This is a powerful, compelling story of a writer who committed suicide two months after the blockbuster novel he'd slaved over for seven years was pubThis is a powerful, compelling story of a writer who committed suicide two months after the blockbuster novel he'd slaved over for seven years was published---and only days before the book was announced as No. 1 on the bestseller lists. That this bio comes from the author's second oldest son---only five at the time of his father's death in 1948---makes the story more profound. In fact, what makes the life of Ross Lockridge so readable is the son's search for his lost father and the decades-long grieving process that he obviously underwent. It's refreshing to read a child's memory of a dead parent that isn't full of filial anger and rage---Lockridge makes an effort to empathize with all of the characters here, especially his mother, b. 1914, who was still living at the time the book was originally published in 1994. This is certainly a WAYYYY better book than ROSS AND TOM, the 1973 bio that drew parallels between RLJ and Tom Hegget, the author of MISTER ROBERTS, who also died young in the thick of literary success (though under very different circumstances).
Two sections of the book deserve special mention. The first is the author's careful reading of RAINTREE COUNTY, his father's 1000 page opus. Anybody attempting to get into this whopper (as I plan to this spring) needs these chapters as a blueprint to not get lost in the whirlpool of characters and symbols.
Even more important are the questions of suicide and the tendency to glamorize the artistic process. It's refreshing here, despite the frequent use of Freud to explain RLJ's struggles, that no single answer is provided. His publishers did not kill him. Heredity did not kill him. Art did not crucify him. Interestingly, LL explores a theme that I think all writers need to be wary of---the grandiosity of creating art. There are no more painful parts of this book than RLJ's verbose letters to his editors and publishers who were trying to trim RC from 1946-8 to make it more readable. The ego unleashed in those pages is embarrassing---as LL fully admits. (They're also the reason, he suggests, that Tom Leggett is so negative toward his father in ROSS AND TOM). But LL wonders whether this grandiosity (he scrupulously avoids using the word "manic") isn't a pitfall any artist must avoid in having the simple audacity to try to write. It's a worthwhile question given the self-absorption and self-importance that so many authors seem to exude. In a curious way, this book becomes a reassessment of Romantic theories of genius that LL, a Romantic scholar, has no doubt spent a lifetime studying.
I have to admit to having gotten a little RLJ obsessed this past month. This book has a lot to do with it. Even if some of the stretches of family history aren't so compelling, and the apprentice years are overly long, the story of one man's crack-up is handled so wisely that one doesn't feel the wear of 500 pages.
A sidenote: one senses some controversy unacknowledged in the book. The website of LL's older brother, Ernest (also a novelist), reprints some correspondence to LL that takes issue with some of the themes of this bio and suggests a bit of sibling rivalry that boils down to a single verb: "wrotten," which, in describing the books EL has written over his career, is interpreted as a pun on "rotten." Go HERE. The exchange (only EL's side, anyway) in no way undermines SHADE; it's simply an interesting sidenote. ...more
This is visually a sumptuous book. It includes a beautiful portrait of my late great-grandmother who was 115 at the time and an interview with my unclThis is visually a sumptuous book. It includes a beautiful portrait of my late great-grandmother who was 115 at the time and an interview with my uncle who talks about his memories of her. Unfortunately, Amazon doesn't yet invite you to peek into its pages, so I can't point you to the pic, and since it's copyrighted, I can't reproduce it either. But I can say that Paul Mobley's photos capture the sheer age that farming tills into the human body---even in the faces of the children you see the wear and tear of work. This would be a five-star for me if not for the text. The interviews are great, but as the subtitle suggests, the publishers couldn't avoid the heartland meme, which sentimentalizes rural America. These people are not the salt of the earth because that is a cliche. They are the earth, and as Walt Whitman says, they bequeath themselves to the dirt to grow from the grass they love. If you want to know them, look under your boot soles. Barring that, thumb through this....more
UPDATE: Reading a passage in Nolan's bio about Roger Simon's friendship with Ross Macdonald made me think I ought to review Simon's The Big Fix. Lo anUPDATE: Reading a passage in Nolan's bio about Roger Simon's friendship with Ross Macdonald made me think I ought to review Simon's The Big Fix. Lo and behold I already had two and a half years ago. Whoops---but hey, at least I remember what happens in the book. And it's a nice opportunity to repost in case anybody's looking for a quick, fun throwback. Honestly, this is sorta proto-Inherent Vice.
Original Rev:
Just by a fluke I happened to remember that I'd seen the movie adaptation of The Big Fix about 30 years ago (when I was but a peewee) and liking its take on the 60s, especially the seen in which Moses Vine gets emotional over film of anti-war protestors singing "Give Peace a Chance." Strikingly, the movie is not available on DVD, so I decided on a whim to track down the original novel. My 1973 first edition has a different cover than the reprint here---much more period, with a Jewfro'd Moses taking a hit off a doobie (remember that archaism?) and a femme fatale lurking in the background. I plowed through the book in a single night of insomnia. It's a fun, fast read, though, inevitably, a bit dated: the major plot circles around the search for an Abbie Hoffman-like radical who's gone underground. (Murray F. Abraham played him in the flick, while Richard Dreyfuss---in his pre-asshole phase---made for a great Moses Vine). The book is pretty harsh on Hoffman-style leftists, lampooning their pretentions, so in retrospect the book can seem a tad ungenerous considering the good Hoffman did in the years between he turned himself in in '81 and his suicide seven or eight years later. (I heard him lecture at Mizzou in 83 when I was a freshman and thought he was cool). That said, Roger Simon manages to blend Raymond Chandler and 70s ennui in a thoroughly enjoyable way in this story of political intrigue---if you ever wondered what it'd be like if Philip Marlowe solved crimes with the help of a hash-pipe, this period piece will show you....more
This was the final entry in our Jewish graphic novels program at the public library---in many ways, a great summation of everything we'd been talking This was the final entry in our Jewish graphic novels program at the public library---in many ways, a great summation of everything we'd been talking about since mid-August. This is a lusciously colored, exotic even, primer on European Judaism that somehow manages to be funny, sexy, and informative on a subject matter that wouldn't typically rock anyone's socks. Thank the epononymous hero, a rascal cat who likes to debate free will when not eating birds and pouncing kitties. The basic question here goes to the heart of any religious faith: why bother? The Rabbi himself goes through several crises of conviction, leading up to the surprising moment when he indulges in what may be the most decadent (and grossest) non-kosher meal ever to make a graphic novel. Sfar doesn't presume to have an answer; instead, he lets the characters' contradictions and foibles speak louder than any doctrinaire impulse. A very enjoyable book: not as historically important as Maus, but a lot more enjoyable than A Contract with God....more
Good friends of mine, Dan and Sandy Kendall (whose brother used to be married to my aunt) recommended this short, epistolary romance to me. I read it Good friends of mine, Dan and Sandy Kendall (whose brother used to be married to my aunt) recommended this short, epistolary romance to me. I read it in one sitting---it's that quick (clocking in at 95 pages) and, yes, that lovely. It's a nostalgic book, reminding one of a time when the thought of love and friendship blossoming over talk of the Collected Works of Walter Savage Landor didn't seem precious. The basic premise is that a New York bibliophile strikes up a relationship with the staff at London's Marks & Co. The American author, Helene Hanff, is a lively and fun correspondent; its fun to watch her tease the more stiff-upper-lip (because he's British) Frank Doel. A fun, sweet, simple read....more
She was the first thing I saw when I walked into the bookstore. Such a looker I damn near tripped over a stack of calf-high hardbacks set next to a s She was the first thing I saw when I walked into the bookstore. Such a looker I damn near tripped over a stack of calf-high hardbacks set next to a stand of morning papers. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're not quite open yet." "That's okay," I told her. "Neither are my eyes." I could tell right away I wasn't going to win any hosannas by being a smart-aleck. "I need a book," I continued by way of apology. "Something fun but dark. I'm looking at five hundred miles today, but I'm not in the mood for an epic. Noir, maybe. It takes a lot of plot to get through Tennessee." She went to the shelves and started looking at the books. I was looking at her looking at the books. I'm pretty sure I had the better view. "Try this." She handed me a trade paper---nothing flashy. Minimalist even. But I recognized it, and the title went down like a good steak. "You ever read it before?" "The Big Sleep? Sure. It's been twenty years, though. I don't remember much." "Literary hair of the dog," she nodded. "It should suit you. It's got a dead dirty books dealer, a nympho with a pistol, some scrape-ups, and a lot of snap-cracklin' wit. Maybe one or two too many jawbreakers, but there's no mush. My guess? You'll hit the FINIS before you make Cullman." Something caught my eye. Outside, three cruts piling out of a red pickup. I thought about the night before, the money at the casino one interstate exit up, the deal that didn't go down so straight. I looked at my scraped knuckles and licked the cut in my gums. I hoped I made it to Cullman. Hell, I hoped I could make it to a last page. "What about the sentences?" I asked. "What about them? You start with the big letter and follow the rest to the dot at the end. That's all you need to know about sentences, Jack." "I like mine short, but not stuttery. Any joe who speaks one-word ones is likely to get a smack upside the head from me. By the same token, I don't go for gabber.s Long, windy ones give me an ache. You know why? Because long sentences are a tough chew when you're sporting a busted rib or two." She saw the cruts outside. They hadn't spotted me, but I wasn't lucky enough to stay the invisible joe indefinitely. "You got a broken rib, do you?" She was watching the dufuses outside. "Not right now, but something tell me I will before I get to Chapter 2." An idea came to mind. "Hey, how about you give a dying man his wish and read me a paragraph or two of this Chandler guy?" She took the book back, not looking at it but looking at me, not a dab of fear in her eyes, but hard as a charcoal and twice as haughty. For a second I wondered what it would cost me for her and the book both, but what with the ride I was headed for, I didn't need any baggage. She opened the book and purred out the antepenultimate paragraph. You know the one: the one that explains the title. The big sleep. It had the kind of sentences a man could die for. With my luck, I probably would. "You better ring me up," I said. The cruts had spotted the bookstore and were headed for its door. They knew me too well. "I'll pay cash," I told her. "Because neither of us has time for credit." "If you ever get back to town, swing by. I stock noir like air. I'll hook you up." "Sure. If I make it back. Maybe then I can swallow a longer paragraph." I was on my way to head off the cruts when I nearly tripped again over the stack of hardbacks next to the morning papers. "You sell many of these?" I asked. "Not a one," she shrugged. I looked at my name on the book jacket. "Figures," I shrugged back. I set it back on the stack---gently, because tossing it would've been ungentlemanly---and I stepped outside to meet my fate. Damn if the little livro pusher didn't do me right. The Big Sleep turned out pretty durable, especially for a trade paper. Just ask the first crut who came at me. He crumpled the second he took its spine upside the temple....more
**spoiler alert** OK, kids, as long promised, having just finished Outlander---and already having had the Mrs. snatch it from me to reread (she read i**spoiler alert** OK, kids, as long promised, having just finished Outlander---and already having had the Mrs. snatch it from me to reread (she read it years ago)---here is my long-promised review.
I'm giving it 3 1/2 stars (UPDATE: Already I'm being forced to point out that that is 1/2 more than RA gave it! OK: NEW UPDATE: J has convinced me that 3 stars is too lukewarm, so I'm kicking up to 4 because--well, I'm a people pleaser. And I have no problem saying I "really" liked it as opposed to just "liked it"). I enjoyed it a lot---I won't say far more than I thought I would because I really tried to go into it without preconceptions. Honestly, genre is meaningless---romance, historical romance ... these categories build more prejudices than they do expectations, and, at the end of the day, they're simply categories for folks at Barnes and Nobles to arrange shelves. Literary fiction is every bit as formulaic as we tend to accuse these more "popular" forms of being---if you don't believe me, read eighty consecutive coming-of-age novels like I had to last year.
So, that said: I found Claire a great character. The action was fun, and many of the twists and turns---from the arsenic poisoning and the witch interlude to the various encounters with Lord Randall---were lively and dramatic. The dialogue has a lot of wit to it, and I can see why the ladies swoon over Jamie. As with all time travel literature, there is the great every-small-action-changes-the-future irrevocably theme. I thought the ending was quite beautiful, too. I also got a kick out of being reminded that my first name---kirk---means church in Scottish. (Too bad my last name is German for "of the Poison Mind").
There were a few things I didn't like. For starters, the book is too long. I mean, for the love of Franklin H. Roosevelt, I've had marriages that didn't last 850 pages, so if you're going this epic you really need a tight canvas. I personally found the last section that introduces Jamie's sister Jenny a bit slow-going. After a while, the sex scenes also started to blur together (sort of like they did in my thirties). Two other sexual issues also got me thinking: there is a mild strain of homophobia here. I was grateful when the foppish Duke was introduced that the author didn't go Braveheart and have a mincer in a kilt---quite happily she avoided that. Then (MAJOR SPOILER ALERT) when Jamie turns out to have been boofed by Lord Randall while in prison ... hmmm ... I don't know. We have to be careful when it comes to same-sex stuff being used as an index of perfidity; it just plays into too many agendas. I also was a bit odded out by the submission/domination theme in some of Jamie and Claire's more athletic tumbles---especially when he spanks her derriere black and blue and then ramrods her with the --- well, see for yourself. It would be an interesting discussion indeed to talk about the sexual dynamics. Not sure we could do it on GR without getting silly, though---which is okay. We live for silly!
Oh, and the problems some had with the religious conversation toward the end ... that didn't bother me at all. It seemed to fit Claire's character as far as I was concerned.
In the end, those are minor quibbles. My main point here is that many people love this book, but I think from my conversations, they're sometimes embarrassed a bit bc it's romance or bc it's a time-travel book. To which I say: there are many many "literary" time-travel love stories that aren't this interesting, entertaining, or consistently readable. That makes this a good book!!!! I can totally see why readers like Outlander and the ensuing series: the book is fun, sexy, historically smart and interesting, vivid and has really dynamic characters who speak great dialogue. It certainly doesn't perpetuate the stereotypes that come to mind when people mention the words "romance fiction." I appreciate RA's challenge to read the book with him, and to all the GR friends---J, Kim, Kelly---who not only encouraged us but really seemed interested by our "manly" [sic] reactions.
Now I must go yassle me lasse. Just please God, don't leave me saying Je suis prematuro....more
A beautiful book of stories by the author of HIROSHIMA that mingles past and present. Key West literature has always been an interesting if ill-defineA beautiful book of stories by the author of HIROSHIMA that mingles past and present. Key West literature has always been an interesting if ill-defined genre of regional literature; less menacing than LA but more rollicking than Chicago, it's been a metaphor of immigration and miscegenation, terrorism and revolution, popular fiction and literature. Somehow Hersey manages to take this whole history in. The longer stories involve early 1990s issues relevant to the island---most notably AIDS. The shorter interchapters involve historical figures, including early salvaging magnate Asa Tift and, of course, Ernest Hemingway (who bought Tift's house). (Hersey borrows the interchapter technique from EH's In Our Time). The stories' poignancy is amplified by the knowledge that the author died just a year before this book was published....more
Contemporary satirists would do well to reread Sinclair Lewis and learn something that doesn't always come through in, say, Little Children or The EmpContemporary satirists would do well to reread Sinclair Lewis and learn something that doesn't always come through in, say, Little Children or The Emperor's Children: Lewis has a way of making you feel for his characters. I suppose it's a fine distinction between ridiculing social mores and ridiculing the folks who practice them (knowingly or not), but it strikes me as an important one. I guess I'm a sap and I want to like my main characters---or, rather, I want to like them for their susceptibility to their failings. I don't want to hear the voice of an author in the background feeling morally superior because he or she wouldn't succumb to such a ludicrous thing such as ... joining the Zephyr Rotary Club. There are points in Lewis's other works where that happens---Elmer Gantry---but not here, at least not with me. I find myself actually starting to like Babbitt about the time his life goes off the rails. I see his foibles in me. And, no, I'm not a Rotarian---they wouldn't let me in!...more
I was actually late to the Fan's Notes fan club, having first met Exley in the pages of Rolling Stone. I actually like his other books more than YardlI was actually late to the Fan's Notes fan club, having first met Exley in the pages of Rolling Stone. I actually like his other books more than Yardley does, though they're certainly not in the same league as FE's 1968 cult classic. Ultimately, one's appreciation for this book depends upon one's tolerance for peripatetic fuck-ups, serial adulterers, unapologetic spongers, absentee parents, unrepentent misogynists, urine-stained alcoholics, and all around unheroic, flame-out figures. Apparently, I have a high tolerance because I like this book a lot---though I must say I never sympathized much with Exley himself. Yardley catalogues the sorry record of mishaps, mental illnes, and financial misadventures that made FE an interesting if somewhat unbearable lit celeb in the 70s and 80s. The book punches the "He was a one-book writer" a bit to hard for my taste, but otherwise, an insightful look at how a career unfolds when the writer himself seems intent on screwing it up....more
This was Thomas Sanchez's first novel (1973), written during an enviable period in which he and his wife lived as expatriates in an isolated part of SThis was Thomas Sanchez's first novel (1973), written during an enviable period in which he and his wife lived as expatriates in an isolated part of Spain. It's a Northern California Native American history---the kind of book that would probably be impossible to publish today (although people said the same thing in the 70s when it was published). The style is richly textured---less voluble than Sanchez's later work---and the intergenerational plot dramatic but slow-moving (in a good way). It took me a long time to read this when I first bought the reissue in 89 when I first discovered Sanchez (thanks to the pub for MILE ZERO). I reread it over the summer when I finally had time to concentrate---it's well-worth the effort....more
The other day I found out that PACIFIC OCEAN BLUE, the great 1977 solo CD by Beach Boys drummer Dennis Wilson, will be re-released finally in a new twThe other day I found out that PACIFIC OCEAN BLUE, the great 1977 solo CD by Beach Boys drummer Dennis Wilson, will be re-released finally in a new two-CD format with rare tracks from its uncompleted follow-up BAMBU. Next to SMILE, POB is hands-down the best Beach Boys solo CD and probably one of the five great albums anyone associated with them ever produced. The news of the release---15 years after a one-off CD release went out of print, itself 14 years after the LP disappeared---made me give a quick skim to this book. John Stebbins is a huge BB fan and deserves kudos for keeping DW interest running---he organized a successful Beach bash back in 03 to memorialize the 20th anniversary of DW's death. That said, this book isn't a great biography, which is unfortunate given both the complexity of its subject and the bizarre cast of supporting characters (including, famously, Charles Manson). The inner-torments that led DW on such a destructive life (drugs, booze, etc) are sidestepped in favor of his musical and charismatic contributions to BB history---probably as a way of lending balance to the more sleazier takes on the backstory. That said, there seems room for a nice balanced view of the guy that isn't apologetic or an autopsy, but this ain't it. Oh well. I'd have like to seen more interviews with surviving ex-s and kids, friends, etc., but maybe people were tightlipped. Double oh well. Stebbins will contribute liner notes to the POB rerelease. I imagine I'll read them more often than I do this book---unfortunately....more
This was one of many "saucy" paperbacks my mother and her friends traded in the 70s as they came to the end of their twenties and wondered if the sexuThis was one of many "saucy" paperbacks my mother and her friends traded in the 70s as they came to the end of their twenties and wondered if the sexual revolution had passed them by. Even in its day it had a reputation as sexist, mainly because it was an open secret that Donald Bain was neither a stewardess or a woman or that he'd even interviewed flight attendants as he claimed. Not surprisingly, it's basically a man's fantasy of sexual liberation, which, one suspects, isn't all that liberating for women. But it's also pulpy fun and part of a whole softcore trend in which you could go to your average drugstore as a kid in the Nixon/Ford era and learn all kinds of F and C words you never even knew existed. (Ford not being one of them). I hadn't remembered the homophobia other readers mentioned, so I found a copy. Sure enough, there's a lot of that one F word that's plain hateful. I'm surprised new editions haven't cut that chapter. BTW, there was also a book in this same vein about wild teachers in Terre Haute IN but for the life of me I haven't been able to track down a title. Help, anyone?...more
I used to read this book to my son, who recently turned 21. I came across a copy recently and was reminded of just how devastatingly beautiful the stoI used to read this book to my son, who recently turned 21. I came across a copy recently and was reminded of just how devastatingly beautiful the story is. I'm no artist, but it looks like it was done in colored pencil, which gives the snow and sky a surreal, dreamy texture. The real innovation is the wordlessness. I remember how my son and I used to just look at the pictures without talking, like we intuitively (telepathically maybe?) understood the story. He was a big fan of the video, too, except the ending always made him cry. Made me cry, too, but that's my little secret, I suppose....more
Another paperback pilfered from my mother. Bugliosi's HELTER SKELTER is a more authoritative book, but for the pure feel of how freaky the world felt Another paperback pilfered from my mother. Bugliosi's HELTER SKELTER is a more authoritative book, but for the pure feel of how freaky the world felt in 69/70, Sanders' voice is quintessential. There's a sarcasm to the style that makes the narrative much more disturbing than the true-life crime accounts. When I thumbed through this not long ago, I happened upon such a bizarre passage about the relationship between Charlie and a minister named Moorehouse who basically pimped his 14-year old over to the Family in return for a hummer (from Charlie!) that I went to Google to try to find out whatever happened to the guy. I was shocked to discover that many Family members are out there, still alive and in varying stages of Mansonmania. Very disturbing....more
Reading this book I was reminded of Joe Queenan's Red Lobster, White Trash, and the Blue Lagoon (1999), an unfunny book of tossed-off "humor" pieces aReading this book I was reminded of Joe Queenan's Red Lobster, White Trash, and the Blue Lagoon (1999), an unfunny book of tossed-off "humor" pieces about the irrevocable cheesiness of American culture. In an essay called "Slouching toward Red Lobster" (see what I mean by "unfunny"?), Queenan describes the chain as a place for people who think they're too good for Roy Roger's. That about sums up his point: I'm better than other people, and I get to write a book about it!
What I loved about LAST NIGHT AT THE LOBSTER is that forces people who revert to that reactionary snark to rethink their condescension toward the service industry. O'Nan finds poetry in the routine of check-lists and machinery, in the effort to treat customers more kindly than they treat waitresses and servers, in the effort to not give into despair but find some pride in work. The story and style are deceptively simply, and it's easy if we read too fast to miss the emotional subtext. In effect, O'Nan walks a tightrope here---he doesn't veer toward melodrama or sentimentality but a kind of fanfare for the common man. The most dramatic moment comes when Manny ponders stealing the giant stuffed fish as a momento of all his time at the restaurant. For some folks, that may seem too miniature to command attention, but to me it's indicative of the thousand little daily ethical challenges we face that make us a moral people. Simply put, a beautiful little book....more
Just because I'm a print guy I figured I owed it to the history of the novel to read the book on which the movie is based. (If only the history of theJust because I'm a print guy I figured I owed it to the history of the novel to read the book on which the movie is based. (If only the history of the novel would have been kind enough to thank me). As other posters note, the big surprise here is that much of what we think of as Buck Henry's wit in the film originated with Charles Webb. That said, Benjamin is a colder character here than when incarnated as Dustin Hoffman, whose nebbishness is the center of his performance's charm. It's also harder to feel for the Robinsons in print when they're not Anne Bancroft and Katherine Ross (especially Katherine Ross). That said, the ending here is as nuanced as the movie, and if you're not a great fan of the Simon and Garfunkel soundtrack, the minimalism of Webb's style offers a welcome respite from the wall-to-wall acoustic guitars and somber harmonies of "Scarborough Fair." For all that, had the book not become a seminal movie of the 60s, it's doubtful that we'd remember or care about the book. It's a fairly standard pre-hippie coming of age novel, with lots of Holdenesque angst and resentment toward suburban phonies.
In the end, what may be more interesting than the novel is the story of its author. Forty-five years after the book's publication, a sequel is reportedly in the works. This worrisome news comes years after Webb signed over his royalties to charity, lived an itinerant life as a vagabond, and landed destitute in the arms of that most chimerical of muses, the Big Comeback. Stayed tuned to whether Benjamin's relevance extends past the age of "plastics."...more
I've resisted reviewing this one since I've been on this website because I didn't really think I could convey how weirdly central it's become to my liI've resisted reviewing this one since I've been on this website because I didn't really think I could convey how weirdly central it's become to my life. First, it's a book I discovered in my mother's stack of paperbacks when I was a kid, and the later pictures of Zelda scared the B.Jesus out of me. Then when I went to college it seemed like every artsy girl I tried to date had it on their bookshelves. Flash forward another ten years and I land a job in the city where Zelda was born and where she met F. Scott, and lo and behold not only do I find myself traipsing around their haunts but they become part of my job. I'm so familiar with this book at this point I have to read it historically for the effect it has had on different generations: first, the women who gobbled it up in the early 70s as a feminist cautionary tale, then later the men and women who took it up as a kind of primer on how to have one of those all-time great love affairs. Having studied it now, and having read it alongside the inevitable revisionary heirs (Sally Cline, for example), it would be unfair to point out the flaws. I won't say this it really gives you an insight into Zelda, but I honestly think Zelda was a cipher. Nevertheless, this is still a landmark book, as evidenced by its continued popularity, and it deserves all the props it gets....more
This is a worthy read for anyone wanting to know the effort that goes into writing a good biography---and by that, I mean one that does the hard archiThis is a worthy read for anyone wanting to know the effort that goes into writing a good biography---and by that, I mean one that does the hard archival work, conducts the interviews, and burns off decades pursuing the subject. Benson is quite explicit about his own naivete, which accounts for much of the pathos here. He talks openly, for example, about how, submitting the manuscript nearly fifteen years after Steinbeck's widow, Elaine, "authorized" him, his publisher let the book sit for nearly a year before even acknowledging receipt (!). Never mind them asking him to take a royalty cut because at 800+ pages the book would be "too long." There are also interesting if painful chapters to read about Benson's run-ins with Steinbeck's surviving sons (John IV has since died) and the tempestuous Gwyn (the second wife). On a happier note, he also describes how he discovered Tom Collins, the co-dedicatee of GRAPES OF WRATH who ran Weedpatch and fed Steinbeck camp reports that lend the later scenes a great deal of authenticity. This book isn't as well known as Janet Malcolm's stuff, but it's equally interesting. It's been recently reprinted in pb, so it's not too terribly hard to find....more
First things first: this is not a movie tie-in. No earmuffs, No "Hank the Tank," no Andy Dick seminars. It is, rather, a nostalgic coming-of-age novelFirst things first: this is not a movie tie-in. No earmuffs, No "Hank the Tank," no Andy Dick seminars. It is, rather, a nostalgic coming-of-age novel set in the early 60s with a neat conceit: each year at the narrator's exclusive prep school, a literary master visits campus, igniting fierce competition among the preps for the golden opportunity to have their writing evaluated and, just maybe, be discovered. The three luminaries here are Robert Frost, Ayn Rand, and Ernest Hemingway. In the hands of someone else, this idea might have become gimmicky, but Wolff has a great eye for the excesses and vulnerabilities of the biggies. I laughed outloud when Rand lectures the hero on why Mickey Spillane is better than Hemingway. Not that I bought it, but her argument did make a certain sense. Then comes the moment 2/3 of the way through when the young protagonist commits a hubristic sin that sends the story in a whole 'nother direction. There is a wonderful, counterintuitive passage about writing that is at once biting and humble. It throws into question everything people generally write for---the belief they've got an opinion worth expressing, old wounds to salt, a voice, etc. A beautiful book. I heard Wolff read portions of it in 2002 in Italy, and he was a very down to earth guy---my friends and I even got to have dinner with him and his wife....more
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