editor's notes
I hope you'll take note of the advertisement in
this issue about an exciting project created by The Kenyon
Review Board of Trustees. It has secured
250 tickets to a premier of the musical of Among the E. L. Doctorow's
Ragtime on Broadway, work of wel February 12, 1998. In addition
to the musical itself, supporters will be treated to dinner and
other activities befitting such a cultural event. It will, I have
no doubt, be great fun as well as an appropriate vehicle for launching
the Trustees' long-term national support of the magazine.
One of the questions most often asked of an editor--entirely
reasonable, all but unanswerable--is to name what, precisely, one
looks for in reading through submissions to a magazine. , precisely,
one looks for in reading through submissions to a magazine. (In
KR's case we receive something on the order of five thousand unsolicited
manuscripts in a seven-month period.) How do we choose one poem
or story among countless other worthy hopefuls?
Answer Number One: I know it when I see it.
What works for identifying pornography according to the famous judicial
aphorism serves just as handily for tapping successful art. Great
writing surprises the reader, takes unexpected twists, defies generic
constraints even while working within and against them. Think of
the great sonnets. No simple-or even complex-definition or anticipation
suffices.
Answer Number Two (and this rationalization is
intended to preserve the sanity and balance of those who must choose):
Gems will be missed. Full stop. I have no doubt that day
in and day out my judgment fails. In every batch of poems and stories
I surely miss strong, even brilliant pieces that on another occasion
I might snatch out with some approximation of "Eureka!"
To suggest otherwise would be disingenuous. An editor's primary
responsibility, it seems to me, however, is to produce the strongest
magazine possible. Responsibility to prospective authors consists
of a timely reading and response. (In equal measure I think authors
owe editors the courtesy of single submission). I do not lie awake
at night worrying about what I have missed; I might lie awake should
I fear that what we do publish weren't worthy of The Kenyon Review.
Answer Number Three: Authority of Voice.
This isn't a tiff from some Foucaultian discourse-of-power. It's
just that great writing (and not all writing by good writers is
great) speaks with authority. Such work wields language with a devil-may-care
assurance, a take-it-by-the-throat authority that is ruthless and
playful and daring. Perhaps a subset of Answer One.
Among the oldest traditions at KR is
the attempt to balance publishing the work of well-known authors
with that of newcomers to the craft. Hence our long labors in reading
unsolicited manuscripts. Holding all to the same standard (see above)
makes actual selection less onerous.
An editor knows that famous writers will attract
attention, their work measured against earlier achievement. But
what about the poems and stories by the lesser-known? Will readers
experience some of that same thrill of discovery, that sense of
unexpected joy that accompanies the glimpse of a gem among the envelopes?
Often these questions are never satisfied.
All the more pleasure then that Thomas Glave has
received an O. Henry Award for "The Final Inning," a story
published in our Summer/Fall 1996 issue. In truth, I've received
a number of personal comments from readers about that story as well
as about "Their Story," also by Glave, which appeared
in Spring 1996. Gems, two of them, snuggling deep within the drifts
of manuscripts, published in back-to-back issues of the magazine.
-DHL
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