"Everybody knows there is no fineness or accuracy of supression; if you hold down one thing you hold down the adjoining." The Adventures of Augie March, S. Bellow, 1953
Wry and rueful, frequently wise, 'Beg, Borrow, Steal, A Writer's Life' is antidote to the bombastic self-advertisement and corruption of contemporary literary memoir. For admirers of 'Hurry Down Sunshine', 2008, Michael Greenberg's newest book will be a welcome, and less harrowing, return to the mind and milieu of a man who wrote so wrenchingly and well on his adolescent daughter's psychotic break. (The present volume gathers stories that earlier appeared in Greenberg's Freelance column for the Times Literary Supplement.)
Like miniature portraits etched in ivory, Greenberg's stories beg to be carried in a pocket by the heart. Economical of language yet generous in spirit, they are finely drawn in a plainspoken style that is both taut and selectively terse. Set beyond fame's obliterating currency, his subjects move about the margins of a storied city's vaporizing glare. Greenberg's quietly powerful tales are illuminated from within by lives lived inside the author's circle of acquaintance. They ring with the truth of one about whom it may be suspected has outlasted his darkest fears and deepest disappointments, yet still takes nothing for granted.
Sometimes family, often Jews, mostly New Yorkers, writers and minor celebrities mingle here with tailors and salvage dealers, bohemian aristocrats and public housing tenants. The unexpected and the overlooked are the stuff of these tales, told from the inside out.
A blockbuster film to his credit, a criminal judge interviews the author when he is called for jury duty. An Auschwitz alumnus leaves an ambiguous, Gogolian legacy the author must share on the arrival of a surprise beneficiary. A chance meeting at a cocktail party affords a once powerful editor an opportunity for reflection, which seeming to have outlived his legend, he misses, furnishing the author an ambivalent epiphany; he'd rejected Greenberg's early fictional efforts. Elsewhere, an idle hour in the Lower East Side's Tenement Museum inspires a deceptively mundane travelogue that metamorphoses into a searing meditation on the stark emotional legacy of a grandfather's rise from "shtetl nobody."
Greenberg's habit of writing as close to home as he does to the bone instigates a few of the scenes animating these tales, as when his wife Pat brings a friend home to dinner. Georgina, Greenberg writes, had been "scoured of maleness by hormone infusions and sex reassignment surgery... and looked oddly ageless ... with a touch of smugness, justifiable perhaps in one who had partially succeeded in overturning one of Nature's most intractable laws."
Feeling like the proverbial fifth wheel, Greenberg obnoxiously begins-notebook in one hand, bourbon in the other-- to "interview" Georgina when Pat erupts, tracing a perilous fault line in the couple's marriage. The story continues after Georgina has gone and Greenberg has asked Pat "what she thought had motivated Georgina to do what she did to herself." It's writing with power out of all scale to its brevity. It works by the author's peerless handling of the tension bristling between disclosure and restraint, self appraisal and elision. "[T]he ultimate freedom." Pat goes on, "I am what I say I am. Not what I was born..."
If a deep, arresting poignancy is a regular feature of these stories, the author's clear, unblinking gaze and heroically stealthy economy have left no budget for sentimentality. More, please, Mr. Greenberg. Soon.
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