THE WRITER AS ILLUSIONIST

Wonderful snippets of marvelous, elegant prose abound in this collection from the celebrated writer.

Wilkinson was friends with Maxwell (1908-2000) when they worked at the New Yorker, and he wrote about his colleague in his 2002 book, My Mentor. In this loosely chronological assemblage, Wilkinson hopes “to make Maxwell present so that a reader might feel that he or she or they had met him.” As he approached 90, Maxwell wrote, “I still like making sentences.” Indeed, and there are plenty of delicate, understated examples on display in this book. His prodigious memories of his early years drive a number of the first pieces: “I can hear the creaking of the oarlocks, across half a century.” Wilkinson includes excerpts from fiction (The Folded Leaf) and nonfiction (The Outermost Dream), tossing in some unsigned Talk of the Town columns to capture Maxwell’s childhood and early years at the magazine. The section “Notes and Remarks on Writing” includes a sly 1963 speech on autobiographical fiction and being “enslaved by the past.” Tucked in a string of comments on writing in general, we find this gem: “When I was beginning to write I saw the short story as being a kind of safe with a combination.” Later, Maxwell calls reading “the divine hunger.” Another section includes criticism—lithe, subtle, discerning—tributes, and memorials. Maxwell believes Robert Louis Stevenson should have equaled the stature of George Eliot, and Louise Bogan was “one of the finest lyric poets of our time.” This book’s title derives from a lovely speech given in 1955: “Writers—narrative writers—are people who perform tricks.” Followed by: “A door opens slowly in front of you, and you cannot see who is opening it but, like a sleepwalker, you have to go in.”

A great sampler for readers to experience a master stylist.