To Write About the Button

The late short-story wizard Grace Paley began and ended her long writing career as a poet.

by Rachel Aviv

Photo: Gentl & Hyers/Arts Counsel, Inc. © 1994

In interviews, Grace Paley, who died of breast cancer last year at the age of 84, often talked about what a bad poet she was. “I just never get good. Poetry is too literary,” she told the French journal Delta in 1982. Three years later, she told The Massachusetts Review, “Well, I really loved poetry best and I loved doing it and I wrote it all the time, but there was something really wrong with the way I was working. I never got it, really.” She blamed it on her distaste for pretentious language. She thought of herself as a “neighborhood person,” not a writer, and felt that poetry made her take on a voice that wasn’t hers.

By Grace Paley
Farrar, Straus and Giroux,
83 pp., $20.00
In 1940, when she was 17, Paley enrolled in W.H. Auden’s literature class at the New School, where she became increasingly aware of her tendency to write in a “British accent.” She wrote like an upper-middle-class gentleman, about war and love. When she went to see Auden for help, he gently asked if the language felt natural to her. She described the incident in the 1983 anthology Women Writers Talking: “He said to me, ‘Do you usually use words like trousers?’—I had never said anything but pants in my whole life—‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I do . . . sometimes.’ ‘And what about this word?’ he said. ‘Subaltern.’ You know, like a sublieutenant. This was the beginning of the war. ‘Subaltern.’ ‘Well, once in a while.’”

When Paley wrote her first story at age 30—while recovering from an abortion, she had time to stay home and begin projects longer than a few lines—she was relieved to find that her fiction sounded nothing like her poems. She wrote about frumpy women in Greenwich Village who sit around in city playgrounds complaining about their “hotsy-totsy” lovers. The first lines of her stories are always concrete: “There were two husbands disappointed by eggs”; “My husband gave me a broom one Christmas”; “At that time most people were willing to donate organs.” Paley said that her poems aped the sounds of literature (Milton, Coleridge, and Edna St. Vincent Millay were some of her favorites), while her fiction captured the voices of people on her street. She described her first story as the moment when she learned to “use both ears suddenly.”

The discovery changed her poetry as well. During the 26 years between her acclaimed first book of fiction, The Little Disturbances of Man (1959), and her last, Later the Same Day (1985), she was continually writing poems and then forgetting where she put them. In the early ’80s, one of Paley’s students at Sarah Lawrence, Beatrix Gates, urged her to locate the old poems—from inside bureau drawers and wastebaskets, from under the bed—and to continue writing. Gates helped Paley publish her first book of verse, Leaning Forward (1985), a collection that received a few moderately positive reviews (Poetry called her poems “perky, likable”) but was generally ignored. By that time, her poems had lost the stilted pose of her early years. If being a “real poet” used to mean being cryptic and inflated, then Paley did everything she could to show that she thought little of her work. Her poems are about sanitary napkins and municipal centers and B.O., and they have almost no punctuation and often stop midline with an “oh.” She makes self-deprecating jokes about her own talent:
Madness is a gift
(though not to me)
Paley began and ended her career with poetry. Her final book, Fidelity, has just been published, a little over half a year after her death. It is made up of raw glimpses of her life as it moves further and further from the genteel ideal of her early years. “I have experienced the amputation / of my left breast I hate its absence,” she writes in “Many,” a poem about her friends whose organs have become useless. She describes the death of her family (sister, mother, father) and the shock of seeing her disease headlined in the New York Times, then apologizes for making “complaints against mortality.” Her language is plain and self-effacing, yet strangely upbeat; sometimes it’s hard to tell whether her poems are appealing because of her language, or because she seemed to be such an exceedingly likeable woman. Speaking from his home in Vermont, her husband, Robert Nichols, an architect and playwright, says that the “unusual thing about Grace is that her personality and her persona as a poet were the exact same thing.”

Paley worked on Fidelity sporadically in the 15 years before her death. “She had very little time for writing,” Nichols says. “When the volunteer fireman asked her to make a pie, she’d make a pie. She was open to everything.” Throughout the book, she repeatedly alludes to how difficult it is to complete a piece of writing: “To translate a poem / from thinking / into English / takes all night / night nights and days.” In “The Irish Poet,” she describes a class of poetry students studying the masters and worries that none of them will ever put in enough work:
flashed onto a screen the poems
are by Shelley Yeats Bishop

they are serious teachers these poems
are the early abysmal drafts
of great poets the students are
encouraged they have many abysmal
drafts themselves they have usually
stopped at oh their second or
third draft what if their longing
for their own true invention
of language is not strong enough what
if they are satisfied too soon
Paley often spoke of her own indolence (“I laze. I mean really hang out”) and was rarely able to write pieces longer than five or six pages. She blamed it on her temperament: she was fairly happy. She put out few books—three story collections and four books of poems over nearly six decades of writing—because she was raising two kids, traveling, and protesting three wars. “It is the responsibility of the poet to be lazy to hang out and / prophesy,” she writes in “Responsibility,” perhaps her most famous poem. Paley once said that she started writing when she got “a strong language feeling”—when she heard a phrase she liked, sometimes uttered by a friend—and, from there, decided whether there was enough momentum to make it more than a poem. Many of her best pieces sat around as first lines for months before she figured out a way to move on.

Although she’s often grouped with postmodernists such as Robert Coover and Donald Barthelme (who lived in her neighborhood), Paley had very little interest in deconstructing or even talking about narrative form. She never graduated from college and consciously avoided becoming part of the literary world. She typed up her first few stories at the PTA office of her children’s elementary school on 11th Street. When she was honored as State Author of New York, she thanked the committee members but said she would have felt prouder if she’d won an “award from my block.”

Throughout her career, she was continually rediscovered in waves of magazine and newspaper profiles (almost always mentioning her white “halo of hair,” wonderful organic cooking, and affability), but her work, and particularly her poetry, has received little scholarly attention. When Kathleen Hulley, a literature professor at New York University, tried to put together a special issue of Delta on Paley’s work, she could barely find enough contributors. Many of those who initially volunteered dropped out, finding Paley “resistant to criticism.” In the introduction to the issue, Hulley writes that the most common excuse was “She is too direct; she leaves me with nothing to say. Paley has no secrets: she tells what she is doing.”

Paley’s poetry doesn’t fit into any particular school of writing, and her motives and themes are too transparent for academic decoding. She wasn’t averse to saying exactly what she meant. “A poet can write about a man slaying a dragon,” her mentor Auden famously said, “but not about a man pushing a button that releases a bomb.” Paley wrote about the button and made no excuses for it. She wanted nothing to do with symbolic grandeur. Her poems are easy to overlook because they are spare, candid, and make no claims to importance. “This eighty-year-old body is / a fairly old body what’s it / doing around the house these days / checking the laundry,” she writes in a poem called “Windows.”

She focused on poems, and not stories, in her final years for a simple reason: they took less time. She could do the dishes, visit her grandchildren, attend an antiwar meeting, and still find an hour or so to jot down some lines. “She was just the opposite of a Romantic poet,” says Nichols fondly. “It didn’t interest her to be a poet with a capital P. She was an absolutely ordinary person, and she was proud of it.”
Originally Published: March 12, 2008


On March 13, 2008 at 8:18pm Elaine Parny wrote:
I found this article about Grace Paley very interesting.

I'm not well read and had not heard of her. I was particularly interested to read of her adherence to normality as she experienced it. And, her self image of just being herself inspired me.

As a novice poet, I can't peg my own self and I have no earthly idea where my writing will end up other than obscurity. Your article about Grace Paley afforded some affirmation for my own attitudes about my own poetry.

Thank you for the interesting glimpse into the life of Grace Paley.

On March 13, 2008 at 10:06pm Steven John Bosch wrote:
I've read some of her short stories and heard others read over "Selected Shorts."

I think we confuse "ordinary" with "common" in the sense of little or no importance.

Her characters are so vivid that they cannot be overlooked or ignored. And they are not people who "cannot be bothered" or find the world so confusing and violent that they "keep their head down" and never raise their eyes up from the sidewalk ahead of them. In her determination to be present to what and who was in front of her at the moment, and not be distracted by longings for being safe and witty and downright brillant with the cool people who are always somewhere else, Grace Paley was an artist. Maybe not the founder of a school, maybe her voice is so her own that no one can follow her. Maybe she would approve of people who could use their own words so clearly that the person and the image of what they did and said comes through to us, the total strangers who recognize something of themselves in the other.

On March 14, 2008 at 5:29pm L. Walsh wrote:
I'm a huge fan of Grace Paley, having seen her read quite a few times over the years, and enjoyed both her short stories as well as her poetry. I knew her first as an activist. Above all else she was a modern day woman at a time when women weren't, and an independent thinker. And it comes through in her marvelous body of work. Her poems and short stories are so spare that they're eloquent. Bare bones yet meaty. It's not easy to write like Grace Paley, to whittle away the fluff and leave all the meat. She preserved the human element like a pro -- and that she was. And could really touch the heart. And isn't that what writers are? The ones who keep chronicling life and pushing us to feel? She was actually quite well known..I will miss waiting for a new poem to appear, or a chance reading at a college or poetry festival. She was a grand old lady, and I feel quite blessed to have enjoyed her work, and to be inspired by her.

On March 17, 2008 at 7:48pm Sarah Ritter wrote:
I had the pleasure of meeting Grace Paley and members of her family many times at an unpretentious little beach on Lake Fairlee, in Vermont. For many summers my children and, sometimes, her grandchildren were taught to swim by local high school kids. To imagine this woman who stood watching over her family, feet planted squarely in the sand, writing in a “British accent? is absolutely delightful! Because we only met when she was mother and grandmother, I controlled my adoration for Grace Paley, writer, and never asked the questions I wished I had. Thank you for bringing this rigorous, wise writer and woman back to me.

On March 19, 2008 at 11:28am Gil Dekel wrote:

'The source of inspiration?'

I fully agree with Grace Paley that madness, or inspiration, is a god-given gift for poets. I think it is also free of society. Some critics assume the opposite, arguing that poetry is closely linked to the times in which it is created, and that the poet is influenced by his surroundings. For example, the English Romantic poetry is seen as a direct result of the historical events in which it was written. But this does not explain the fact that poetry is being written in ancient times as well as in modern times; in times of great wars as well as times of tranquillity; in crowded cities or in remote unpopulated countryside. Poets have been writing in completely different historical times and climates. It seems that such social factors influence and shape the content of the poem, but do not bring about the impetuous to create. I think that inspiration comes from a mysterious source of knowledge that we cannot see – but we surely can write about!

Gil Dekel

On March 21, 2008 at 3:08am aalia wrote:
poetry is a madness within by giving words to your imaginations i can be able to visualise his fantacies on black and white

On March 28, 2008 at 12:47pm Brandy Kwakye wrote:
This article is one of the few that I have found that opens up a poet’s personality for everyone to see a glimpse of how every day life can become masterpieces on paper. I’ve never heard of Grace Paley, but I am interested to read her work after reading this article. She is direct, graceful, and fearful. Not many can handle that all at once!

On April 14, 2008 at 6:19pm Laine Cote' wrote:
Until your article I'd never heard

of Grace Paley but felt an immediate bonding to a poet who "didn't get it"

yet kept her hand to the plow---

My love of words came late in life

only after my distrust of them

laid aside for the beauty

I found if given a chance

poetry could provide.

To me poetry's like a belief

in a Divine Force----

You don't have to understand it to get it.

It gets you.

And some poems so beautifully ordinary you're sure "real life"

a metaphor for the poem.

I look forward to more of Grace Paley.

On April 15, 2008 at 1:34am William K Ross wrote:
Why does greatness seem to fall to so few writers such as Paley, this world of ours has fathered so many good poets but greatness comes to so few. So when read, her work is never forgotten.

On April 25, 2008 at 12:15am Andrea wrote:
I remember reading Leaning Forward in the mid 80s. Grace Paley was well known for her short stories by then, and I remember being delighted by her poetry. In retrospect, I think it did give me a kind of permission to see how great poetry can be written in such unpretentious and accessible ways (Ray Carver too, who is famous for his stories, but wrote wonderful poetry in a highly crafted way that does not show off).

Reading this article, I feel a debt of gratitude to Beatrix Gates, who searched for Paley's scattered poems and pressed for the publishing of Leaning Forward. If not for her, they might never have been seen by the world, or by me. Grace Paley's natural humility was part of her literary greatness, but too much artistic humility and the product itself is in jeopardy - in this case, would have been if not for Gates's own inspired efforts to get the work into the world.

On May 10, 2008 at 1:31pm kate friedberg wrote:
I heard Grace Paley read her short

stories at The Poetry Center in Chicago

a few times. She wore a house dress &

chewed gum while she read, being

absolutely herself without pretense.

Wise, witty, ironic, her short stories

move me the most, particularly,

"Traveling." I love her writing abt.

ordinary daily life and feel like I knew

her through her work, that she could

have been a friend or scrappy

neighbor, a woman, mother, poet and

activist, like me. I would have liked to

have sat in her kitchen, watched kids

together, walked the picket line.

On September 6, 2008 at 3:29pm victoire wrote:
did someone know why vitago accepted to publish Grace Paley's book "Enormous Changes at the last minute ?"

On December 28, 2013 at 9:22am Josh wrote:
What a lovely article and accompanying audio piece. Thank for this, it
made my morning just now.

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Rachel Aviv’s writing has appeared in The Believer, Bookforum, The New York Times, and The New Yorker.

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