Ninth Letter 4.2

My sister, Marti, recently gave a somewhat mixed review of the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s. One of the adjectives she picked was “strange.” Thank god for that word.

The folks at Ninth Letter make “strange” writing one of their primary goals, as the work they publish bends genre, both in forms that the pieces take and in the layout. A group of young graphic artists take control of the piece and seek to present it in a visually interesting way, but one that also captures some flavor of the writing. We can all understand why Kurowski’s essay on Basquiat is painted on wooden panels and photographed. When we read Dan Chabon’s “Patrick Lane, Flabbergasted,” we meet a young man who inhabits a house, indeed a world that needs a good rinsing off. That Chabon’s story is pasted on to photographs of funky bathroom whose calking is coming apart, and whose sockets trail dangerous looking wires…well, it all comes together. Photos of grungy, sparse tiling mirror Chabon’s sentences: “Parking meters along the block had been beheaded and were now just bare pipes sticking up out of the sidewalk.” An exciting yet thoughtful layout is the goal here. And at times, the marriage works.

The translation of “Butterfly” by Yan Lianke comes complete with subtle red graphics that are influenced by Asian landscape art, and since the natural world is so richly evoked by Lianke’s story, the choice is effective. Lianke’s world becomes a participant in the action of the story in a magical way not unlike the best of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s work: “Like worms on a clear day after rain, the iron wires at the foot of the wall were creeping toward the eaves. Even though there was no wind, the trees were shaking.” Along with natural world, the community and the members of the town become intimately involved in this drama between two families from two different classes. Indeed the interest in community is reminiscent of Lu Xun, whose literary prize Lianke has won. In the end though, the story keeps its heart, as our two main characters come to some larger understanding between themselves. Karen Gernant and Chen Zeping have translated Lianke, and it seems like important work, and the artist in charge of the layout has presented it beautifully.

From what I hear, the artist gets a freehand at conceptualizing the story, without a lot of arm-twisting from the editors and the writer, herself. This often makes for the best kind of innovation, that, when successful, can make short fiction, non-fiction, and poetry exciting to read again.

When you page over to Eric Vrooman’s “Water Bill,” you want to read it. The piece, I think it is a story even though it doesn’t look like one, which is part of Ninth Letters’ charm, is on a plain blue background and looks like a water bill, and you remove it from the magazine by unfastening it from brackets. It may sound cumbersome, but since the Vrooman is making a story out of a real water bill, unfolding the piece literally puts you in the bill-opening mood. A main player here is a particularly invasive and bureaucratic water company that offers the warning that “the death or departure of a co-resident can result in depression and erratic water use.” Sentences like these give the bill a good deal of humor, and the formatting makes it look official, something the piece needs.

The magazine seems high on youth culture, which helps explain its willingness to take chances. The first two pieces have important references to videogames, and being just out of college. Later, we have non-fiction articles that explore potentially explosive topics, Brazilian bikini waxing and the vasectomy. Except for the occasional crotch joke, Matt Roberts and Kathleen Toomer explore these topics in a serious way, trying to find out the truth of their experience; Toomer wants us to be able to talk about the vagina, but more importantly, she wants to know what role glamour has in the lives of intelligent people. Roberts must deal with a concept he has managed to avoid thus far: finality.

I like the pursuit here; it’s audacious. At some point, though, we might ask why we are doing it. Flannery O’Connor once said something like a writer can do anything she can get away with, but no one has gotten away with very much. This premise is probably too conservative to bring up when talking about a magazine that is intentionally daring and youth driven. What O’Connor would want to know is, does the writing hold up even under the cold light of black lines on a white page? The beauty of great writing comes partly from its simplicity. You wouldn’t need an illustration of Chekhov’s Lapdog nor would you want one. In the end, each piece has to stand on its own merit, or even thoughtful graphics become so much truck.

In this issue, Bob Hicok’s poem “Punk, or a Mouthful of Sweat Glands” has the following lines: “Long live whatever werewolfing comes next!/ Something always comes next!/It’s in the womb right now!” Hicok means this as an observation but also a critique. When the youth owns the culture, especially its future, this can make for loads of energy and exuberence, but it can also bring an occasional lapse in wisdom. A couple of times reading the magazine, I felt a bit of lapse. Personally, I’ll trade a few of the no-shows in this issue for the wild successes that leave you saying both that “I’ve never seen that before” and that “I am better for having seen it.”

Writers, Ninth Letter is looking for your newest baby, a piece that doesn’t smell like old flowers. Readers you’ll be confronted with the latest topics and the inventive ways to work them, and all of this is brought to you in the latest font. It is the initial impact that is its charm: being excited to read a story again. My sister just looked over my shoulder and thumbed through the issue. Her overwhelmingly positive review: “Cool.”