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Because it's late in a bad year and my desk is full of books—and because it's nice to be reminded that people we've revered occasionally still manage not to live up to the hype—I'm going to retell a quick story about a literary hero who once surprised me w/his generosity. 1/8
In my late 20s, novelist and poet Denis Johnson—National Book Award winner, two-time Pulitzer Prize finalist, author of "Tree of Smoke" and "Angels" and "Jesus' Son" and "Resuscitation of a Hanged Man" —was the writer whose work I admired most. His books dominated my shelves. 2/8
I worked as a newspaper reporter in a small town in the rural West and had heard, vaguely, that he'd bought a cabin in an even smaller town nearby.
One day I showed up to cover a political event in his town. After, a small crowd gathered around an odd duck of a politician. 3/8
One day I showed up to cover a political event in his town. After, a small crowd gathered around an odd duck of a politician. 3/8
There were maybe 5 of us: me, seeking a quote; two others who'd heard her speak; and some guy who introduced himself as Denis. After our little scrum broke up, I followed him outside, feeling strange, and finally just tapped him and asked, "You spell Denis w/one 'n,' right?" 4/8
He said, warily, "yes..."
I told him I was a huge fan, that I had read most of his books and magazine stories. He brightened, immediately. He said no one had ever recognized him here before. Then, to my astonishment, he stopped and asked, "Do you have time for lunch?" 5/8
I told him I was a huge fan, that I had read most of his books and magazine stories. He brightened, immediately. He said no one had ever recognized him here before. Then, to my astonishment, he stopped and asked, "Do you have time for lunch?" 5/8
I didn't—I had to get back and write a story. But, duh.
We walked to a cafe. He told me about his own 20s—the drinking and drugs. He told me he really missed heroin. He asked me what else I read and what kind of writer I wanted to be. He seemed genuinely interested in me. 6/8
We walked to a cafe. He told me about his own 20s—the drinking and drugs. He told me he really missed heroin. He asked me what else I read and what kind of writer I wanted to be. He seemed genuinely interested in me. 6/8
As we left the restaurant, he insisted on paying. Then he told me we needed to make one more stop. We walked to the local bookshop. I, starstruck, trailed behind like a puppy. There, he bought me a copy of what, at the time, was his favorite of his own novels, "Angels." 7/8
Denis died in 2017. "Angels" is still on my desk. I once loaned it to a friend, now also a literary hero, who accidentally left it in the rain. He felt terrible, but I didn't mind. The stains cement that day for me in a way Denis might appreciate.
Not everyone disappoints. 8/8
Not everyone disappoints. 8/8
ACK - WHAT A TYPO! - "reminded that people we've revered occasionally DO still manage to live up to the hype."
