Area Code 212: New York Days, New York Nights

 

St. Martin’s Press, 348 pages, $24.95

 

 

 

When I arrived at Columbia, I got to take one class with Tama Janowitz, who was always
wearing something kicky like a huge watch. One day she appeared on the cover of New York magazine,
posing in front of a meat locker. One of the more hard-working and untalented writers in the program
particularly resented her"She actually posed in front of a meat locker!" he fumed.

 

By then she had already sold stories to The New Yorkergood ones, too. Her best-selling
book, Slaves of New York, was just about to hit, and some people really did hate her. These
were the dying days of old literary publishing, when everything was supposed to be low-key and earth-toned,
which Janowitz definitely was not, what with the giant watches and active night life and all.

 

Janowitz excels as a novelist, but admits to not being much on introspection, something borne
out by this hastily organized collection. It’s as if St. Martin’s just crammed in every single article
she ever wrote, without making distinctions.

 

Though autobiography is not her strong suit, we know Janowitz has two dogs, a husband, a daughter
and a couple of ferrets. She doesn’t reveal much personal suffering, but is frequently offended.
Part One, on family life, has a sort of British, women’s-magazine detachment when discussing her
adopted Chinese daughter and her handsome English husband. The central figure in her latest novel,
Peyton Amberg, is a desperate woman, aging badly and stunted, who plays better than the
author’s own real-life, settled contentment. Unlike poor Petyon, Janowitz knows a lot about designers
and fancy food and isn’t afraid to tell us. The tone of these pieces is almost reactionary in the lack
of edge. She may be amusing herself by being slightly pompous; this, she must know, is profoundly
irritating to an urban audience clothed in a faux working-man outfit.

 

The strongest pieces are fast and funnyas when she’s trashing early-80s artand
the meditations on New York manners are true and cutting. I know lots of people who confuse boasting
with interaction, which particularly irks Janowitz. I think at least one out of every five times
somebody hands me a flyer promoting themselves, they should fake a cursory interest in my own goings
on.

 

Still, this collection could have used some weeding out. Though opinionated and experienced,
the author is not a journalist. We’ll keep hearing from Tama Janowitz, though, no matter what they
say. "I CANNOT BE STOPPED FROM WRITING," she points out. And she’s right. But somebody give this
woman a book advance, before she starts freelancing again.