In my imagination (I never met him), Fussell had always been what an English professor should be: erudite, frank, worldly, unworldly, acerbic: library and cosmopolis unto himself. When, out of the blue, I was asked to adjunct a nonfiction writing class at Penn, I said yes, even though, as the crow flies, the gig made absolutely no sense. Every week I headed down to Philly on Amtrak, and every week I faced down the same revelation: that instead of the runnels of blood-strewn ditches, my prose is filled with pita chips, iced coffee, Facebook, and procrastination. Nonetheless, we front our losses as they come. I taught my class as honestly as I knew how; I loved my students; and every week, autumn falling over West Philly, I threw the black bag back over my shoulder, still blessedly heavier than itself, and the sum of its contents.

He would sit--at a typewriter, and he had all these pocket notebooks, and the pocket notebooks would be open at his left- hand side on the typing table--and he'd be typing. He could type faster than any human being you ever saw. The most noise that you heard while he was typing was the carriage return, slamming back again and again. The little bell would bing-bang, bing- bang, bing-bang! Just incredibly fast, faster than a teletype. And he'd laugh and say, Look at this! And he'd type and he'd laugh. Then he'd make a mistake, and this would lead him off into a possible part of a new paragraph, into a funny riff of some kind that he'd add while he was in the process of copying. Then, maybe he'd turn a page of the notebook and he'd look at that page and realize it was no good and he'd X it out, or maybe part of that page. And then he'd type a little bit and turn another page, and type the whole thing, and another page, and he'd type from that. And then something would-again, he would exclaim and laugh and carry on and have a big time doing it.
Lou Little explaining to the newsreel audience how this football player went mad & shows how on a Columbia Practice Hillside it started with father & son, the gray reaches of the Eternity Library beyond-I go visit my sweet Alene in her subterranean pad near the 3rd Avenue El & Henry St of old Mike Mike milkcan Lower Eastside Dreams & pink murders & there she wont ope the door because I cant get the job I tried so hard to get & the woman said my form wasn't right but Neal made it but regretfully it is he's shipping out & I'm on the ship with him telling him "If you wash dishes dont say a word, if you're a yeoman do yr work all well"--I can see he hates to go without me to this other Grayshore--Sitting before my stove on a cold gray Saturday morning with my coffee & my pine, eating jello- remembering the little jello cartoon that filled me with such joy as a kid on Sarah Avenue, the little prince wouldn't take pheasant or delicate birds or celestial puddings or even Mominuan icecream but when the little bird brought his jello inverted in a rill mold cup he went wild & saved the kingdom, red jello like mine, in the little dear lovable pages--of long ago--My form is delight delight delight
Ring, ring ring-
Shh, the sky is empty-
Shh, the earth is empty-
Look out, look in, shh-
The essence of jello is the essence of arrangement-
Be nice to the monster crab, it's only another
arrangement of that which you are

Video now available of Lou Reed at the Writers House the other night: link. You can also download an mp3 audio version of the same program: link.
From the central database of Shoah victims' names, I find this certification--by one of her surviving relatives--of the death of Genia Filreis during the holocaust.
Today I'm making available a PDF copy of Bruno Bettelheim's angry 1976 essay-review on Lina Wurtmuller's Seven Beauties and Terrence Des Pres' The Survivor.
Many thanks to Susan Copen Oken for providing a copy of this photograph of one of my favorite critic-poet-editors.
Here is a 2004 account of the 1978 verbal battle between John Gardner and John Barth.
One of the most striking findings is that arts graduates have few regrets. Ninety percent say that their overall art school experience was good or excellent. Nearly three quarters would attend the same institution again. If an arts degree were a bill of goods - leading to dead-end careers and a life of struggle - certainly more alumni would second guess their decision to study the arts. This is not the case.
Jacket2 magazine is now launched, I'm happy to say (as its proud publisher). At J2 we have created commentaries and I as publisher will be one of the permanent commentators. Many of the kinds of blog posts I have been posting here since 2007 will now be published in J2. I will continue posting from time to time here, but these will be less frequent and they will focus more on issues and concerns and events not related to the work and purpose of Jacket2. I hope readers of this blog will continue to check here, but I urge people who mostly like what I have to say to go to http://jacket2.org/content/alfilreis and follow me there. Very soon there will be an RSS feed there, and I will transfer my subscription service there too.
I spent the last two days with Edward Albee, whom I hosted as a "Writers House Fellow." I was able to persuade him to read my favorite speech in all of his 30 plays--the pre-elegy given by A (modeled on Albee's adoptive mother) to the audience at the very end of Three Tall Women. My second favorite (while we're on favorites...): Martin trying to describe his feelings for the goat in The Goat (Or: Who Is Sylvia?), an attempt that breaks down because such longing is an experience of non-relation. He cannot "relate" it because it doesn't not "relate to anything," a foregrounding in a surface of halting words the key double meaning of (in my view) all great writers. Relation = to connect (or--mostly--not) and to describe in words (or--mostly--not).
I'm somewhat necessarily in favor the results of this new research on the health of those who drink coffee.