My own experience of the essay
While reading Joseph Mitchell’s Up in the Old Hotel, I was reminded of a graduate-level literature course I took at UNC-Chapel Hill on Russian short stories, many of which delved into St. Petersburg city life in a flowing, yet succinct manner. Mitchell’s story comes across to me as Chekov-ian in the descriptive manner in which he describes his surroundings. Such can be found in the following statement: “Louie likes to gather the figs around dusk, when they are still warm from the heat of the day.” This seemingly simple statement gives way to a talented descriptive process that is extremely resonant of a fictional short story, particularly the captivating and vivid detail of the figs “still warm from the heart of the day.”
Throughout the story, I found myself relating and sympathizing with Louie’s desire to know more about the history of the building and the people who used to own it. I am a granddaughter who forces her grandparents to regale me with tales of their past whenever given the opportunity. Who wouldn’t want to hear how her grandparents met or what it was like to serve in World War II or what her father was like as a young boy? Like Louie, I would want to know what was in the desk drawers and who put them there. I, too, feel that that “I’ve took all kinds of pains tracking things down, but there’s a lot about it [the past] I don’t know.”
Reaction to how Louie reacted to the third floor
I must admit that, at first, I was rather disappointed by the ending of Up in the Old Hotel, having first witnessed Dr. Rodgers’ indiscernible excitement over “what was on the top floors.” I was expecting, perhaps, like many readers (and, no doubt, Louie), a grandiose, fabulous array of treasures hidden in the castaway floors of the restaurant, only tainted by a thin layer of dust and time.
The mystery of what’s upstairs, it seems, was more enchanting than the reality. Much like the “Burnt Norton” poem, Louie has trouble dealing with the present and is always looking toward the “time past,” putting too much stock in traditions or what could be instead of what is. In that sense, it is not odd that Louie doesn’t want to go any further into the past (upstairs), as he does not want to be further disappointed. Better to leave the top floors a (now-tainted) secret than to prove its everyday worthlessness. His utter disappointment is rather warranted after the story’s build-up and Louie is aggrieved to discover that he “didn’t learn much that [he] didn’t know before.” The old empty rooms, and the old empty bureau drawers only reminded him that the old way of life is gone. For Louie, the upstairs floors are a literal reminder that the city’s “past” and his fondness for old tradition is no more. The third floor essentially invalidated Louie and Louie’s past, and proved that he, like the rest of old New York, are simply waiting to fade away like the “dead” liquor resting in dusty bottles.
The notions of nostalgia and the brush strokes used
Throughout this story, Mitchell descriptive lists and slurs of adjectives to create elements of nostalgia. For example, the following descriptive list both sets the opening scene and creates a sense of belonging/nostalgia:
“The smoky riverbank dawn, the racket the fishmongers make, the seaweedy smell, and the sight of this plentifulness always give me a feeling of well-being, and sometimes they elate me.”
Mitchell consistently divides the old and new New York with these literary brush strokes, creating a sense of rift, such as in the following sentence marking the infiltration of the new:
“The last few years, a good many people in the districts up above the market have taken to walking down here occasionally for lunch – people from the insurance district, the financial district, and the coffee-roasting district. Some days, from noon to three, they outnumber the fishmongers.”
Mitchell uses not only description, but “way of life” descriptions like that seen of the most talented fiction writers, such as seen in the following excerpt:
“There’s a boss fishmonger down here, a spry old hardheaded Italian man who’s got a million dollars in the bank and dresses like he’s on relief and walks up and down the fish pier snatching fish out of barrels by their tails and weighing them in his hands and figuring out in his mind to a fraction of a fraction how much they’re worth and showing and singing and enjoying life …"
The two Alabama tornado stories, which attempt to get a close look at the heartbreak and faith-shaking natural disaster in a small town, both found suitable quotes from citizens and adequately get across the amount of sheer devastation. However, The New York Times story uses literary journalism to tug at the heartstrings of readers and more deeply examines the loss of faith in Piedmont, Ala. For example, Bragg uses the heartbreaking description of “tiny patent-leather children’s [Easter] shoes scattered in the rain” that clearly speaks to the reader in a visual way.
The New York Times piece elevates the idea of intersubjectivity, the sharing of subjective states by two or more individuals, in this small town’s collective experience. Bragg’s continued theme of holding on to faith (though somewhat shaken) is reinforced with quotes such as this:
“This might shake people’s faith for a long time,” said Mrs. Clem, who led a congregation of 140 on the day of the storm. “I think that’s normal. But having your faith shaken is not the same as losing it.”
The Watson piece appears to use subjectivity, meaning private, independent, isolated experiences, to describe the devastation. [Note: One red flag that the Watson story was not as adequate at telling the people of Piedmont’s story is the fact that one if his first quotes is from a meteorologist.] The awkward and jarring “other towns” quotes at the end of his story take away from the initial point: telling the of the heartbreak of Piedmont, Ala.
The New York Times writer appears to be much more comfortable with using elements of literary journalism, as is evident from examples such as the following:
“The blooming dogwood trees stand out like lace in the dark pine barrens in the hills around Piedmont. The landscape is pastoral, mountain ridges and rolling hills divided by pastures of fat cows and red-clay fields that will soon be high cotton and sweet corn.”
The above paragraph, like most good literary journalism, is so clear that it almost feels like fiction and seems to be the work of someone who is completely comfortable with the place and speaks of it as if were his or her own home.
