Colson Whitehead read from Apex Hides the Hurt at Vassar today. He also came to my non-fiction class earlier in the afternoon. We had read The Colossus of New York. For forty minutes or so Colson spoke about how the book came to be written and he answered questions about specific sections, and then, in the second part of class, he responded to my students’ ideas about what they were going to write about New York City. (Despite a cold and the presence of large quantities of drowsiness-inducing medicine in his veins, the man performed with admirable cheerfulness and generosity.) He had finished four of what became the eventual thirteen chapters of Colossus when September 11 happened, and then, he wrote the rest in the aftermath. The book reflects but only subtly the loss of the Twin Towers: their absence, and what the attacks meant, is present more like a mood. I liked that about Colossus, and the rhythm of its sentences, intimate but also seeking a broader, more public and universal, language of recognition.

From the opening page of Colossus:

No matter how long you have been here, you are a New Yorker the first time you say, That used to be Munsey’s, or That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge. That before the internet café plugged itself in, you got your shoes resoled in the mom-and-pop operation that used to be there. You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now.

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