Dizzy Lizzy bites the dust

Elizabeth Hardwick, Critic, Novelist and Restless Woman of Letters, Dies at 91

It is extremely disrespectful, to say the least, to refer to Elizabeth Hardwick as a dizzy lizzy, but at least one year or more of Barnard students did call her that. I only ever called her Professor Hardwick, though she was not a full professor. She was an incredible teacher. Sometimes, she was in a tizzy. I can remember a classmate saying she had been drunk in class one day. However, I just thought she was angry, and disappointed in us. I have been called Dizzy Lizzy, but never by a friend, or as an homage to the Beatles.

I didn't know anything about her, really, except she was supposed to be good, if crazy. I guess I never really hung out with many English majors, or indulged in faculty gossip sessions. I mean, they were old people. I took two semesters of creative writing with Elizabeth Hardwick. Her assignments could be vague, and her assessments merciless. I wonder what happened to the young woman in the fall semester class. She wanted to be a journalist, and did not handle criticism well. Nor can I say it was always constructive criticism from Hardwick. Some people cried, including Hardwick. Now, I read the dates, and wonder how hard our classes were for her, in 1978. By that time, I knew who Robert Lowell was, knew when he died. But I did not know her connection to him. Senior year, I read The Armies of the Night, and did not care for it. (Strangely, I can't find a published version of the book in English on OCLC, so I gave in and linked to the Internet "resource", which doesn't seem like much of a resource to me. I must be doing something wrong, but it doesn't matter.)

In any case, I needed to note her passing. I was not a student she took under her wing or mentored. But she was essentially friendly to me, and that was pretty important to me. I am very happy to have the memory of her telling us of her love of the jazz clubs on 57th St. in the 1940s. She and her roommate went almost every night, and saw Billie Holiday every time they could. Hardwick talked about Holiday like she was a religious figure. At that time, I was going down to the punk clubs and bars in the village every chance I could, to see Patti Smith and the Ramones. I completely understood thinking music and musicians were more important than groceries. Writing and poetry, too.

Though I am not as quick or bright as Hardwick (believe me, she was sharp!), I think she did teach me a lot about writing. I am lazy, and take easy ways out. But Hardwick did teach me to edit and hone, even if it doesn't show much in this venue. She didn't completely discourage me, though she was very sad sometimes. I still seek some outlet for creativity, and she gave me some slight affirmation. Of course, my most recent outlets for creativity have been 1) learning to crochet and 2) setting three-quarters of our reference collection free, to circulate, multi-volume sets, local history, et al. Both things have been quite fulfilling.

An open love letter to Jennifer Crusie

Dear Jenny:

I can call you Jenny because a)I have know you since years B.D. (before my divorce, i.e., 1994). A beautiful young woman I once babysat told me about Getting Rid of Bradley (GRB) in a bar in downtown Watkins Glen, NY I think over Christmas break. My two beautiful grown nieces concurred: I HAD to read it.

Unbeknownst to the bevy of beauties, I had already begun to think of GRD (Getting Rid of Danny). Those of you unfamiliar with the Crusie canon, GRB is about a woman trying to break up with a boyfriend. So it was not that I wanted to kill my then husband; I was a bit worried he wanted to kill me. Turned out it would have been quicker, easier, cheaper, and tidier to have killed him. Or at least have put him in jail. But no, I was a nice woman, and I didn't want my darling, beautiful daughter to have a dad in jail. As it was, in the end, through his decisions, she didn't really have a dad.

So I was one of the many women who have turned to romance literature for fantasy and comfort. I started quite young (8?) on my grandmother's Emily Loring mass market paperbacks. But wait! I haven't gotten past a)!

b) I actually have met Jenny, and shared some laughs (see photo). I attended the Romance Writers of America librarians day in 2002, I think, in Washington DC. I always recommend that any librarian who can get to it should go. So I saw Jenny on a panel, then hung out with her at the cocktail party/literacy fundraiser. It's a treasured memory for me, though I doubt she remembers it. Up until recently, I could saw I owned every title published by Jennifer Crusie. She was one of the few authors I collected. The others are Thomas Pynchon, Sheri S. Tepper, and William Gibson--books I can reread, happily.

I was not at all pleased with Don't Look Down I didn't think I'd read another Crusie/Mayer collaboration. But once again, the cover caught my eye, and I needed something that wasn't a challenge. When I started it, the Boyfriend and I had a discussion of how Jenny was cheapening her brand (a favorite topic with us--think Harry & David corn chips or Old Navy outlet). He accused Jenny of just phoning it in. I did not think that was the case, but I worried that in reaching for a larger, different audience, she'd lost what made her fabulous. Well, the first couple of chapters were to slog, but then Agnes started cooking her sumptuous breakfasts and trying to write her food column. I started laughing. Then I marked pages. I tried to memorize some of Doyle's curses on Brenda. ("Call on the devil to save you, you limb of satan. God couldn't see you if he tried, you black-hearted whore.") I worried about the flamingos, the wedding dress, you name it.

Contrived and crazy. Anger management. The mafia goes Southern. More plots and dead bodies everywhere, plus of course, assassins. And guns. Chase scenes. Government-sanctioned killings--I didn't think we did that. It was a perfect companion for one of my bouts with insomnia. I did follow up with a good breakfast, though not one of Agnes level.

Jenny, forgive me for anything bad I have even considered. I'm so happy to have you in my life. I'll end with one more quote. "the Cranky Agnes Theory of Holiday Cooking can be summed up in two words: More Gravy."