Essays

On Repetition

By posted at 6:14 am on August 3, 2010 24

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“On Repetition” was delivered as a craft talk at the 2010 Tin House Writers Workshop.

1.
coverNot long ago, James Wood wrote a review of Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi that struck me as a bit myopic. It wasn’t what Wood said about Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi that seemed short-sighted to me – it was what he said about the rest of Dyer’s career. Wood just didn’t get it, he admitted. None of Dyer’s books seemed to fit together – they were all about different things! And they’d all been executed in different ways too, almost as though they weren’t even by the same writer! What’s a critic supposed to do when a writer keeps on trying new things? Read it all? Sheesh! Who’s got time for that? Don’t you people understand deadlines?

I’m picking on James Wood here – and I like James Wood, I think the literary world is vastly richer for James Wood’s voice and presence in it – because he sort of duffed this one. There is a kind of common denominator in Dyer’s work, and tapping into it, I think, is central to coming to an understanding of at least one way to approach the craft of creative nonfiction, and it says something too about the state of literature today.

2.
coverAlso not long ago, Geoff Dyer wrote a review of Don Delillo’s Point Omega that was also myopic. Dyer complained that what Delillo had done in Point Omega had been done before and better, by Delillo himself. This is interesting not just because it’s the exact opposite of Wood’s criticism of Dyer. It’s interesting because it’s a crime – if it’s a crime – of which Geoff Dyer is also guilty. That guy whose books are a problem because they aren’t anything like one another has also made the mistake of saying the same thing over and over. I’m quite sure this accounts for Geoff Dyer’s wide-ranging popularity.

As I see it, Dyer has two modes as a writer. First he has a kind of rakish mode in which he serves himself up as a leaner, wimpier version of James Bond, that post-Empire Brit superspy who shuttles around the world bedding as many women as he can. Truth be told, Dyer’s travel writing can seem a bit like this at times. But of course while James Bond saves the planet again and again – reminding the rest of the world that, while the Empire might be over, and England has surely seen her best days, the world still needs her (which suggests in turn that James Bond is a kind of Frodo Baggins with a tuxedo and a Beretta) – Dyer, by contrast, in his rakish mode, just seems to limp around and hang out and say funny, foolish things and get girls anyway. But the Dyer/Bond parallel is there. Don’t get me wrong. I like Geoff Dyer, and I even like the rakish mode of Dyer. I like it even though it creates arguments every time my girlfriend and I take turns reading Dyer passages back and forth in the bathtub. But it’s also this Dyer mode that is susceptible to repetition. I’m not going to list examples here (and I guess I’m not surprised that Wood didn’t note them), because that’s not what this essay is trying to do, but suffice it to say that Dyer’s guilt over having hiked back across terrain his work had already mapped enabled him to recognize when Delillo was doing the same thing. One can imagine Dyer’s stream of thought: Ah-ha, Delillo, I see you! I see what you’re doing. I do it myself from time to time, though maybe I don’t recognize it until later, and even though I can acknowledge that there might be good reasons why a writer would repeat himself, I’m not, in a spirit of writerly camaraderie, going to let it pass this time. No! Instead, I will make a big fucking deal about it in the New York Times because that’s what James Fucking Wood just did to me.

Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I think the literary world is vastly richer for Geoff Dyer’s voice and presence in it.

3.
All of which adds up to a kind of contradictory set of truths about books and publishing in the abstract: don’t repeat yourself, and don’t write books that are too different from one another. Other writers will pillory you for the first, and publishers will be more than happy to pigeonhole you from the moment you achieve anything like success. Blow out your advance? Great. Now write the same exact book again.

Thinking about books and publishing in the abstract was exactly what I was doing around about 1999, when I was a decade out from my degree at Iowa, had a dozen short stories but no collection published, and the pages of a failed novel sat scattered all over my crappy apartment as though to collect the droppings of a huge collection of homing pigeons that never came home. I was working then as a part-time casino dealer in Atlantic City, and though I’d once turned up my nose at nonfiction, I was now at least trying to turn up my nose at a career as a casino dealer in Atlantic City. After a not inconsiderable effort I had managed to sell an idea for a book of nonfiction. I say I’d been thinking in the abstract because it wasn’t really until I’d signed the contract – nonfiction tending to sell by way of book proposal (the writer is a kind of sub-contractor, perhaps like a plumber who shows up only occasionally and always late once he’s so underbid his competitors that he’s barely making enough to feed himself, let alone be on time) – not until then did it really occur to me that I’d actually have to write a book of nonfiction. This realization manifested itself physiologically as panic, a sudden peculiar sensation all across the body: it felt, instantaneously, as though every piece of myself was being worked on by some occult vibration, that every part of me had begun to jiggle with manic energy, and every cell, every nucleus, every mitochondria, seemed on the brink of imploding like a cathode-ray tube or a dwarf star going supernova. In other words, I fucking freaked out.

In a way, it was good that I lived in Atlantic City at this time. I’d had a number of writer friends, of course, from previous stints in graduate school, but after I went to Atlantic City these relationships had tended to fade, as is perhaps only natural. I say this is good because it meant that I had only one writer friend I could call and fucking freak out to. And I did. This friend had written several books by then, and what I did – working on the theory that previous experience writing books gives one insight as to how the process can and should be embarked upon – was call him and ask, well, so, how do you write a book? My friend didn’t know. My friend had no idea how to write a book. It turned out that he had managed to write several books without ever either acquiring the first thing one should know or formulating any general principle about writing books. Our conversation quickly became a discussion of how on earth he was going to figure out how to write his next book. When I hung up, I was left alone with my book contract and my panic in my empty roost in Atlantic City.

4.
So here’s what I did: I invented the idea of the book.

The book was to be about chess – the game, chess. In Atlantic City, I’d gotten to know an African American chess master named Glenn Umstead, a kind of quirky guy with a difficult personality who was nevertheless one of just forty black men in the history of the world to have achieved chess’s master ranking. That’s sounds pretty straightforward, but saying you’re going to write a buddy story/subculture book – which is pretty much what I said in my book proposal – is a whole lot easier than coming up with a way of actually executing it. I’m exaggerating a bit when I say I invented the idea of the book, but that’s how it felt as I was doing it – it felt as though I was inventing literature wholesale. And that moment when I acquired my essential strategy was recorded in the book itself:

…I wanted to write something about the game. But I still didn’t know what it was.

My relationship with Glenn began to change. Now that I was a lay historian, our bond became a version of the classic conflict between player of the game and student of the game… We were an even odder couple now. He was black and I was white, and we were like chessmen opposed on a board that was the game itself.

From there, the book came not easily but possibly – it was possible now. What I’d learned was that the way to write a book was to let the subject matter tell you how it ought to be written about.

5.
covercoverAnd it turns out that’s the common denominator of Geoff Dyer’s other mode as a writer: the mode when he stops trying to lay girls and gets down to the hard work of reading, writing, and thinking. A couple examples. Dyer’s book-length fret over D.H. Lawrence, Out of Sheer Rage, emphasizes on a number of occasions that its method is lifted from its subject: “If this book aspires to the condition of notes that is because, for me, Lawrence’s prose is at its best when it comes closest to notes.” And in introducing the partially imagined narratives of But Beautiful: A Book About Jazz, Dyer again lets the subject inspire the form he’ll use to examine it:

These episodes are part of a common repertory of anecdote and information – “standards” in other words, and I do my own versions of them, stating the identifying facts more or less briefly and then improvising around them, departing from them completely in some cases. This may mean being less than faithful to the truth but, once again, it keeps faith with the improvisational prerogatives of the form.

covercoverThere are many examples of this outside of Dyer. One is Andrei Codrescu’s recent The Post Human Dada Guide, which executes a Dadaist encyclopedia of Dada. Another is Jay Kirk’s soon to be released Kingdom Under Glass, which reassambles the facts of the biography of taxidermist Carl Akeley so as to create an Akeley-inspired diorama of his life. But what’s already apparent is that this divining of one’s method from one’s subject is not only a way to make a book seem possible as you approach it, it’s also a way to avoid repetition, to bring to every work the excitement of invention while retaining some essential version of the self: the common denominator of one’s books being not their subject matter, but their organizing intellect, their animating spirit – their author, after all.

6.
Not long after my book about chess appeared and chalked up a handful of prominent, promising reviews, my editor asked me to come to New York. She bought me lunch, chatted me up. We talked about the future. She wanted me to write another book about chess. “Maybe a chess mystery,” she said, jiggling her shoulders in what was either a fair imitation of a stripper twirling her pasties or a hopeful anticipation of the reaction readers might have to the book she proposed. I actually considered this offer for a moment. There is a true story about a famous chess player being called in to assist with a serial killer investigation. But that moment didn’t last long. I realized almost at once that I would simply be repeating myself.

And the truth is, I don’t want to be a writer like that: a writer so imprisoned by their subject matter – chess writer, food writer, religion writer, etc. – that if they ever depart from it, if their publishers ever let them depart from it, you can be pretty sure that their departures will have only that level of appeal, the appeal of something attempting, straining, struggling and probably failing to branch out. I don’t think that’s the ideal literary life. And yet, to reiterate, this is something writers are more or less forever doing – repeating themselves, writing figurative if not literal sequels, trying to please again and again the same readers they pleased once – and other writers who are guilty of the same thing admonish them for it, again and again.

7.
So I have tried to be a little different. I went on to write a Jamesian biography of William James, and I cringed anew when my (new) editor told me that he wished the book had been a bit more like my first. Whatever, dude. From there, I set out to write a history of utopian thought and literature that would stylistically emulate Thomas More’s original Utopia, which blended a kind of analytical discourse with what scholars called “speaking pictures” – narrative.

There were two basic problems with this. First, I had already written about utopian concepts. I had grown up on a street called Utopia Road in a master-planned community, “Utopia Road” was the title of both my MFA thesis and one of my early short stories, and, to be fully honest, there was palpable utopian fascination in both my chess and James books. In other words, I was repeating myself. No, no – worse than that! I was repeating the shit out of myself! The second problem was that Thomas More had been repeating, too. He was repeating Lucian and Plato and Erasmus and Machiavelli. And soon enough, others were repeating More, repeating Utopia. In fact, others repeated Utopia so often that it became its own genre of literature – a genre so powerful that “utopia” not only became a word, it completed the demigod leap from noun to adjective. You’ll probably better appreciate Thomas More’s Utopia if I tell you not that it’s the most influential novel in the history of mankind, but that it’s the only book whose author is known that has its own index entry in the Chicago Manual of Style. It’s pretty damn impressive – and it’s all a function of repetition. Sort of.

And there’s another problem too – a third problem – because thinking about these two modes of Utopia, discourse and narrative, makes it pretty clear that I’ve been unfair to Geoff Dyer, that his two modes, critic and rake, basically fall under this same description. Indeed, it seems to me now that Dyer’s entire career can be understood as a Utopia-like toggling back and forth – sometimes within a single book, sometimes from book to book – between narrative and analytic modes, and this is what James Wood couldn’t see, couldn’t appreciate, and which I came to appreciate only as a function of the panic that set in when I had to stop thinking about books in the abstract and actually write one.

8.
coverIn 1936, James Agee, two years out from a book of poems and “on loan from the Federal Government,” was assigned to write a series of documentary articles about Alabama tenant farmers for Fortune magazine. One can be pretty sure that Agee’s editor had some ideas about what he wanted to print – his readers had certain expectations based on what they’d read in the magazine before, and Agee’s assignment was to repeat that formula. That’s not what he did. Instead, he produced hundreds of pages of wildly poetic, passionate description of a few families from which he had strived to maintain no objective distance at all. The series of articles was promptly canceled; Let Us Now Praise Famous Men was not published until 1941; sales remained dismal until the book was rediscovered in 1960.

What’s relevant about Let Us Now Praise Famous Men for us, in this essay, is that right in the middle of it Agee pauses in his narrative and delivers a lengthy discussion of what he’s trying to do. It is the bit of analytical discourse to which he has toggled from his narrative descriptions of tenant farmer life. As a kind of set piece, this section of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, written long before Truman Capote and John McPhee and Geoff Dyer, serves as almost a post-facto manifesto of “creative nonfiction.” This manifesto insists on a stark distinction between creative prose and journalism, and in discussing an attempt to describe a hypothetical street it distinguishes Agee’s methodology from “naturalism:”

As nearly as possible in words (which, even by grace of genius, would not be very near) you try to give the street in its own terms: that is to say, either in the terms in which you…see it, or in a reduction and depersonalization into terms which will as nearly as possible be the “private,” singular terms of that asphalt, those neon letters, those and all other items combined, in that alternation, that simultaneity, of flat blank tremendously constructed chords and of immensely elaborate counterpoint which is the street itself.

I take Agee to mean that subjects ought to reveal themselves to you, that the writer’s job, the writer’s craft, is to be attentive to that which shall be rendered. A street will reveal to you the terms, the vocabulary, with which it ought to described just as surely as an abstract concept like William James or taxidermy or chess will proffer its proper strategy after some lengthy period of measured, painful, and above all, literary, meditation. Agee goes on to argue that words necessarily fail, and in so doing he echoes – or rather, anticipates – Dyer’s hope for what a creative use of language and form can bring to a consideration of jazz:

Words cannot embody; they can only describe. But a certain kind of artist, whom we will distinguish from others as a poet rather than a prose writer, despises this fact about words or his medium, and continually brings words as near as he can to an illusion of embodiment. In doing so he accepts a falsehood but makes, of a sort in any case, better art.

9.
Ostensibly, this is an essay about the craft of creative nonfiction. But I think what I’m ultimately trying to say is that it’s dangerous to say too much too definitively about craft in the abstract. If you feel absolutely overwhelmed by a project – that’s good. If you have absolutely no idea how or where to begin – that’s good too. No matter where one is in one’s career, a writer, it seems to me, ought to feel more or less completely at sea as they begin to approach the question or the subject they hope to address. There are two kinds of repetition. There is the kind we find inside our work, the themes that burble up lava-like from our subconscious again and again, and which we cannot resist and should not, I think, criticize in others. And then there is the repetition that ought to be resisted, that which gives us a program, a strategy that can be applied to any subject. This we should criticize in others. Art should never be the result of habit, it should strive eternally for the fresh and the new even when we work in forms we did not invent. Craft, we should vigilantly remind ourselves, means to make something absolutely new where before there was nothing at all.





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24 Responses to “On Repetition”

  1. p.t.smith
    at 9:15 am on August 3, 2010

    I’m going to finish the essay, promise, but I’d be happy if it was only those first paragraphs and ended on “James Bond is a kind of Frodo Baggins with a tuxedo and a Beretta.”

    I’m sharing that with everyone I know (who is dorky enough to love it so).

  2. Edward Champion
    at 9:47 am on August 3, 2010

    This is a funny essay. But you didn’t declare the novel dead! You didn’t use the word “limn.” I am going to leave an angry comment that will be needlessly pedantic about your essay, taking you to task on minor details while missing the larger and more important point of what you have to say. This will be followed by the repetitive discourse of someone telling me I’m absolutely wrong. The “conversation” will then become needlessly personal, with numerous ad hominem attacks and others flaunting self-important expertise and declaring any and all participants unqualified or unsound. The essay and the comments will be emailed around as a demonstrative example for why the literary world does not get it. And we will repeat our roles again and again and again, growing more needlessly contentious and spiteful towards each other for having informed and/or passionate opinions. Is this dangerous? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s just the way certain ventricles pulsate.

  3. J.C. Hallman
    at 11:27 am on August 3, 2010

    P.T. — I hope the rest of the essay held up just as well (as you can see, the ring was, in fact, destroyed).

    Edward — Haven’t we heard all this before? I’m sick of these same smarmy retorts, again and again, by people who think that because they “get it” they have somehow broken out of the repetitive cycle. Think again, buddy.

  4. Shruti
    at 11:38 am on August 3, 2010

    Especially appreciate your insight about writing content the way it lends itself to be written. I can attest that I can arrive at a ballpark rating of the quality of my own writing even if I consider that aspect alone!

  5. p.t.smith
    at 12:58 pm on August 3, 2010

    J.C.,

    This did hold up and I enjoyed it. It comes at an interesting point for me, as I’m now so much worried about repetition in my writing as I am about, well, trying to figure out my subject. That isn’t to say this isn’t useful, as the writer’s I have been focused on recently (Sebald, Bernhard) are highly repetative, returning to the same ground again and again, and in a very similar style, structure. My own writing has been on hold lately, with one major excuse being that I think my writing should be heavily influenced by the both of them, but I don’t want to be just imitating (besides imitation being a drag, they are lightyears ahead of me). I’ve also been worried that part of what I want to take from them, the embedding of one person telling another person’s narrative to the narrator, is just something I like, and that’s the only reason I’d bring it to my writing, but as Shruti points out from your essay, this could be legitimate. My interests, my content, could be calling for that embedded, passed-on structure of Bernhard and Sebald. So, thanks for the thoughtful encouragement.

  6. Edward Champion
    at 1:27 pm on August 3, 2010

    J.C. Hallinan: Perhaps part of the solution is not taking yourself so seriously, as you seem to be doing. The point here is that certain repetitive patterns are inevitable (hell, I’ve read versions of your essay numerous times: do I think any less of you or The Millions? Not at all).

    Let us be clear. Nothing you have to offer is particularly special. Good fiction and creative nonfiction comes about through craft and care. Most pleasure in life comes from listening and appreciating others and staying humble, open-minded, and attentive — even when others repeat themselves from time to time or say things that you can second-guess,, even when you repeat yourself from time to time. If you think otherwise, you either have a colossal ego or you’re a spectacularly somnolent and incurious man. You can either embrace repetition, attempt to evolve your perceived circumlocution, or work on something else if the circle feels too perfect. Or you can simply accept that efforts to write anything “different” can sometimes result in the same old same old, and writing the same piece may elicit an eclectic direction.

    In any event, I certainly hope that you discover a sense of humor. It’s contained within this essay, but it’s too bad that you can’t see it.

  7. Edward Champion
    at 1:30 pm on August 3, 2010

    As for JC Hallman, an altogether different kettle, the octopus gorged upon his titular commitment.

  8. J.C. Hallman
    at 1:51 pm on August 3, 2010

    Shruti — Perfect! You are my ideal reader!

    P.T. — I’ll second you on all these points. And just this morning (really!) I read Sebald praising Walser (his intro to The Tanners) for covering the same ground again and again without repeating himself. So you’re right on the money.

    Edward — We miscommunicated. I thought your initial comment was hilarious. I was responding in kind — repeating you — as a tribute! Nevertheless, I’m sure my girlfriend would agree that I have a colossal ego. [Much laughing from my girlfriend as I read this note to her...]

  9. Edward Champion
    at 2:04 pm on August 3, 2010

    JC Hallman: Goddammit! I was just about to make a Hitler comparison to complete the cycle, and you beat me to the punch! :)

  10. J.C. Hallman
    at 2:16 pm on August 3, 2010

    Alas! Having just finished Gass’s The Tunnel, I have a permanent aversion to labeling anyone a Nazi. I prefer to repeat Bill O’Reilly’s famous comment — “Fuck it! We’ll do it live!” — and remind you that I’ll still be in NY Aug. 20-22. Care to dance?

  11. Jack
    at 3:05 pm on August 3, 2010

    Honestly, I’ve found the articles on this site to be increasingly precious and self-indulgent, but I really enjoyed this one. Great work. Looking forward to checking out But Beautiful and the Agee.

  12. J.C. Hallman
    at 5:34 pm on August 3, 2010

    Jack — thanks much, high praise. And as I think about it now, it’s perhaps hard to imagine two books of creative nonfiction as different as But Beautiful and Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Should be an enlightening contrast.

  13. Michael Travis
    at 6:06 pm on August 3, 2010

    J.C., I really enjoyed this essay. And I hope that I’ve read you correctly (like James Wood, I am human and can read things incorrectly), and some of the subsequent comments have been interesting as well. In an essay on John Steinbeck, William Vollmann wrote something very similar: “So what would the prudent thing be to do, if The Grapes of Wrath didn’t come out quite perfect? We find one of Steinbeck’s would-be mentors advising him to do the next Grapes of Wrath, set this time among the Puerto Rican population of New York City. Had Steinbeck accepted this counsel, he might have created something quite powerful. Who knows? Maybe he could have been another Zola, constructing an entire series of novels about dispossessed or underpossessing Americans. Instead, he chose to devote himself to loopy failures such as The Winter of Our Discontent and the never-to-be-finished translation from ancient English to archaic English of Malory’s tale of King Arthur, and I love him for it.”

    So, in other words, there is precedent for both options–covering the same ground again and again, or going off in a new direction. Now, I have not read Geoff Dyer, although he is someone who has been on my radar screen for some time, but I have read others who have written rather autobiographically–and sometimes not in very flattering terms. I cannot really tell, of course, if what they are writing is strictly autobiographical–the self is a fleeting thing, and attempting to write about it may actually be posing, assuming a persona, exaggerating certain aspects, to present to the world. One of my favorite living writers is Peter Matthiessen, who has certainly written some books that are less than flattering about himself–especially The Snow Leopard–in which he writes aobut his early experiments with drugs, a rock marriage, the terminal illness of wife, and the abandonment of his minor son to go on this trip to the Himalayas, in an elusive search for the snow leopard. (As a practising Buddhist, Matthiessen, I’m sure, is aware of how just fleeting the self can be. “One thing flows into another, and cannot be grapsed,” as Suzuki Roshi said. This does include thoughts, emotions, the ego and personality.)

    As usual, I take a different view–perhaps a parallax view? It doesn’t hurt, though, to look at things from another perspective.

  14. robert birnbaum
    at 7:00 am on August 4, 2010

    Yeah, what Ed Champion said.

  15. New Releases This Week | Conversational Reading
    at 7:01 am on August 4, 2010

    [...] although Hallman did a series of posts on The Millions that tackle similar themes as his book. His latest was published yesterday and is about creative nonfiction. Hallman also did a Book Notes on [...]

  16. Brandon White
    at 11:07 am on August 4, 2010

    J.C.,

    Just a quick correction to your section on “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.”

    It was not Agee, but his photographer Walker Evans who was “on loan from the federal government” (cited on the first page of the Preface, page ix in the edition pictured). Evans, of course, is best known for his Depression-era photographs taken at the behest of the Farm Security Administration, and it was from this post that he was granted temporary leave. While your focus here is obviously on Agee’s prose, Agee himself seemed to view Evans as even more integral to the work that he was doing than the writer himself. Long before the “manifesto” you mention, and again in the opening passages, Agee in one of his numerous “insults to the reader” (Bruce Jackson’s term, not Agee’s or mine), makes frighteningly vivid the impotence of words in any attempt to embody:

    “If I could, I would do no writing at all here. It would be photographs; the rest would be fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth, records of speech, pieces of wood and iron, phials of odors, plates of food and of excrement. Booksellers would consider it quite a novelty; critics would murmur, yes, but is it art; and I could trust a majority of you to use it as you would a parlor game.

    A piece of the body torn out by the roots might be more to the point.” (10)

    If craft is the effort to make “something absolutely new where before there was nothing at all,” then the hybridity of Agee and Evans, the ability to make words of objects, or to make objects of words, cannot go ignored.

  17. J.C. Hallman
    at 4:57 pm on August 4, 2010

    Brandon,

    My bad on the “on loan” thing…you’re right.

    As to the other, I think Agee sees the possibilities of both…and their limitations. Having listed some of the limitations of words, he turns to photography:

    “For the camera, much of this is solved from the start: is solved so simply, for that matter, that this ease becomes the greatest danger against the good uses of the camera.”

    And then he returns to words:

    “Words could, I believe, be made to do or to tell anything within human conceit. That is more than can be said of the instruments of any other art. But it must be added of words that they are the most inevitably inaccurate of all mediums of record and communication…”

    Agee will never be convicted of the crime of consistency!

  18. Ned Stuckey-French
    at 2:25 am on August 5, 2010

    Nice, J. C. Letting the material offer up its form takes time and patience. It’s hard to listen to stuff. Here’s Didion in “Why I Write”:

    “The picture dictates the arrangement. The picture dictates whether this will be a sentence with or without clauses, a sentence that ends hard or a dying-fall sentence, long or short, active or passive. The picture tells you how to arrange words and the arrangement of the words tells you, or tells me, what’s going on in the picture Nota bene:
    It tells you.
    You don’t tell it.”

  19. Paul Sprecher
    at 1:01 pm on August 10, 2010

    It was of course Walker Evans who was “on loan” from the federal government, not James Agee. Agee was working for Fortune magazine and had been asked to write an article on sharecroppers in the south; it outgrew both the length and the political predilections of an article in Fortune and grew to become the book we now know.

    Paul Sprecher, Trustee
    The James Agee Trust

  20. JC Hallman on Artists Repeating Themselves « SONYA CHUNG
    at 10:21 pm on August 11, 2010

    [...] lots of things — but specifically on all the great writing at The Millions.   Enjoyed this piece by JC Hallman about the ways in which writers repeat themselves (or not) in successive work, and the conundrum [...]

  21. On The Next Thing « Many Energies
    at 10:26 am on August 17, 2010

    [...] else, this interesting/scary phenomenon: a first novel (or book, I guess) that does so well that the publisher wants exactly the same book [...]

  22. On Repetition | phati'tude
    at 12:17 am on October 15, 2011

    [...] of creative nonfiction, and it says something too about the state of literature today. >>READ MORE Print [...]

  23. Words cannot embody; they can only describe. « Journalism As Literature
    at 5:24 pm on November 11, 2012

    [...] Words cannot embody; they can only describe. This entry was posted on November 11, 2012, in Writing. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment From an essay on “Repetition” [...]

  24. Week 13 | Journalism As Literature
    at 1:13 pm on October 1, 2013

    […] cannot embody; they can only describe. From an essay on “Repetition” – Agee on writing and truth and the inadequacy of […]

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