(She lost to Gravity’s Rainbow.) She went on to write three more eerie, eccentric novels of life on the American margins as well as four renowned collections of stories, upon which her reputation solidly rests. The novel, her first, would be nominated for the National Book Award when its author was thirty. The Paris Review had already run several of the earliest, weirdest Joy Williams stories before George Plimpton agreed to publish State of Grace under the magazine’s book imprint in 1973. A student at the reception wondered aloud if tonight’s craft talk could have possibly destroyed future craft talks. She smiled, thanked the audience, and sat. We might have something then, worthy, necessary a real literature instead of the Botox escapist lit told in the shiny prolix comedic style that has come to define us. And we must write with a pen-in Mark Twain’s phrase-warmed up in hell. We must reflect the sprawl and smallness of America, its greedy optimism and dangerous sentimentality. We must absorb its heat, the recklessness and ruthlessness, the grotesqueries and cruelties. She went on: We are American writers, absorbing the American experience. What would be the point, she said, to discuss the craft of Jean Rhys, Janet Frame, Christina Stead, Malcolm Lowry, all of whose works can teach us little about technique, and whose way of touching us is simply by exploding on the lintel of our minds. She discussed Kraft cheese and the “twiddling” nature of art pursued “within a parameter of hours in prisons, nursing homes, and kindergartens,” and then she opened a valve. ![]() During Williams’s walk to the podium, an audience member was heard asking if the writer had gone blind another remarked how inspiring it was for Williams to recall the lecture from memory. Joy Williams couldn’t find her glasses before a lecture some years ago and used prescription sunglasses instead. Interviewed by Paul Winner Issue 209, Summer 2014
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