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The Pious Infant: Edward Gorey’s Rare Illustrated Allegory about the Dangers of Dogmatism

A darkly delightful allegory about what happens when we take our convictions to an extreme.

Beloved mid-century illustrator Edward Gorey used a variety of anagrammatic pseudonyms, formed by remixing the letter of his real name, for his prolific and diverse creative output, spanning irreverent children’s books, paperback covers for literary classics, naughty delights for grownups, and illustrated envelopes. Among Gorey’s multiple female pseudonyms was Mrs. Regera Dowdy, an imaginary 19th-century persona, under which he penned the rare and wonderful gem The Pious Infant (public library), included in the altogether fantastic collection Amphigorey Too (public library) — the characteristically dark story of obsessively devout Little Henry Clump, illustrating the absurdity of religious dogmatism, the perils of self-righteousness, and the notion that any ideology or set of rigid beliefs taken to an extreme is likely to backfire into self-destructiveness.

I was fortunate enough to track down a surviving copy — a signed one, at that — digitized and preserved here for our shared delight:

Although long out of print, used copies of The Pious Infant can still be found online and at some public libraries, and Amphigorey Too, which includes this one and fourteen other Gorey treasures, is still in print. Complement it with The Green Beads and consider supporting the Edward Gorey Charitable Trust with a donation to the Edward Gorey House.


Alice Munro’s Nobel Prize Interview: Writing, Women, and the Rewards of Storytelling

“I want my stories to move people … to feel some kind of reward from the writing.”

When Alice Munro won the 2013 Nobel Prize in literature, she was too ill to travel and receive the prestigious accolade in person, so instead of delivering the customary Nobel acceptance speech in Stockholm, she was interviewed by the Swedish Academy in her home. The conversation — a wide-ranging dance across the spectrum of literature and life — reveals Munro’s sharp, dimensional, highly self-ware mind driven by equal parts confidence and doubt, and above all by an unflinching faith in literature’s capacity to change us.

It’s rather unnerving and anachronistic — though befitting the Achilles heel of the Nobel Prize — that the interviewer seems so bent on asking Munro questions about “women writers” and what it’s like to be one, but she pushes back beautifully and touches on many other aspects of writing not encumbered by the dated and unnecessary gender narrative. Highlights below.

On receiving her first literary inspiration from the tales of Hans Christian Andersen and using walking as a creative prompt:

The Little Mermaid is dreadfully sad. . . . As soon as I had finished the story, I got outside and I walked around and around the house where we lived … and I made up a story with a happy ending — because I thought that was due to the Little Mermaid.

On being somewhat immune to literature’s women problem:

I never thought of myself as anything but a woman. . . . When I was a young girl, I had no feeling of inferiority at all for being a woman. And this may have been because I lived in a part of Ontario where … women did most of the reading, women did most of the telling of stories — the men were outside doing “important” things and they didn’t go in for the stories. So I felt quite at home.

On the gift of ignorance and growing up in a small town and using the seemingly mundane as material for literature:

I think any life can be interesting — I think any surrounds can be interesting. I don’t think I would’ve been nearly so bold as a writer if I had lived in a [bigger] town and if I had gone to school with other people who were interested in the same things I was … what you might call a “higher cultural level.” I didn’t have to cope with that — I was the only person I knew who wrote stories. . . . I was, as far as I knew, the only person who could do this in the world!

On the parallel universe of the writer’s life:

When you’re a writer, you’re never quite like other people — you’re doing a job that other people don’t know you’re doing and you can’t talk about it, really, and you’re just always finding your way in the secret world and then you’re doing something else in the “normal” world.

On her highest aspiration for her writing, echoing Tolkien’s notion that there are no special audiences in literature when the interviewer asks how she hopes her writing would impact “women especially”:

I want my stories to move people — I don’t care if they’re men or women or children. I want my stories to be something about life that causes people not to say, “Oh, isn’t that the truth,” but to feel some kind of reward from the writing. And that doesn’t mean that it was to have a happy ending or anything — but just that everything the story tells moves [you] in such a way that you feel you’re a different person when you finish.

Complement with Munro on writing, the Nobel Prize acceptance speeches of Ernest Hemingway and Seamus Heaney, and the collected advice of great writers.


Kenneth Patchen Reads His Love Poem “Creation”

“Any person who loves another person, wherever in the world, is with us in this room…”

“Wayne Harris and Seon Gibben [of Gotham Book Mart] are dreamers. Whatever money they had was sunk in a book of poems by Patchen which is not selling,” Anaïs Nin wrote in her diary in December of 1941. And yet Kenneth Patchen (December 13, 1911–January 8, 1972) went on to become one of the most revered and beloved mid-century experimental poets, whose writing came to influence the genesis and aesthetic of the Beat Generation.

From the altogether enchanting volume Kenneth Patchen Reads His Love Poems comes this exquisite delivery of the poem “Creation,” included in the magnificent collection Awash with Roses: The Collected Love Poems of Kenneth Patchen (public library) — enjoy, and savor every perfectly measured word:

Wherever the dead are there they are and
Nothing more. But you and I can expect
To see angels in the meadowgrass that look
Like cows —
And wherever we are in paradise
in furnished room without bath and
six flights up
Is all God! We read
To one another, loving the sound of the s’s
Slipping up on the f’s and much is good
Enough to raise the hair on our heads, like Rilke and Wilfred Owen

Any person who loves another person,
Wherever in the world, is with us in this room —
Even though there are battlefields.

Given the lyrical, almost musical mesmerism of this poem, and practically all of Patchen’s poetry, it comes as little surprise that he had a strong inclination for music. In 1942, he collaborated with none other than legendary composer John Cage on the radio play The City Wears A Slouch Hat, which is absolutely fantastic, and about a decade later, Patchen read his poetry with the band of jazz icon Charles Mingus, though no recording of the collaboration is known to survive.


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