Yair Auron - A New York Memoir
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A New York Memoir is about a life lived in New York City over a period of thirty years. The memoir begins in 1975, with author Richard Goodmans arrival in New York, an intimidated newcomer. It follows him through the years as he encounters some of the remarkable people one meets in New York, while harkening back to the inspiration the city provides, especially for artists and young writers. The memoir follows the author as he witnesses tragedies and then ruminates on growing old in New York. It tells of the joys and the difficulties of living in this remarkable city.A New York Memoir is, essentially, a long love letter to the city. Like all great loves, this volume reflects passion, promise, hope, pain, regret and, ultimately, the authors pride.This includes true stories of love, work, marriage, raising a child, becoming a writer, death, and friendship. Most of the stories in this effort take place there; those that do not are highly influenced by New York. The author has seen New York at its best and at its worst, when was it rich and freewheeling and when it fell on hard times and almost collapsed. Hes seen it grievously wounded, and seen it pick itself back up again with the help of the entire world and with its own limitless moxie.This is a very personal story set against the backdrop of a massive city of unmatchable energy and of sheer, brute authority and inspiration. The book ends with a long remembrance of the authors mother who came to New York after many travails and was rescued by the city. This is the story of Richard Goodmans encounter with New York.**See Richard Goodman read an excerpt from A New York Memoir titled, Elegy for an English Bike, here.http: //www.youtube.com/watchv=zS9sMJXJ1L8
Yair Auron: author's other books
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Yair Auron
Yair Auron
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A New York Memoir
A New York Memoir
Richard Goodman
Why I Live in New York City was first published in Pilgrimage; The Man in White in the Harvard Review; Elegy for an English Bike in the New York Times; A Big Wonderful Tree Falling Down in Ascent; Surrendering to Provence in Travelers Tales Provence; Maine Journal in High Horse: Contemporary Writing by the MFA Faculty of Spalding University; The Bicycle Diaries in the Louisville Review; When Im Sixty-Four in the Rambler; My Beautiful Ann in Conclave; The Ceiling Leak in Ascent; Appointment in Cortlandt in the New York Times; Take the A Train in River Teeth.
First published 2011 by Transaction Publishers
Published 2017 by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2010024097
Goodman, Richard, 1945-
New York memoir / Richard Goodman.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4128-1492-8 (alk. paper)
1. New York (N.Y.)--Description and travel. 2. New York (N.Y.)--Social life and customs. 3. City and town life--New York (State)--New York. 4. Goodman, Richard, 1945- 5. Goodman, Richard, 1945---Homes and haunts--New York (State)--New York. 6. New York (N.Y.)--Biography. I. Title.
F128.55.G65 2010
974.71--dc22
2010024097
ISBN 13: 978-1-4128-1492-8 (hbk)
To my daughter
No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.E. B. White, Here is New York
Once again, I want to thank Sena Naslund and my colleagues at the MFA in Writing Program at Spalding University. Deborah Attoinese, insightful and fearlessly truthful as always, was a steady guiding beacon. Rick Moranis has been unstintingly generous in his counsel and direction. Every writer should have friends and steadfast encouragers like these.
I very much want to thank Irving Horowitz and Mary Curtis of Transaction Publishers for having faith in my book. I want to thank my editor, Larry Mintz, for his trusted opinions and guidance. And Mindy Waizer for her enthusiasm about my work.
I also want to thank, as always, my sister, Mary Downs, for her belief in me. That has never changed. That is true of Jo Bouffords support as well. Jody Lisberger deserves my gratitude for suggesting I bring these true stories together under a single roof. I want to thank Rebecca Walker for her unflagging support and wisdom. And Im grateful for Eddie Luekens encouragement when I really needed it. Thanks, too, to Molly Peacock, Bob Finch, Elaine Orr, and Kaylene Johnson for putting up with my title angst and calming me with excellent advice.
I want to thank the people I write about, some of whom are no longer here; I hope they can hear my gratitude: Edmond Landrier, Lavinia Russ, Iggy Keuchenius, Brenda Bowen, Ann Silberling, and, especially, my mother, Marianna Rehling. I have dedicated this book to my daughter, Becky. She is a character as a young girl in one of these stories, and I hope something approaching her bright spirit and big heart flows through this book.
Contents
Books by Richard Goodman
French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France
The Soul of Creative Writing
A New York Memoir
I came to New York City at the age of thirty, still homeless. That is, Id never felt that I was at home in any of the places I lived. Not in Detroit, not in Chicago, not in Cambridge, Massachusetts. After a few weeks in New York, I did. I knew I was home. Ive lived here contentedly for thirty years now.
Most of the stories in this book take place here; those that do not are highly influenced by New York. (The second story takes place in Cambridge, for example, my stepping stone to New York.) This is where I have grown old. Well, older. This is where I have fallen in love three times, where I have married, had a daughter, divorced, helped raise my daughter, and become a writer. I have done brave things here and cowardly things. I have shown the best in me and the worst in me. I have become who I am.
All of this has happened against the backdrop of a massive city of unmatchable energy and of sheer, brute authority. It is a city that is accepting and pitiless and inspiring. I believe in it, and Im grateful for having lived here. I have seen it change radically in the thirty years Ive lived here. Ive seen it rich and freewheeling, and Ive seen it fall on hard times and almost collapse. Ive seen it grievously wounded, and Ive seen it rehabilitate itself with the help of the entire world and with its own limitless moxie. It is just as much a character in this book as any of the people I write about who I have met here. And what I write about is love, loss, friendship, work, and death. It is a life on the pages you have here. It is timemy timeprecious and rationed.
I call this book a memoir, because thats what it is. These fourteen true stories constitute an emotional chronicle with a single unmistakable setting.
Every one of us lives a life we did not expect to live. We begin with passions and dreams and with the basic conviction that all will turn out for the good, more or less. Some of it does turn out for the good. Most of it, though, is a startling combination of the unexpected and the inconceivable. Every door we walk through introduces us to a strange land, and then we set about seeing if this is a place where we can grow.
For me, New York City has been the great opened door.
You wake up next to a raven-haired woman who you love. Youre in your apartment, which is on the second floor, facing East Tenth Street. The windows are long and tall, and have that opaque irregularity windows have that are a century old. Outside its snowing. The flakes ease down languidly, like thousands of tiny parachutists. Its Saturday. The year is 1975. You are twenty-seven. You hold her body next to yours, brush your hand across her thigh. It trembles slightly. You rise and go to the small, arced fireplace in the living room and light the paper to a fire you prepared the night before. The paper erupts and soon there are hot swaying flames and the snap of splintered wood catching fire.
This is Tenth Street in the East Village, an astonishingly beautiful street, and you are lucky to be living here. How in Gods name did you get the courage to come to this city? You remember those first few weeks after you arrived. How scared you were. You walked out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal smack into a mass of the most furious tidal wave of humanity youd ever seen, and not one eye caught yours. The immensity of the place made you cower like a six year old. Your instinct was to turn around and go back home, and you almost did. So, why didnt you?
Because you were in a small town in Michigan, and everything you said was a lie. You betrayed yourself hourly. You disguised your yearnings well, but the problem was that you were wasting away. In order to survive, you felt you had to neuter your soul. Like those first moments when someone is shot in the spine, and the feeling begins to drain from the body progressively upward, so you felt your soul disappear progressively until you wondered if there was any of it left.
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