Interesting Emendations: Anthony Bailey's "Outer Banks"

The variation between New Yorker pieces and subsequent versions of them that appear in books fascinates me. The variation shows that The New Yorker has its own way of doing things, even basic things like punctuation. Take Anthony Bailey’s great book The Outer Banks (1989), for example. It’s about a trip that Bailey took along North Carolina’s Outer Banks in 1985. Written in the first-person singular and in the present tense – a combination I find irresistible - it tells us what Bailey did and saw and heard and ate and felt, in detail after palpable detail, as he walks, drives, camps, and noses his way across the precarious Banks. A portion of the book appeared, in slightly different form, titled “Outer Banks,” in the May 25, 1987, issue of The New Yorker.

Comparing the two versions, I find differences in almost every paragraph. For instance, here’s an excerpt from the magazine piece describing a walk that Bailey takes on the beach:

Then I turn left – north – along the beach. The tide is at half ebb, so I am able to stride easily on firm, damp sand at the water’s edge; higher on the beach, the sand is dry and loose, too soft for comfortable walking. Some people are sitting on porches, or in beach chairs in front of their cottages. A few fishermen are casting into the surf, and several youths on surfboards are floating some way out, waiting for the right wave. Toward the horizon, a small white blob is a solitary sportfishing boat. At the water’s edge, I pass a child swimming and being watched by his father, who gives me an affable nod. I make my turnaround point a structure called the Nags Head Fishing Pier. It is battered-looking, spindly-legged, and wobbly-kneed, yet a number of customers obviously feel secure enough to be angling from it; on the landward end, it has a bar, a luncheonette, and a fishing-tackle store. As I walk back, I observe driftwood; the black egg cases of skate, like dark pouches of ravioli or wonton, sealed as if with a twist at each end; all sorts of shells; and a plastic fork or two.


Here is the same walk as described in the book:

Then I turn left along the beach, northward. The tide is at half-ebb, so I am able to stride along on firm, damp sand at the water’s edge; higher on the beach the sand is dry and loose, too soft for easy walking. Some people are sitting on porches or in beach chairs in front of their cottages. A few fishermen are casting into the surf, and several youths on surfboards are floating some way out, waiting for the right wave. Toward the horizon, a small white blob is a solitary sportfishing boat. I pass at the water’s edge a child swimming and being watched by his father, who gives me an affable nod. I make my turnaround point a structure called Nags Head Fishing Pier – battered-looking, spindly-legged, and wobbly-kneed, though a number of customers obviously feel secure enough to be angling from it. On its landward end the pier has a bar, luncheonette, and fishing-tackle store. As I walk back, I observe driftwood, the black egg cases of skate, like dark pouches of ravioli or wonton, sealed as if with a twist at each end, all sorts of shells, and a plastic fork or two.

Comparing these two passages, I count fifteen differences: (1) The first sentence in the magazine version is “Then I turn left – north – along the beach,” whereas the book version’s first sentence is “Then I turn left along the beach, northward”; (2) the magazine version says “stride easily”; the book version says “stride along”; (3) the magazine version has a comma after “beach”; the book version doesn’t; (4) the magazine version says “comfortable walking”; the book version says “easy walking”; (5) the magazine version has a comma after “porches”; the book version doesn’t; (6) the magazine version says, “At the water’s edge, I pass”; the book version says, “I pass at the water’s edge”; (7) The magazine version has a period after “Nags Head Fishing Pier”; the book version has a dash; (8) the word after “wobbly-kneed” in the magazine version is “yet”; in the book version, it’s “though’; (9) the magazine version has a semi-colon after “angling from it”; the magazine version has a period; (10) “the” before “landward” in the magazine becomes “its” in the book; (11) “it has a bar” in the magazine” becomes “the pier has a bar” in the book; (12) the magazine says “a luncheonette”; the book just says “luncheonette”; (13) the magazine says “a fishing-tackle store”; the book just says “fishing-tackle store”; (14) in the magazine, there’s semi-colon after “driftwood”; in the book, there’s a comma; (15) in the magazine, there’s a semi-colon after “end”; in the book there’s a comma.

These differences – most of them minor syntactical adjustments – show the numerous decisions Bailey faced in structuring his piece. They are typical of the differences that exist between the two texts in almost every paragraph. It’s difficult to say which version is better. Looking at the two versions of the “beach walk” passage, I like that “left – north” in the first sentence of The New Yorker version; it’s a subtle touch, signaling that we’re in the presence of a walker for whom direction is important, so much so that when he says “left,” he immediately wants to be more precise, and so quickly adds “north” in the same breath. Also, I find The New Yorker version’s “At the water’s edge, I pass a child” smoother than the book’s “I pass at the water’s edge a child.” But I question The New Yorker’s use of semi-colons to separate the driftwood, black egg cases of skate, shells, and plastic fork(s) in the last sentence. The book uses commas to mark the separation, and even though there are two additional commas within “the driftwood, black egg cases of skate, shells, and plastic fork(s),” the sentence still makes sense and flows much better than it does when it’s riddled with semi-colons. I also prefer the book’s use of a dash after “Nags Head Fishing Pier” that immediately ushers in the vivid adjectives “battered-looking, spindly-legged, and wobbly-kneed.” In the magazine piece, the use of a period, instead of a dash, delays the occurrence of these adjectives until after the start of the new sentence.

Both versions are great – full of open-air immediacy, fresh and vibrant as Winslow Homer watercolors. I think the New Yorker changes reflect its Strunkian approach to style, particularly Strunk’s well-known injunction, “Omit needless words!” My favorite sentence in The Outer Banks is the simple, but thrilling, “Saturday morning, and I drive northward up the Banks.” It’s the beginning of an excursion, and I’m happy to be along. But what about that "and”? I don't consider it needless, but I'll bet William Strunk would. I check The New Yorker version. Sure enough, Strunk has struck again; “and” is omitted; "northward" is trimmed to "north." The sentence - “Saturday morning, I drive north up the Banks” - is cleaner, but somehow less buoyant and carefree.