stories. The thing is, if you want to read well-known male writers from the twentieth century, as I often do, you must read writers who are weird about women. As long as they've got something worthwhile to them, you do what you gotta do. (This is why I still won't read Bukowski.)