Coming back to Joseph Mitchell

I wrote nearly two years ago about discovering Joseph Mitchell’s work through the collection, Up in the Old Hotel. This is a book for which I could see breaking my “no book-buying” rule. Truth is, libraries are a wonderful thing. But when you think about it, I first wrote about Mitchell in October of 2020 — two stories into the book — and here I am, all this time later, able to pull it up because I still have the audiobook on my phone. A physical library book would have had to go back many times over by now (kind of like my attempt at Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel). If I wanted to actually pick up the book itself and “feel its heft,” while getting through its 700-plus pages at leisure, then the audiobook or Kindle just won’t cut it. I think most readers would agree that the Kindle is a distant second place to the “real thing” — a “well, at least I’m reading” kind of last resort. Although I have one, it’s a poor substitute for the weight of a book and the feel of its pages. It’s not like listening to a ball game on the radio — a front-porch-rocking-chair, summer-days kind of thing. Give me the real thing — and if I’ve got to limit the real thing, at least give me Joseph Mitchell.

Mitchell writes in a way that finds me lost in his work. I get it. I’m there. I wrote before of how he brought the characters and places to life. And here I am, just past halfway through the book, and my impression of his writing hasn’t changed one bit. He does things like introduces me to Black Clams through an eccentric 90-year-old who expects to live another 20 years because he eats strictly seafood, and through that, I get the story of the very discovery of the Atlantic’s Black Clam beds thrown in for good measure. He loves bars and clubs and the people in them and of them. He’s just so interesting, and if you haven’t read him yet, start.