THE YACK YACK

A woman’s besotted affair with New York is celebrated in these exuberant writings.

Australian-born novelist Emanuel’s rambling memoirs of her sojourns in New York and her short fiction set in the city blend together into a love letter that views Gotham’s iconic scenes and experiences from off-kilter angles. Chief among these are Emanuel’s wanderings through the city’s art scene, viewing everything from classical sculpture to Rembrandt self-portraits to avant-garde gallery offerings. (“I can only think of kneepads,” she remarks of a performance piece in which the artist crawled across a concrete floor strewn with glass shards.) She also got distracted by a man’s jiggling leg during a performance of Carmen at the Metropolitan Opera; went on many a shopping expedition (at one boutique, she absentmindedly shoplifted a purse); ruminated on John Lennon at the Dakota and Dylan Thomas at the White Horse Tavern; encountered celebrated street performer The Naked Cowboy, clad only in undies, on 42nd Street during a blizzard; battled a balky MetroCard reader; savored the fish section at Zabar’s food nirvana; and listened patiently to the yackety anecdotes of natives. (“As I gets out of the car, I closes the door and my coat catches in the door. Ira the stupid klutz starts driving away.”) Later sections of the book feature flash fiction, also about women wandering New York, drawn by tenuous romantic leads but mainly just taking in the city’s aura. A final story removes itself to Sydney to plumb the fraught relationship of an insecure art student and her melodramatic friend—before returning to New York for melancholy reflection on the friendship’s tragic demise.

Emanuel’s feuilletons unfold as a swirling kaleidoscope of impressions that add up to an urban odyssey reminiscent of Stephen Dedalus’ passage through Dublin in Ulysses. Her gorgeous, evocative prose renders even a subway annoyance as a standout image: “In the seat opposite us, sits the exact opposite of tantalizing, a stoner ogre slumps half asleep, legs sprawled, a claw hammer poking out of his pocket.” As the city emerges through her layered atmospherics, Emanuel conveys the dynamic of loneliness and longing playing out in them. (“In the shadow of a fifth-floor walk-up, a chain-smoking figure presses his face to the window pane. The tip of his cigarette smouldering red. We face each other at twilight. Two lone voyeurs. Me eating a Twinkie and him slouching on the razor’s edge. Oh Jesus.”) At times the writing breaks free into a surreal lyricism that’s right on the edge of incoherence—“A film, a robot, the city of rationality remembers me giddy as a goddess and maggot man dancing on stained carpet, punching the jukebox as he upends packets of chips into my open mouth of that Sunday, do I whisper, Come home with me”—yet somehow makes sense. Anyone who has lived in—or dreamed of—New York will find here an engrossing portrait of its mundane magic.

A captivating homage to the city and the restless souls inhabiting it.