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“Even before the knocker was lifted, he knew they had come: here were the wheels of the trap scraping on gravel, and the pony’s skipping gait, and a child’s angry howl when he was taken from his mother and set down before an alien door.” The sentence comes from Cynthia Ozick’s recent Dictation (Houghton Mifflin), in the novella of the same name. And like the novella from which it is drawn, the sentence provides a particular species of pleasure that only fiction can offer–it could not exist outside of fiction. The innocent key of the pronoun “he” allows the reader passage through the thoroughly alien door that leads to the mind of another human being.
Here, the point of view that Ozick is offering is that of a man famous for his own fictions: Henry James. Ozick offers not a biography but rather a fiction fed with the facts selectively, at times deceptively, drawn from the record, such as we have it, of James’s eventfully uneventful life. So Ozick, as have others, wonders what that mind that wondered out loud, at such length and with such precision, might resemble. When Joyce gave us a woman’s mind it was one long lavish disordered flow of thought, untailored and nearly unstoppable in wandering grace. Ozick’s rendering of this man’s mind is quite neat, as ultimately tidy as James’s sometimes baroque but always ordered syntax.
“Even before the knocker was lifted, he knew they had come”: the first movement of the sentence opens up an interval in which an expectant James–for Joseph Conrad and family are coming to visit–awakes to their imminent arrival. Then three sounds apprehended in succession: “[H]ere were the wheels of the trap scraping on gravel, and the pony’s skipping gait, and a child’s angry howl.” I love Ozick’s “Here…and…and” construction, with James’s attention seen like a skipping stone over the surface of the noises that flow to him. Apprehension, by sentence’s end, sparks James’s imagination: the child’s “angry howl” is read, by James, ever the burrower into the brains of others, as the result of the child being passed from mother to father as they descend from the trap, and set, furious, before James’s “alien door”–the sentence itself having thrown open that door, behind which lives fiction.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Conversation — October 2, 2015, 8:26 am
“By committing to the great emotional extremes demanded by Greek tragedy,” says Bryan Doerries, author of The Theater of War, “the actors are in effect saying to the audience: ‘If you want to match our emotional intensity, that would be fine.’”
Years ago, I lived in Montana, a land of purple sunsets, clear streams, and snowflakes the size of silver dollars drifting through the cold air. There were no speed limits and you could legally drive drunk. My small apartment in Missoula had little privacy. In order to write, I rented an off-season fishing cabin on Rock Creek, a one-room place with a bed and a bureau. I lacked the budget for a desk. My idea was to remove a sliding door from a closet in my apartment and place it over a couple of hastily cobbled-together sawhorses.
Amount by which a typical good-looking U.S. worker will out-earn a typical ugly one over a lifetime:
A Japanese inventor unveiled a new invisibility cloak that uses a material made of thousands of tiny beads called “retro-reflectum.”
A couple at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Greenville, South Carolina, left their waitress a note telling her “the woman’s place is in the home,” in lieu of a tip.
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"She never thanked me, never looked at me—melted away into the miserable night, in the strangest manner I ever saw. I have seen many strange things, but not one that has left a deeper impression on my memory than the dull impassive way in which that worn-out heap of misery took that piece of money, and was lost."