F. D. Reeve

The spectacular intellectual as polyglot and bricoleur, Professor F. D. Reeve, passed away this summer. He was one of my favorite professors and personalities at Wesleyan University, and in the spring of 1991, I was fortunate enough to be enrolled in his 1909 class. Against the common catalog of course titles such as "classical philosophy," "modern poetry," and "Soviet literature," this was probably the most creative idea for a class I'd ever encountered.

The conceit of the seminar was that everything assigned, and there was too much good stuff to list here, was either written in 1909 or concerned that year or its neighbors, the turn of the century, etc. A main theme of the class was that despite American and French revolutions that had occurred over 100 years previously, the turn of the century was when class boundaries truly began to dissolve and the "Western world" moved into a distinctly more egalitarian period. Of course, Professor Reeve had a sense of humor about such sweeping period divisions, and his humor was partly why the once-a-week seminar was fun to attend.

So it's with some irony then, that for financial reasons, concerning money, if not class exactly, I had to graduate in seven semesters and shove almost seven course credits (equivalent to twenty-one credits at most schools) into that final season of Wes. For this reason, I certainly couldn't read every three- to five-hundred pager included on his book-a-week syllabus, but Professor Reeve did say all kind of unusual things when we'd meet, and a couple readings I enjoyed were Carl Schorske's Fin-De-Siecle Vienna: Politics and Culture and Roger Shattuck's The Banquet Years.

F. D. Reeve was indeed Superman's father, or I should say that the actor Christopher Reeve was his son. Reeve Sr. was a larger than life figure and the kind of prolific talent who wrote novels, poetry, criticism, and then did translation in his spare time. Yes, quantity and range of publication should not be seen as everything, but with all overworked adjunct issues aside, Dr. Reeve was the sort of fellow who could make the rest of us walking into classrooms and calling ourselves "professors" feel somewhat like we're merely pretending, and our ranks are no doubt full of folks too scared or dishonest to admit as much. (This is one reason I always tell students to call me "Alex" unless that makes them uncomfortable.)

Around the time I was in Reeve's class, most likely summer of 1990 or 1991, he appeared at the Borders Book Shop in Philadelphia, the old one at 1727 Walnut Street off Rittenhouse Square and gave on-the-spot translation of a famous Russian poet. That Borders would be where I first worked after college, and those bookselling years were when I did my most substantial drafting of Cartoon Bubbles from a City Underwater, at the time titled The Appendix on Spark Park Poops (indeed!). Although I was reading a lot of fiction by John Barth, T.C. Boyle, and Don Delillo, I'd also dabble in philosophy, "critical theory," history, and the rest of it, so I enjoyed the fact that the old Borders had a copy of Reeve's The White Monk: an essay on Dostoevsky and Melville on the shelf. The policy soon changed, but when I worked there in the early nineties, Borders would procure a single copy of thousands of academic books, not merely the Michel Foucaults as Vintage paperbacks or Simon Schamas with glossy pages and photos, and the store was its own incredible contemporary library.

Before I drift too far from Reeve, I wanted to mention that Professor Licht from The Betrayal of Times of Peace and Prosperity is not Professor Reeve (and the Ward campus is not Wesleyan), but if I'm not mistaken, Superman's dad did bring a bottle of white wine and Dixie cups to our last seminar meeting, and so he is in a way an inspiration for my fictional character although he didn't say or do anything that Herr Licht does or says in my story.

I took reading courses almost exclusively as an undergrad, mainly history, political philosophy, and literature, and I handed in fiction three times for assignments, and he is one of two professors to be quite encouraging with his comments (the third fellow regretted that I wasn't funny). Anyone who has had me as a teacher, read me as a blogger, or spoken to me on the phone might appreciate that although Reeve's comments were generally positive, he suggested I hold off on the "ramblin'" and also that I read The Sinking of The Odradek Stadium by Harry Matthews. For whatever reason, I never read the book, but in honor of Reeve's passing, I'll try to do so this school year.

I hope I return to this and clean it up, maybe make the words conform more to the mood or moment of obituary, but for now, here is more information about Professor Reeve's life and work, and here is a Wesleyan Connection notice and writing from Wesleyan's current king of the MOOC, I mean president. (Roth's course on "The Modern and the Postmodern" seemed to be a free, fantastic online course I toyed with enrolling in even as I wondered about its negative economic impact on the rest of us knowledge cogs.) I learned of Reeve's passing somewhere on the homepage of The New York Times, but at the time of this writing I was unable to find that obituary.

Thank you, F. D. Reeve.

borders finale

I'll confess that when I saw the headline, I found myself getting awfully sentimental, sad even, although compared to half the other big stories, it's not a matter of death and life. But Ann Arbor, I'm sure, will never be the same.

Exley and the book resurgent!

This morning, I read an e-mail about my lone interview on Exley's A Fan's Notes, and it made me feel like the book is alive. Not just A Fan's Notes but books in general. The kind interviewee, Eleanor Henderson, has the galleys for her own first novel, and millions around the world will give and receive novels and other books this holiday season.

How do I know this?

For one, it was what my father gave me in the late seventies, the winter my father couldn't afford more than the upper two feet of a Christmas tree (yes, for ten dollars, he asked the man to cut off the top of the tree), and so A Wrinkle in Time and another Madeleine L'Engle were my gift for that Christmas. I remember that these were mass market paperbacks with green trimming on the sides (back when the edges of the pages could still be colored).

I also know, or at least hope, because I worked in the old Philadelphia Borders Bookshop during the winter recession of '91-'92 and remember how mobbed the store was with people who decided books were the more affordable gift option. Of course, at the register, if paying full retail for multiple hardcovers, they could be in for a rude surprise.

Then, in the winter of '94-'95 with the economy still in the tank (but beginning to show signs of late-nineties life), I managed a seasonal remainder bookstore, and again, I saw business boom. In fact, our Bala Cynwyd Shopping Center location was the top seller in that rinky-dink chain. (If you click the last link, you'll see now it's not just the books for a dollar but the whole strip mall is for sale, part of the much heralded American mall collapse no doubt.) And now, I'm left wondering if only Philadelphians buy books during hard times or in fact this is a national or global trend.

Did I mention that Fight for Your Long Day could be the right complement to all that spirituality, self-help, and Heideggar already settled in your shopping cart?

And happy holidays.

Robert Anthony Watts

Teacher-writer uberbrother Robert Anthony Watts fought through the novel and then survived an interview with the author and posted some great comments on amazon (with a full disclosure of his being stuck knowing me for 15 years).

He didn't, however, get into the details of our first meeting, so I thought I would. In 1996, we were sitting at a small table in the coffee shop at the old Borders location of 1727 Walnut Street, and we were in the company of the famous elder gent, Isaac Starr, one of that location's daily visitors. Isaac interrupted his reading of the French and German dailies to ask Robert, "Do you have any idea of what this man does for a living?"

Rob looked a little nervous even though I probably looked about as regular as regular gets.

So then Isaac told him I was selling cars, or that I had been up until the very recent past. We then figured out I was just beginning Temple U.'s MA in Creative Writing, a program Robert had just finished. But he would be teaching at Temple as an adjunct in the fall; I think he did that without Drexel for at least one full year. If I'm not mistaken, the adjunct pay circa 1996 for a 15-week writing class at Temple was just about to move from $1400 to the lofty heights of $1500. Adjunct pay at Temple is quite good now (relatively speaking) although the health-coverage problem is unresolved. And I remember being thankful for that 9-month $8700 stipend, anything to get me away from the car lot and back into writing.

Well, leaving the lot ultimately did help me get a novel out although it's been quite a circuitous route to publication.

Thanks, Rob.