So there's this guy who stands out on the corner of Washington Place and Washington Square East. Right by the Silver Center at NYU. He's this really small, gnarly dude with a wicked comb-over and he's gotta be one of the most dedicated weirdos in the city. Monday to Thursday, every week, he comes out to his spot and just yells things like "10 minutes 'til 9:30 class!" Or, "LOOK BEFORE YOU CROSS!" These statements are generally punctuated by him getting physical with a nearby planter or railing. It goes without saying that you always feel as though you're being berated for something. Maybe it's for being associated with the number one real estate holder in the City. Maybe it's for being "fucking gentrified hipster assholes" (as relayed by Jazz Dave). Maybe it's just because the yelling triggers some reflex in me to start feeling guilty about something. Blame it on a Catholic education (rant essay in progress).
That's my segue. I want to speak briefly about Nathaniel Hawthorne's outstanding short story, "The Minister's Black Veil." This is mainly because I recently read it for class, but also because I feel that it handles the difficult subjects of guilt and repression in just the right ways. To a sensitive modern being, these subjects are, of course, bitterly important to me. This isn't to say, though, that "The Minister's Black Veil" is a story about self-pity.
Hawthorne, I've learned, was descended from the earliest Puritans. Now, the Bible has always seemed to me one of the most brutal and idiosyncratic texts out there, and for this reason, it seems to call out for parody/pastiche. As I see it, "The Minister's Black Veil" is a tale that takes the form of parable. Off the cuff, I'd say that Hawthorne writes his story in a way that inevitably leaves the reader reeling in an inexplicable half-smile (even if it's an internal one). His story is about the sense of loss and isolation that can be a constitutional element in some people. He understands that the tragic spirit - the ghost, or the spook - is something some people carry around with them like an invisible birth mark. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he isn't just trying to make you feel that sadness is sweetness wrapped in pain. Rather, the best parts of his story (much like the best of Poe) reveal savage truths about vanity, selfishness, and unarticulated rage. I, for one, enjoy the story's doom-y moral finality. I love that the preacher demands to be buried with the veil on.
I've read that Hawthorne was never really celebrated until he wrote The Scarlet Letter (which I haven't read), but "The Minister" is surely the work of a pretty brilliant guy. As for the way he dealt with his own fame or lack of it, he didn't really seem to care. In the preface to a reprinting of his Twice-Told Tales (from which "The Minister" comes), he's self-deprecating in a way that's even slightly irritating. I guess he couldn't be called a writer if this wasn't the case.
Recommendations?
More on Hawthorne at the Wikmachine.
jazz dave!
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