Friday, May 1, 2015

#1 A Cosmopolite in a Cafe


#1 A Cosmopolite in a Café (1905)- O Henry

I begin this project with the writer that caused its inspiration.  O. Henry is the Godfather, the Grand Poobah, the patron saint of the American short story. I’ve had a collection of 100 O. Henry short stories (cleverly titled: 100 Selected Stories) sitting patiently unread on my shelf for several years.   Besides the few I read in High School English Class, I don’t think I’ve to this point, delved into his opus. 

Yet somehow, by reputation alone I hold him in high esteem.  Or perhaps its that for 20 years I regularly passed Pete’s Tavern on my way to the Union Square subway station.  The bar’s two claims to fame: it’s the “oldest bar in NYC” and it was the former watering hole of William Sydney Porter (aka O Henry). 

In any case, I would not undergo a short story project without including some of O Henry’s 270 short stories.  So here at the beginning, it’s the man himself.

A Cosmopolite in a Café

Let me first say that it’s the great disappointment of my life I’ve never been called and never expect to be referred to as a Cosmopolite.  Alas, life goes on.  This is a good overall representation of an O Henry story.  It’s a small vignette, with beautiful language and vivid imagery. Critics have sometimes accused O Henry of relying too heavily on coincidence for his plots (see Gift of the Magi as an example…in fact use it as an example for everything). 

There is no coincidence here and not much of a plot. It’s just a nice short scene that takes place in a midnight café.  The Cosmopolite reminds me of a photo negative of Camus’ The Sranger.  Where the stranger has no conviction on anything and thus nothing effects him, the Cosmopolite E. Rushmore Coglan has strong conviction on everything, and nothing impresses him.  Both cause the same effect of intrigue and tension to the people around them and eventually leads to violence. 

Favorite passage: “He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a maraschino cherry in a table d’hote grape fruit.”


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