Malcolm Braly, "On The Yard" (1967).

c. David Grim (taken 7/14/08)

It's remarkable just how contemporary prison slang from the late-60's actually sounds. I just finished reading Malcom Braly's "On the Yard" (1967), and the experience really reinforced my sense that criminals precede hipsters in identifying the smoothest and coolest idioms and mannerisms. I guess it shouldn't come as any surprise. The demimonde was formed and presided over by criminals, first and foremost. The Beat Generation only presented one more group of social malcontents inspired by the truest ne'er-do-wells. They are merely cogs in the chain of wannabes parroting those who flout convention with actions rather than words.

Reading Braly's book can be a bit puzzling, given the fact that there are so many words used in unfamiliar ways that can only be sussed out by considering the context surrounding them. of course that's half the fun with a book like "On the Yard". What terms you do recognize serve to flatter your own vanity, with your pretensions of being "with it". Naturally I'm speaking from experience. Part of the reason I'm willing to subject myself to the nastiness of prison novels and nonfiction accounts is for the feeling of being in on something that others have no clue about.

The truth is that I have no idea whether what I've read is indeed an accurate representation of what being incarcerated is like. Certainly I can surmise that the reality is often a whole hell of a lot more boring than it's depicted in the texts. After all, it seems like prison life consists of long stretches of mundane routine punctuated by short bursts of intense violence. It's kind of like war when you think about it in those terms. That doesn't take away anything from the intense pangs of dread that must be inescapable in an environment characterized by just barely repressed tensions and brooding menace.

Regardless, it's pretty obvious why Braly's story is considered a classic by those in the know. The author spent decades locked up in correctional institutions. When he describes the tone of the yard where the general population whiles away the days, or when he spells out the unspoken rules of prison politics, the details he includes suggest that he has spent much time finding just the right way to convey what it must be like to be a convict. And along the way we learn about the relationships between inmates, guards, and the institutional administrators. It's a mother lode of information.

"On the Yard" has been called the "Great American Prison Novel", and I can understand why. Braly builds this insular world brick-by-brick without treating the reader like a student in a literature class. If you read his book, you are more likely to feel like a "fish"- a first-timer who has to learn the rules by the careful observation of those who have formed and inherited them for years. Even though populated by law-breakers, prison contains an inherent logic that, while maybe not obvious, can be fatal if ignored or misapprehended. And the first requirement for survival is learning the language.

Enough Already.

c. David Grim (taken 9/25/10)

There should come a time in every man's life when he is no longer impressed by the tales of outlandish (and even wretched) excess that some of the last couple of generations' literary heroes seem to have employed to find fame and fortune. Apparently the yearning for vicarious experiences of debased debauchery runs pretty deep in our culture. That's why a memoir like Mike Edison's "I Have Fun Everywhere I Go" gets a number of positive reviews on Amazon, despite the fact that it is rehashing a lifestyle that has been overexamined throughout the last 50 (or so) years.

And who can we blame for such a situation? Was it William Blake, who first wrote accounts (fictional and otherwise) of his stumblings through the demimonde of drug use and nascent bohemia? Or should we pick on Henry Miller, who seems to have pioneered the Western tradition of extolling the sex-crazed preocuppations of the modern literary male? Perhaps the blame should instead fall squarely on the heads of the "Beat" writers, who appropriated the lifestyle and rhythms of the criminal underclass in order to stake out their legacies? Maybe Hunter S. Thompson or Charles Bukowski are to be held responsible for popularizing the modern day account of chemically-dependent hedonism?

Regardless of who we target as the scapegoats, it should be well understood by now that such ground is now well-trodden. The extent to which an individual must go to shock his readership nowadays within this tradition should reasonably kill him, and if the resultant lifestyle fails to do this then the chances that he can write a cogent, meaningful summary (with what is left of his brain) are no doubt minimal. Either there is a whole lot of hyperbole happening, or the work is ghost-written.

I'll readily admit that I'm guilty of playing in to this trend. I've actively sought out extreme tales of the underground for years now. There is something somehow appealing about tracking the decscent and inevitable degradation of another human being. It can be funny if the reader is cynical enough. And it can be comforting to realize that some have made mistakes so much more egregious that one's own. Still, this type of material must eventually lose its edge, and in the process it is likely to have dulled the senses of anyone who has regularly indulged in such "literature".

Believe me, I'm really not becoming a prude in my tastes. It's just that I find must of this stuff simply boring. No one is going to blaze new ground recapitulating their experiences with drug and alcohol binges. Their personal stories may provide temporarily amusing diversion, but very little of substance (other than ennui) is likely to stick with the reader.