The NYRB "Classics"

Patrick Kurp weighs in with his likes and dislikes from the New York Review of Books Classics (or “Classics”) (link). I think I was “a reader” who suggested he comment on this topic and inevitably, I share some of his tastes, not others. We agree on The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian, by Nirad C. Chaudhuri; The Stories of J.F. Powers; My Century, by Aleksander Wat; and The Thirty Years War, by C.V. Wedgwood. I can’t say I share some of his other enthusiasms. On the other hand, I think he is right that Richard Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy is just not the sort of book you want to read in a clumsy paperback—I have a fine old 1941 hardcover co-edited by Floyd Dell (I assume I have the right Floyd Dell), which can rest comfortably under the bed for months at a time, and still be ready for service on demand.

I agree with him about the intro to Burton’s Anatomy—not so hot— but I’d generalize: quite a few of the intros are perfunctory or downright bad. I am particularly amused by Colin Tóibín’s intro to The New York Stories of Henry James—Tóibín left me with the strong suspicion he didn’t think the book should have been published at all.

Some of my own favorites are books I knew before but am glad to see back in print—Murray Kempton’s Part of Our Time: Some Ruins and Monuments of the 30s is a good example. I’m glad to see some showcasing of Leonardo Sciascia and George Simenon, though in both cases, NYRB perhaps overdid it (Sciascia’s The Moro Affair is nothing but a piece of journalism, and not a very good one at that) (so also J. R. Ackerley?).

Others were brand new to me here: I had never heard of Andrei Platonov; his The Fierce and Beautiful World is one of the best things in the collection. So also David Jones’ In Parenthesis. I’m sure I should have recognized Mavis Gallant’s Paris Stories, but I didn’t, and I’m glad I do now.

Patrick wonders how these books get chosen. I have a suggestion: cronyism and chance.

There’s really no other explanation for the high incidence of ex-wives of Robert Lowell (link). And I certainly can’t think of any other reason to explain the skilled but deeply unpleasant Contempt by Alberto Moravia, or Curzio Malaparte’s Kaputt, but on that last, I wouldn’t know because neither I nor anyone else has ever finished reading it.