Martin Schneider, the man behind the admirably focused and semi-extant Between the Squibs, contributes an occasional column in which he spelunks into the Complete New Yorker archives and tells us what he’s uncovered, occasionally creating Squib Report Challenges for readers who think they know their stuff.
I was watching Blast from the Past on cable earlier today, and I got a little curious about Christopher Walken. Such a singular figure. I think I may have found the first reference in The Complete New Yorker about him. Anyone care to guess when it is? I can reveal that the index gives the wrong answer—indeed, it is off by many years.
Previously in Between the Squibs: Here’s the column’s debut and the second installment.
Category Archives: The Squib Report
The Squib Report: The Best American Complete New Yorker
Martin Schneider, the man behind the admirably focused and semi-extant Between the Squibs, has kindly agreed to contribute an occasional column, in which he’ll spelunk into the Complete New Yorker archives and tell us what he’s uncovered. Here’s the column’s debut. Martin filed this yonks and yonks ago (as Georgina and Brian would say), but I got all busy and distracted, so I’m just posting it now; mea culpa! I’m sure you’ll agree it’s well worth the wait.
Recently I started Between the Squibs, a blog about the New Yorker DVD set. And then ever so slightly more recently I abandoned said blog. Fortunately, some months later, Emily has kindly granted me a little space here in her demesne. Some friends of mine and also some kind blog-commenters let me know what a shame it was that I’d given up “BtS,” and I found it hard to explain why I found it hard to write to a public consisting of the purchasers of a DVD set, hard to write about content that has a $60 price of entry and is not easily duplicated.
And then in September, long after “BtS” had gone dark, right about when I started here, I began cultivating some inklings about hidden utility, hidden Emdashes utility, in the “Best American” series. You know, those Houghton Mifflin books, The Best American Essays, The Best American Travel Writing, The Best American Short Stories…there are others. Those books, you see, almost exactly fulfilled the mandate that I had originally laid out for “BtS”: to act as a sensible and independent (in the sense of existing outside of my head) guide to genuine highlights to be found in the Complete New Yorker DVDs. At least for recent years.
Because—and surely this will not come as a surprise—The New Yorker really does dominate those books. It’s the rare volume that doesn’t have three New Yorker articles reprinted in full and another dozen listed in the appendix. I know, because I went to my local library and copied down all the New Yorker titles in every “Best American” book I could find—specifically the Travel, Essay, and Story ones. Right now I have 19 “Best Travel” articles pinned to my CNY’s reading-list panel, 133 “Best Essays,” and 93 “Best Stories.” “Best Science”? I’ve only got 15 of those so far. And all of those lists are far from complete.
“BtS,” your days always were numbered. But I’ve had a ball dipping into those volumes, and you’ll be hearing about some of my discoveries in the weeks to come. In fact, maybe I’ll even release the spellbook to the apprentice wizards reading this and just, doggone it, compile a list of the New Yorker pieces that have been cited in those books as a resource, and then Emily can post it here so that you all don’t have to swarm actual, physical libraries and even, heaven forfend, pester actual physical librarians for the treasures. Stay tuned for that.
I’ll leave you with this: the first significant discovery to emanate from my Mifflin Hunt was David Schickler. I didn’t have the vaguest idea that he was this good. He may be a little showy, but I prefer to see it as “originality†and “verve†just now, thank you. “Jamaica” is definitely the best story I have ever read that combines the hobbies of archery and book clubs—and “Wes Amerigo’s Giant Fear” is even better. Go read.
Introducing The Squib Report
Martin Schneider, the man behind the admirably focused and semi-extant Between the Squibs, has kindly agreed to contribute an occasional column, in which he’ll spelunk into The Complete New Yorker archives and tell us what he’s uncovered. Here’s Squib’s first dispatch, to which he adds a thoughtful email note: “It’s not so much that the piece is bad as much as it’s just curious, and positively screams ‘early Tina.’ I’ve always felt that Tina was necessary in 1992, and excesses in this direction (brevity, breeziness) are not to be scolded too much.”
We know what The New Yorker can do. We know what The New Yorker cannot do, and usually for that reason doesn’t indulge in the endeavor. The New Yorker can cover tennis—excuse me, “lawn tennis.” Herbert Warren Wind did it for decades—and golf too. What The New Yorker cannot do is make tennis cool, hip, exciting.
Does anyone but me remember when Martin Amis used to write tennis reports? He only actually did it three times over three years, just enough to make you think it might be a permanent feature, but infrequently enough that you didn’t notice the absence.
The first tennis piece Amis ever did remains a fascinating shard from the past. July 1993, not even a year into Tina’s reign. And boy, does it show. At this distance it comes off like an experiment more than anything else. Amis does tennis! With drawings by Gerald Scarfe! An experiment. Yes. That must be it.
It must be one of the shortest serious articles the magazine ever ran, five quick pages dominated by Scarfe’s large drawings. It’s so short that it’s practically a statement, probably heaved in the general direction of the recently dispatched Mr. Wind. None of these endless disquisitions on the “immense diligence” of Mats Wilander, no.* None of that. It is the 1990s if you have not heard. People aren’t going to read all that.
Amis is a terrific writer, but his nonfiction stuff leaves me cold. I’m not sure if it’s how hard he seems to be trying (to be Saul Bellow?), or if it’s that his unlikeable authorial persona is just so much more effective in his novels. The first few paragraphs of this particular piece are devoted to Jim Courier’s tendency to sweat a lot.
Gerald Scarfe isn’t my cup of tea, but I can see his appeal; even his staunchest defenders would have to concede that the 1993 Wimbledon tournament was probably not the best match of artist and subject.
But Amis is such a good writer that the piece is still worthwhile. Curiously, just three years later, another serious novelist, David Foster Wallace, would write one of the greatest sports articles ever written, about little-known journeyman Michael Joyce, for Esquire. That experiment may have worked out a little better.
* October 17, 1988, p. 91.