"Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where/And we don't know where"

only living boyS in NY

According to the cover of Gone to New York: Adventures in the City, someone at the Los Angeles Times described Ian Frazier as “America’s greatest essayist.” I may not be much of a venerable critic, but I would not spend too much time arguing with this bold statement. He is at least ONE of the great American essayists. I actually vaguely remember reading his On the Rez in high school…I digress…

What makes Frazier’s collection of essays, written between 1975 and 2005, so powerful, is his fearless approach to exploring his surroundings. He draws you instantly into his little New York world (and beyond), weaving it together with the little New York worlds of those around him. That’s more or less what we are as New Yorkers, small entities of memory, culture, history, intellect, emotion, occasionally intersecting with others, physically or within thought, to create a diverse urban community. As individuals in our day-to-day endeavors, we may be more or less insignificant, go essentially unnoticed. But we prove (do we have anything to prove? Need to prove anything? Probably. At least in theory…) our worth, our value when we collide with other human entities of equal or similarly sized auras. Validation? Recognition.  How many people have felt like “The Only Living Boy in New York?” (<== click for video)

Frazier shares a great deal of typical daily occurrences, like going for a walk through boroughs, as well as quite bizarre or unusual events, such as his walk down Route 3 from New Jersey to New York. What I find most moving about the collected essays as a whole, is not how personal (and personally revealing) his writing feels, although that is certainly a fabulous quality in an essayist, but more the way in which we are suddenly privy to the stories of so many people who have touched Frazier’s life in some way—not to mention the way a humanized New York City has deeply effected him. We not only learn of tender moments between Frazier and Brooklyn neighbors and passersby, but gain the background stories of so many who have moved him to write candidly about this amazing city – from his Israeli landlord on Canal Street to the tragic urban hero Clifford Holland.

The French verb essayer means “to try,” and Frazier succeeds. His topics do not always lend themselves to particularly moving material, although some certainly do, but he has done his homework and seems to give credit where it is due. Ugh, more clichés—forgive me. He seems to get lost in those who have moved him, either face to face, or from a story he is just passing along to anyone to will listen.

Frazier made me wish I knew more about my “friends” at Murray’s Bagels – they are always happy to see me (I’m not the kind of person who assumes such things, but in the chaos that is this popular haven, their faces certainly light up when they ask how I am), know my orders, know I value my sleep (“You’re early today!”), and notice when I have been trying to cut down on carbs (“We’re you out of town?”). They even gave me free Matzah during Passover (“A side of cream cheese and… are you selling…” “No but is that what you want?”) But if they know my name, it’s from looking at my credit card. I see them more than I see some of my closest friends, and I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced.

"We Don't Toast"