Weldon Kees wouldn't make it into the generally recognized canon but I like him and lots of things about him. I dare say he is minor compared to Tolstoy as a fiction writer or Milton as a poet but that doesn't impinge on one's enjoyment of reading him.
Not all the poems are masterpieces but there is a handful worth having and I prefer to judge people by their best work rather than take away points for their less good. Similarly with the stories which are fine if not crucial. There are a number of reasons why Fall Quarter, his only surviving novel, went unpublished and not all of them are that it wasn't any good.
It's not often that I LOL, laugh out loud, while reading, but have done twice in this. William Clay has taken up a post teaching in a downbeat provincial college in Nebraska. He looks up Janet Eliot whose name he's been given. As with Mrs. Oatley who he meets in a bar next up, she's brilliantly conceived,
"Can't you drive faster?", she said. "I scarcely feel I'm moving when I'm doing less than sixty."
"I don't want to smash us up."
"Oh, don't worry about that ! I've been in hundreds of accidents and never got scratched. Once I was with a boy and we ran right into a train and I wasn't hurt a bit."
"What happened to him?"
"He died."
Bits of it might be a fraction overdone but it's art and art emphasizes certain elements at the possible expense of credulity to make its point. At university 45 years ago Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was on the reading list. One of the worst books I've ever read, alongside A Card for the Clubs by Les Dawson. I've not read Kerouac. One doesn't shock by setting out to shock. You create something like a cartoon if you do that, more like Tom & Jerry. Deadpan is better.
Fall Quarter has a great facility, something that those who like Salinger would enjoy and, at halfway through, I'd take it as it is rather than 'improve' it further. It is possibly the best of Weldon Kees. I'm glad it saw print eventually and that I got a nice copy of it.
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In the second half, the hapless William Clay meets Dorothy Bruce, a little town flirt and radio singer with who he, of course, becomes hopelessly devoted to in the face of all the evidence that she is treating him like a doormat. It's a plot used more than once in London and Brighton settings at roughly the same time by Patrick Hamilton,
Yet he knew, following her with his eyes, that she could treat him any way she pleased, that she could do anything she wanted, and he would still be hanging around, unprotesting.
It's an episode rather than a broad, sweeping canvas of a story and thus likely to be considered 'minor' because it's not Anna Karenina but that's no way to assess the worth of anything. I thought it was great because I enjoyed it in all its downbeat ingloriousness. What a great pity it is that the other attempts Kees had at novel writing are lost.
