Part 4 (1/2)

As Don explained years later, a writer becomes a writer ”by selecting fathers. In the beginning, you know, I thought Hemingway was as far as writing could go....I didn't even know there was a Heinrich von Kleist....Ididn't know anything about Kafka at that point, and how can you write without at least knowing that Kafka exists?...[A]s one reads more and more and more you get more fathers in your hierarchy of fathers. And then, after summoning twenty or thirty fathers, perhaps you you are born....” are born....”

Maranto had exaggerated when he said that Don didn't like people; nevertheless, it was true that love of literature, not of individuals, would animate Don's fiction. Maranto was right that Don would not get into characters the way Steinbeck and Hemingway did. Instead, he would get into the nature of literary form. nature of literary form. The psychological drama in his work does not lie in the tension between personalities, but in the conflicts between traditions, sensibilities, generations, and the tyrannies that time works on human efforts. The psychological drama in his work does not lie in the tension between personalities, but in the conflicts between traditions, sensibilities, generations, and the tyrannies that time works on human efforts.

Agreeing, then, with many tenets of the New Criticism, Don remained convinced that its approach was limited. Most of all, he was uncomfortable with its social biases and their broader implications. Its founders were southerners, rooted in the heavy paternalism of the old Confederacy. They weren't nostalgic for slavery (though in early essays, which he later repudiated, Robert Penn Warren argued for continued segregation), but they adhered to a rigidly hierarchical social system.

How does this civic view get translated into a program of close reading? Listen to Robert Penn Warren: ”Poetry wants to be pure,” he claimed, but inevitably the elements of a poem are uneven, poems ”mar themselves with cacophonies, jagged rhythms, ugly words and ugly thoughts.” In his view, the poet was the benevolent overseer, trying to hold these tatters together. The reader's task was to a.n.a.lyze how well, or poorly, the master succeeded.

The longing for purity appealed to Don; he had absorbed his father's notion of what should be. what should be. Yet anything that smacked of paternalism was bound to make him wary. And it was unsettling to imagine Yet anything that smacked of paternalism was bound to make him wary. And it was unsettling to imagine any any single authority-a father, a priest, an architect, a crusading literary critic-telling people what purity looked like. single authority-a father, a priest, an architect, a crusading literary critic-telling people what purity looked like.

Besides, tatters could be pretty.

”If any one person is to be singled out for having begun a tradition of creative writing” at the University of Houston, ”it's Miss Ruth Pennybacker,” says Lee Pryor. Pryor taught in the university's English department for over forty years. Pennybacker, who never published a word of fiction, graduated from Va.s.sar and arrived in Houston in 1935. According to Pryor, she taught freshman composition, and gradually developed courses in story and poetry writing. She served as the major adviser for the school's literary magazine, Harvest. Harvest. Don took a turn editing the magazine. ”Miss Pennybacker,” as she insisted on being called, was the only creative writing teacher he ever had. Don took a turn editing the magazine. ”Miss Pennybacker,” as she insisted on being called, was the only creative writing teacher he ever had.

In 1949, Don wasn't pursuing an academic track. He wanted to be a writer, not a teacher of writing, which is what creative writing programs seemed destined to produce. Though drawn to Miss Pennybacker, and her pa.s.sion for art, he romanticized the Hemingway model. ”[Because] Hemingway had been a newspaperman, I sought and got a newspaper job with the idea that this had something to do with writing,” he said.

In June 1950, though no longer enrolled in cla.s.ses, he began contributing unsigned book reviews to the Daily Cougar, Daily Cougar, starting with a savage account of Speed Lamkin's novel starting with a savage account of Speed Lamkin's novel Tiger in the Garden. Tiger in the Garden. Lamkin, now largely forgotten, wrote potboilers as well as Broadway plays and television scripts for Lamkin, now largely forgotten, wrote potboilers as well as Broadway plays and television scripts for Playhouse 90. Playhouse 90. Paul West has said that ” Paul West has said that ”Tiger in the Garden [was] once regarded as the cream of the writing in the Gothic seminars of the deep South.” [was] once regarded as the cream of the writing in the Gothic seminars of the deep South.”

Don did not share this view. Lamkin's prose is ”as emotion-charged as a telephone's dial tone,” he wrote. The plot characterizes the city of Houston as a ”crazed Negro,” holding the ”population of Hardtimes plantation at bay with a bread knife.” Don's review appeared in the Cougar Cougar on June 16. on June 16.

He supplied the paper with three more book reviews that summer, on Jan Valtin's Wintertime, Wintertime, Frederick Buechner's Frederick Buechner's A Long Day's Dying, A Long Day's Dying, and Joyce Cary's and Joyce Cary's The Horse's Mouth The Horse's Mouth (”Barmaids, Walls and Models Enrich Tale of Frustration”). Additionally, he published a ”news item,” cast in the form of a drama, on the university's Home Ec Department. The piece was set in an alchemy lab. There, a character named Pitkin turns up, the first of many appearances in Don's (”Barmaids, Walls and Models Enrich Tale of Frustration”). Additionally, he published a ”news item,” cast in the form of a drama, on the university's Home Ec Department. The piece was set in an alchemy lab. There, a character named Pitkin turns up, the first of many appearances in Don's Cougar Cougar columns by members of the fictional Pitkin family. The name is snitched from Nathanael West's 1934 novel, columns by members of the fictional Pitkin family. The name is snitched from Nathanael West's 1934 novel, A Cool Million, A Cool Million, in which Lemuel Pitkin, duped and physically dismembered by a series of con men, serves as an ironic witness to the American Dream. in which Lemuel Pitkin, duped and physically dismembered by a series of con men, serves as an ironic witness to the American Dream.

Maggie Stubblefield Maranto, the wife of Joe Maranto, recalls that at about this time, Don's friend Pat Goeters ”created [a] homely” character named Maud Alice Pitkin, whom he often talked about at parties. ”Yes, I'll take credit for the Pitkins,” Goeters says. ”Sometimes Don would come to my house and we'd engage in a kind of 'battle of the bands' write-off,” trying to top each other's literary efforts. ”It was during one of those times that I wrote some fable about Lindberg Pitkin. In my friends.h.i.+p with Don, almost every mildly enjoyable event became something of a ritual or, in Don's case, a tale to be told, enhanced and bejeweled.”

On August 18, Don published his first signed piece in the Cougar, Cougar, ”Author Hits c.o.kes for Distinct Gain,” about stealing redeemable soda bottles. ”Author Hits c.o.kes for Distinct Gain,” about stealing redeemable soda bottles.

By September he had reenrolled in cla.s.ses. No doubt he bowed to family pressure. Perhaps he didn't know what else to do with himself. What's clear is that his main interest at the time was his work on the paper. Returning to the university as a full-time student was the only way to continue legitimately working at the Cougar. Cougar.

Joe Maranto made Don the amus.e.m.e.nts editor (”Scribe Turns to Culture, Wincing,” Don announced in the paper). He would cover books, music, and local stage productions. He would also contribute a regular features column. Soon he was signing these columns ”Bardley,” a play on the Bard of Avon, Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, and his own name.

The Pitkin family became part of the university community. Sabatini Pitkin, and his brother Rathbone, ”interviewed” in one article, complained that soon everyone in America would be teaching art instead of creating it. Another brother, Ron L., was listed as the author of a book called Your Mind: h.e.l.l or Haven? Your Mind: h.e.l.l or Haven? This was Don's parody of L. Ron Hubbard's This was Don's parody of L. Ron Hubbard's Dianetics, Dianetics, the founding text of Scientology. The parody presages ”The Teachings of Don B.,” Don's 1973 satire of the Carlos Castaneda books. the founding text of Scientology. The parody presages ”The Teachings of Don B.,” Don's 1973 satire of the Carlos Castaneda books.

In October, Clyde Rainwater, a student journalist at Yale, wrote a review of the nation's school newspapers. He said that Don seemed to think he was Wolcott Gibbs, a New Yorker New Yorker humorist. The remark's accuracy must have stung Don. Rainwater dismissed Texas as lacking culture and insisted that ”there's nowhere else in life but New York.” In a little over a decade, Don would come to agree; for now, he acidly thanked Rainwater for showing him ”how they do it in the East.” humorist. The remark's accuracy must have stung Don. Rainwater dismissed Texas as lacking culture and insisted that ”there's nowhere else in life but New York.” In a little over a decade, Don would come to agree; for now, he acidly thanked Rainwater for showing him ”how they do it in the East.”

Occasionally, Don wrote a serious editorial, one of which shows how unsophisticated his political thinking was at the time. ”Probe Where Probe Is Due, Sans Spotlight” (May 4, 1951) scolds the ”headline-seeking” zeal of the House Committee on Un-American Activities. While investigating Communists in the movie industry, congressmen were paying too much attention to actors, Don said. The pols were dazzled by celebrity. Nevertheless, Don supported the committee's mandate, and urged exposure of producers and directors with ties to the Communist party. Years later, he was appalled at himself for having written such a thing.

As months pa.s.sed, Bardley became increasingly playful and bizarre. He declared ”total war” on television because he had been refused admission to a local channel's party. He lambasted a radio station for not broadcasting ”Confederate propaganda.” He said all Americans should take a course on ”turning things off,” especially radios. Don was using the Cougar Cougar to create his own imaginative world, and to experiment with a variety of styles. to create his own imaginative world, and to experiment with a variety of styles.

In one piece ent.i.tled ”Grimm Revisited,” dated July 13, 1951, a witch named Jane appears: Jane was one of the younger wicked old witches in the community. She was electric, vital, a leader. When it came time to dun the villagers for contributions to the Community Chest or the Milk Fund, Jane padded from humble door to humble door, morning till night. Everyone said she was one of the nicest wicked old witches they had ever known.But according to the union rules Jane had some witchly duties to perform. One of these was stealing away little children, and in exercising this function Jane met Oliver [Birdsong].It was a momentous meeting.

Jane botches things. She phones a sister witch, Hazel, for ”professional advice.” Hazel is annoyed to be disturbed; she says that ”any woman who had spent the day reciting incantations over a bubbling cauldron deserved a good night's sleep.” She offers no help. Eventually, Oliver escapes from Jane and she is driven out of the witches' union.

Over a decade later, in Snow White, Snow White, Don's first novel, Jane would resurface, along with Don's strategy of exploring social movements-feminism, communal living-in fairy-tale form. Don's first novel, Jane would resurface, along with Don's strategy of exploring social movements-feminism, communal living-in fairy-tale form.

In a 1984 television interview with George Plimpton, aired on Houston's public broadcasting station, Don said, ”I originally began writing in rather traditional, ersatz Hemingway fas.h.i.+on, and it was really terrible, it was truly terrible. It was in reaction to my own inability to satisfy myself with traditional forms that I sort of began throwing things on the floor and looking to see what sorts of patterns they made.”

”Rover Boys' Retrogression” and the Cougar Cougar pieces make clear that Don was never pieces make clear that Don was never seriously seriously drawn to traditional forms, except as backgrounds to play against. He dashed off many of the newspaper pieces; they're certainly not literary (though a number of them are drawn to traditional forms, except as backgrounds to play against. He dashed off many of the newspaper pieces; they're certainly not literary (though a number of them are fictional fictional). Nevertheless, his obsessions and signature styles are already apparent. His strategies would become less soph.o.m.oric, more refined, and stunningly varied, but his ident.i.ty as a writer remained remarkably consistent from his first published piece to his last.

What accounts for his resistance to traditional forms? His father taught him to notice structure, to understand its origins, to appreciate variations on it, and to value innovation. Don began as a critic, one with a historical inclination. Form was not a given; it was not something to take for granted; it could wear out with time. Its manipulation-more than the content of a piece-was what distinguished one artwork from another. In his father's home, stalking art with this critical att.i.tude was as natural as breathing the air.

In April 1951, Joe Maranto left the Cougar Cougar to become a church reporter for the to become a church reporter for the Houston Post. Houston Post. Many years later, Don commemorated his friend's good fortune in fiction. In his story ”January,” a writer gets his start covering religion for a Knight-Ridder paper, an experience that teaches him to ”think of religion in a much more practical sense than...before, what the church offered or could offer to people, what people got from the church in a day-today sense.” The character adds, ”I came to theoretical concerns by way of very practical ones”-Don's view of Many years later, Don commemorated his friend's good fortune in fiction. In his story ”January,” a writer gets his start covering religion for a Knight-Ridder paper, an experience that teaches him to ”think of religion in a much more practical sense than...before, what the church offered or could offer to people, what people got from the church in a day-today sense.” The character adds, ”I came to theoretical concerns by way of very practical ones”-Don's view of his his education as a journalist. education as a journalist.

In ”See the Moon?” Don mentions a ”Cardinal Maranto,” another nod to his friend's Post Post a.s.signment. a.s.signment.

Maranto's new job was an important development for Don: In his buddy's absence, Don became the Cougar Cougar's editor in chief. On April 20, the Cougar Cougar announced that ”[Barthelme], a 20-year-old soph.o.m.ore journalism major, is the youngest student in the COUGAR'S history to hold the position of editor.” announced that ”[Barthelme], a 20-year-old soph.o.m.ore journalism major, is the youngest student in the COUGAR'S history to hold the position of editor.”

A month earlier, he had also begun writing for the university's news service, a position that put him in touch again with Helen Moore, who directed the service. If she was aware of his attraction to her, she didn't let on. She was engaged to another journalism student, Peter Gilpin, and she later recalled that ”Don seemed so young” (she was three years his senior). She ”thought little” of him except as a talented writer whose skills she was glad to exploit. He covered fine arts at the university and campus productions at the Attic Theatre. ”As he wrote his articles, Don was thoughtful and meticulous,” she said. He ”sometimes erased to make changes, but he often started over on a clean sheet of newsprint.”

Between articles, he pursued more expressive forms of writing, penning the music for a campus play, writing short stories and poems for Miss Pennybacker. Maranto, and another pal, George Christian, who worked at the Post, Post, brought Don's writing to the attention of the editors there, and on July 15, Don went to work for the paper, reviewing movies, concerts, and plays. On September 20, ”Stage Business,” the first installment of his regular Sunday column on local drama, appeared in the brought Don's writing to the attention of the editors there, and on July 15, Don went to work for the paper, reviewing movies, concerts, and plays. On September 20, ”Stage Business,” the first installment of his regular Sunday column on local drama, appeared in the Post Post. He was not yet twenty-one, but he was already following Hemingway's path, earning a living as a newspaperman.

8.

LET'S TAKE A WALK.

For decades, the Houston Post Houston Post had enjoyed the reputation of opinion maker in the greater Southwest. Under the bellicose management of Rienzi M. Johnston, who came to Houston in 1885 after serving the had enjoyed the reputation of opinion maker in the greater Southwest. Under the bellicose management of Rienzi M. Johnston, who came to Houston in 1885 after serving the Post Post as a political correspondent in Austin, the paper solidified its standing as a promoter of real estate development and progress, framing public debate within business and politics. Johnston turned the paper into a family affair, hiring his daughter Hallie as a columnist and grooming his son, Harry, to one day a.s.sume the editors.h.i.+p (in the 1950s, shortly after Don worked with him, Harry became chief of the Atlanta bureau of as a political correspondent in Austin, the paper solidified its standing as a promoter of real estate development and progress, framing public debate within business and politics. Johnston turned the paper into a family affair, hiring his daughter Hallie as a columnist and grooming his son, Harry, to one day a.s.sume the editors.h.i.+p (in the 1950s, shortly after Don worked with him, Harry became chief of the Atlanta bureau of Time Time magazine). Johnston's granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth, became a magazine). Johnston's granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth, became a Post Post reporter and eventually joined the editorial board of reporter and eventually joined the editorial board of Fortune. Fortune.

In October 1895, Johnston hired, at fifteen dollars a week, a young gadabout named William Sidney Porter-former ranch hand, bank teller, land office clerk, magazine editor-and gave him a regular column, ”Tales About Town” (later called ”Some Postscripts”). At first, the column, occasionally accompanied by Porter's cartoons, contained society items, standard newspaper fare, but it soon expanded to include vivid character sketches of street people, store clerks, and local artists. It became the Post Post's liveliest feature, and Porter was Texas's most celebrated writer.

Porter befriended a sixteen-year-old named Will Hobby, who had quit high school to take an eight-dollar-a-week job in the Post Post's circulation department. He fetched Porter sandwiches and listened to his tall tales. One day in June 1896, a man came looking for Porter, who had stepped out of the office. Proudly, Hobby pointed to the famous writer's desk. The man identified himself as a police officer. He had a summons for Porter's arrest. The charge was embezzlement. Though Porter wound up fleeing Houston, he eventually served a prison term.

Will Hobby grew up to become governor of Texas. After leaving jail, Porter adopted the pen name O. Henry and, building on many of the stories he had published in the Post, Post, crafted a highly successful literary career. While at the paper, Porter was a staff favorite, and over fifty years later, he was still a topic in the newsroom. Hubert Roussel, the amus.e.m.e.nts editor, and Don's immediate supervisor, kidded Don that his desk had belonged to O. Henry. Don joked that he could see O. Henry's initials carved into the wood. In ”Return,” a piece commissioned by the Houston Festival Committee and published in the crafted a highly successful literary career. While at the paper, Porter was a staff favorite, and over fifty years later, he was still a topic in the newsroom. Hubert Roussel, the amus.e.m.e.nts editor, and Don's immediate supervisor, kidded Don that his desk had belonged to O. Henry. Don joked that he could see O. Henry's initials carved into the wood. In ”Return,” a piece commissioned by the Houston Festival Committee and published in the Post Post in 1984, Don wrote: in 1984, Don wrote: [A]s a raw youth, I had worked for the...newspaper...When I was hired they showed me my desk, and they told me that it had been O. Henry's desk....I could see the place where O. Henry had savagely stabbed the desk with his pen in pursuit of a slimy adjective just out of reach, and a kind of bashed-in-looking place where O. Henry had beaten his poor genius head on the desk in frustration over not being able to capture that noun leaping like a fawn just out of reach....So I sat down at the desk and I too began to chase those devils, the dancy nouns and come-hither adjectives, what joy.

In the office, Don established himself as a literary expert fully versed on Porter, Damon Runyan, and Ambrose Bierce. Sly references to these writers spiced his columns. It's intriguing to note that Porter's last, and most well-known, piece for the Post, Post, ”An Aquatint,” published on June 22, 1896, features a repulsive tramp dressed in a ”burlesque” of a ”prince” who saves a child from drowning. ”Well, thank you, sir,” the child's mother tells him. A similar situation ends Don's 1968 story, ”Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning.” Kennedy is the one wrapped in princely regalia here, and though the narrator is not described, the story's t.i.tle is a clear allusion to Jean Renoir's 1932 film, ”An Aquatint,” published on June 22, 1896, features a repulsive tramp dressed in a ”burlesque” of a ”prince” who saves a child from drowning. ”Well, thank you, sir,” the child's mother tells him. A similar situation ends Don's 1968 story, ”Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning.” Kennedy is the one wrapped in princely regalia here, and though the narrator is not described, the story's t.i.tle is a clear allusion to Jean Renoir's 1932 film, Boudu Sauve des Eaux Boudu Sauve des Eaux ( (Boudu Saved from Drowning), in which a lower-cla.s.s Parisian-a Porter-like tramp-is fished out of the Seine. ”Thank you,” Kennedy says, simply, at the end of Don's tale.

Eventually, the Ambrose Bierce jokes got out of hand, as Don, Joe Maranto, and George Christian kept slipping his name into news items. Finally, Maranto, about to leave for a job at the Houston Chronicle, Houston Chronicle, signed a column, ”Ambrose Bierce, Editor.” Harry Johnston, city editor at the time, shrugged it off, but the managing editor, Arthur Laroe, demanded to know what this Bierce business was all about, and stopped all the fooling around. signed a column, ”Ambrose Bierce, Editor.” Harry Johnston, city editor at the time, shrugged it off, but the managing editor, Arthur Laroe, demanded to know what this Bierce business was all about, and stopped all the fooling around.

”[N]ewspaper work didn't teach me all that much about writing,” Don said later, ”but it taught me a lot of other things. It taught me what a union was, for example, which I had known only in the abstract.” The narrator of his 1970 story ”Brain Damage” confesses, ”I worked for newspapers at a time when I was not competent to do so. I reported inaccurately. I failed to get all the facts....I put lies in the paper. I put private jokes in the paper. I wrote headlines containing double entendres. I wrote stories while drunk. I abused copy boys.”

”Brain Damage” may be true to the spirit of Don's newspaper days, but the story is also highly literary. The sentences echo Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground: Notes from Underground: ”I used to be in the government service...I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so.” ”I used to be in the government service...I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so.”

Dostoevsky's man says, ”I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me.” Don wrote, ”I could describe [brain damage] better if I weren't afflicted with it....”

This is not precisely making reference making reference to another writer's work, but folding one's experience, emotion, and playfulness into a preexisting form, a necessary skill for smuggling private jokes into the paper while the soft, steady lights s.h.i.+ne above you, and the editor's scrutiny burns your back. to another writer's work, but folding one's experience, emotion, and playfulness into a preexisting form, a necessary skill for smuggling private jokes into the paper while the soft, steady lights s.h.i.+ne above you, and the editor's scrutiny burns your back.

”George is editing my copy,” Don complained to Joe Maranto one day. Don considered George Christian his peer-their desks sat side by side. But Christian had worked at the paper longer. Maranto pointed this out to Don, who insisted, ”He should not be editing my copy.”

Don ”always wanted to write tight, short sentences, except when he wanted to write a long one to impress you and he thought you'd know that's what he was doing,” Maranto says. When Hubert Roussel wasn't happy with an article, he'd punch a buzzer in his office. It rang in the outer room-one buzz for Christian, two for Don. The offending party would scurry into the editor's office for a harsh scolding-Roussel was a no-nonsense perfectionist. ”The newspaper building was populated with terrifying city editors whose gaze could cut bra.s.s, and ferocious copy desk men whose contempt could make a boy of twenty wish that his mother and father had never met,” Don wrote in ”Return.” ”I loved working there.”

A photograph from the time shows Christian and Don at their desks, both wearing white s.h.i.+rts with the sleeves rolled nearly to the elbows and thin dark ties. They sport very short haircuts. The room is stark and white, with unadorned walls; it looks airless. The desks are wooden, ma.s.sive, with square recesses for the typewriters, and long telephone cords curl around the desk's squatty legs. The wooden chairs are straight-backed and stiff. Christian seems serious, almost ponderous. Don appears to be smirking as he types.