Pulitzer Prize for a Small Press and a New Poem

When the winners of the 2010 Pulitzer Prizes were announced recently, I was pleased to see Tinkers, a debut novel by Paul Harding, had been chosen for the fiction award. Indeed, many were surprised by the selection: not only was this an initial book for the author, but also a small fledgling nonprofit publisher, Bellevue Literary Press (a project of the New York University School of Medicine), had released the volume.

Indeed, an article that appeared in the New York Times following news of the Pulitzer Prize selections labeled Tinkers as the “one that got away” not just because the major publishing houses missed out on the book, but also because the New York Times hadn’t even bothered to review the novel. As Gregory Cowles explained: “Every now and then a good book completely passes us by: we don’t get a copy, for whatever reason, and we don’t request one because the book’s not on our radar. That’s what happened with Paul Harding’s first novel, Tinkers, which was published at the beginning of 2009 by the Bellevue Literary Press, a small publisher that had only been in business for a couple of years.”

The publisher reports Harding’s Tinkers as a novel chronicling the thoughts and imagination of a dying man. It is a book “about the legacy of consciousness and the porousness of identity from one generation to the next. At once heartbreaking and life affirming, it is an elegiac meditation on love, loss, and the fierce beauty of nature.” Although Harding signed a two-book publication deal with Random House after Tinkers was published, those of us who especially appreciate small presses enjoyed this opportunity to remind everyone of their important role in contemporary American literature.

Likewise, I’d like to remind readers about Bellevue Literary Review, also published by the Department of Medicine at New York University Press. On its website, the journal is described by its editors: “Bellevue Literary Review is a unique literary magazine that examines human existence through the prism of health and healing, illness and disease. Each issue is filled with high quality, easily accessible poetry, short stories, and essays that appeal to a wide audience of readers. Because of the universal themes, many readers feel a personal connection to the BLR and find reflections of their own lives and experiences.” In fact, the journal also carries a descriptive subtitle—A journal of humanity and human experience.

I am particularly proud to note that one of my new poems, “Autism: Hyperlexia,” appears in the Spring 2010 issue of Bellevue Literary Review. The full table of contents for the current issue includes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction by Amanda Auchter, Callista Bachen, Allison Baker, Edward Byrne, Jack Coulehan, Gregg Cusick, M.M. De Voe, Fay Dillof, Albert Dixon, Ron Drummond, Rachel Contreni Flynn, Larry Hill, Mark Holden, Helen Hooper, Joan Kip, Margaret Kogan, Jenifer Browne Lawrence, Kent Leathem, Carol McCarthy, David Milofsky, Anna Mirer, Nancy Carol Moody, Amanda Newell, Ben Orlando, Rebecca B. Rank, Alexa Rose Steinberg, and Virginia Chase Sutton.

I offer a sneak preview of the issue with “Autism: Hyperlexia,” and I urge readers to visit the Bellevue Literary Review website to order a copy or to begin a subscription.

AUTISM: HYPERLEXIA

My son eyed the large and wide print
. . . . . stenciled across an interstate billboard.

At three, he’d already taught himself
. . . . . to read over a year earlier, even before

he could tell anyone how well he knew
. . . . . to spell words we had never heard him

say. My wife and I were surprised
. . . . . once again by the way he spoke terms

learned through no method we know,
. . . . . on this day reciting lines of a highway

advertisement shining under bright
. . . . . summer sunlight, its bold gold and red

lettering—Family accommodations,
. . . . . adventurous activities, and exhilarating

attractions ahead—sending a message
. . . . . to tourists that now seems meant more

to us as a lesson we only discovered
. . . . . somewhere much farther down the road.


—Edward Byrne