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  6. The Collected Essays of Elizabeth Hardwick review – sublime critical insights.

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Collected Editions

View All Photos 4. Movie Info. When a heist goes wrong, a crew of homicidal gangsters kidnaps Downs' teenage son. In one sleepless night he will have to rescue his son, evade an internal affairs investigation and bring the kidnappers to justice.

Baran bo Odar. Andrea Berloff. Apr 18, Open Road Films. Jamie Foxx as Vincent Downs. As one of the great literary critics of her era, arguably of any era, Hardwick had little truck with the perennially voguish notion that literary fiction should spend less time thinking and more time devising convoluted plots.

Table of contents

So, although there are chapters here, paragraph breaks, section ends etc, there is no real reason for them. While published as a work of fiction, Sleepless Nights contains many verifiably autobiographical elements: Hardwick was born into a large family in Kentucky. She did move to New York and live in a mariage blanc with a young gay man. As a writer, she did hold a place at the centre of the literary world. That they have lived and struggled in their own right, beyond the cliche to which they might so easily have been condemned. Her descriptions of them are absorbingly sensual and contain the kind of linguistic tactility that might easily lull the lazy or sentimental into reading every aspect of the novel with the foreshortening expectation of finding merely autobiography there.

Although, for example, her divorce from Lowell is obliquely referred to, his ruthless appropriation of material from her personal letters to him in the years afterwards, and its subsequent appearance in his published work, remains unexcoriated. Either way, the immobility of the literal and factual is too restrictive for Hardwick. Some sentimental notion? Because that morning my hair had fallen into a fetching wave?

I press the base of my thumb into the dough. The surface still crumbles slightly. With slow, steady movements, I squeeze the mass together. I work in silence. The machine stands next to the stove, gathering grease and dust.

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I might as well toss it out altogether, for even during the day, when there could be no objection to using it, the notion never enters my head. Its nerve-jangling din is superfluous in any case. My fingers do the job as well as any pulsating dough hook, if not better. His name was Ton. Not a name that struck a chord with me, it was just a good fit. It matched the way he walked and talked, the blue sweater he draped around my shoulders that day we went sailing. Oh, when I think of the ease with which he turned the boat into the howling wind and brought us to a clean halt six inches from the pier. By that time my lips were chewed raw; I tasted blood for hours. I turn on the faucet and rinse my hands with cold water.