Not-So-Super Heroes

WARNING: The following essay contains the words "asshole," "prick," "damn," "dick," "dickishness," "son of a bitch," "assholes" (plural), "dick" (again) and "tool." If you are offended by such language, you should've stopped reading after the first "asshole" in this warning.

It's a good thing Raymond Chandler's dead. For one thing, if he were alive he'd be 123 years old, and I can't imagine that would be much fun. For another, even if he'd only lasted to 116 or so, I might've actually met him (assuming they were still wheeling him out at mystery conventions), and I'm glad that never happened.

Chandler, you see, is one of my heroes. He also seems to have been a colossal asshole. The little I've read about Chandler makes him sound like a mean drunk who was never sober long enough to be nice. If our lives had overlapped, I think there's a good chance he would've been a prick to me, or to one of my friends, and then all those wonderful books would be ruined for me forever.

I can't say I'm glad Kurt Vonnegut's dead -- the world was a better place with him in it -- but I will say this: I'm damn glad the guy wasn't my dad. And that's too bad, because he's an even bigger hero to me than Chandler. Vonnegut's my biggest hero, actually, and has been for 30 years. And yup -- the guy was a dick.

Or so Charles J. Shields would have me believe. I just finished reading Shields' new(ish) biography of Vonnegut, And So It Goes, and, alas, starting on page 82 there seemed to be dickishness in every other line. That's because it's on the bottom of page 82 that Vonnegut gets married for the first time. Though he could certainly be a son of a bitch away from home -- after his career took off in the late '60s, for instance, he betrayed and abandoned the two editors who'd kept him going through the lean years -- it was with his family that Kurt Vonnegut, Bastard, reigned supreme.

He was selfish. He was demanding and temperamental. He was irresponsible, untrustworthy and a bit of a phony. He was mean. He was, in short, everything Kurt Vonnegut the author told us not to be. Which made him a hypocrite, too.

So I'm grateful that when I did meet Kurt Vonnegut, it happened like this: I found one of his books in the school library and I took it home and I read it and I loved it. (In my memory, the book was Breakfast of Champions, but it's hard to imagine a teeny little high school in West Virginia having a book with drawings of "wide open beavers" and assholes on its shelves. But if I'm remembering correctly, then "SAAAALLLLL-UTE!!!" to you, Bridgeport High School.)

I quickly read every Vonnegut book I could. They were funny. They were worldly and wise. They were outrageous, sad and sincere. They were kind. I truly believe they helped make me a better person, and how many books can you say that about?

About 200 pages into So It Goes, I had a scary moment. I've been slowly working my way through Vonnegut's oeuvre the last few years, rereading (and, for the most part, still loving) books I hadn't picked up in decades. But this week, thanks to Shields, I had to stop and ask myself: Can I read this dick anymore? Have his books been ruined for me?

The moment passed, I'm happy to say, and I'm looking forward to revisiting Deadeye Dick or maybe Mother Night next. Kurt Vonnegut, human being, tool, is dead. Yet Kurt Vonnegut, author, hero, will live on and on and on. And for that I'm very, very glad.

Comments

[Richard Prosch]

Good thoughts, Steve. The ol' separation of art and artist --hard, personal decisions most folks don't even think about making. Reminds me of my struggle with the Lizard King after reading NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE by Jerry Hopkins. Struggled with Vonnegut too.

[Pat Sandberg]

I had no idea you were such a Vonnegut fan. He remains my favorite author, no matter the truth of his life. Ahh, the discussions we missed out on, you and I!

I had an Art History professor who insisted that you couldn't separate an artist's distasteful personal life from their artwork. As an admirer of talents such as Rodan, Picasso, and Frank Lloyd Wright, I humbly disagree. The art world (including literary) is littered with brilliant asshats. Clearly, acting like a douche-nozzle does not preclude you from making breathtaking art. Hell, one of my favorite artists, Alphonse Mucha, renowned for his gorgeous Art Deco illustrations of women, was apparently a notorious misogynist! I have to say, however, that my admiration was sorely tested after reading the personal details of Arthur Gill, the creator of the Gill Sans font and others. Now THERE'S a biopic waiting to be made!

[The Pencilneck]

I had a similar droopiness after reading about John D MacDonald. I hate hearing about insinuated lothario stuff, drunken loutishness, and condecending behaviour in fellas you'd assume usually stride around in red capes.

Someone made a crack about Wodehouse...I've gone through some of his bio stuff, and he seems more chumpy savant than boor. (Whew!)

Wow...I just realized that two of my biggest literary heroes were pipe smokers...

Do you 'avail yourself of The Briar', Steve? :)

[Steve]

I'm fortunate in that I was never a Doors fan, Rich. If I had been, watching Oliver Stone's Doors movie would've been excruciating. Or I should say *even more* excruciating. (Ever since, I've referred to a particular style of biopic as "two hours with an asshole." Pollock was another example. As you might guess, it's not my favorite kind of film.)

Oh, man, Pat -- two Vonnenuts working together and we never even knew it. So what are your faves? My top choices are pretty boring (Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions) but I recently reread God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Hocus Pocus and thought they were killer. Hocus Pocus, in particular, I'd underestimated back in the day. Oh, and Jailbird's fantastic! Right up there at the top. Sirens of Titan, Galapagos and Bluebeard kind of clump up in the middle for me. Good but not mind blowing. And Slapstick struck me as surprisingly thin when I read it again. Funny but slight. I'm guessing I'll have the same reaction to Timequake when I revisit it. Anyway, I could go on and on...and already have.

MacDonald gets a couple of mentions in the Vonnegut bio, T.P. Not for boozing and skirt-chasing, though. He was just connected to one of Vonnegut's important editors, Knox Burger. I'm afraid I've never smoked tobacco from a pipe, so I'm probably disqualified from being anyone's literary hero. Does it count if I blew bubbles with one?

[Pat Sandberg]

Steve- I'd have to go with Breakfast of Champions, first and foremost. It was my The Catcher In The Rye, with Kilgore Trout as my Holden Caulfield. After that would be God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Player Piano.