MOCKINGBIRDS AND WATCHMEN

I want to preface this post by saying that it is in no way a book review. I merely want to toss around a few personal opinions about the current Harper Lee controversy. I did some research and took a few notes to ensure that my information is accurate, and - wouldn't you know it? I lost all of the notes. So, what I'm writing is completely off the top of my head (so to speak).

I was initially extremely skeptical when I heard that Harper Lee - author of the Pulitzer Prize winning novel To Kill a Mockingbird - suddenly consented (at age 89) to the publication of a nearly forgotten manuscript that she had written over 60 years ago.

According to the publishing company HarperCollins, and Lee's attorney Tonja Carter, a "newly discovered novel" by Harper Lee would be published in July of this year.
Statements by Attorney Carter indicated that Harper Lee was ecstatic and very enthusiastic at the prospect of this "second" novel, entitled Go Set a Watchman, being published (it was published and released on July 14).

Let's have a little reality check:

According to Harper Lee's sister Alice (who passed away last November), the famed novelist had been deteriorating physically and mentally for years. After suffering a stroke, she was physically incapacitated and was also deaf and nearly blind.

It's bitterly ironic that the announcement of publication came shortly after Alice's death and while Harper Lee is conveniently wheelchair-bound in a nursing home.

Harper Lee in 2007

Money and greed are the foremost factors in the publication of Go Set A Watchman. It is an insult to Lee's reputation and an extremely outrageous ploy to take advantage of an incompetent old lady's former literary fame.

It's no secret that Harper Lee shunned publicity her entire life and had stated numerous times that she'd never write another book. Why the sudden change when she's 89?

Like many people, I initially knew very few facts about Go Set a Watchman. I thought it was some sort of legitimate sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird.

In truth, Go Set a Watchman is a rough first draft of To Kill a Mockingbird that Harper Lee wrote in the mid-1950's. It was deemed unsuitable for publication by the editors but became the foundation for To Kill a Mockingbird, which was eventually published in 1960.

Incidentally, the title Go Set a Watchman is taken from a Bible verse, Isaiah 21:6 - - "Go set a watchman and let him declare what he sees."

The novel To Kill a Mockingbird takes place during the Depression Era , when the protagonist Jean Louise Finch (known as "Scout") is a child in the fictitious town of Maycomb, Georgia. Go Set a Watchman takes place twenty years later, when Jean Louise is an adult and returns to Maycomb for a visit to her attorney father Atticus Finch.

The childhood scenes in Go Set a Watchman were only told in flashbacks. Harper Lee worked extremely hard with her editor Tay Hohoff to develop the flashbacks into an entire novel which eventually became To Kill a Mockingbird.

Ironically, To Kill a Mockingbird was initially intended to be a trilogy - and ideas from the rough draft of Go Set a Watchman were going to be incorporated into two future sequel novels. The plan never materialized.

To publish Go Set a Watchman in its raw, crude state is a grievous disservice to Harper Lee and a ripoff for the unsuspecting public. It's not a genuine novel, merely a hodgepodge of rudimentary ideas. In fact, the editor who first read it considered it to be a series of anecdotes - not a novel.

I love the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, and the 1962 film adaptation starring Gregory Peck is one of my favorite movies.
I have no desire to read Go Set a Watchman. From the reviews I've seen, it's supposedly poorly written and a major disappointment. It's beyond the realms of imagination that Harper Lee would have wanted it published.

A few facts about Harper Lee:

Her name was Nelle Harper Lee  (Nelle from her grandmother's name - - Ellen spelled backwards). Harper Lee later dropped her first name because too many people mistakenly called her Nellie.

To Kill a Mockingbird was originally titled Atticus - after the character Atticus Finch in the book. Attius was the attorney father of Jean Louise (Scout) in the novel.

Harper Lee's real father, Amasa Coleman Lee, was a newspaper editor and an attorney.
He was, at least partially, the inspiration for the fictional Atticus Finch.

To Kill a Mockingbird was not a spontaneous or effortless literary endeavor. It took two and a half years of extremely hard work and endless rewrites before the novel was ready for publication. Harper Lee doubted her own talents, and once got so frustrated that she tossed the entire manuscript out the window into the snow.

Editor Tay Hohoff (Theresa Von Hohoff Torrey) worked very closely with Harper to help shape the book into an eventual masterpiece.

Writer Truman Capote was a close childhood friend of Harper Lee.  She incorporated him as Dill, one of the characters in To Kill a Mockingbird. An old rumor has long been circulating that Capote helped Harper write To Kill a Mockingbird - or that he wrote the novel himself. That is untrue and unfounded.

Harper Lee, in fact, helped Truman Capote do extensive research for his book In Cold Blood.
She also provided him with a very generous amount of notes, ideas, and suggestions. After the publication of In Cold Blood, Capote discounted Harper by insisting that she merely did some "secretarial work."
When Harper Lee won the Pulitzer Prize for To Kill a Mockingbird, Truman Capote became jealous and they never spoke again.

Harper Lee never expected To Kill a Mockingbird to become so successful and she was never able to deal with her success. She once stated that it would have been much easier to deal with failure.

She also believed that once you're at the top, there's no where to go but down. The whirlwind of fame in the 1960's left her no time for writing. She later attempted numerous new projects but never followed through. Alcoholism and fear of success turned her into a recluse and a mystery. She never married, and relied largely on her sister Alice for companionship and care.

The last public interview she gave was in 1964. It's a shame that her twilight existence is now being tainted with the publication of Go Set a Watchman.



New post on my photo blog:
( surfers) 


http://cabinetofcurioustreasures.blogspot.com

 

MY RELUCTANT SELVES

There's a reason why I so often blog about my past. Well, actually two reasons.

The second reason is simply that my past is far more interesting than my present. 

The first reason is that I'm timidly testing the waters for my memoir - - using brief rudimentary ideas for future expanded possibilities. 

I never reveal everything in my blog. I tend to present carefully rationed morsels and tidbits, which hopefully generate a craving for more.

I have a burning desire to tell everything about myself - and yet the idea of actually doing it scares the hell out of me. A blog is one thing. A publicly published memoir is quite another.

I've had a lot of experience with writing and like to think I have a fairly decent way with words. My first newspaper articles were published when I was sixteen. I have since published every conceivable type of fiction and non-fiction, spanning a wide variety of subjects and styles. No writing task has ever frightened me.....

......until I considered a memoir. Writing in depth about oneself isn't as easy as it initially seems. Publicly revealing things about real people (most of them still living) and real events is a great risk, for many reasons.

As if this wasn't daunting enough, my major concern is trying to capture and domesticate a wild beast - - how to make sense out of the incomprehensible.

My life has been an incredible journey - a conglomeration of contradictions, complications, and startling contrasts - -personal complexities that are so intricate even I can't figure them out. Despite projecting a facade of simplicity, I am multi-faceted. 

Which one of my many selves should I write about?

The incredibly sensitive and sentimental soul who loves opera, ballet, literature, art - - who cries when enraptured by beautiful music or by a poignant film....

.....the streetwise punk who projected a facade of toughness and cold indifference, who drank to excess, used drugs, who never backed down from a confrontation, who slashed a mugger with his switchblade knife.....

....the consummate romantic who desperately yearned for true love, who passionately desired absolute commitment and monogamy....

.....the insatiable sex slut who haunted midnight alleys and bars for five-minute quickies and one-night stands....who inevitably balked at the countless opportunities he had for true love...

.....the professional pianist and published writer who received praise and laurels and projected an air of public confidence....

.....the pathetically insecure and self-loathing nonentity, whose acute sense of worthlessness inspired attempts at suicide and who relentlessly embarked on a quest for self-destruction.....

Should I write about my childhood and early years in Southern California....all of the fantastic times and incredibly good moments that I truly cherish? 

Or should I only concentrate on the wild and tawdry Hollywood years? 

Should I incorporate humor?
I do have a reasonably good sense of humor, but much of my life was nothing to laugh at.

It annoys me when I read a review of a memoir that says "It was so funny! I laughed all the way through it!"

Well, if you laughed all the way through it you must be a frickin' jackass. Or the author must be Henny Youngman.

I'm not Chuckles the Clown. I have no intention of making you wet yourself with unmitigated glee.

Should I delve into the unspeakable nightmare of my father's maniacal violence and constant abuse, that tainted any semblance of normalcy and resulted in my complete mental and physical collapse by the age of eighteen?

Should I write about the true, pure, once-in-a-lifetime love that I finally found - - which  ended in tragedy and an untimely death?

My life has been a great puzzle that can't easily be pieced together.

A memoir should have a distinct purpose, an inspiring story, a satisfying resolution, something of absolute substance. I can offer none of that.

All I can offer is a prejudiced rendering of my own existence - a unique and extraordinary life, inhabited by an ordinary human being.

Have I learned anything from my personal experiences? 

I've learned this:

Life is an unfair bitch, which will relentlessly kick your ass when you least expect it and least deserve it.

Nothing is what it initially seems to be.

The people with the biggest egos have the least substance.

Goodness, honesty, and humility will get you absolutely nowhere.

Self-professed saints are the biggest sinners.

Never underestimate your own value. There are plenty of other people who are more than eager to do it for you.

Seize the moment and play it for all it's worth. You'll never have a second chance.

Anyone who tells you that "Life is what you make it" or "You have control over your life" is full of shit.

Life is one long series of struggles, obstacles, disappointments, unfairness, heartbreak, and setbacks - - and then we die. 
We have control over nothing.

Am I a pessimist?
Yes, most of the time.

Is my life worthy of being recounted in a memoir?
I'll reluctantly say yes. 

Heck, I'm definitely the most interesting, colorful, unique, and intriguing person I know.
And I'm qualified to write about it.

EXOTIC MEMORIES

After a month of rain the sun appeared and the sky was blue and hot. The combination of unexpected sunshine and the escapism of reading Death on the Nile have put me in an exotic mood.

Most of us are occasionally smitten by exotic fantasies - whether we care to admit it or not. My current imaginative escape has transported me to Egypt in the 1920's. 

(I figured Cairo in the 1920's was probably more exotic than it is now)

I'm smooth, suave, deliciously young - -  dressed in white summer attire, a custom-made suit that would rival anything worn by Jay Gatsby. I look like a Leyendecker illustration in Collier's Magazine. I'm languishing in a cool corner of a Cairo cafe, sipping a karakadey, smoking a Caravellis cigarette. The distant smouldering sunset is merely a prelude to the erotic secrets of a sultry desert night.....

illustration by J.C.Leyendecker 

I've always been  fiercely attracted to exotic romanticism. When I was young I tried to incorporate it into my life. Now, I only dream about it and yearn for the past. There are times in my past that were intriguingly similar to my Cairo fantasy. I've never been to Cairo, but Southern California was a very reasonable facsimile.

I remember sultry summer nights in Los Angeles, when I played the piano in clandestine bars and cafes. I often wore all white back then (even my shoes), mostly to vainly emphasize my dark tan. I smoked Krakatoa clove cigarettes and sipped Madeira. I wasn't remotely suave but I gave an impressive illusion. Those were the nights when I seldom went home empty-handed......

Occasionally there would be weekend escapes to Palm Springs. At the time it seemed remote and exotic. It's a two-hour drive from L.A. - - considerably less if you're drunk and driving a Camaro.
My memory burns with the image of one spectacular moonless night, near Palm Springs, having a romantic escapade in a convertible, parked near a grove of date palms.

My spontaneous spitefulness sometimes unexpectedly turned into exotic episodes. Most often after the breakup of a torrid romance. 

I vividly recall throwing a volume of Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov at my soon-to-be-ex-lover and dramatically shouting "I'm leaving forever! You'll never see me again!"

Fortunately my aim was bad. Dostoyevsky hit the wall and shattered a framed document. If it had hit my intended victim, the blow would have probably been fatal.

I disappeared from L.A. and wound up on a beach in Baja, near Ensenada, where I lived for three weeks. That was an exotic odyssey - - at least I thought so.

 Baja

I have other exotic memories to share, but I don't want to overstay my welcome. Well not much, anyway.

Remind me to tell the incredible tale of what inspired me to sail a boat solo to Catalina Island with very little nautical experience (I've told this before on my old blog Lone Star Concerto but it's worth a rerun).

It's hard to believe that my life was once filled with romance and exotic adventures, when now - in the Tennessee wilderness - my biggest adventures consist of falling down the mountainside on my clumsy ass and chasing wayward 'possums out of the house.

Life is a bitch but the memories are sweet. 


link to my new photo blog Cabinet of Curios Treasures:
 
Beautiful Egypt