COME BACK IN SEPTEMBER

Brilliant memoir of a sentimental education among the literati of a bygone New York.

Pinckney arrived in Manhattan from his native Indiana a wide-eyed young man who quickly fell under the spell of mentor Elizabeth Hardwick. He was quickly instructed in the art of literary rivalry: “Had I read Allen Tate? A poet I’d never heard of. —You don’t need him. Faulkner? The Bear. —You do need him. But don’t ever do that again. —Excuse me? —Read Lillian.” Hellman, that is, whom Hardwick hated even as she loved Mary McCarthy. Then there was Robert Lowell, Hardwick’s ex-husband, a psychic time bomb; and Robert and Barbara Silvers, editors of the New York Review of Books, who gave budding writer Pinckney room to roam. Young, gay, and Black, Pinckney was discovering a different New York, one in which Susan Sontag might be on one corner and Sid Vicious on the other and in which AIDS was a constant threat. Pinckney writes in pyrotechnic flashes, stringing one memorable episode after another without much connective tissue. His memoir is both stunningly well written and stuffed with dishy gossip. For example, the critic William Empson stuffed his ears with chewing gum to “block out student noise,” then couldn’t get it out. The Silvers’ “never left the office together, at the same time, or shared a taxi,” racing to see who could get to that night’s party first all the same. Stanley Crouch, “wobbly on a bicycle on Second Avenue,” opined that Pinckney had influential White women friends because their husbands weren’t sexually threatened by him. The book is also rich in literary instruction: why one should read Melville and Hawthorne and Woolf, why—Pinckney’s husband, the poet James Fenton, insists—one should read prose and not poetic translations of Dante, and why one shouldn’t trust a word Henry Kissinger writes.

An essential document of literary history evoking an era of hope, youth, wisdom, and tragedy.