by Ben Greenman
father at work, and she remembered continuing to tell them that even after the good father declared that he was stepping down from the position. When her husband wasn’t playing with his son, she remembered, he was usually complaining: about how life hadn’t taken him far enough, about the shoddy work of others in his field. Once he wondered out loud if he would still be married in two years. Then, finally, engorged with his own doubt, he had retreated to a hotel in another city and announced that he was reconsidering the marriage. She was serious with him on the telephone, but as soon as she hung up she found herself laughing. She knew he had already decided as much as he was capable of deciding. Still, when the postcard came, she trembled, and when she finally worked up the courage to read it, she held it at arm’s length as if to protect herself from the poison of the thing. After a few days, she told her son that his father was not coming home, at least not right away. She misrepresented his absence as a kind of vacation. When her husband did show up, it was only for a week, after which he moved out. He did several terrible things to her, mostly sins of omission, though his dedication as a father never waned, which filled her with a mix of gratitude and killing rage. She flips through the mail more rapidly. Bill, bill, bill. No letter from her son. Catalog, bill, magazine. Had the postal service slowed down? Magazine, political advertisement, bill. The letter has to be there, but it isn’t. Her hand pushes away the mail; she goes to the couch, lies down, switches off the small red lamp on the side table, and forgets. She gets up, makes herself a snack, and goes back to the mail with renewed resolve. She shakes out every magazine in search of the letter and finds nothing. Finally it falls out of a lingerie catalog. But it isn’t a letter. It’s a postcard. She kneels, trembling, and inspects it. The handwriting is like her husband’s, but it’s her son’s. It has to be, and so it is. She picks up the postcard and reads it. Her son is writing about a new friend he has found, and how thrilled he is to be at camp, and how he wants to visit the friend over the winter, and how he is sorry that he acted so churlishly the first few weeks of camp. Churlishly? she thinks. She stares at the back of the postcard and tries to visualize her son writing the word. Then her hand sets the postcard down on the flat white surface of the kitchen table, locates a letter-opener, and starts to slit the bills open, one by one.
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About the author
Meet Ben Greenman
About the book
A Conversation with Ben Greenman
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Further Explorations
Meet Ben Greenman
About the author
WHEN I WAS IN COLLEGE, I had a habit of walking out of parties minutes after walking into them. The reason was simple: I didn’t like the sadness. I’d come into the room, and it was like I was walking into a sliding glass door of shame, embarrassment, and self-hatred—and not just my own. I’m not saying people didn’t have fun at parties. People had fun. But the fun was created, to some degree, by the sadness. It was the negative space carved out of the unfun. I didn’t like it, and when it started creeping up my spine, I left. Later on I learned some strategies for blocking out the sadness I was absorbing from the room, most of which involved poor eye contact and a steady stream of jokes. We do what we can with the tools we have.
“It was like I was walking into a sliding glass door of shame, embarrassment, and self-hatred—and not just my own.”
After college, I followed the vertices of a triangle: I went back to Miami, where I had grown up, to work as a newspaper reporter; went back to Chicago, where I was born, to attend graduate school; then went to New York, where I became a magazine editor and started to publish books of fiction. Recently, while I was on tour for my last book, Please Step Back, I found myself once again in O’Hare Airport in Chicago, where I sat and watched the people pass by, their brows furrowed with one worry or another: maybe the mortgage was late or the insurance on the second car was too expensive or the husband was putting on weight in a way that seemed to indicate depression or the stepson was developing violent tendencies or the boss wasn’t showing enough respect or the lover wasn’t loving back the way she used to or the mother needed surgery. I had forgotten what I had known in college, but now I remembered it suddenly. Every expression, every gesture, seemed to broadcast sadness. I put my earphones in to block it all out and went to get something to eat.
As I sat and ate my sandwich, I saw a woman sitting by herself, also eating. It was an airport. People eat alone all the time. There was no reason to make too much of it. And yet, the more I watched her, the more I was sure that she was sad, and not sad in a transitional or instrumental way, but deeply, foundationally, irreversibly sad. She was in her mid-thirties, attractive but tired-looking, reading a business report filled with black-and-white charts. At one point, she took out her cell phone, started to make a call, and thought better of it. The hand holding the phone sank down until it was in her lap. I had taken my earphones out. I put them back in.
A few days after that, I mentioned the woman in the airport to a friend of mine, and she was silent for a long time, which was her way of letting me know she was angry. My problem, she finally said, wasn’t that I was mistaken in assuming that these other people’s lives were sad—she agreed that they were, for the most part—but that I acted as though they were different from me. “Well,” I said. I didn’t know what I was going to say after that. Luckily, she went on. She said it made her angry that I wouldn’t just acknowledge their sadness and that I felt compelled to push forward with a kind of dumb combination of empathy and superiority. “Well,” I said again. She had to go, she said. She went.
I thought about what she had said, and for a few minutes it seemed true. But then parts of it started to shimmer, like a mirage, and I wasn’t as certain anymore. The part about connecting to the common humanity in us all had a certain appeal, but the part about rejecting the temptation of that dumb mix of empathy and superiority bothered me. Isn’t that where much art comes from? You feel the pain, it starts to drive you to your knees, you bring yourself back up by telling yourself you don’t belong down in the pain, you move forward on this cushion of temporary superiority, and then you use the energy generated by this process to create something. In fact, after a few times, you come to value the sadness, to receive it with a kind of joy, because you know that it will, in time, bring you to creative work.
This principle, with some important variation, has been at the center of most of what I’ve written: collections (Superbad, A Circle Is a Balloon and Compass Both), novels (Superworse, Please Step Back), short stories, humor pieces, and essays. I write often about sadness and loneliness, which are present in all of us but which are harder to detect (if easier to feel) amid the modern-day rush of communications technology. The only cure, I think, is intimacy, which is what the people in my stories are struggling to achieve. Many of the stories in this book are set in the past, recent or distant, before the Internet and Facebook and Twitter began frittering away at legitimate human connection, and as a result the characters are preoccupied with conversation and correspondence, with voices and faces.
A while back, I wrote a story called “Snapshot,” which was about a middle-aged Russian researcher, a widower, and his epistolary friendship with an American scientist. The Russian does not know that the American is a woman until she sends a newspaper clipping that includes a photograph of her, at which point the Russian does what a man should always do when he encounters a woman who intrigues him—he studies the evidence:
He mounts the photograph on the wall over his workbench. As the afternoon proceeds, he comes to understand it better. Some of the heaviness of her face results from the shadow cast by the figure to her left, a well-known Harvard mathematician whose name he cannot recall now. And while the woman is older than he initially suspected—at least forty, he now guesses—he can see her twentieth year in the playful tilt of her head, her tenth in the unguarded brilliance of her smile. But it is her eyes that
draw him most powerfully, with such a luminosity that looking into them, even through the intervening medium of the photograph, is like listening to the voice of their owner.
It’s probably narcissistic, and certainly solipsistic, to try to prove a broader point about mankind by quoting from my own work, but that paragraph goes to the heart of the sadness I assume is in most human interaction, even (especially?) when it is in pursuit of happiness. Another friend of mine, who is a young adult writer—I mean that she writes for young adults, not that she herself is a teenager—once told me that I was good at “funny sad you know,” which I initially took as an insult but came to wear as a badge. I learned to wear it as a badge because I shined it up and saw what she meant. By “you know,” she didn’t mean to be dismissive, but rather to isolate a certain dedication in my work to expressing both what is funny and what is sad—and, at the same time, to acknowledging the limits of expression. I have a third friend who once asked me why I write mostly about human relationships. “There’s more,” she said. She’s wrong. There’s not more, or at least not a more important job for fiction. You can (and should) stretch that theme around whatever frame you want, and put whatever frame you want around that theme. Stories can take place, as they do in this collection, in the distant past in wartime, in the recent past on the moon, on the imaginary border between two noncontiguous countries. No matter where they’re set, and no matter when, they explore the way men and women delight and infuriate each other, and in doing so illuminate my sense that this is still, after all these centuries, humanity’s proper central preoccupation.
I have recently started a few new projects. I won’t say too much about them, because I’m superstitious, but they have to do with some or all of the following topics: shaving, sweatshops, safety inspection, magicians, evolutionary biology, squids, football, the Great Mosque of Damascus. In every case, though, those topics are masks that fit over the faces beneath, and the faces beneath are the faces of men and women, trying their best to seek out the most satisfying companionship and fellowship. Scientists can make science meaningful. Clergymen can make God meaningful. Architects can make space meaningful. Musicians can make sound meaningful. I can only try to make language make life meaningful, and only for a little while. Funny sad you know: we do what we can with the tools we have.
“I can only try to make language make life meaningful, and only for a little while.”
A Conversation with Ben Greenman
About the book
Ben Greenman is the author of What He’s Poised to Do, which was first published in 2008 as a limited-edition boxed set called Correspondences.
Alex Rose is a writer and designer and the publisher of Hotel St. George Press, which published Correspondences.
Cal Morgan is Ben’s editor and the editorial director of Harper Perennial. They discussed the project in a midtown Greek restaurant in October 2009.
CAL: Let’s start at the beginning. Ben, what inspired these stories in the first place?
BEN: For years, I’ve been writing about what happens between men and women. In earlier collections of mine, like Superbad, my interest in those themes might not have been as apparent, because the treatment was more experimental and often heavily comic. It was with A Circle Is a Balloon and Compass Both, in 2007, that I began to explore them more deliberately. I wondered: We have put people on the moon. We have split the atom. So why have we made so little progress in understanding how men and women deal with each other: the want, the wait, the hope, the hurt, and so forth?
CAL: And did you know from the start that you wanted to use letters to tell these stories?
BEN: Well, all words are made of letters.
CAL: Hilarious. I mean the other kind of letters: the ones people write to each other. The first version of this collection was published in a limited-edition box called Correspondences. Was it designed explicitly as a set of stories about letters and letter-writing?
BEN: I started from the idea that I was writing stories about the disconnections between people—about romantic frustration, about misunderstanding. And then I noticed that many of them were set in the recent past, at a time when people communicated (or miscommunicated) through letters. That’s where Alex came in.
CAL: Alex, you run an innovative, small publishing house in Brooklyn called Hotel St. George Press. How did you connect with Ben for this project?
ALEX: I had always been a fan of Ben’s writing, as far back as Superbad, and I met him at a party in Brooklyn. I was talking to Ben’s wife, Gail, not knowing she was married to him, and I happened to mention that I dug Ben Greenman. She said, “That’s my husband. Hey, Ben, come meet a fan!” I thought she was kidding, but there he was. We immediately started talking about doing a book together. At that time, Aaron Petrovich and I had done a few titles with Hotel St. George, but we were looking to shift from trade paperback to handmade letterpress books. We wanted to work more directly with our authors, to go beyond just taking a manuscript and putting it between covers. We wanted layout and typography to reflect or amplify the themes of the book.
BEN: This would have been at the beginning of 2008. I had a novel, Please Step Back, coming out in 2009. I didn’t want to shoehorn in another traditional book in the midst of that schedule, but the idea of doing a nontraditional book really appealed to me.
ALEX: Right. We pretty quickly realized that the running theme of letters was a way to unite these stories into a collection, but then we had to decide what “collection” meant. These were also great stories about human interaction, thwarted love affairs, rivalries, disappointments, and enduring love, and I noticed that there were invisible threads that connected the stories.
CAL: What do you mean by invisible threads?
BEN: Yeah. What do you mean?
ALEX: I just thought that sounded cool. No: themes would recur, as in any collection, but in interesting ways. There was the story about a man who came from Cuba to the United States and continued to write letters to the woman he loved there, even after she was out of his life; to me, that seemed connected to another story, about a guy in Nebraska who was grappling with a troubled marriage. When Ben came up with the idea that these weren’t connections, but correspondences, that gave us an organizing principle and a title: Correspondences.
BEN: It probably started as a pun, but then it turned into something much richer—thanks in large part to the design. Alex and Aaron designed a box with four foldout panels; each panel held a little accordion book, and each little accordion book contained two stories. Those were the pairs of stories that I saw as corresponding with each other, just as the characters in the stories advanced their lives by corresponding with each other. And then we came up with the Postcard Project to complete the package.
CAL: Tell us more about that.
ALEX: When we designed the case, it was meant to hold eight stories in four accordion books. Then one afternoon we started talking about the fact that the box was a very exclusive form. It folded up. There was a bellyband around it. It kept people out, in some way. As a remedy, Ben suggested writing a story that was intentionally incomplete and inviting readers to contribute to it. We printed that story, “What He’s Poised to Do,” on the actual casing, and then we put a postcard in the fourth pocket, where the fourth booklet would have gone. The reader got to write back to us, the publisher, to complete the story. We posted some of the responses to the Mail Room of the Hotel St. George Web site.
BEN: People loved that Postcard Project.
ALEX: I think it brought in a different kind of appreciation. Because the box was a high-end, limited-edition object, I thought we’d get attention from design magazines and book blogs. We did. But then there were all the people who seized on the idea of the Postcard Project as an interactive fiction experiment. Which was cool, but also a little frightening. When something sounds “high concept,” people sometimes assume it’s not superior to a description of itself—that it doesn’t transcend its own novelty.
CAL: Funny you should say that, because that’s how I encountered it. I was out in Los Angeles on business with Carrie Kania, our publisher, and we went into Book Soup, the wonderful bookstore on Sunset, and both of us were exploring the store, looking for hidden treasures. At one moment or another, each of us separately stumbled across an elaborate endcap display the store had devoted to Correspondences. I was astonished by the innovative approach to the form and the intricacy of the package. But I didn’t buy it then, in part because I was worried about crushing it in my luggage, but also because I was feeling protective of it. I knew Carrie would love it the way I did—this is the kind of thing we’re always driving each other crazy with—but I felt such a sense of discovery, and I wanted to be able to order it when we got back and present it to her as if out of nowhere. Back in New York, I walked into Carrie’s office, and there was a copy on her desk. She’d bought it at Book Soup and hadn’t mentioned it to me.