A few days ago the New Orleans Advocate / Times Picayune published a social roundup that included some great photos from the recent Happy Birthday, Mr Faulkner! event, an annual fundraiser for the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society. Here are some of our favorite photos from the event, at the Hotel Peter & Paul. Take a look!
Jana Napoli and Laura Lane McNeal
Tom Hill & Andrea Dube
Jay Parini, Anne Simms Pincus, Permele Doyle, & Garner Robinson
Michael Harold, Rosary O’Neill, & Dr. Quinn Peeper
The death on March 17, 2017 of Derek Walcott surfaced memories of his visit to New Orleans in the spring of 2002 with his wife, Fay. Major Jackson, a young poet friend then teaching at Xavier University, now at the University of Vermont and poetry editor of the Harvard Review, asked if Faulkner House Books would, with Xavier, cosponsor Walcott’s visit to New Orleans. We did and on April 15, with a large gathering of readers and admirers we celebrated the life and work of the Nobel Laureate from Castries, St. Lucia, West Indies.
Following his comments on how pleased he was to be in our city, Walcott read a few of his poems, answered several questions, signed books, and mingled comfortably and cheerfully with the awed crowd. Rosemary and I hosted a dinner at a French Quarter restaurant for the Walcotts, Major Jackson, and a few local poets and writers. We were an animated group until Derek asked, “Who here has read James Joyce’s Ulysses?” Our responses were either unintelligible mumblings or complete silence. He smiled and in consolation allowed that our replies were typical of what he heard from other groups.
We should have anticipated the question. Walcott was a classicist. He certainly admired Homer. His book-long poem, Omeros, is a contemporary re-telling of the Odyssey. He also wrote a play entitled Ulysses.
To commemorate the evening the bookstore published 100 letterpress broadsides of a Derek Walcott poem from his book The Bounty. Carolyn Schleh, a local artist, designed, printed, numbered and signed each one. My apprehension about whether Derek would also sign them was quickly dispelled. He was quite pleased with the broadside; he immediately sat at my desk and neatly signed each one as I handed it to him. When we finished, he gave me one of his cards, which I still have, and asked that I send the first ten broadsides to him at his Greenwich address in New York City. Most of the remaining broadsides were sold that evening. Number 64 is framed and hangs prominently next to the poetry cases in the bookstore. Very few are left.
Another Walcott connection occurred a few years later. His publisher, Robert Giroux, donated most of his books and papers to Loyola University in New Orleans. I was asked to appraise the gift; a tedious but pleasurable task. Included were first editions of Derek Walcott’s books, all warmly inscribed to Bob Giroux. More exciting were the letters – real letters – they wrote to each other. To see, to hold, and to read their correspondence was a most exhilarating treat. One of the special joys of a hopeless bibliophile.
City of Secrets, Stewart O’Nan (Viking, 2016, 194 pages)
Militant Zionists bombed the King David Hotel in 1946 and killed 91 people. This terrorist attack occurs again in the lives of Stewart O’Nan’s characters, all Holocaust survivors and underground rebels operating in the British Crown’s Palestine. City of Secrets is a literary thriller, a fast but thoughtful read about survivor guilt, post-World War II Jerusalem, and the intoxication of violence.
O’Nan, a skilled storyteller with fifteen previous novels, won the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society’s first novel prize in 1992. Rosemary James (publisher of The Double Dealer) introduced me to O’Nan’s City of Secrets, and I’m compelled to share her recommendation. O’Nan builds suspense from the first page and carefully weaves the reader from past to present and back again.
Memories of the dead live on affecting the present. Ghosts of Brand’s wife and family members lurk in his mind as silently and destructively as the Haganah and Irgun rebels work in the shadows of the ancient city. Brand “wanted the revolution—like the world—to be innocent, when it had never been.” He lived through internment as a prisoner mechanic, spared by both the Nazis and the Russians, because they said “he can fix anything.” He “knows the truth,” but decides suicide cannot fix his pain.
Brand saw his wife murdered and speaks to her still. She watches him sleep with Eva, a compatriot and prostitute. As he drives sandy streets and feels the Mediterranean breeze, Brand considers this new life: “It was a kind of cowardice he would never understand, though he was guilty of it himself. How did you kill and still call yourself righteous? How did you live when you let the people you loved die?”
With the war over, survival now depends on trusting the mixed messages and clandestine codes of an insurgency network that supplied Brand an alias (“Jossi”) and a taxi. Jossi drives his taxi, steering the reader and tourists around the city, introducing foreigners to Jerusalem, “a puzzle box built of symbols, a confusion of old and new, armored cars and donkeys in the streets, Bedouins and bankers.”
Like a low-level insurgent, the reader never knows more than what’s necessary to keep reading, to keep driving, keep trusting in the hope of learning how to survive. Such trust requires Brand to accept lethal orders from the unknown, courier weapons and spies through checkpoint searches. Leaders speak in propaganda, be they leading insurgents or occupying forces. He becomes a hero of a train stickup, not from action but from agreed-upon perception, by “barking” commands with the “familiar intonation” learned from years in killing camps.
City of Secretsreads with the speed of an action flick that matters. Brand must decide who to trust as he grapples with life after the Holocaust. Feeling expendable to the secret cause, he learns that only he can live up to his memories of lost loved ones and that true survival requires an open faith.
Samuel Johnson believed that “a man may write at any time if he set himself doggedly to it.” And in 1750 he did just that, agreeing to write andpublished two periodic papers each week while he was in the midst of composing his Dictionary of the English Language. The son of a bookseller, a voracious and thoughtful reader, and a close observer of life around him, Johnson was well-suited to the task. From his active mind, fertile memory and his uncommon common sense come many of the ideas and subjects he clothed in an extraordinary flow of precise language, always balanced and often
poetic. (Later in life he thought he was a failed poet. Not so; he smuggled poetry into his writing, as you will soon see.)
Boswell reveals in his biography of Johnson that he kept a small book with notes and jottings, topics for further development. A few examples:
Youth to be taught the piety of age—age to retain the honour of youth.
Every great work, the work of one man.
Common danger unites by crushing other passions—but they remain.
In his first Rambler essay, March 20, 1750, he wrote that his hope was “…not much to tire those I shall not happen to please, and if I am not commended for the beauty of my works, to be at least pardoned for their brevity.” Two years later, in the final Rambler essay, he confesses, “Nothing is ended with honour which does not conclude better than it began. He that is himself weary will soon weary the public. Let him, therefore, not obstinately infest the stage until the general hiss demands him to depart.”
In the 208 “Rambler” essays may be found Johnson’s timeless observations, sound wisdom, and excellent advice. Here are a few:
he is young, consider that he shall one day be old and remember when he is old that he had once been young. He that would pass the latter part of his life with honour and decency must, when
A wise man is never surprised.
Whom does not constant flattery intoxicate?
He whose fortune is endangered by litigation will not refuse to augment the wealth of his lawyer.
Most authors are forgotten because they never deserved to be remembered.
The disturbers of our happiness in this world are our desires, our griefs, and our fears.
We rate ourselves by our fortune rather than by our virtue. Men who share in the highest ranks of society seldom hear their faults.
Knowledge of the world will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good.
He who would know himself should consult his enemies.
Love only can soften life.
There are countless more. Years ago, I thought of assembling a group large enough for a small book, to be titled, Rambling in the Rambler: The Wit and Wisdom of Samuel Johnson. Maybe, someday.
Much have I written on Samuel Johnson, and deservedly so. The focus here, however, will be more on James Boswell, Johnson biographer, a reluctant lawyer, son of a Chief Judge in Edinburg. He wrote two books on Johnson. The first, Tour of the Hebrides, published in 1786 two years after Johnson’s death, is an account of a journey the pair of them made to the Hebrides, the western coast and islands of Boswell’s Scottish homeland. Much more than a travel journal, the Tour brims with Johnson, his ruminations, comments and observations, a brilliant memoir. Boswell’s masterpiece, The Life of Samuel Johnson, came five years later in 1791. Subsequent editions of it have often merged the two chronologically.
Boswell and Johnson met in a London tavern on May 16, 1763. Johnson was 54 and Boswell just 22. Their 21 year friendship and the union of their special talents—Johnson: the classic scholar, a voracious reader, a gifted writer, an articulate conversationalist, his wit and humor often ascerbic; Boswell: a fine writer, an inveterate journal-keeper with an astonishing memory, his dramatic sense, his capacity for admiration, the ability to draw others into conversation—out of all that came The Life.
Despite its continuing popularity, the most readable and read book of the 18th century, scholars still squabble about it, writing new versions of Johnson’s life and volumes of mostly unread and unreadable analysis and criticism.
The dispute seems to be between Johnsonians on the one hand and Boswellians on the other. Both seem to forget that Boswell respected and loved, even idolized Johnson, as Johnson did Boswell.
Instead Johnsonians believe that their man is too important a literary figure to be left to Boswell, a fool who wrote his book on Johnson, according to Thomas B. Macaulay, by the freakish of accident, nothing but a compilation of edited excerpts from his massive diaries. Half the biography is about the last nine years of Johnson’s life when he was old, fussy and querulous. It doesn’t do justice to Johnson’s literary personality which is best inferred from his formidable body of work. With its many flaws and omissions, particularly of Johnson’s early life, with Boswell’s tendency to talk too much in his own person on many matters, The Life of Samuel Johnson is not a biography at all, rather an autobiography of the author himself.
Even those who reluctantly concede The Life to be a minor masterpiece argue that the good is often enemy of the best. Boswell so persuades his readers that his Johnson is the Johnson that it is virtually impossible to read Johnson’s writings without Boswell’s version of him rising from the pages.
One suspects, too, that part of the criticism of Boswell grows out of resentment for his excesses. Boswell had little control of himself. He talked too much, drank too much and he died from an acute and chronic urinary tract infection following repeated gonorrheal strictures. In his personal discipline, Boswell neglected all the principles desired in men who accomplish important things.
The Boswellians feel the quarrel stems from the Johnsonians’ preference for biographies that convey information with absolute fidelity to truth and their dislike of literary biographies. In a literary work, an author feels free to invent, dispose, weigh and enliven his writing to achieve an intensity of effect. He may sacrifice a little truth to portray a greater verity.
Few biographies are unequivocally literature. Boswell’s is. For its readers it produces a powerful effect closely akin to those which characterize the best works of fiction. Boswell’s finest artistic talent is his selection of facts, conversations, letters and events, all conveying Johnson so concretely in a literary form that Johnson himself invented with his biography of Richard Savage.
After all the flaws and omissions of Boswell’s book are enumerated, one is inclined to respond, “So what?” The issue is not whether the Life is distorted by Boswell’s concentration on the last few years of Johnson’s life. Rather, if Johnson’s character is essentially unchanged throughout his life, then the abundance of material available on the last few years was as useful to Boswell as the same amount of material spread evenly over Johnson’s 75 years. Also, if Boswell has failed to stuff his biography with criticism of Johnson’s works, remember that literary criticism is datable. Today’s theory expires tomorrow.
Where, then, does that leave us. Let us hope, exactly where we should be. Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson is for everybody, one of those rare books whose principal characters give it universal appeal. We read it slowly because we want it to last longer. Johnson’s personality overwhelms us; we envy him his never failing wisdom and his acerbic wit. But Boswell is intensely interesting, too, not only because he is so interested in himself but also because we find in him more of ourselves.
James Boswell died May 17, 1794. May the recent anniversary of his death remind those of us who treasure literature and who feel no compulsion to overexamine it for whatever reason of our responsibility to preserve it. Too many once commonly admired books have been dropped from our canon. The loss of generally shared texts puts basic communications in jeopardy. We build a new Tower of Babel. Our literary works of genius are much too valuable to society to entrust their future to experts or any other self-appointed arbiters of taste or correctness.