You’ll be glad to know that writer-director Todd Solondz is not finished rummaging through the inner lives of depressive perverts. That puts it more cruelly than Solondz would, which is part of his charm.

With Life During Wartime, a quasi-sequel, as he has called it, to his 1998 film Happiness (i.e. “the one about the pedophile”), Solondz revisits the variously troubled characters from that earlier film, and even recasts them. Instead of Philip Seymour Hoffman, we get Michael Kenneth Williams (who played Omar on The Wire). Instead of Jon Lovitz, we get Paul Reubens. And so on.

What remains is an arresting affinity for suburban disfunction. You might call it the Solondz touch. You might call it an inappropriate touch. Here’s what the filmmaker has to say for himself.

Do people stop you in the street and say, “What’s wrong with you?”

I mean, people have been nice…to my face. I don’t quiz people. I don’t interrogate them. When people say nice things I say thank you. So no. I have to say it says something good about human nature that many people do stop and say nice things to me, actually. On the street, in the subway, what have you. But I know there are just as many people who hate everything I do. And they have the good discretion and good tact never to assault me.

I mean this as a compliment to you both: If Paul Reubens deserves to be in anyone’s films, it’s yours.

I’ve always loved him. He read for me years ago. So I had a sense of what he could do, and we both took a leap of faith in each other here. With Paul of course there’s an extra layer of pathos or poignancy because of the whole history that the audience is aware of with him. And also, no one has any idea that he’s even capable of such a performance. And that’s all very exciting. And I’m very playful; in my head the character probably even has his own Pee Wee Herman doll.

That’s something to think about. How did you first discover cinema?

I went to Yale, and they didn’t have a film major. But that’s where I first thought of the idea. I think because I was socially shy or awkward and felt intimidated. When I went, we had VHS tapes, they had film societies. It could be a Howard Hawks double-bill, followed by Maya Deren, followed by Bergman, Garbo. Every night, many options. And I went out all the time. In part to escape the pressures, the social pressures, and in the process I fell in love with movies in a way that I hadn’t taken seriously as a child. I mean, I can remember I was 16 and my mom came home, and she said, “I saw a movie, Todd. What a movie. It was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” I said, “Oh, I want to see that.” And she said, “No, no, you’re too young.” So I was very protected, in what I saw growing up. It had to be rated G. And then things changed in college. I didn’t have to understand a movie. I just let it all wash over me.

So at what age would the younger you be old enough to see the movies you now make?

I have a different viewpoint from my mom. I think children have built-in censors. I think parents are always worried about, “Oh my god, the sex, the violence.” But I can remember, as a kid, anytime they started kissing, I went for the Jujubes at the concession. I took a break. No interest. And I think usually the more anxious the parents are about that stuff, probably they don’t realize they themselves are the main source of whatever nightmares these kids are having.

What will be your next movie?

The title is Dark Horse. And I can tell you there’s no child molestation, rape or masturbation in it. But I’m afraid those are the only details I can share at this point.

Those are useful details.

It’s an abstraction, really, until it’s made. You have all sorts of plans; nothing ever turns out the way you plan it. If I were maybe smarter, wiser, I would maybe have a real career. But I’m not interested in that. I just make movies that interest me in my own way. I don’t pay attention — I can’t — to what I maybe should do. A lot of times I think, “Oh this could make a lot of money, I have a very marketable idea.” But then I end up writing something unmarketable. I listen to whatever compels me to put pen to paper. I don’t have a strategy. I’m very fortunate. When I look back, I say, “Oh my god, someone gave me money to make these movies.” It’s amazing. But I never presume that I will get money again. I have to be zen about all of this. I mean, you can just get depressed and jump out the window. But I have a sense of humor about it all.

The closing of Clark’s Dairy, and the news that Rudy’s will be relocating to a location that bears absolutely no resemblance to the place it’s been since it opened in 1934, have bummed me out significantly, but I think I can handle it. What made me realize I had to snap out of it (particularly in regard to Clark’s) was the act of stumbling on a copy of Enjoying New Haven: A Guide to the Area, by Betsy Sledge and Eugenia Fayen.

This is a little paperback that I remember my parents having a copy of in the late 1980s. I don’t think I ever looked at it then but I do remember throwing it out when they moved out of their apartment downtown. The edition I remember — and which is now sitting on the desk next to me — is from 1989 and was published by Sledge and Fayen as East Rock Press, Ltd., and it is a fine little guide to the city with some really lovely prints. I found a copy of it a couple of Saturdays ago. I had spent the day at the Institute Library, a wonderful quiet place to go when you need a place that’s wonderful and quiet, and on leaving, I went into the English Building Market, which is a couple of doors down. I cruise the place fairly regularly but hardly ever do I look at the books; however, this book caught my eye: I thought, “Oh, what the hell,” and bought it.

So let me tell you: reading a guide to New Haven from 1989 is a trip. It’s really a strange experience. I found myself remembering shops that I had really and truly forgotten about, though they were once landmarks of downtown New Haven. Scribbles, a shop on Chapel Street, beneath the Yale Center for British Art: you went there for stupid doodads, stickers, obscene greeting cards, and other things no sane person would spend money on. I’d forgotten all about that place. And what makes that awful is, I actually worked there briefly. For about two days. The job was so deplorable that, at the age of 16, I phoned them and said, “Yeah, hi, I won’t be coming in. No, I don’t need to pick up the paycheck. Keep it.” I never wanted to set foot in there again.

How could I have forgotten about Scribbles? And yet I did.

The guide mentions Gentree’s, a fairly dignified restaurant that used to be on York Street, in a building that no longer exists because Yale tore it down. It was on York near Chapel, a site now housing the new part of the Art and Architecture school. Gentree’s was originally a men’s clothing store; I own an overcoat from there, which I acquired at a tag sale on Orange Street simply because I wanted an article of clothing with the Gentree’s label. The men’s shop closed, and somehow Gentree’s was re-conceived as a restaurant, the kind of place where you could get decent burgers and serious drinks. Plants; dark wood; 80s yuppie heaven. Gentree’s closed, and I was sad; it wasn’t that it was such a great restaurant, but it was reliable. Fitzwilly’s, which was on the corner of Park and Elm Streets, was a similar establishment, but much larger, and I was very sorry when they closed, too.

And the Old Heidelberg! Which is now a Thai restaurant! How can it be that the Old Heidelberg is a Thai restaurant? Well, it is the case, my friends. Been that way since 1991. Which means that the Old Heidelberg has been gone for almost twenty years. Which means that there’s at least one generation of people to whom that space has “always” been a Thai restaurant.

A sobering thought.

New Haven is, I suspect, no different from any other small city, or even town, in this regard: any business establishment that opens and then lasts longer than three to five years becomes, simply out of its survival, an institution. Some institutions are more entrenched than others: Rudy’s may thrive in its new spot, but it won’t be Rudy’s, really; it’ll be something else — but even so, you know that for the next ten years, there will be people sitting around bars around town going, “Man, remember Rudy’s, that night when….” I know that’s how it is with the Grotto, a club on lower Crown Street that closed in I think 1988 or maybe it was 1989. New Haven is filled with sentimental chumps like me who remember every club, every restaurant they ever ate at, every store where they ever bought shoes, and lament their closings. If you don’t believe me, there is proof on Facebook, even about the shoe store: Cheryl Andresen’s shop Solemate, which started on State Street and moved to York Street, is much missed by many. I still wear shoes I bought from Cheryl and her shop closed in 2000. Are people more sentimental in New Haven than in other places? I have no idea. But when I meet someone who has been here a long time, inevitably our first conversation includes a litany of “do you remembers”: the Daily Caffe; the Willoughby’s on Chapel Street; The Moon on Whalley; the Third World International Cafe… it’s always sort of romantic, actually, these conversations. We woo each other with our memory banks of the Nine Squares and the streets that radiate from it. Tight friendships are born out of these shared memories of places long gone.

Mamoun’s is still here. Mysteriously, Clarie’s Corner Copia is still here. Ashley’s is here. All true.

But I miss Thomas Sweet. I miss the pancake restaurant that used to be on York Street. (Not the crepe place; I mean the pancake place; it was where Bangkok Gardens is.) And don’t even get me started on the bookstores.

Whenever a writing contest comes along that we believe in, we feel happy to post about. We reproduce the announcement from the Westport Arts Center below.

……..

The Westport Arts Center, in partnership with Ina Chadwick’s MouseMuse Productions, is seeking well-crafted memoirs of up to 1500 words for its upcoming writing competition.

As a multi-disciplinary arts organization, WAC is committed to integrating the literary and visual arts within its regular programming. Building on the success of our two previous writing initiatives, the Writers Artists Collaborative will rely on the Arts Center’s visual arts exhibitions as a starting point for literary exploration.

This writing contest will culminate with professional actors reading the winning works at a festive reception and award ceremony in the WAC gallery on Sunday, October 17, 2010.

Top winners will also receive:

1. $175 from the WAC Writer’s Endowment

2. Online publication on the WAC web literary archive

3. Memoir read live on radio

4. Publication in Weston Magazine and its affiliate magazines

Entries are due September 7, 2010.

Download the entry form here.

Lisa Dickler Awano is a scholar of Alice Munro and an alumna of the University of Chicago, which I attended as well. She is also a subscriber to New Haven Review and a forthcoming contributor.

When we saw each other at the most recent New Haven Review gala, we talked briefly, as we have before, of the ol’ “U of C.” She had recently visited the campus, where Amy Kass was being honored. Our conversation turned, as per usual, to the topic of faculty we had known.

For me, Amy Kass, and her equally eminent husband and fellow faculty member, Leon, were not among those with whom I had the honor of taking a class (notwithstanding their conservative credentials). But Lisa and I were able to share fond remembrances of David Bevington, the U of C’s premiere Shakespeare scholar. (Bevington’s edition of the Shakespeare’s complete works remarks for me a touchstone of quality in editing and exposition of the Bard’s work.)

Our conversation then took a curious turn. She knew that the greatest influence on my early development as a reader and critic had been literary scholar William Veeder. But that influence, as I’ve written elsewhere, affected less the shape or quality of my criticism than the confidence—sometimes reckless—that underwrites it. In brief, Veeder trained me in the attitude a literary critic must take to the object of his attention rather than in the actual tools of analysis that should be brought to bear. For a critic to do his work well, one simply cannot tread a path of undue reverence to authors or their work.

And while this was a necessary first step to the art of reading well, the tools he offered at the time did not, as I suspected then but know now, deliver much substance in the way of interpretation or criticism. This is seemingly harsh, but it is without doubt the case that Veeder’s passion then for psychoanalytic criticism offered readings that, in my humble view, were seemingly complex but terribly hollow. While the article on him in Wikipedia conveys the strengths of his basic positions as a literary pragmatist (that meaning is engendered by the intersection of text and reader in a given context), his in-class instruction often dwelled to absurd lengths on intricate variants to the Oedipus complex and other Freudian and post-Freudian phenomena.

Veeder supplied the starting blocks. But my “literary regret,” small and speculative though it may be, was the opportunity I missed to have a baton passed to me by U of C’s best-known literary critic then: Wayne Booth.

Part of the reason for the missed opportunity was simple timing. Somehow I managed to graduate from U of C in three years (an achievement not to be mistaken for any act of genius or even above average intelligence on my part: I sweated seven years on a doctorate that wasn’t all that great when I finished.) My junior year was thus also my senior year, which gave me the privilege of shouldering my way into any class I wished but did not bestow the magical property of compelling professors to return to the classroom early from sabbaticals. The academic year after, I bridled with jealousy when a peer and friend regaled me with tales of Booth’s erudition and kindness during classes he took the year after my graduation.

At the time, there was no doubt in my mind that the star who shined brightest in U of C’s English department then was Booth. True, by the mid-1980s, my undergraduate years, his star had begun to fade under the glare of deconstruction and a cadre of poststructural reworkings of feminist, psychoanalytic, and Marxist literary theory. Booth’s theories seem quaint by comparison, but with the receding of the Continental tide of theory, the artfulness and articulateness of his struggle with issues subsequently advanced by narratology and reader response criticism seem to have worn well, or at least, better than some other theories.

This, of course, is just one reader’s opinion, and Booth was not necessarily my favorite or even the most convincing critical theorist. But I do think he was, at the time, the best U of C had to offer. But I’ll never really know. It is always possible that he as an instructor and I as a student would have been less than compatible. But such is the nature of regrets, even literary ones, which exist in some other universe with its own history.

I have been watching a lot of BBC Television lately. This surge of anglophilia was occasioned by my wife’s return from Walmart with two collections of “BBC Video Classics” tucked into a plastic shopping bag. The first, “The Charles Dickens Collection,” contained dramatizations of Our Mutual Friend, Great Expectations, Hard Times, Bleak House, Mrtin Chuzzelwit, and Oliver Twist; the second, “The Jane Austen Collection,” featured—naturally enough—adaptations of her six complete novels.

Working my way through the latter, while folding laundry or stuffing envelopes, proved both illuminating and disappointing. The first thing you need to know is that both collections comprise BBC’s first round of Masterpiece Theatre-like forays into high literature. All of the productions appeared in the 1970s and 1980s and were shot, to their detriment, as video.

Now let me be clear: I’m an unapologetically avid admirer of Austen. But no amount of avidity can forgive the woodenness of these productions. The stilted deliveries, passive blocking and not infrequent lack of dramatic subtext are fittingly complemented by the flaccid camera work, wan indoor lighting, and general absence of sound engineering. (Everybody speaks with a faint hallway echo).

While hardly distraught, I was, well, dismayed. Did Austen translate that badly? BBC productions clearly have the luxury of length, the lack of which in Hollywood productions was a continual source of frustration for me. In Emma Thompson’s rendering of Sense and Senibility (1995), there is no midnight visit by the faithless but regretful John Willoughby, seeking forgiveness for his caddish behavior; in Keira Knightly’s Pride and Prejudice (2005), scenes in Rosings Park and Pemberley are painfully abridged, while several characters were altogether eliminated.

Perhaps the faults I perceived lay in the dramatizations (the British term then for adaptation). I had started with Pride and Prejudice, a personal favorite. This BBC version had the distinct honor of being adapted for video by British writer Fay Weldon. Yet despite the seeming coup in selection of dramaturg, the execution was pale at best. It certainly did not compare favorably to BBC’s 6-part reworking in 1995 with Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennet and Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. And yet somehow, I did receive some modicum of pleasure, so I turned to my next favorite novel, which I had recently read: Persuasion.

Ack! It was unwatchable. The blind were surely leading the blind when someone cast 38-year-old Ann Firbank as the 27-year-old Anne Elliot. Even worse, that someone then set her against the much younger looking Valerie Gearon (who was 34 but looked 25!), who played Anne’s elder sister, Elizabeth Elliot. The overall effect was creepy, with the younger sister, the romantic object of the novel, looking like the older sister’s mother!

The real test ultimately proved to be Sense and Sensibility because here I could compare BBC and Hollywood productions and directly. (I owned the 1995 movie version.) Now I could assess more intelligently what worked and what did not. The differences were palpable. Despite the inevitable contractions that movies impose on their novelistic sources, both adaptations shared a number of identical lines, demonstrating by contrast what real talent can deliver. Emma Thompson, Alan Rickman, Hugh Grant, and Kate Winslet earn their reputations for subtlety and expressiveness when compared to the weirdly vapid and at times uninspired verbiage of the BBC production, which no doubt explains Masterpiece Theatre’s reputation among some Americans in the ’70s and ’80s as a waste of cathode rays.

And yet…and yet, I can’t seem to give up my commitment to Austen, even when done badly. To be blunt, as dramatizations of literary classics go, these BBC “video classics” suck—but not so much as not to be worth the watching. So is this what makes a “classic” a classic? Somehow the stories still compel even as the productions repel. There is a mystery here that I can’t explain.

But forgive me. I see I have a load of laundry on the bed and Mansfield Park is in the DVD drive, so I best get back to work…

If you were curious about how the Listen Here! Short Story Reading series evolved and how it’s been going, then you’ll want to hear this interview.

Our interviewer was Binnie Klein, author (Blows to the Head, check it out here) and subscriber!

The interviewees were New Haven Review publisher, Bennett Lovett-Graff, who picks the stories for the series, and actor and casting director Brooks Appelbaum.

What is The Long Read?

Following in the wake of our season of weekly readings for Listen Here!, the New Haven Review, the New Haven Theater Company, and the Arts Council of Greater New Haven have dutifully organized a six-hour reading marathon in which we revisit the best stories of the last year, as selected by our voters. So if you missed them the first time, come see them now! If you liked them the first, see them again!

How does The Long Read work?

The Long Read! is a simple idea: buy one ticket, stay for as long as you like. Come to the first hour or the last hour, or every other hour. Do what you will and take your downtime in Bar, where we’ll be reading our tales of joy and woe, pleasure and passion, heartbreak and healing. To get your tickets, visit http://newhaventheatercompany.com/vote. No box office pick up needed. Just print them off from your computer!!

So when is it?

Sunday, June 6, 2:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m., with stories paired for reading each hour.

And where is it?

At Bar, located at 254 Crown Street in New Haven!

Did you say Bar?!

Yeah, we did.

But, like, isn’t that a bar…and a restaurant…and, well, noisy?

Sure. But Bar has a back room ideal for performance. We know because the New Haven Theater Company has performed there in the past already. So no worries on that front!

And what are you reading again…and when?

Oh, yeah…that. Here it is:

From 2:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.,

J.D. Salinger’s “The Laughing Man,” read by Steve Scarpa


John Cheever’s “The Pot of Gold,” read by Brooks Appelbaum

From 3:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.,

Jim Shepard’s “Courtesy for Beginners,” read byT.Paul Lowry


Steve Almond’s “The Soul Molecule,” read by Sharen McKay

From 4:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.,

Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl,” read by Shola Cole


Eudora Welty’s “Why I Live at the P.O.,” read by Brooks Appelbaum


Dave Eggers’ “After I Was Thrown in the River and Before I Was Drowned,” read by T.Paul Lowry

From 5:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.,

Tobias Wolff’s “Hunters in the Snow,” read by Eric Nyquist


James Farrell’s “My Grandmother Goes to Comiskey Park,” Steve Scarpa

From 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.,

James Thurber’s “You Could Look it Up,” read by T. Paul Lowry


Marisa Silver’s “What I Saw from Where I Stood,” read by Eric Nyquist

From 7:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.,

Kurt Vonnegut’s “Miss Temptation,” read by Steve Scarpa


David Sedaris’ “You Can’t Kill the Rooster,” read by Jeremy Funke

We at the New Haven Review wanted to thank all of those who participated in the spring 2010 season of Listen Here! Among those to whom we are grateful:

The staff of the New Haven Review and its trustees: You helped pick the stories, you attended the readings, you cheered the series along. Thank you!

The staff of the New Haven Theater Company: T. Paul Lowry, director of the New Haven Theater Company, and Brooks Appelbaum, who cast and directed this series, you have been indefatigable in your efforts and support for this project. Thank you!

The Arts Council of Greater New Haven: Director of Communications, David Brensilver, and his colleagues at the Arts Council, you have been with us from the beginning, lending moral and marketing support to this project. Thank you!

Our Actors: There are too many to thank by name, but, we’ll give it the college try: T.Paul and Brooks, Eric Nyquist, Jeremy Funke, Hilary Brown, Sharen McKay, Ian Alderman, Rachel Alderman, Steve Scarpa, George Kulp, Rebecka Jones and others, you stepped up to the plate to read on our behalf. Thank you!

Our Coffee House sponsors: Owners and staff of Koffee, Blue State Coffee, Manjares Fine Pastries, Willoughby’s, Lulu, and Bru, you have been great hosts to this event. We raise a cup…of coffee…to you. Thank you!

Our Audience: Without you, there would be no Listen Here! We do this because all of the participating organizations believe in the value of performance, of literature, of community. We are grateful to have had you as our guests. We hope you’ll continue to attend. Thank you!

For the next season, fall 2010, we continue to experiment with the idea of the “public reading.” You can look forward to our exploring readings paired with musical interludes or background effects; ensemble readings of a single story; side-by-side readings in English and a foreign language; readings against slide show or video backgrounds; and whatever else our brains can cook up for the next season!

Poetry in Person: Twenty-five Years of Conversation with America’s Poets. Edited by Alexander Neubauer.  Knopf, 342 pp.

This book is a perfect gift for any reader or writer of poetry.  It consists of transcripts excerpted from the amazing classes held by Pearl London at the New School in New York, from 1970 to the late ’90s.  The class, Works in Progress, featured invited guests — some of the major American poets of our day — to speak with London and her students about poems the poets were working on, distributing drafts and commenting on the process of revision that goes into the making of a poem.

These exchanges should be of considerable value to anyone who writes, for it’s safe to say that not even the most grizzled veteran of the poetry workshop circuit can lay claim to having been in the presence of such an array of literary notables.  From Maxine Kumin in 1973 to Eamon Grennan in 1996, twenty three poets in all, featuring the likes of Frank Bidart, Louise Glück, Robert Hass, June Jordan, Philip Levine, James Merrill, Robert Pinsky, Muriel Rukeyser, Derek Walcott.

Neubauer, who taught fiction at the New School, provides an informative introduction about London and the class, and a brief forward on each poet, focused on the stage of the career when he or she appeared in London’s class, and often characterizing the mood of the exchange.  Neubauer had access to 90-minute tapes of each class that, transcribed, ran to over fifty pages apiece.  Distilling each exchange to about fifteen printed pages took considerable editorial skill, but it means there’s rarely a dull moment.  In each case, Neubauer selects a substantive discussion that gives real insight into a poet’s personality, frame of reference, and attitude toward a particular poem and to poetry in general.

Not surprisingly, all the guests take their work very seriously, but it’s quite refreshing that they don’t seem ponderous or self-serving.  The book demonstrates that a great public value of contemporary poets is their ability to speak engagingly about their craft and their motivations as writers.

The exchanges also make one marvel at how fully in her element a great teacher like London can be.  She leads the discussion but never dominates, nor is she timid or fawning.  Informed, relaxed, she easily inserts comments the featured poet has made on other occasions — sometimes previous visits to the course — and, like the poets, is quick to call to mind lines from poems to illustrate points about great poetry.

And that is the main issue under discussion: how to make a good poem better.  Each poet confronts this problem in an individual way, but each is clearly committed to a sense of poetry that does not permit being satisfied with anything less than the best effort.  And each is quite candid about the trials and errors that goal entails.  Neubauer helpfully provides a photostat of the poem under discussion, in most cases in both draft and published versions.

I could cite examples from every exchange that illuminate what choices poets consider in creating a poem.  In particular, I liked the way several poets pondered what they consider to be the main tasks of form, and of the relation of the sentence to the poetic line.  But to pick a favorite moment, it’s this comment from Glück, in 1979: “Something can be marvelous and still need to be stopped.  Otherwise you don’t change.  It’s as simple as that.  And if you don’t change, then you stop writing good poems.”

This is a truly challenging formulation, not simply to student writers but to the most accomplished poet.  And it shows that teaching writing is not simply about improving the words on the page but should inspire constant exploration and discovery.  Poetry in Person does that.

Fellow New Haven Review contributor Nora Nahid Khan recently wrote an article for the New Haven Advocate about the futility of attempting to find romance in New Haven.

(Link here: sorry, I can’t seem to get the link function to work right now: http://www.newhavenadvocate.com/commentary/love-new-haven )

I know what she’s talking about. I really and truly do. Romantic life in New Haven when you’re in your twenties can be beyond frustrating. I assume it doesn’t get any better or more fun when you’re in your thirties or forties. But the fact that I am writing this from the perspective of a married person — and, I might add, a pretty happily married person — indicates that romance in New Haven is possible, does happen, and can even end in happy marriage. Don’t despair, Nora.

That said, even with all my memories of romantic frustration (experienced primarily between 1993 and 1998), my own personal experience has left me littered with so many romantic memories of New Haven — especially downtown New Haven — that I can’t help but say, “It’s not that New Haven isn’t romantic. It’s that somehow people have lost their ability to notice romantic things when they’re happening; because what matters isn’t where you are, exactly, it’s what’s in your head, and what you are willing to do or say.”
The New Haven Nora finds so unromantic is the same New Haven where I had my first kiss (which was, I feel, a very romantic moment). Naples Pizza is where I had my (sort of) first date, which, okay, was not such a success (the guy showed up stoned, not exactly the way to win my heart). But matters did improve. Through my teens and twenties, romance was about walking around downtown aimlessly, looking into shop windows, stopping to sit and do nothing useful or noble on Beinecke Plaza or on the steps of a nearby secret society; going to Mamoun’s at a ridiculous hour; sitting on the front stoop of my apartment on a sweltering August night, looking across the street to Rudy’s, drinking a black cherry soda; sitting on the front porch of the apartment in East Rock reading and watching a massive rainstorm pass over us. And there were many public displays of affection. Many. I don’t know where Nora’s looking, but I see public displays of affection and romance all over the place. And I could tell you stories.

I will say that trying to find a viable mate in New Haven is difficult; this is a subject I’ve discussed ad nauseam with several people over the years. It is sometimes assumed that, since I am a local, I met my husband here in New Haven. My standard line on this is, “No, I had to import a husband.” Though New Haven is filled with single people looking for mates, I apparently did not meet the elusive standards of the single men I chatted with, day in and day out, while working in a bookstore downtown. I suppose grad students are looking for more ambitious types than the type of girl who’d while away her time working at a bookstore the way I did. But it still stung, to be passed over, over and over again. I wonder if the people in their twenties looking for mates who Nora’s looking at are people who are looking for mate, sure, but not (sorry) wholeheartedly, because they’re putting more effort into looking for professional success.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was, like Nora, bemoaning my singleness and wondering if I’d have to move across the country to find a boyfriend (I didn’t). And I have lots of friends, male and female, who talk to me all the time about how it sucks to be dating in New Haven. I always say, “I know. I know.” Because I do know. But I also think that things change; we change; and, New Haven being what it is, the available pool changes. Romantic life in New Haven is very, very possible, and can be more wonderful than you’d imagine. Give it time, and in the meantime, be grateful you’re not paying New York rent while you suffer through your romantically-challenged years.