Posts Tagged ‘ Ernest Hemingway ’

“… before an unknown hollow darkness of the heart”

Carson McCullers at 100

Isaiah Berlin based his most famous essay1 on a fragment of Archilocus: “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” Berlin forced this enigmatic apophthegm into a classification for writers and thinkers: “there exists a great chasm between those, on one side, who relate everything to a single central vision, one system, less or more coherent or articulate, in terms of which they understand, think and feel—a single, universal, organising principle in terms of which alone all that they are and say has significance—and, on the other side, those who pursue many ends, often unrelated and even contradictory, connected, if at all, only in some de facto way, for some psychological or physiological cause, related to no moral or aesthetic principle.” The first group are the hedgehogs, and the second the foxes. He illustrated this division by putting, among others, Plato, Dante, Hegel, Dostoevsky and Proust among the hedgehogs and Aristotle, Shakespeare, Goethe, Pushkin and Balzac with the foxes. His use of this dichotomy is something of a rhetorical trick, because his essay is about Tolstoy for whom he says the division does not apply. But it is, perhaps, much better suited to the 100th anniversary of the birthday of Carson McCullers (February 19, 1917 – September 29, 1967), who, unlike almost all  American novelists, is a hedgehog.

When one considers the celebrated novelists of the first half of the 20th century, it is difficult to imagine any of them conceiving of the need for a systematic organization of thought into a single way of looking at things. Such thinkers are rare enough throughout history, and American fiction writers, with the exception, perhaps, of Hawthorne and certainly, of Melville, have not been been systematic moralists or practicing metaphysicians; rather, they have usually preferred psychological, and occasionally political, approaches to stories, and both are notoriously digressive methods.

Nabokov hated the kinds of novels hedgehogs produced, deriding them as books with “messages.” But all novels more-or-less have messages, even Tolstoy’s. (Anna Karenina after all begins with the epigraph: “Vengeance is mine; I will repay.”) The difference with hedgehogs, however, is that the central view is not a moral of a particular story or even an organizing principle for a work; it is rather a way of looking at the world which informs (and usually is the reason for undertaking) a writers total output. And given that the author so concentrates on that central vision (it is perhaps the reason why he becomes an author), it casts the story in a slightly heightened light, immediately noticeable, often by the adoption of a tone that is emotionally noncommittal and measured, although Dostoevsky’s prose is often urgent and frenetic.

T.S. Eliot (descendant of the Puritans, America’s quintessential hedgehogs) may have been America’s chief literary hedgehog. But the system he tried to construct, involving old -fashioned reactionary politics and unintelligible Catholic-Buddhist mysticism, was too solipsistic to be seriously entertained by anyone. McCullers was quite different. Her systematic quest was the result of experience and self-knowledge, and it appealed viscerally. And regardless of any limitations she might be accused of, one always feels she is driving at something beyond ordinary literary insight.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940)

From the beginning of her first novel, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter it is obvious that McCullers had in her sights the roots of human isolation. “In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together,” is the opening sentence. The picture it produces is the paradigm of isolation. Cut off from the rest of the town not only by their disabilities but also by the social segregation the disabled suffer, they have only each other. The chapter describes, in precise, unsentimental prose, the life these two lead. One, John Singer, a tall, thin, impeccably neat and refined man; the other, Spiros Antonapoulos, short and obese, and, we soon learn, mentally challenged. The two, over the course of the decade they lived together, made a life out of their simple and unvaried routine. Antonapoulos worked for his cousin, the owner of a fruit store. Singer was a silverware engraver. They would walk together to work, arm in arm, and come home together at night, where Antonapoulos cooked the meal (food was his one joy), and Singer washed the dishes. Singer did all the communicating, often signing for great stretches of time. Antonapoulos rarely “spoke,” except before bed when he prayed to “Holy Jesus” or “Darling Mary.” Silver did not know how much his friend understood of what he signed. “But the two mutes were not lonely at all.” Until one day, when Singer was 32, Antonapoulos became ill. He was ordered on a strict diet—a great privation for him—and he blamed Singer, who enforced the doctor’s regimen. Antonapoulos became spiteful and soon began acting out by committing small misdemeanors and indecencies in public. Eventually, without consulting Singer, Antanapoulos’s cousin had him committed to the state mental institution. The loss of his friend was a devastating blow from which he struggled to recover. At first, and for a long time, Singer wandered the streets of this deep Southern town until late at night. Singer was not of this place (“more like a Northerner or a Jew,” the town’s African American doctor concluded after receiving a small kindness from him), and this made him even lonelier. After weeks of this solitude, his grief changed him: “His agitation gave way gradually to exhaustion and there was a look about him of deep calm. In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise.” He reached that state of numbness that is the only outcome of deep heartache.

That first chapter, we realize after finishing the novel, is really an encapsulation of the entire novel, like a sonata movement in a Classical era work, whose statements would be developed in various ways by the rest of the work. But Singer’s fate is not just emblematic; it sets him on a course that would make him a central character in the lives of others. In fact his relationships with the other major characters becomes a unifying plot device as well as a central metaphor in its own right. In each of the next four chapters we meet in turn the other four main characters who would become unlikely (and unsought for) disciples of Singer and whose stories unfold as something like variations on the theme of Singer’s.

The second chapter introduces us to Bartholomew “Biff” Brannon, the owner of the town’s dinner, the New York Café. Biff was not a man of action: “[h]e usually stood in the corner by the cash register, his arm folded over his chest, quietly observing all that went on around him.” His perch on the edge of this world allows him to watch, cogitate and try to puzzle together the half-conclusions he comes to. We meet his wife, Alice, who has no respect for him, and it’s clear that there is no longer any love in this marriage. Their current point of contention is a drunk, Jake Blount, who has taken up something like permanent residency in the diner. Alice wants him out, but Biff is too passive to take action. And he finds Blount an interesting object of his contemplation. Meanwhile, as Saturday turns to Sunday, Blount passed the stage of inebriation and has become a sloppy drunk, trying to declaim radical politics to the late-night diners and drinkers, most of whom consider him an object of ridicule. As a result of the outcome of that evening Blount would become a major character in his own right.

In this second chapter, we meet the two other new major characters, Mick Kelley, a 14 year old member of a large, downwardly mobile family who operate a run-down boarding house. Mick is one of six children and is barely supervised by her overworked parents, and this explains how she is at the diner past midnight buying cigarettes. Biff finds himself strangely attracted to the tomboyish girl. In this chapter we also meet the town’s African American doctor, Doctor Benedict Mady Copeland, who in the middle of that night is brought by Blount into the diner and is enraged when he believes that he has been tricked into coming to a segregated eating establishment soley to be mocked. Even John Singer is there, having during his wanderings made arrangements with Biff to take all of his meals at the café every day. Through Mick we learn that Singer has taken up lodgings at the Kellys’ boarding house, and after Blount that night makes a scene owing to acute alcohol poisoning, Singer offers taking Blount to his room for the night. To continue the symphony analogy, this chapter is something like a scherzo, and there are three movements left.

The third chapter follows Mick’s around the next day, Sunday, and shows us her family and acquaints us with her aspirations, at the same time both unrealistic and cramped. She is obsessed by music. But her parents cannot afford any additional expenses (even if they knew her interest); almost any connection she might have with music is out of the question, so she listens outside the room of a boarder who has a radio. She discovers that the music she is particularly entranced by was written long ago by someone named “Motsart.” She dreams of someday having a piano, but for now she has tried to make a violin from a broken mandolin and wires. When she realizes it won’t work, she is disgusted with her own foolishness. She wonders why she so enthusiastically worked on a thing that was so ridiculous. ‘Maybe,” she thinks, “when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.”

We also discover in this chapter that the black cook at the boardinghouse, Portia, is Dr. Copeland’s daughter, and while she maintains her filial regard for him, she tells Mick of his estrangement from the family. She attributes his loneliness (despite being “full of books”) to his rejection of religion,. Religion gives peace, she explains, like what she, her husband, her brother Willie (who works in the kitchen of the New York Café), and their boarder Mr. Singer. (By using the same word as the narrator, peace, to describe the current state of John Singer, Portia ironically compares the numbness of personal devastation with the grace of God.) She warns Mick that she will experience the same emptiness of her father without God. “Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you don’t have love and you don’t have peace.” Mick is cut to the quick by the accusation that she hadn’t loved, but she keeps her own counsel. When she wanders off she is gripped by an indescribable agitation and wrestles with an unquenchable longing for what she knows not. While sitting on the stairs hoping a boarder will turn on her radio she became lost in thought: 

“She thought a long time and kept hitting her thighs with her fists. Her face felt like it was scattered in pieces and she could not keep it straight. The feeling was a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it was like that. I want—I want—I want—was all that she could think about—but just what this real want was she did not know.”

In the fourth chapter we come to understand the obsession that Blount was unable to articulate during the previous night’s binge. Having been cleaned up by Singer he goes off to look for work. In the want ads he learns of a broken down amusement show looking for a mechanic. He finds the owner and tells him of his experience in all sorts of mechanical work is hired to run the flying jinny, an aging and splintered carousel that is taken from one vacant lot to the other to provide amusement for the town’s underbelly—mill hands, children and blacks. After taking the job he walks back through the white mill workers’ part of town. The buildings and inhabitants are both dreary and hopeless. He sidles up to three workers with “mill-sallow, dead pan faces” sitting on a porch. After offering them tobacco, he begins asking about strikes and their opinions about the owners of the mill. He asks them if their exploitation makes them mad, but all he can elicit is mocking laughter. “The men laughed in the slow and easy way that three men laugh at one.” He is enraged, but returns to Singer with bottles of beer because he knows that Singer is an empathetic soul and can provide him solace. He explains how he has spent his life studying the system that chews up people for profit on capital. He tells Singer that they are two of the very few who understand and when two such find each other it is something like a miracle. Singer, who clearly does not understand, writes a question on a card: Are you a Democrat or a Republican? Blount looks into Singer’s eyes, which seem to hypnotize him. “‘You get it,’ he said in a blurred voice. ‘You know what I mean.'”

Chapter five tells the story of Dr. Copeland, a man dedicated to the liberation of his people. So certain of the righteousness of his goal, he tried to enlist his children into the fight, giving them the names Karl Marx, Hamilton, Willie and Portia. Hs book study and life experience have taught him what it will take for the Negro to reclaim his rights: discipline, hard work, dignity and exemplary behavior to emulate. He knows this to his core; spreading this word has become his “real true cause.” He saw his children as agents in this work and hoped to teach them of their special places and their own real true cause, but they wanted to fit in with their peers, to avoid the stigma of being “uppity.” Dr. Copeland’s wife did not openly resist him, but she sided with them. She allowed the children their minor vices and childish wishes, and worse, she took them to church and instilled in them “the cult of meekness.”  It was more than he could bear, and the result of the conflict was his wife moving to the farm of her father and taking the children. She died, but the children remained estranged. Only Portia occasionally visited her father, but neither she nor any of the others became the scientists, lawyers and teachers Copeland knew his people needed, and he was now bereft of his family and his dreams.

These introductions are followed by the large central part of the work, where the destinies of these characters play out. The stories are presented much like the introductions, with one chapter for each of the characters, although the stories occasionally cross paths. Each chapter has subtly different narrative language appropriate to the character whose story is told.  Words or phrases that peculiar to a particular character are inserted in a non-intrusive way, and this softens the artificiality of an omniscient narrator’s voice. But these insertions do not substitute for the characters’s internal dialogue, they merely illustrate the level of intellectual maturity and social adjustment of the character. The narrator’s tone remains the same throughout: sympathetic without pathos, exposition without any unnecessary emphasis, objective rather than like-minded, all accomplished with clear expository sentences designed to show the reader external events and the characters’ responses, suggesting some deeper meaning, but without idiosyncratic style or obvious technique. She always allows the structure of the narrative (with occasional rhetorical emphasis) to permit the reader to form conclusions of a deeper sort.

As for the key feature of the structure most critical comment has focused on the relation of Singer to the three who most avidly seek out his attention. (Biff is too busy at the café to spend much time with Singer at the boarding house and doesn’t sit with him at the diner. Besides, his interest in Singer is clinical: Unlike the other three, he sees that Singer does not understand what they offer up to him. He tries to understand why they delude themselves.) The three become more and more dependent on Singer: “Each person addressed his words mainly to the mute. Their thoughts seemed to converge in him as the spokes of a wheel lead to the center hub.” Singer does not seek this position, nor does he do much to maintain it. He barely understands what they tell him, and they interpret his smiles or nods as suits them. He is happy for the company but finds them strange. One night he has a dream where Antonapoulos was knelling atop a set of stone stairs holding something above his head and he seemed in an attitude of prayer. Below him Singer himself, also naked, was looking up at Antonapoulos. Below Singer were the four other main characters looking at him. The dream ends when the stairs crumble. Much has been made of the metaphorical implications of Singer’s relation to the others. And just as Singer’s “disciples” attribute to his reactions the meaning they wish them to have, critics have assigned as the meaning of the metaphor their own hobbyhorses. I’ll give one example: Harold Bloom, one of America’s most prolific critics, and one who often appeals to non-academic readers, sees this metaphor in terms of classic (early) psychoanalysis and refers to Freud’s “The Dynamics of Transference” (1912) to note that inability to love results from early channelling of libidinal impulses in ways that withhold it from conscious personality (etc., etc.).2 But McCullers in this novel does not addressing the expression of erotic love by this metaphor. She is not even dealing with any of he other forms of love that bear Greek names (such as agape or philos). What the “disciples” want, is not “love,” but rather affirmation of the meaning they have chosen for their lives, the meaning they have selected consciously, not as a result of innate drives. This may or may not be susceptible to psychoanalytic description, but not in the reductive way Bloom suggests.

In much the same way other academic critics have forced this work into the confines of their own specialties. Let’s put aside feminist and queer theory critics and look at earlier critics who regarded the novel as another of the Southern Gothic genre begun by Faulkner. Most of the support for that categorization stems solely from the southern location and the supposed treatment of “freaks” and “outcasts.” (The reed that often supports the claim that McCullers is obsessed with “freaks” is Biff’s statement to Alice that “I like freaks.” But when he thinks of it Blount (to whom he applied the term) is not a freak, and those he was thinking of do not appear in the novel.) That the characters were ground down by poverty, the Depression and racism does not make them freaks or otherwise bizarre. In fact, McCullers treats each of the characters with a kind of respect, and thereby gives them a dignity that is apparent even in the first glance. McCullers’s characters are overall much more articulate than Faulkner’s, her African American characters in particular are real people rather than props. Her style and narrative structure avoid any self-referential “literary” technique. Nor does she emphasize the morbid or construct elaborate but implausible plot developments. In short, there seems really very little in common between McCullers and Faulkner. But for me the most important difference and what makes McCullers unique is how she can make a novel of ideas out of people and events that remain realistic throughout. In this novel almost all the characters are living on the edge of financial disaster. Privation distorts their possibilities as well as their relations to others. And yet in addition to trying to retain their dignity, the main characters are also searching for deeper meanings to life, and it is that quest and the answers they tell themselves that are at the heart of the mystery that we feel reading her novels.

Characters searching for meaning was not a Southern, or even American, literary commonplace. Of course, there were all sorts of existentialist theories and treatments of existentialist themes and outlooks from as far back as the mid-nineteenth century. (One could even go earlier with Büchner’s Woyzeck.) But whether one could (or even should) define a meaning for one’s self was a question that would become a central issue only in the middle of the twentieth century and later. An important early step in that direction was Camus’s The Stranger, but that novel was published a year after The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. And the French work dealt only with the preliminary issue: the absurdity of our isolation (to translate it into more McCullers-friendly concepts). Camus would elaborate his concept (and its consequences) in many essays and criticisms, which gave him intellectual heft among academics. McCullers was never an accomplished essayist, possibly because she formulated her ideas in terms of stories. (In this she might be said to be Southern.) But in her first extended story she examined her existential (or absurdist, for she is more like Camus than either the atheist Sartre or the deist Kierkegaard) thesis from several different angles, not just one  (exceedingly abnormal) point of view as in The Stranger.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is also the only work that puts her existential thesis in the context of common religious beliefs (for the South in the late 1930s). There are only two characters (and they are secondary) who subscribe to any form of systematic religious belief. The first is Antonapoulos, whose religious rituals, as far as we can tell, are extremely childlike and rote, almost superstitious. Singer’s dream acknowledges his friend’s superiority ot him in matters spiritual (and in the same sense his superiority to his own “disciples”), but in the end the edifice collapses. Portia is the other believer (or at least practitioner) in the work. She believes that membership in her denomination and moderate practice of ritual (not too “sanctified” she insists) results in peace and the ability to love.  It is true that she is the only character who demonstrates something close to selfless concern for others, even those outside her own insular race (for she expresses concern for the Kelly children). Her behavior, however, seems more in keeping with the cult of meekness (as Dr. Copeland calls it), the kind which reinforces conventional social and ethical rules without any appeal to heightened consciousness (the kind, in short, that William James seems to prefer in The Variety of Religious Experiences), and nothing she says shows it gives any meaning to her life. It certainly is not a motivation to seek social justice. The other characters dismiss religion outright. Mick believes no more in God than in Santa Claus, she says, but her early indoctrination bubbles up in snatches of scripture at an oddly inappropriate moment. Blount is plagued by a street preacher out to convert him, but Blount’s response is mere mockery. He regards it all as a lie, unlike the gospel of worker liberation which he preaches and for which he himself is mocked. Biff is also reminded of religion. His wife teaches Sunday School and at the beginning of the novel, he hears her preparing a lesson involving the verse from Mark, to the effect that all men seek for Him. The talk only effects nostalgia in Biff, who remembers the days before he gave it all up. When each reach their own crisis, none considers religion as a sensible recourse.

Even the one central teaching of conventional Christianity, altruistic love (Christ-like in its self-abnegation) does not give us permanent relief from the isolation the characters experience, because it depends on the existence of the object of our devotion. When Singer loses Antanapoulos, his reason for living disappears, and with that, he takes away the affirmation he was supplying to the others. The short denouement part of the novel concludes their stories in reverse order of the characters’ introductions. Copeland, having met his wall, the realization that his life work of self-actualizing into a respectable, dignified man was no match for the entrenched institutionalized forces of racism, gives up. He is carted off (literally) to the farm of his father-in-law, whose meekness and religiosity Copeland spent his lifetime opposing. It is perhaps the fact that the farm is away from the town, itself isolated from the arena that Copeland had tried to contend in, that makes it any refuge at all. Blount, having not convinced any person of the idea he found so simple, and indeed becomes the reason that the oppressed end up attacking each other, has to leave town, to escape questions and possibly to find converts elsewhere. Biff gives him a little help, but without Singer, Blount has not reason to stay. Mick made a decision, forced by circumstances that effectually compelled it, which for all practical purposes will end her dream of pursuing music. Barely on the edge of adulthood she can expect a future as dreary of her father’s, but evidently because we cannot live without meaning, however illusory, she thinks she can save $2 out of $10 weekly salary to some day buy a piano. These thoughts console her while she drinks a beer and has a chocolate sundae at the café at the same time realizing that she is angry all the time. Only there is no on to be angry at. Biff suffers no great trouble, because he had no meaning he would commit to. He realized he would no longer love again, and he never understood the mystery of Singer. But suddenly in the middle of the night, as he tends the customer-free café, he comes to a transcendent realization. “For in a swift radiance of illumination he saw a glimpse of human struggle and of valor. Of the endless fluid passage of humanity through endless time. And of those who labor and of those who—one word—love. His soul expanded.” But the exhilaration of the vision soon turns to terror. What he was looking at was the past; the future, however, holds “blackness, error, and ruin.” It was necessary to wash his face with a wet handkerchief and to actively impose self discipline to dispel the terror. He was, after all, a “sensible man.” And so he composed himself “soberly to await the morning sun.”

There are two influences that I think profoundly influence the organization and approach of this novel, and both are Russian.3 The first is the mature work of Dostoevsky. In the first place, the techniques of Dostoevsky’s first effort to mesh more than one story into a single work, Crime and Punishment, are evident. Long stretches of independent stories, occasionally crossing with the other story, are allowed to develop under their own logic, almost independent of the design of the others. What gives The Heart is a Lonely Hunter such expansiveness is the careful construction of the separate stories, not as accessories to each other, but almost in their own right. The parallels are not overstated, and the details allow us to consider the psychological makeup of each character. A particular point of comparison is the introduction of Blount in McCullers’s book and the introduction of Marmeladov in Crime and Punishment (in both cases in the second chapters of the respective novels). Like Blount, Marmeladov is quite drunk and attempts to tell his story. Like the customers in the New York Café, those in Dostoevsky’s bar treat the drunk with ridicule. But out of the encounter a relationship is formed between the two drunks and the two central characters in the novels. A second characteristic of Dostoevsky that McCullers also uses is the sudden shocking moment that drastically changes the relationships of the characters and their possible future courses of action. This is probably best seen in Demons (The Possessed) and The Idiot. Finally, Dostoevsky also dwell on the human need to express out inner thoughts to others. This is what in Crime and Punishment undoes Raskolnikov legally (although we are led to believe at the end, it formed the basis for his spiritual renewal). It is also evident, more perversely, in the character of Stavrogin in Demons. What McCullers does not take from Dostoevsky, however, is his tendency to descend into the maudlin. For her restrained tone and objective recounting of narrative, she more closely resembles Chekhov.  Both of these two Russian influences also  can be seen in the next two novels.

With her first novel McCullers staked out a territory that became her own over the next two decades—the mystery of human isolation and its consequence. Dostoevsky likewise spent his career exploring the spiritual dimensions of human suffering. Although neither fully answered the questions they posed, they both came near an answer by the final novel. In the next post I’ll discuss how McCullers came to almost know that “one big thing.”


1“The Hedgehog and the Fox” in Russian Thinkers (London: Hogarth Press, 1978), reprinted in Isaiah Berlin, The Proper Study of Mankind: An Anthology of Essays ed. by Henry Hardy and Roger Hausheer (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. [Return to text.]

2Harold Bloom, “Introduction,” Carson McCullers (Modern Critical Views) ed. by Harold Bloom (New York: Chelsea House Publishers, 1986), pp. 1–2. [Return to text.]

3McCullers wrote an essay in 1941 entitled “Russian Realists and Southern Writers” in which she compared the Russian aristocracy to the Southern social order: “The Southerner and the Russian are both ’types,’ in that they have certain recognizable and national psychological traits. Hedonistic, imaginative, lazy, and emotional—there is surely a cousinly resemblance.” It is not for this reason, however, or at least not for this reason alone, that I think she owes a debt to the Russians. [Return to text.]


From radical to commercial in one generation

I was surprised to find that the opening bars of the version of “Star Spangled Banner” performed by Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock is used by Major League Baseball as its unofficial theme. I doubt that the favorite sport of George Will and Henry Kissinger was making some radical critique that reactionary forces have distorted our country’s ideals in this time of national polarization just as they did in 1969, the last time we were so riven. It probably is simply just another example of something I observed: that in our hyper-commercialized form of popular culture, where “art” is simply “content” which has been successfully marketed by profit-driven actors rather than cultural critics, it takes only about 50 years for advertisers and corporate image polishers to take even the most radical forms of expression and turn them into commercials. At one time abstract expressionism was thought shocking, but now it decorates the offices of even the most staid Wall Street firms (provided of course that the colors match the surroundings). I noticed that around the mid-1990s Saks of Fifth Avenue (the one in Manhattan) started playing Charlie Parker (just barely heard of course) in the background. (I wonder if the stores around the country did so at the same time or have caught up.) Munch’s Scream and Van Gogh’s Sunflowers of course have been decorative items for a long time.

Maybe the time period has something to do with the length of copyrights. Or maybe pop culture simply takes 50 or so years to assimilate innovations. It took Hollywood until about the late 1950s before it began using riffs from atonal compositions made in Vienna at the beginning of the twentieth century, even though composers like Korngold, who witnessed and participated in it in Vienna, composed film music.

I suspect that time frame will speed up in the near future because fewer and fewer oases of non-commercial art exist, because popular art is largely conceived from the beginning as a commercial endeavor (with product placement, embedded advertisements, considerations of licensing possibilities), and because a generation has grown up immured against the idea that art is something outside of mass, commercial entertainment.

This may not be an entirely new development. Hemingway, for example, designed For Whom the Bell Tolls for a movie with Clark Gable in mind. Maybe it was inevitable with the twentieth century’s mass distribution inventions: movies, recordings, broadcasting. Maybe it would never have occurred to anyone to make “absolute music” independent of considerations of what records would “sell,” and more importantly, how much profits could be generated. Maybe Bach today would be writing television theme music, Virgil writing ad copy and Bernini trying to make cars look sleeker.

Even so there still seems to me to be a disconnect between the beer swilling fans in Boston screaming “Yankees suck!” and the “turn on, tune in, drop out” crowds at Woodstock. Maybe the forces of conformity have simply changed society. God knows there has been no real anti-war movement, despite over a decade of conflicts around the world. So maybe the forces that allow Hendrix to be play while watching the interminably slow pace of baseball has simply homogenized us all. It doesn’t matter what is sold, we will buy it as long as it is packaged in the way we have come to expect.

John Wooden (1910-2010)

Athletes litter the field of pop culture as much as actors and singers or pop musicians. Their bursts of fame are generally much shorter than the others, however, because their playing careers are much shorter, owing to “the thousand natural shocks / That flesh is heir to,” as Hamlet would put it. Nevertheless, the sports themselves and occasionally players have entered American high-brow culture fairly regularly.

Of the popular professional American sports, baseball and boxing attract the most interest among literary types. Henry Kissinger, always one to ensure his comments are self-referential and self-aggrandizing, once said that he enjoyed baseball because it was “so cerebral.” The English Department of Middle Tennessee State University recently (March 26, 2010) held its 15th “Baseball in Literature and Culture Conference.” This year’s event boasted as its most famous guest Ferguson Jenkins, a Hall of Fame pitcher, who I saw on many occasions and continue to believe that playing for the Cubs prevented him from achieving the fame that he was due.

Aside from Ring Lardner (who began as a sports writer), numerous top flight writers wrote about baseball: Bernard Malamud’s The Natural follows the intersection of two all-American types: the athletic prodigy and the serial killer; Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby reveals who was behind baseball’s darkest moment; Don DeLillo’s Underworld follows the post-game history of the ball “shot ’round the world,” and so forth. Ball Four by former pitcher Jim Bouton, otherwise unknown in literary culture, was included in the 1995-96 exhibit by the New York Public Library of the Books of the Century. (Granted it was in the category of “Popular Culture and Mass Entertainment.” But then so was Chandler’s The Big Sleep, Capote’s In Cold Blood and Stoker’s Dracula.) It did not hurt Bouton’s reception by New York institutions that he was once a New York Yankee and “enhanced” Mickey Mantle’s reputation, of course. But the book would deserve commendation for no other reason than eliciting the remark that it was “detrimental to baseball” from the execrable Bowie Kuhn, who himself was detrimental not only to baseball but to the legal profession, from which he finally fled to sink his fortune into a homestead in Florida to protect his wealth from his firm’s bankruptcy creditors, after the massive, phony billing scheme sent his partner Harvey Myerson to jail.

Boxing always attracted a darker literary sensibility. Less like the chirpy “boys of summer” spirit, boxing reflects the point of view of the great American creation the noir (which shows its serious artistic pretensions by its French name): the lone male, equipped only with his brains and fists, must wage a brutal battle (in fact battle after battle) against a force intending to destroy him, in a war that he will ultimately lose. It is no coincidence that Dashiell Hammett, the creator of Sam Spade, was himself a boxer. But so were the other über-males of American literature Ernest Hemingway and Jack London. (In one of the oddest stories of ex-patriot American literati in Paris, Hemingway tells in A Moveable Feast of trying to teach Ezra Pound to box.) In a different field, über-male Miles Davis, who also liked to box, recorded an improvised fusion-jazz set as a background to a film on legendary boxer Jack Johnson, which he later released as an album tribute to the boxer. (Norman Mailer, who liked to portray himself as an über-male, also liked to portray himself as a boxer.) In fact, Joyce Carol Oates called boxing “a celebration of the lost religion of masculinity ….” Rod Stirling repeatedly used boxing as a metaphor for loss (but not loss of the “religion of masculinity”), not only in his Requiem for a Heavyweight but also in short stories and “Twilight Zone” episodes. And of course if anyone ever personified the liberal intellectual’s view of existential manhood in the 60s-70s, it was Muhammad Ali.

All of this is an unnecessary introduction to John Wooden, who died June 4, 2010, well into his 99th year. Basketball, at which he excelled as player in high school and college and as a coach, is not susceptible to literary treatment, at least not the way baseball or boxing is. It has none of the individual moments of personal glory of baseball or the existential maleness of boxing. Nor does it (or any other sport) participate in the kind of sickly nostalgia or forced feyness in which many of baseball’s custodians hold that sport. Basketball is a team sport too fast paced and interrupted to have a narrative feel to it. While celebrities arise from basketball, often they become pop figures because of the visual appeal of their craft (Michael Jordan, Julius Erving) or the bizarreness of their behavior (Dennis Rodman). Nevertheless, Wooden is something of an iconic figure, and if basketball is to have a culture icon, it probably should be Wooden.

Wooden’s character belongs to a pre-high definition TV era, and he certainly did not appreciate the bizarre. He had the dignified character of a Joe DiMaggio or Bill Bradley. Wooden was perhaps the most reserved of the three. He had all the trappings of a very socially conservative life-style. He was married for 53 years and remained devoted to the same woman after her death. Each month he would visit the grave and write a letter to her. Their first meeting at a carnival while still in high school and their much later “honeymoon” at a Mills Brothers concert in Indianapolis add to the charm of the relationship. He was a high school and college athlete, became a teacher and coach, and clawed his way up the field of college coaching. He served in the Navy during World War II and achieved the rank of lieutenant. After the war he took the coaching job at UCLA because he had “given his word,” even though he had hoped to become coach of Minnesota, which delayed making its offer (until after Wooden agreed with UCLA) only because of inclement weather. He was an avowed Christian but modest in his outward display. (“If I were ever prosecuted for my religion, I truly hope there would be enough evidence to convict me.”) Christianity Today claimed that he read the Bible every day and that he held Abraham Lincoln as his role model. His life seemed the very epitome of a kind of Midwestern virtue that we only now are reminded of by the occasional Gary Cooper movie.

Wooden was born in the center of Indiana, Hall, grew up on a farm in Centerton (a dirt poor one judging by pictures of his family when he was small), but according to the timeline on his official website (sponsored by McDonald’s), in 1924 “hard-times force Wooden family off the farm and to nearby Martinsville, Indiana; pop. 4,800.” Wooden’s father would take a job at one of the sanitariums that Martinsville sported. Martinsville had a number of spas and sanitariums owing to the local mineral waters, which made it somewhat of a destination for the wealthy and sickly. At one of these sanitariums in 1890 Albert Merritt once worked as a porter. Merritt was the son of slaves who founded the Martinsville Boys Club and is now claimed to be “beloved” by the town. But by 1924 Martinsville no longer had a racial climate that allowed someone like Merritt to ply his good works. Racism, the virulent kind, blossomed like a noxious weed in the 1920s. David Curtis Stephenson, who had moved to Indiana from Oklahoma in 1920, having lost his bid for a Democratic nomination to run for Congress, channeled his political ambitions into the internal political workings of the Ku Klux Klan, backing Hiram Wesley Evans’s successful effort to unseat William J. Simmons as the Klan’s Imperial Wizard. For his efforts Stephenson was appointed Grand Dragon of the northern states. This appointment paid immediate benefits in Indiana. Klan membership dramatically increased. Martinsville became known as a “sunset town,” meaning that any blacks in town after dark were considered open targets. In October 1923 a Klan rally was held at the courthouse in Martinsville, drawing Klansmen from surrounding towns and as far away as Indianapolis. The crowd was described as “imposing,” and carried banners reading “White Supremacy,” “Protect Womanhood,” “Free public schools,” and “Pure Americanism.” Stephenson switched to the Republican party, and he assisted his favorite, Edward L. Jackson, to become Governor of Indiana. Jackson, although a corrupt buffoon, would further entrench the Klan into Indiana politics by, among other things, appointing reputed Klansman Arthur Robinson Senator over progressive scholar and former Senator Albert Beveridge (the biographer of John Marshall). Both Stephenson and Jackson suffered monumental falls by the end of the 1920s, Stephenson was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1925 for the abduction, forced intoxication, rape and felony murder of a school teacher (whom Jackson introduced Stephenson to). Jackson, who was fearful of pardoning Stephenson, suffered the retribution of the Grand Dragon who expected no less. Stephenson knew where many of Jackson’s bodies were buried, and bribery charges against Jackson followed. Although he would escape conviction, Jackson left office a disgraced man in 1929. Martinsville continued the focus of racial hatred, spitefulness and crimes up to today. The town is still best known for the murder in 1968 of a black woman attacked with a screwdriver while she was selling encyclopedias door to door. In 1990 the town had no blacks counted in the census. Even the local black internist was too afraid to check the box for “African Americans.” By 2002 the local Chamber of Commerce had hired a “diversity consultant” purportedly to “undertake a county-wide initiative to address what I like to call making everyone feel welcome here” according to the Chamber’s president.

This was where Wooden spent his high school years and where he met his wife. While in high school he sent the Martinsville Artesians to the state championships in each of the three years between 1926-1928, winning the title in 1927. (Wooden was captain of the 1928 team that lost in the final game. Wooden said that losing as defending champions “still hurts.”) The team, of course, was all white.

Despite all of this (or maybe because all of this) Wooden referred to himself as a “liberal Democrat.” It is true that at one time, as Edmund Wilson pointed out, everyone was a liberal. That time seems far away just now; yet, it wasn’t more than a lifetime ago. But given that Wooden captions one of the photos in the “Scrapbook” of his official website with the statement “I’ve got the Bruins in my blood, but I’m a Hoosier at heart,” his affiliation with the Democrats seems unexpected at best. Going back to the days of William McKinley, Indiana rarely voted for a Democratic Presidential nominee (voting against FDR twice and Wilson for re-election). And when they voted for a Democratic, it was usually one of the unreconstructed Neanderthal type, such as Senator Samuel Ralston, anti-Catholic Klan favorite who died in office in 1925. Wooden’s un-Hoosier broadmindedness was of an entirely different cast and showed itself in the same way that his Christianity did—modestly, without fanfare but resolutely nonetheless. Perhaps it was from his father that he maintained a sense of social justice in the midst of the muck. He said that when he “graduated” elementary school in Centerton, his father gave him a paper with the following 7 instructions on it:

1. Be true to yourself.
2. Help others.
3. Make each day your masterpiece.
4. Drink deeply from good books, especially the Bible.
5. Make friendship a fine art.
6. Build a shelter against a rainy day.
7. Pray for guidance and give thanks for your blessings every day.

He claimed that he kept the paper his whole life. He certainly developed an instinct for aphorisms. And as far as we can tell from his decisions, he seems to have followed them. And at least once it had some visible effects.

After World War II Wooden took a job as teacher and coach at Indiana Teacher’s College (now Indiana State University, where Larry Bird would play 30 years later). In 1947, his first year, he coached the Sycamores to an invitation to the NAIB (now the NAIA) tournament to be held in Kansas City. Wooden refused the invitation because of the tournament’s whites-only rule —Indiana Teachers College had one black backup player, Clarence Walker. Walker played only limited minutes, but as his son later told the story, for Wooden it was a question of team. Walker was a member of the team, and either the team played or it didn’t. “They wouldn’t permit a colored boy to play in the tournament and I had one on my team—Clarence Walker out of East Chicago,” Wooden said later. “While he wasn’t one that got to play very much at all, he still was a member of my team and I wouldn’t take the team without him.”

The next year the Sycamores were again invited to the NAIB tournament but this year the tournament committee changed the rules to permit black players. They informed Wooden that Walker would still be prohibited from staying at the segregated hotels or eating at the white-only eating places in Kansas City, but he would be allowed in the tournament. Wooden again refused. Something about these decisions suggests an intentional stand by Wooden to make a point, because in the regular season Walker had to suffer the indignities and worse of segregated Indiana. There were places he could not play, yet the team continued to play in Kentucky and Virginia. On campus he had to live in the back dorm, and when he went to away games he often had to use a separate locker room. Whatever the reason for the refusal, under pressure from the college president and persuasion from the NAACP, Wooden eventually relented. Walker stayed at the home of an African American minister in Kansas City. Indiana Teachers College made the finals but lost to Louisville. The game was historic in a couple of senses. It was the first collegiate championship game (outside New York at least) in which a black played. It was Wooden’s only loss as a coach in a championship game, and it was his last game in the NAIB. Although he coached for only 2 years in the league, he entered the NAIA Hall of Fame in 2009, largely due to his stand in favor of Clarence Walker. The tournament itself was not a dramatic moment in the history of the civil rights movement. Kansas City’s black newspaper The Call said that “no expressions of disapproval were heard” from the fans. Walker was not a star by any means; he scored only 8 points the entire week of games.

Clarence Walker would become a high school teacher and coach, put his three kids through college and even become the President of the Board of Commissioners of Lake County, Indiana. His children tell of how Walker spoke of Wooden and his teammates who supported the decisions. He also impressed on them how Wooden had enough pull to be able to find a black preacher in Kansas City who would take Walker in. Wooden himself said that when a couple of years later an “all colored team” won the tournament, he received hate letters blaming him for the result.

Wooden would go on to coach Lew Alcindor, Jamaal (then Jackson) Wilkes, among others. And in all cases he seems to have cemented feelings of great warmth and respect. Wooden has written a handful of books over the past decade, all in the inspirational/admonitory style that would become a genre of “sports leadership” books. The genre would make considerable money for coaches such as Pat Riley and Bill Parcells, who were able to fill some of the demand by the sports-hero-worshiping management world willing to spend for the maxims of “strong” leaders. Wooden himself has left a legacy of aphorisms about the concept of team, the power of self-respect, and the value of principle. Perhaps these sayings are no more useful than the hollow words of numerous others from high school coaches fantasizing about the big time to professionals whose main interest is maximizing income from sponsors and the lecture circuit. But if an editor were interested in trying to rekindle interest in the collection of aphorisms as an artform, he’d be well-advised to consider Wooden, whose own sayings seem to have been percolating in some deep recesses of the soul and not merely the best received on a corporate leadership circuit.