City v. Suburbs

Monday I drew some thoughts on the death of publishing from David Karp's novel of suburban New York life in the 1950s, Leave Me Alone (1957). Tonight, I want to share a couple more passages that get closer to the city vs. suburbs conflict that is at the heart of the novel.

At the start of the book, the novel's protagonist lives with his family in a small apartment on 52nd Street in a building which,

in more scientific societies, would have been bulldozed; it was an affront to the moral, hygienic, and artistic sensibilities of thinking men.

And his authors--many of them needy and/or drunk--have a habit of dropping by. Thus, this note, left for him by his wife:

Kids at mother's for TV. Went to dentist for six pm appt. Gibsons in the frig. Pls don't nibble. L. B. phoned. Wants to see you. Pls do not ask him over tonite. If you must, we're low on liquor. If you must, get gin. Cheap gin. Only if you must. Mucho amor. E.

I love that note; it bounces along in a progression from hope to resignation, appeal to lesser appeal, in a way that makes it quietly funny at the same time as it's wholly believable as a marital communique. Needless to say, L. B. comes over.

Then they move to the suburbs, where we get this reminder that the horrors of the lawn are long-standing, and us city-dwellers should be grateful that we're spared them:

There always seemed to be something that had to be done for the grass. When it was not browning out because of lack of rain, it developed bald spots, which made them worry about grubs; and the appearance of some moss on the lawn upset Eleanor, since it indicated acidity in the lawn, and they had to add lime. When they were not adding lime they were adding fertilizer and they were constantly watering Arthur picked himself up, sometimes after having gone to bed, to go outdoors, slosh through standing pools of water and turn off sprinklers which had been forgotten. The grass, whether it was browning or thinning or allowing alien weeds to creep in, kept right on growing and so it had to be cut. But not merely cut, but edged so that where it met the sidewalk and the driveway and the walks to and around the house it would look neat and not straggly. Where grass grew into hedges and bushes and planting strips it had to be rooted out like an evil and wherever it had been rooted out or cut, it left a debris which had to be stuffed into sacks and soggy cartons and left for the once-weekly pick-up by the garbage trucks. Grass became, after a while, a sort of tyrant which demanded his time and energy and thought.

And it goes on, and on, from there.

Oh, yes, the city's the place for me: I'll take the sozzled drop-in over the empire of lawncare any day.

Now this looks like a comfy coffin to spend a career in!

{Photo by rocketlass.}

It's hard to go anywhere on the Liternet these days without encountering someone lamenting the death of publishing. Which led me to smile on encountering this exchange, from David Karp's Leave Me Alone:

"Now this is interesting"--Arthur said, folding his arms. "If Searington and Company [Publishing] is not a business then what the devil do you think it is?"

Eleanor moved her hands helplessly. "God knows what it is. Some sort of medieval left-over--like people who trace coats of arms, or the last armorer left in the world who makes chain mail for MGM movies about knights. All I know is that it isn't a business--what sort of business is it that tries to supply a product that no one wants? Who reads books today? You've told me yourself that fiction sales have fallen away to nothing--that eight of ten novels you publish you lose money on."

Leave Me Alone was published in 1957.

Later in the book, the protagonist recalls that in his first interview for a publishing job, a storied, Maxwell Perkins-like editor said to him, "Why do you want to be in publishing? It's a dying occupation."

All of which leads me to assume that Gutenberg, as he unscrewed the press to reveal his first printed page, was probably already worrying about format changes, delinquent payments, catastrophic returns . . . oh, and the possibility that his entire audience just might up and die of cholera at any moment. Even the heartiest grumblers would have to agree that least some things are better today.