Category Archives: American literature

The musical adaptation of Cry, the Beloved Country

Especially in 1949, Alan Paton’s international best-selling novel Cry, the Beloved Country must have seemed a very unusual choice to adapt into a Broadway musical (decades before “Sweeny Todd” or “Nixon in China,” years before even transforming “Liliom” into “Carousel”). Material more astringent than the typical Broadway froth was not alien to composer Kurt Weill (1900-1950), who was and remains most famous for his collaboration with Bertholt Brecht in turning “The Beggar’s Opera” into “Threepenny Opera” (with the less than frothy hit songs “Mack, the Knife” and “The Pirate Jenny”). The librettist, Maxwell Anderson, was famous for some high-falutin’ plays (Elizabeth the Queen, Anne of the Thousand Days, Joan of Lorraine) and some earnest “problem” plays (Winterset, The Bad Seed, Key Largo).

Contrary to the expectations of many (I’m sure), their play about apartheid, interracial murder, and a preacher losing his faith, “Lost in the Stars” was a critical and popular success on Broadway.

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The 1974 movie of the musical (between two non-musical adaptations of Cry, the Beloved Country does not strike me as stage-bound. People burst into song (which is never naturalistic except in movies about staging musicals), but a lot of the musical takes place out of doors. The print of Robert B. Hauser’s cinematography transferred to DVD is not the best, but it is clear that it had bright colors to go with a sad story.

The story is that of a Zulu minister, the Reverend Stephen Kumalo (the anguished and formidable Brock Peters), who travels to Johannesburg, looking for his son Absalom (a very handsome musical theater performer Clifton Davis). I’m not very interested in providing plot summaries, especially of very well-known works such as Cry, the Beloved Country so let me interrupt myself by noting that anyone familiar with the Bible and naming a son Absalom is inviting grief.

Absalom left the rural Zulu area to find work in the diamond mines, notorious as places in which parental/traditional supervision was missing. Absalom got in more than the usual drinking and fornicating kind and, his father learns in Johannesburg, was in prison. Absalom is out on parole, shacked up with looking for his son Absalom (Clifton Davis). Like many of his people, his son has gone to seek work in the mining town, but when Stephen arrives in the city he finds out from his brother that Absalom has been in trouble, has just been released from prison and is shacked up (literally in a shack) with Irina (Melba Moore) whom he has impregnated. She has an unimaginatively staged (medium shot) but fervently performed rendition of the play’s main hit song, “Trouble Man.” The acting is ludicrous, but the song manages to survive.

With a cousin and another thug, Absalom takes part in a robbery—of the liberal son of a hard-bitten white farmer back home. The man is supposed to be out, but is not and is shot pretty much on reflex by Absalom. Absalom’s father catches up with him in prison, certain that no son of his could have killed a white man. Absalom tells his father that he had not meant to, but did in fact pull the trigger. Absalom is determined to tell the truth, while his accomplices plead “not guilty.” Stephen Kumalo’s brother John (a glowering but underused Raymond St. Jacques) tells Stephen that admitting guilt is a guarantee of the gallows, but Stephen is not prepared to urge his son to lie. (And Absalom is determined to lie no more.)

Stephen goes into a church and with great anguish delivers the other most memorable song from the play (“Lost in the Stars”). In the trial, dishonesty is rewarded and honesty leads to the death penalty (as everyone knew it would). The Rev. Kumalo performs a prison-cell wedding and takes Irina and her young son home, after a dramatic but underplayed scene with the dead man’s father and dominating force in the homeland, James Jarvis (Paul Rogers). There are a number of choral commentaries, but the major dialogue is spoken rather than sung. There are also some unimaginatively filmed dance numbers. Neither the music nor the dance bears much relation to South African music or dance. Despite being an independent production, the music and dance are very Broadway (the production numbers in the MGM musicals of the late-1940s and early-1950s were not so staticly filmed).

There is more drama involving the Rev. Kumalo’s crisis of faith and no happy ending (“Victorious messengers do not come riding often,” Brecht warned after the reprieve in “Threepenny Opera” (in Marc Blitzstein’s translation).)

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(Lotte Lenya with Kurt Weill, ca. 1942)

Other than hearing Weill’s music in its original dramatic setting (the Brechtian choruses as well as the two enduring songs already mentioned) (or to fantasize about Clifton Davis), the major reason to view this DVD is the powerhouse performance of Brock Peters—he was the defendant memorably and unsuccessfully defended by Gregory Peck in “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and extraordinary as the neighbor of Leslie Caron in “The L-shaped Room,” Rodriguez in “The Pawnbroker,” the detective in “Soylent Green” and who has had few good roles since “Lost in the Stars,” which he had played in the Broadway revival the year before the movie was made. (Trekkies may fire at will.) Like Lou Gossett, Jr., Brock kept busy, but rarely was given the chance to show what he could do.

I wish that Melba Moore had brought more fire to the role—or, perhaps that the role of Irina had some of the fury of the Pirate Jenny and less of making calf eyes. (Moore and Davis apparently had a 1972 tv series).

 

The DVD mostly advertises other American Film Theater productions (e.e., Brecht’s “Galileo“. I saw it in a theater, so did not have access to the essay that is in the DVD package.

 

©2018, Stephen O. Murray

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Philip Roth’s Zuckerman Bound and Shop Talk

Before the recent death of Philip Roth (whom I consider an important writer, but not before his death “he greatest living American writer”),

Claudia Pierpont Roth’s biography inspired me to read the Zuckerman trilogy (plus a novella), starting (and seemingly finishing!) by rereading The Ghost Writer (1979), which I read somewhere was a Philip Roth novel for people who don’t like Philip Roth novels. I don’t really understand that assertion, still less CPR’s claim that the novel is “seamless.” For me it has glaring seams between its three parts. I feel that the burned out martyr to fictive art E. I. Lonoff was more than a slap (a pummeling?) of Bernard Malamud, who was still alive. The shots of Saul Bellow are fine with me.

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Turning Lonoff’s student/assistant/mistress into an Anne Frank who had survived is tasteless at best — and a cheat to beat. The part I like best is the middle, titled “Nathan Daedalus,” not that it is any more a portrait of a young Jewish writer than the other two.

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I thought  Roth was a splendid essayist, especially about other Jewish writers. Most of Roth’s miscellaneous Shop Talk interesting, but nothing in particular sticks out in my memory of reading it, though I appreciated the opening chapter about conversing with Primo Levi (whose collected works just appeared in English). The chapter on Malamud is as merciless as the fictional portrait. And I certainly agree that Bellow went from comic to rancorous, though I’m not sure Humboldt’s Gift is the turning point. Perhaps my memory of it is faulty. I remember it as my favorite of Bellow’s big books (I liked Henderson, the Rain King when I read it in high school, but doubt I would now; I recall liking the shorter novels, Dangling Man, The Victim, and Seize the Day, but if I reread them, who knows?). I liked the interview of Edna O’Brien. Another female writer is included in an exchange of letters between Roth and Mary McCarthy (spurred by The Counterlife and charges of that Roth insists are the character’s not his of claiming that all Gentles are anti-Semitic in her New Yorker review of it). The (1976) discussion of Poland in the 1930s (centering on Bruno Schultz) with Isaac Bashevis Singer is interesting. I wish that Roth, ca. 2001, had provided epilogs to his pieces on Klima (from 1990) and Kundera (from 1980) about what those Caech writers becamesfter the fall of the Soviet EMpire. The more overtly self-centered Reading Myself and Others is more valuable, but I welcome the second collection, too.

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I resumed Zuckerman Bound after Roth’s demise —with Zuckerman Unbound (1981)—but far from free..

In fact, he is very bound by the notoriety and riches of a novel entitled Carnovsky, which, like Portnoy’s Complaint, featured a lot of masturbation in Newark. Zuckerman is not free of the hostility of Jews for his work, including his younger brother (this is not autobiograpichal, and Roth’s father lived longer than Z’s).

There is nothing misogynist in the book. The one sexual encounter is with an Irish actress who is carrying on an affair with Fidel Castro (Z learns after their night of reading Kierkegaard and an off-the-page copulation). (OK, there is his righteous most-recent wife, Laura, and his sister-in-law, Carol, whom Nathan urges his brother to leave, but neither is treated with any contempt by Z.)

There is a comic (if threatening) version of Herb Stempel , the six-week Jewish ex-Marine celebrity fed answers and then forced to lose to Charles van Doren on the game show “21” in 1956.

“Making fake biography, false history, concocting a half-imaginary existence out of the actual drama of my life is my life,” Roth wrote.

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If not Roth himself, Nathan Zuckerman had tired of doing that by his next outing.

I liked The Anatomy Lesson (1983) the least of the Zuckerman Trilogy. Indeed, I like each entry less than the previous one. Zuckermann is still the much-resented author of Carnovsky, a mega-best-seller like Portnoy’s Complaint, but, unlike Roth, he has not been able to write anything since it. He has excruciating neck pain and decides he wants to go to medical school (at age 40 with none of the science prerequisites), actively discouraged by a childhood friend Bobby who went to the University of Chicago at the same time he did and is a physician. The physician’s widower father is an even more major character.

NZ borrows the name of his harshest critic (Milton Appel standing for Irving Howe) and makes him the publisher of a porno magazine as he tries to hire a female chauffeur originally from Minnesota, working in Chicago. She is not interest in working for him (let alone sleeping with him). Not a rounded character, but not a wet dream of a misogynist either. She tells him “t’s your honesty that stinks the most. You think because you’re honest and open about it, that it’s acceptable. But that doesn’t make it acceptable. It only makes it worse. Even your honesty is a way of debasing things.” (648)

Anatomy Lessons prefigures Roth’s eventual (much later retirement after returning as more the focus of his last novels):

“All I’ve got to go on, really, is my inner life—and I can’t take any more of my inner life. Not even the little that’s left. Subjectivity is the subject, and I’ve had it.” (602)

“I’m sick of raiding my memory and feeding on the past…. I’m sick of channeling everything into writing I want the real thing, the thing in the raw, and not for writing but for itself.” (610)

“The burden isn’t that everything has to be a book. It’s that everything can be a book.” (687)

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Olga in “The Prague Orgy” (1985) keeps demanding that NZ fuck her before she will surrender the Yiddish Aspern Papers (stories by Olga’s husband’s father; her husband Sisovsky, has fled Czechoslovakia for New York, from whence Zuckerman goes to Prague, visits the Jewish cemetery, and deals with Olga and the ubiquitous secret police who have half the population spying on the other half). The depression of the populace and justifiable concern about surveillance fit with my own observations of even later-communist Prague, where there was no conversation on the subway, everyone staring straight ahead. But NZ at least gets what he orders (poached eggs) in a restaurant.

In Prague, NZ gets outside himself, and he will be narrator rather than focus of later books (as well as the 1988 The Facts: A Novelists Autobiography), so “The Prague Orgy” seems to me to be a breakout/breakthrough, though not altogether lacking in masochism. As he wrote of Kafka (specifically “The Burrow”), “Touched by a spirit of personal reconciliation and sardonic self-acceptance, by a tolerance of one’s own brand of madness…. [He] no longer seeks to resolve itself in images of the uttermost humiliation and defeat.”

 

©2018, Stephen O. Murray

An absorbing fictional memoir of the author of “The Tale of Genji”

Reading Lisa Dalby’s imagined life of the author of what some call “the first novel,” The Tale of Genji,  in the hospital, I read many paragraphs more than once, and at least one sentence four times. That and the constant interruptions that caused me to lose my exact place did not lessen my esteem for Dalby’s feat of historical empathy for the Heian-era writer (whose world is explored by Ivan Morris’s The World of the Shining Prince, which I intend to reread.)

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Dalby provides a plausible portrait of the author of The Tale of Genji, pressed into imperial service after her tales had started to circulate and interested the regent, Michinaga. He wanted her around to influence her portrayal of the shining prince to be like himself. He did less to act to like Genji, except in multiplying sexual conquests, than he hoped to see himself in what his courtier wrote. He forced her to write reports of the ceremonies after the birth of a boy child to his daughter, Shôshi.

Dalby used the surviving poetic output of “Murasaki” as well as surviving diary fragments. I think the makes an interesting, unpretentious character who would rather observe than be observed hates being talked about, as she was by other female courtiers),] has a low sexual drive, but two passionate relationships, the first with a female peer, Kerria Rose, the second with the son of a Chinese diplomat whose father was negotiating with her own father, a self-styled expert on Chinese poetry, though he was quite ignorant of the culture. Ming-Gwok explains much to the enraptured but discreet young Japanese woman. And she tells him about Japanese culture, though not yet having her own experience of the court in Miyako (Kyoto).

Before accompanying her father to the frontier province of Echizan (a posting that was based on his knowledge of written Chinese), she had been pledged to the promiscuous, rich Nobutaka, a marriage she evaded as long as she can. She genuinely missed him after he dies and does not take up with any other men. (She admits she enjoyed thwarting Genji’s seductions, though she first conceived him as an imagined ideal lover.)

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(Hioshige illustration of the usual screen barrier between male and female interlocutors)

She does meet and is intrigued by the former courtier whose Pillow Book is another Heian era classic, Sei Shônagon. The novel’s heroine feels pity for Shônagon’s fall from the palace and finds offputting her Pillow Book stories that all seem to end in self-celebration. Murasaki is more self-annulling Buddhist, as unconcerned as a woman in her position can be about the esteem of others (which her book, nonetheless, draws).

 

“I had exhausted myself trying to capture the nature of the twisted relationships into which men and women fall… I had been concerned lest Genji succumb to flights of magical fantasy. I wanted him to be wonderful but at the same time believable, and my readers, judging from their responses, found him so. I amazement for over twenty years I watched Genji grow until eventually it seemed I myself was merely a tool for his shining persona. Was I writing Genji? Or was Genji just using me…. Finally, I came to the realization that fiction ultimately creates its own truths.”

The culmination of Steven Saylor’s Gordianus, the Finder series

I finished the 14th and probably final Steven Saylor Roma Sub Rosa novel narrated by Gordianus, the Finder, Throne of Caesar, saddened (for myself, not for Gordianus) by his retirement after this (unpaid-for) case as a proto-privatee detective. That Saylor could build a mystery around the most famous murder in history is amazing. Unlike the historical figures, the reader knows whodunit, where, when, and their rationalizations of breaking their oaths to the dictator who had not only spared many of them but raised them to high offices. I can understand Saylor’s reluctance to take on the assassination of Gaius Julius Caesar, including swerving back to writing three prequels to the series before proceeding to the famed “main event.”

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(Vatican Museum bust of Julius Caesar)

In a book that begins five days before the 44 BC, Saylor shows how Caesar loomed over the world (the West, that is), as well as frailties (there are no epileptic seizures, but some mania and some fatigue). Cicero continues his prickly relationship with Gordianus. Though unhappy at his marginalization, Cicero is the last patrician still standing at the end. Gordianus’s Egyptian wife, Bethesda (turned from slave to Roman matron), and daughter, Diana, play little part until after the assassination, which then focuses on women, including Fulvia, the brains of Marc Antony’s rise to great wealth and power.Throne_of_Caesar_Cover_480wide.png

(cover with part of the 1864 painting byKarl  von Ponti)

The mystery(ies) center on the poet Cinna, whom Julius Caesar much admired as the greatest living Roman poet (Catullus had been dead a decade). Gordianus and Cinna (and one of those who would plunge a dagger into him in the Senate the next day) were at Caesar’s last dinner, at which Cinna read his just completed, after a decade’s work, “Orpheus and Pentheus.” Both title characters were dismembered while still living and trying to sing or speak. The horrifying ends of the two are foreshadowing. There is a lot about the Bachantes and Fulvia’s leadership in several conspiracies, including the one that cleared her husband’s path to ultimate power.

Very little of Cinna’s once vaunted work has survived. Saylor has an explanation of this in the last part of Throne. The book is a reminder that Roman male citizens owned the bodies of women in their households, including wives and daughters (even if Antony was not so foolish as to lord it over Fulvia!). And the outlet of their ”mystery cult, with annual collective frenzies. Gordianus even manages to watch a rehearsal (in his own house, after he and all other males have been ejected) for the Bacchanalian Liberalia festival (17 March).

 

©2018, Stephen O. Murray

 

 

 

 

 

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Harriet Doerr’s Consider This, Señora

Harriet Doerr’s second novel, (following her 1984 National Book Award-winning The Stones of Ibarrra, Consider This, Señor, (1993), is also focused on expatriate American characters experiencing life in rural Mexico. Sue Ames, a recently divorced painter, and Bud Loomis, a real estate developed who has fled tax liabilities in Arizona, but the remnants of a hacienda, including the ruins of a mansion. Both plan to build houses for themselves and to finance their houses by selling other lots. (They give the lot with the ruins to the still influential scion of the family that once, before the revolution, ran everything farther than the eye could see.)

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Sue enjoys the vistas and builds a comfortable house. Bud has had to transfer his raison d’être from accumulating dollars to accumulating pesos, but remains dedicated to the pursuit of quick profits, and builds a boxy “functional” house.

While observing a fiesta, Sue meets another American divorcée, Frances Bowles, who gathers local color professionally (for guidebooks). Frances is enamored (and loudly banging) Paco. She decides that she will build a house for herself and another for her widowed 79-year-old mother Ursula next to Sue’s and makes it her base. “When Fran told her mother about Paco, Ursula almost believed she had already met and been charmed by him. He was the third excessively charming man her daughter had loved” and Ursula has forebodings he will slip away as his predecessors did.

The novel switches from expatriate American to expatriate American, with Ursula and Bud having the most extensive dealings with the locals, particularly the priest, the faded aristocratic lawyer, and the girls who work in their houses. Fran is preoccupied with the elusive Paco, and Sue largely fades out of view through the middle of the novel, but plays a central role in the end. The book is considerably more “about” the relationships that develop between expatriate American and Mexican characters than those between the four expatriate Americans living fairly close together above the town. Doerr does not condescend to/about the Mexican characters in the manner of the greatest Anglophone expatriate in Mexico novel, Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano or trowel on mystic projections as D. H. Lawrence did in The Plumed Serpent. The alternation between puzzlement and bemusement the Mexican characters have for the strange behavior of the foreigners who have set up lives in their neighborhood ring true to me. The octogenarian novelist was not sentimental about the characters she created, but was affectionate toward them (even Bud).

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The book is not as searing as the title story from The Tiger in the Grass, but is a sure-footed exploration of lives that intersect more than they connect. Doerr’s ear for different ways of speaking was as keen as her eye for telling detail of landscape, architecture, or raiment. For me, she provides the image of an ideal mother maintaining an interior life of her own through and beyond a lengthy marriage. I realize this is an particular projection of my own, but I can’t imagine anyone reading her work not agreeing that she wrote with lucidity and concision. (I especially enjoy how the very last line is set up!)

 

©2003, 2018, Stephen O. Murray

 

Harriet Doerr’s The Tiger in the Grass

I seem especially to like work by writers who began serious writing in their mid-60s, that is, after reaching what traditionally was “retirement age.” It’s not that I identify with those who were silent until then, honing their memories. Some of it may be the burnished, lucid prose they tend to write. The best single example is Norman MacLean who was in his 70s when A River Runs Through It seemed to burst out of nowhere. (He followed it with burrowing into the firefighter disaster in Young Men and Fire.) The writer who produced a stream of novels about pasts not her own as well as her own past was Penelope Fitzgerald.. The Tiger in the Grass is more akin to the gleanings into a very slender volume of short stories of Fitzgerald’s last book The Means of Escape.

Harriet Doerr (née Harriet Green Huntington: yes, those Huntingtons: her paternal grandfather’s estate is now the Huntington Library and Gardens, though she does not mention that) left her studies at Stanford University to marry in 1930, and accompanied her husband to Mexico, where they moved to live fulltime during the 1950s. After his death, she returned to complete her degree. Forty-plus years older than other creative writing students, her work silenced any questions about her place in the (highly competitive) program. I suspect that she also silenced the young woman who asked if she had been happy throughout the forty-two years of her marriage: “I never heard of anyone being happy for forty-two years. And would a person who was happy for forty-two years write a book?”

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Her first novel, The Stones of Ibarra published when she was 84, was a best-seller, won the National Book Award, and was adapted for a Hallmark Hall of Fame production. Stones is more a collection of stories based on her experiences with her husband who ran a mine in Mexico than a novel, but Cosider This, Seora, her second book, is novelistic in structure, interweaving the stories of four American expatriated to rural Mexico.

The central collection of fragments of fictionalized memoir, or bits not included in from the autobiographical fiction of The Stones of Ibarra, A Tiger in the Grass, have the lyrical but unsentimental recalling of sights, sounds, smells, and characters of her Mexican life — I mean of Sara Everton’s… These most directly repeat the magic of her earlier books.

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Despite my interest in (and experience of) Mexico, it is the two longer pieces that begin and end the book that make me shiver in admiration. (Knocking readers out was not her intention. She may make readers cry, but her narrators can convey heartbreaking details without seeming to flinch, let alone cry. Like “Big, two-hearted river.”)

The title story (or essay) juxtaposes Doerr’s experiences of growing up in Pasadena , going to Smith College for a year, then to Stanford, meeting her future husband, an engineering student, going to Mexico, returning to Stanford and hesitatingly starting to write juxtaposed with shards of a son Michael’s experience with cancer. The concluding story is a memoir (or in the form of a memoir) of a nanny who came from England to raise twins whose birth caused their mother’s death and two older daughters. Edie stayed on in California, relatively neglected by those she raised until on her deathbed.

In choosing precise details that establish character in these two nonfiction summaries of long lives, Doerr shares Penelope Fitzgerald’s strength. This is also the case for a story (seemingly written in the Stanford creative writing program) that seems the least autobiographically based, “The extinguishing of Great Aunt Alice.” It is the most comic piece in the volume, though the comedy is quite dark.

My favorite pair of the six Mexican pieces, “Way stations” and “The watchman at the gate” also have slivers of dark humor and, like “Aunt Alive” are more plot-driven than the rest of the contents of the book. There is a lot of pain and loss , a lot of death and cancer, in the book, but the tone is not bleak. There is no self-pity. Doerr exults experiences from her long life (she was 85 when the book was published in 1995; she died last year; glaucoma prevented her maintaining her sentence-a-day pace after the death, also in 1995, of the son for whom she wrote), precisely detailed memories of sleeves of rain, low tide on a long-ago summer day, the walls of the sleeping porch in her childhood home, etc.)

Although there is not really enough material to fill even a small-sized book, the best parts are so luminous that it would be a shame not to have them gathered together. The first two pieces of the section “First Work” and the wispy first two pieces of “Memory” strike me as padding (the reason my overall rating is four stars, but the pieces I’ve mentioned definitely rate with five stars). However, the title (nonfiction) story delivers more than most long novels do, without telling the reader what to think or what to feel. “Edie,” the last tale would, I think, have satisfied Flaubert and is less sentimental than his “A Simple Heart.”

Doerr did not write sentimentally about any of the deaths of those she remembered. I began reading the book the night before my mother’s funeral and it helped me focus away from the deathbed at which I had been sitting, helpless, to the memories of my mother’s childhood that I elicited a few years before her death (also at 92). From admiration for Stones of Ibarra, which I read at a less fraught time, I’m confident that the best parts of The Tiger in the Grass would have impressed me at any time, but it is an especially good book for those on or just coming off death vigils.

 

©2003,2018, Steohen O. Murray

OI’ll get back to northern Slavs soon!)

Writers most important to me, then and now

Then

Long, long ago, when I was finishing high school the (then-) living writers who were important to me, whose new work I’d seek out were

 

John Cheever (Falconer)

Vladimir Nabokov (Invitation to a Beheading)

Katherine Anne Porter (Pale Horse, Pale Rider; Noon Wine)

Philip Roth (Goodbye Columbus)

Jean-Paul Sartre (The Flies)

Mishima Yukio (After the Banquet)

Gore Vidal (Burrr)

Pär Lagerkvist (The Death of Ahasuerus)

Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange)

John O’Hara (Pal Joey)

Walker Percy (The Moviegoer)

 

The last three are mostly forgotten (by others) now, but not IMO reprehensible choices. Only one of those on this list  is still living, and he is retired.

 

I made another list in 2000 with the now-dead Penelope Fitzgerald, Michel Tournier, Muriel Spark, Mary Lee Settle, plus the still living (in 2018) Matthew Stadler, Hanif Kureishi,   Alan Hollinghurst, and Mark Salzman, and some writers who are also on my current list.

Now

Michael Ondatjee (Coming Through Slaughter)

Edmund White (Nocturnes for the King of Naples)

Andrew Sean Greer (Less)

Peter Cameron (The City of Your Final Destination)

Josip Novakovich (April Fool’s Day)

Louise Erdrich (The Master Butcher’s Singing Club)

Joan Silber (Fools)

Elizabeth Spencer (The Salt Line)

Chang-Rae Lee (Native Speaker)

Alan Gurganus (Adult Art)

Rabih Almeddine (KoolAIDS)

André Aciman (Call Me by Your Name)