This is also a marvellous piece of writing and for writing. Alas, too late to be manipulated, butchered, and twisted into final exam form. But I’d love to set this sort of thing for a literature course, maybe next term, at least as supplementary reading. It’s definitely going up in the “how to write about writing / how to read about reading” post. (Which will also be appearing in its French form, actually both the commentary and essay ones, but that’s for later.)
Thanks to the lovely Valerie and Carla, who separately and simultaneously happened upon this treasure. My other recent activities of a non-French nature have been set in the MCM classic period–science fiction, furniture, actually some French experimental word-geek fun poetry (OK, earlier too)–call it approximately 1947 (or 1951 and the Treaty of Paris, or 1952) to 1973; with a centre somewhere between Mole’s 1958, the forming of Oulipo, and 1964 (Marimekko’s Unikko print).
This here is from 1965, and c/o Slate.com of 30 November:
Suzanne McConnell, one of Kurt Vonnegut’s students in his “Form of Fiction” course at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, saved this assignment, explaining that Vonnegut “wrote his course assignments in the form of letters, as a way of speaking personally to each member of the class.” The result is part assignment, part letter, part guide to writing and life.
This assignment is reprinted from Kurt Vonnegut: Letters, edited by Dan Wakefield, out now from Delacorte Press.
FORM OF FICTION TERM PAPER ASSIGNMENT
November 30, 1965
This course began as Form and Theory of Fiction, became Form of Fiction, then Form and Texture of Fiction, then Surface Criticism, or How to Talk out of the Corner of Your Mouth Like a Real Tough Pro. It will probably be Animal Husbandry 108 by the time Black February rolls around. As was said to me years ago by a dear, dear friend, “Keep your hat on. We may end up miles from here.”
As for your term papers, I should like them to be both cynical and religious. I want you to adore the Universe, to be easily delighted, but to be prompt as well with impatience with those artists who offend your own deep notions of what the Universe is or should be. “This above all …”
I invite you to read the fifteen tales in Masters of the Modern Short Story (W. Havighurst, editor, 1955, Harcourt, Brace, $14.95 in paperback). Read them for pleasure and satisfaction,beginning each as though, only seven minutes before, you had swallowed two ounces of very good booze. “Except ye be as little children …”
Then reproduce on a single sheet of clean, white paper the table of contents of the book, omitting the page numbers, and substituting for each number a grade from A to F. The grades should be childishly selfish and impudent measures of your own joy or lack of it. I don’t care what grades you give. I do insist that you like some stories better than others.
Proceed next to the hallucination that you are a minor but useful editor on a good literary magazine not connected with a university. Take three stories that please you most and three that please you least, six in all, and pretend that they have been offered for publication. Write a report on each to be submitted to a wise, respected, witty and world-weary superior.
Do not do so as an academic critic, nor as a person drunk on art, nor as a barbarian in the literary market place. Do so as a sensitive person who has a few practical hunches about how stories can succeed or fail. Praise or damn as you please, but do so rather flatly, pragmatically, with cunning attention to annoying or gratifying details. Be yourself. Be unique. Be a good editor. The Universe needs more good editors, God knows.
Since there are eighty of you, and since I do not wish to go blind or kill somebody, about twenty pages from each of you should do neatly. Do not bubble. Do not spin your wheels. Use words I know.
Kurt Vonnegut: Letters, edited by Dan Wakefield. Delacorte Press.