• Ticknor
  • Ticknor


by Sheila Heti

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On a cold, rainy night, an aging bachelor named George Ticknor prepares to visit his childhood friend Prescott, a successful man who is now one of the leading intellectual lights of their generation. With a hastily baked pie in his hands, and a lifetime of guilt and insecurity weighing upon his soul, he sets out for the Prescotts' dinner party--a party at which

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On a cold, rainy night, an aging bachelor named George Ticknor prepares to visit his childhood friend Prescott, a successful man who is now one of the leading intellectual lights of their generation. With a hastily baked pie in his hands, and a lifetime of guilt and insecurity weighing upon his soul, he sets out for the Prescotts' dinner party--a party at which he'd just as soon never arrive. Distantly inspired by the real-life friendship between the great historian William Hickling Prescott and his biographer, Ticknor is a witty, fantastical study of resentment; and a biting history of a one-sided friendship.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Sun
Ticknor is one of this year's most enjoyable and formally impressive books.
San Francisco Chronicle
Sheila Heti's touch is confident. She builds a memorable world inside the tiny space of Ticknor's anxious imagination, and we barely miss the air outside.
A pungent and hilarious study of bitterness and promise unfulfilled.
Heti paints a full and rich character:curmudgeonly, downright pathetic, but surprisingly fascinating.
The Village Voice
A par-ticularly satisfying puzzle: Heti's prose is the journey, and the destination.
author of Natasha David Bezmozgis
Heti packs more life and literary pleasure into Ticknor than most authors do in novels three or four times its length.
Publishers Weekly
The rancorous, interminable friendship between a Great Man and his envious, self-pitying biographer drives this cleverly coiled narrative by Canadian author Heti (The Middle Stories). As Heti notes, she has based this slender, first-person work on American George Ticknor's mid-19th-century biography of historian William Hickling Prescott, but the lonely, querulous voice of her invented George is all her own. The book opens as George steps out on a rainy Boston night to answer a rare, longed for invitation to dinner at the illustrious Prescotts of Beacon Street; he and William Prescott were childhood friends. The loss of an eye during a boyhood frolic galvanized William, who resolved to always overcome adversity-and cheerfully so. He has subsequently gained fame and admiration from his historiography and sunny nature. George, by contrast, is poor, morose and covetous. What he does possess is a terrible guilt, never expressed to William, about his possible role in the mishap that changed William's life. Heti's narrative is as deliciously intimate and clue-riddled as a Poe story. (Apr.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
In 19th-century Boston, George Ticknor trudges through the pouring rain, pie in hand, to attend a dinner party at the home of his longtime friend William H. Prescott, author of The History of the Conquest of Mexico and other works. While Prescott's life represents a triumph over adversity-he is sickly and partially blind-Ticknor has magnified minor personal setbacks into mammoth grudges. Canadian wunderkind Heti's fictional biography takes huge liberties with the facts of Ticknor's life. This very short text (a dense 128 pages) is not really a novel at all but rather an extended prose poem conveying a mood of overwhelming envy and sour grapes. As such, Ticknor will appeal mainly to writers and critics interested in literary experimentation, rather than general readers looking for a satisfying yarn. On the other hand, Heti's book is not entirely sui generis but clearly belongs to a tradition of surreal biographical fantasy that includes Tommaso Landolfi's collection Gogol's Wife and Other Stories (1963), Alberto Savinio's Operatic Lives (1988), and Max Apple's The Oranging of America (1976). Recommended for collections of cutting-edge literature.-Edward B. St. John, Loyola Law Sch. Lib., Los Angeles Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A difficult novella that's a riff on literature's outsiders and insiders; it's the second experimental work from this young Canadian author, following her collection The Middle Stories (2001, not reviewed). "There were no books when I was a boy . . . other boys had books . . . no, the whole country lacked books." So goes the opening as the narrator, Ticknor, revises and contradicts himself, sorting through his memories of early-19th-century New England. Slowly, a contrast emerges. There is privation (Ticknor's experience) and there is plenty, enjoyed by his childhood friend Prescott. (The latter was a respected American historian; Ticknor, a Harvard professor, was his biographer.) As they mature, the contrast sharpens. The world of 19th-century Boston is Prescott's oyster. His work receives "a great roar from the national press," while Ticknor has been working ten years on one article, and cannot even get Prescott's opinion of it. Prescott bests him with women, too. He is happily married to the ample Claire; Ticknor, a bachelor, lusts after her, to Claire's disgust. Yet they stay in touch, inviting Ticknor to supper; the fussbudget endlessly deliberates his preparations for the occasion. Prescott's life is not all peaches and cream. As a schoolboy, he had received a bread roll smack in the eye and suffered recurring vision problems. Did Ticknor inadvertently launch the offending roll, and then refuse to apologize? And does it really matter? Heti's work is kin to Nabokov's Pale Fire in its portrayal of a problematic relationship between two writers, strung with tripwires, fueled by obsession. Ticknor will outlive Prescott, and he will mourn "the extinguishing of a flame that had burned sobrightly"; we are left guessing whether that is a sincere tribute or bitter irony. With this austere one-note monologue, Heti offers a plate of sour grapes. Ultimately, her work is not daring or terribly experimental.

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There were no books when I was a boy. Books were hardly accessible, yet there were some books. That is why I did not develop literary taste. I read what I found and it was for fun. You read mostly for idle pleasure. I did not read for fun, nor was I cultivating my mind. I cannot imagine cultivating anything as a young boy. It is not my fault if I was not an erudite boy. Other boys had books and other boys had libraries. No, the whole country lacked books then. Comparatively few were published here, and they were borrowed with difficulty. There is no possible way I could have read good books. It was for pleasure that I read them, when I finally did. Today you read books. Yes, today I read books but there were no books when I was a boy, and I do not read books the way that other men read books. My taste, then, was juvenile. But you were like all the other boys. Sometimes you went to the library, but there was no library until much later. When I went to the library I would read the books that amused me. I had no taste when I was young. I had no books. It is not my fault if I read the lighter books, and that when I found them I read them with a juvenile fever. But you would read with no fever at all. You read on cool spring days, once there were books in Mr. Shaw’s library. I read the books of the kindhearted Mr. Shaw because I was bright, and because he let me. This allowed me no social pleasure. He would return from a fashionable watering place and share with me his “loafing time” while I was trying to read. His particular doctrine did me no favors. He did little to nourish my mind. I was given the lightest literature while the other boys drowned in a great sea of social amusement. So long as I could endure the task, I passed long hours on cool spring days idly reading in the library of Mr. Shaw to the unhappy exclusion of whatever perfectly youthful enjoyment the other boys sought. The day came when I made an attempt to quit Mr. Shaw’s company, but he said he would prefer it if I did not. I dropped my hand from the windowsill and returned to my desk. Although I can read, I do not read as well as I would like to. Those hours influenced my literary tastes.

Some men love wild animals. I am not one of those men. Animals have no place in my life, and I am not the type to say he prefers animals to people. That is not the sort of logic I agree with at all. I do not agree with the logic of animal-loving men. Nor are you the sort of man who would get along well with animal-loving women. There is something stunted about those kinds of women. I am not a stunted man, though I am a difficult man. You have no difficulty with other people, and you cannot rightly say that your first and second loves were books. There was a woman I loved more than books, but now she is gone. I was not a favorite of girls, and I am still not favored among women. You loved first a drunk, second a woman who was deformed in the face. I have only ever loved hopeless women, which is surely what has kept me from the highest circles. It’s all that would have been necessary to find myself in the warm glow of the dinner table at the Prescotts’. To have only had a woman you could show off would have put you in the proper place. I tried not to love the women I loved. Now I only want to be quite simple and childlike with some dear woman, with no code of morals, yet I fear it’s too late. Few people feel a real and deep passion more than once in a life. Perhaps you will never again love in the same true way, or find a human being who is such perfect rest to you.

It will take me a while to get there. You will get there soon enough. Getting somewhere always involves more effort than the effort of getting there is worth. Of course, there is nothing to be done about it. No one is eagerly awaiting you now. Your arrival is not anticipated with any great longing. Other men must hurry. If I am late it will mean nothing to anyone. You cannot be going anywhere with the thought that you are not wanted there. But it is the only way I can. There are friends of yours who eagerly await you now, and you will of course be late. I’m sorry I’m late. So sorry I’m late. You know how difficult it is to travel. You know how long these winding roads take. So sorry I’m late. Has everything already started? Is there nothing more left to this evening? I started out, and I was certain the supper hadn’t begun. If only I had left the house on time. If I had just begun my journey when I first put on my coat and not stopped to write out the letter that was in my mind before I forgot it. I threw out the letter anyway. Had I left the house one minute earlier I would have caught the streetcar as it was moving away, or if the pie had been ready sooner, or if I had not made a pie at all, when you told me not to. The neighbors arranged for a party last night, so I had to sleep with the rubber earplugs in and woke up with a headache. I know you don’t care. They never mind when I am late. There should be no rush in getting there. No, don’t rush to get anywhere. Everyone will know it if you have rushed, and if they know you have rushed they will not think highly of you once you arrive. But I am not a late man. I hate to be late. I was not brought up in that easy way. I am not the sort of man who can afford to arrive any later than perfectly on time. Perhaps being late is better than on time, for a man whose arrival is not eagerly anticipated. My manner would become, perhaps, a little freer and easier from continual practice. You must take yourself for better or worse, however it is. Please forgive me. You know how the streets are. Haven’t you heard what happened on the street? Before you leave, you cannot know the state of the streets. Enough about the streets. They are not thinking about you now Forget about them and forget about the streets. Sorry I’m late. So sorry I’m late. But these days everyone is always late. I’m sorry if I didn’t arrive on time. I left with lots of time to spare, but you know the streets. It is so hard to go earnestly into the streets.

It would be better had I stayed at home. If you had stayed home, how much better you would have felt. This is not a night to be out in the streets. Not for an old man. I am not quite so old. You had a mother but your mother is dead. When mother died, she just made up her mind and did it. She said she had nothing to live for, then reached out her hand to touch me. She missed. I was standing too far. I moved close to pull the blanket over her head, and went to call the doctor into the room. What was I to do? I stayed by him as he told me all his plans, the usual rites to be taken care of. He left to write out the certificate while I turned to look at the blanket, adjusted it with one hand and played with the lacy edge, then dropped it and left, shutting the door behind me. It is that the street is so dark, which makes the walking so terrible. There are many gloomy nights and always more, and you are not at home for enough of them. But I am home almost every night. The invitations you receive come rarely, and the ones that come you disdain. No, it would be terrible at home. Not as lively as at the Prescotts’. They are a lovely couple. They are the only couple you love. You love them and yet you wish to be at home on a night when you have nothing in particular to do. Besides, the streets aren’t so dark, and at the Prescotts’ they will warm your pie. Go now. You have only fifteen blocks and already you are stalling. But it is not the darkness of the night that bothers me. It’s that I hate the rain. The transition will be easy once you perceive it for yourself. But it’s not there and I fear it won’t come. Go home if you want. You said you would bring the pie. It is not the night for writing letters. Forget the letters. You rarely write letters and the ones you send are often lost. Your life is in one sense more and more retired. You write one or two household friends whenever they happen to be out of Boston. It is not a correspondence that is being preserved. I saw parts of it from ten or twelve years ago, when I was visiting outside of Boston, and I am sure my correspondence is being preserved. Your correspondence is not preserved by your friends and it is not preserved by the critics. In the preceding two months you have written only three persons. The two or three friends who live outside of Boston hardly know what to make of your letters. They say you shouldn’t write them at all. Writing by the light injures your eye. Chopping wood brings relief, but this is not always understood. You should not speak so cruelly of the Prescotts. They are your closest friends and your only friends.

So sorry, Mrs. Abb_ng_on. I’m so sorry for not replying to your kind letter earlier. In any case, my days have been filled with nuisances. So sorry, Mrs. Abb_ng_on, for not replying to your letter at once. My days are filled with chores. You know they are like the days of everyone we know. You know everyone’s days are filled with the worst sorts of interruptions. We laugh about the interruptions, but please forgive me. Are you well, Mrs. Abb_ng_on? I hope you are enjoying the fur coat you had fitted. I hope your husband sees how you are enjoying the fur. It has been very cold as winter approaches, and no doubt the fur will come in handy. Tonight I was at the Prescotts’. Tonight the Prescotts invited me for dinner and I went there with a pie. You know the Prescotts—they are my very best friends. It has been so long since I received such a nice letter, and though I did not reply at once, I have been thinking of you constantly. I thought of you often. I often thought of writing, but you know the interruptions of life. Mrs. Abb_ng_on, I hope you don’t hate me now that it has taken me so many months to reply to your kindest of letters. It is very cold in the streets, and it is impossible to go anywhere in Boston without wasting half your day in getting there. People are cold and cruel and nobody comes with the streetcar when you need it. The stores are lined with advertisements and you cannot look anywhere without being sold something. There are fewer and fewer days with sun, and many people are currently out of work. Perhaps you received my last two letters? If your husband’s factory has closed, I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps my last few letters were lost. I assume my correspondence was lost in the mail, but please don’t hold it against me. This happens to me on a regular basis. You are one of the dearest women I know, Mrs. Abb_ng_on. It was terrible walking through the streets on a cold night like tonight. I was on my way to have supper with the Prescotts. Perhaps you remember Mrs. Prescott? She wore the red feather at the literary lunch. I’m sure you remember her. Please forgive the delay in my reply. There is a charming shady walk by the house where I live. When you visit Boston next perhaps you will come and see me, and we will take this walk. I often walk before dinner, and I love companionship at that time of the night. It is at that time of the night when I am most in need of friends. The drives are less agreeable but the walks still have their charms. Everything around here is familiar and dear to me and reminds me of all the days of my childhood. Perhaps you will visit me, when next you come to Boston. Please come to Boston, Mrs. Abb_ng_on. I hope to see you in Boston, but I suggest you wait until winter has passed.

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