Bill Peschel

Rosetta Stone, Byron and Zola

2008-07-19T13:00:00-05:00

On the weekend, the Reader's Almanac takes a break by offering some notable events in brief:

1799: Soldiers in Napoleon's Army in Egypt discover the Rosetta Stone, a tablet with hieroglyphic translations into Greek. Deciphering the stone allows scholars to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics.

1819: Lord Byron sends Cantos I and I of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" to his publisher, John Murray.

1898: Emile Zola flees France on the advice of his lawyers following the public uproar surrounding his trial for libel.

Born: Herman Bahr, essayist, playwright, journalist, novelist, Linz, Austria, 1863; Vladimir Mayakovsky, poet, Bagdadi, Georgia, Russia, 1893; A(rchibald) J(oseph) Cronin, historical novelist, Cardross, Dumbartonshire, Scotland, 1896; Edgar Snow, journalist, author, Kansas City, Mo., 1905; Joseph Hansen, mystery novelist, Aberdeen, S.D., 1923; Philip Agee, spy, author, Tacoma Park, Fla., 1935.

Died: Francis Petrarch, biographer, Arguá, Carrara, 1374; Margaret Fuller, critic, editor, teacher, at sea, 1850; Charles Cunningham Boycott, estate manager, Flixton, Suffolk, 1897; Alan Lomax, forklorist, Sarasota, Fla., 2002.

Quote for the Day: "Love's boat has been shattered against the life of everyday. You and I are quits, and it's useless to draw up a list of mutual hurts, sorrows, and pains." — Vladimir Mayakovsky, who was born today in 1893

Norman Mailer’s Song (1981)

2008-07-18T13:00:00-05:00

JULY 18

For a man who knifed his second wife and liked to sucker-punch his friends, Norman Mailer should have known that literary talent doesn't necessarily make you a nice guy.

Early this morning, after being told he couldn't use the staff restroom at a small Manhattan cafe, Mailer protégé Jack Henry Abbott stabbed Richard Adan, the 22-year-old son-in-law of the cafe's owner, in the chest, and left him dying on the street.

For Mailer and his artistic friends — Jerzy Kosinski, who supported Abbott's release despite misgivings; Susan Sarandon, who named her child after him; Jason Epstein, the Random House editor who published "In the Belly of the Beast," a collection of his letters from prison — it was the stunning realization that, instead of finding their own Jean Genet or Eldridge Cleaver, outlaws who transformed themselves into artists, they had turned loose a psychopath onto society.

The signs were there from the start. Abbott had been a troublemaker from the beginning, in and out of foster care since his birth in Michigan. At 16, he started serving "long stints in juvenile detention quarters." In prison at 21 for forgery, he stabbed an inmate to death in a brawl and given more time. In 1971, he was given another 19 years for escape and bank robbery. His inability to get along in prison was reflected by the long stretches he served in solitary confinement, most of which was spent reading leftist philosophy and Marx.

Hearing that Mailer was writing about convicted killer Gary Gilmore, Abbott wrote to him, offering insights into prison life. Mailer was enchanted with Abbott, with his criminal record and his criticisms of American society. Mailer helped get "Beast" published, and when Abbott was up for parole, told the parole board he would give the killer a job as his research assistant.

Prison officials were dubious. "I didn't see a changed man," one said. "His attitude, his demeanor indicated psychosis." But the influence of Mailer and his friends were enough to win Abbott's release.

For a time, Abbott was the golden boy of the New York literary world. The magazines raved. He appeared with Mailer on "Good Morning America." He was photographed by Jill Krementz, Kurt Vonnegut's wife. He was the toast of Greenwich Village.

But inside, he was still Jack Abbott, the crook with the hair-trigger temper and a hatred of society. If it wasn't Richard Adan who thwarted him, it would have been someone else on the receiving end of his violence. The irony in the episode is that the Cuban-American Adan was a playwright whose first play was going to be produced. Perhaps, in time, he would have made a name for himself and been accepted in the same circles Abbott had entered so easily.

After the killing, Abbott fled New York City. He was captured in Louisiana, where he was working in an oil field. Convicted of manslaughter, he was sentenced to 15 years to life. Mailer testified on his behalf, saying "I'm willing to gamble with a portion of society to save this man's talent." When a reporter asked "who he was willing to see sacrificed. Waiters? Cubans?" Mailer shot back, "What are you all feeling so righteous about, may I ask?"

From prison, Abbott wrote another book, "The Return," and appealed his conviction, saying, in essense, that it wasn't manslaughter because if he had intended to kill "the deceased" (as Adan was always referred to in the brief), he would have inflicted more than one stab wound.

Eventually, Abbott realized that he wasn't going to get out, ever. In 2002, he strung up a bedsheet and hanged himself in his cell. He was 58.

As for Mailer, his thoughts about the Abbott case varied, from contrition — "another episode in my life in which I can find nothing to cheer about or nothing to take pride in" — and defensiveness — "Jack Henry Abbott — that was awful, but it was a costly reflection on one's innocence, not one's evil ... I don't feel guility about getting him out."

In his 1957 essay, "The White Negro," Mailer praised the psychopath as an existential hero. The 18-year-old hoodlums who "beat in the brains of a candy-store keeper," Mailer wrote, are demonstrating their courage and bravery in thrusting themselves into an unknown future. Yes, it may seem that ganging up on an old man is a cowardly act. But, Mailer patiently explains:

... one murders not only a weak fifty-year-old man but an institution as well, one violates private property, one enters into a new relation with the police and introduces a dangerous element into one's life. The hoodlum is therefore daring the unknown, and so no matter how brutal the act, it is not altogether cowardly.

Over his 84 years, Mailer was never on the receiving end of his philosophy. Richard Aden and his family weren't so fortunate.

Born: William Makepeace Thackeray, novelist, Calcutta, India, 1811; Laurence Housmen, playwright, author, Bromsgrove, Worcestershire, 1865; Jessamyn West, novelist, essayist, North Vernon, Ind., 1902; Clifford Odets, playwright, Philadelphia, 1906; Margaret Laurence, novelist, essayist, Neepawa, Manatoba, 1926; Yevgeny Yevtushenko, poet, Zima, U.S.S.R., 1933; Hunter S. Thompson, journalist, Louisville, Ky., 1939.

Died: Jane Austen, novelist, Winchester, Hampshire, 1817; Horatio Alger, Jr., children's author, South Natick, Mass., 1899; Carl Van Doren, author, teacher, Torrington, Conn., 1950; Weldon Kees, poet, short-story writer, San Francisco, 1955.

Quote for the Day: "In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity." — Hunter S. Thompson, who was born today in 1939

Shrink-Wrapped

2008-07-17T13:00:00-05:00

I'm worried about Natalie. Maybe the job of taking care of Monk, the obsessive-compulsive detective, is getting to be too much for her. On call 24/7, wipes at the ready and always prepared to talk her boss down from the ledge of his mania for order, whether he's trying to get a street full of parked cars equally spaced, or, as in the latest edition of his adventures, putting the Berlin Wall back together, bit by rubbley bit.

In "Mr. Monk Goes to Germany," the sixth book based on the USA Network show, Monk's thrown into a panic when his psychologist takes the week off to attend a conference Germany. So, hopped up on Dioxynl, an experiment drug that suppresses his OCD and turns him into Goodtime Charlie, Monk takes to the skies, with Natalie at his beck and call. What he finds there, in addition to one very surprised and appalled doctor, is a confrontation with a six-fingered man who may be responsible for his wife's death.

Those who follow Lee Goldberg's life on his blog know that he spent time in Germany filming a TV show, so it's natural he'd set his next Monk book there. And he uses his experiences well, weaving in the details you'd pick up if you were a tourist. It's those little touches that give the story flavor, such as the description of an inn that was built in the 1400s, or describing the free magazines, including Playboy, that can be picked up at German airports.

As for the mystery, it is competently set up and sprung, but, really, the fun lies more in watching Monk at work, baffling his police partners and reacting to the chaos around him, whether its attempting to navigate the trails in the German forest or visiting an unusual resort for outcasts.

Which leads me back to Natalie. Maybe it was the travel. Maybe it was seeing Monk on the plane, high on Dioxynl, turning into a combination of a frat boy and lounge lizard, being asked to join the Mile High Club. But there were a couple of times here where she loses control on his behalf. Maybe she should see a shrink. I'm sure Monk could recommend a good one.

How did I get this book?: Review copy sent by author.

All categories are ranked 1-15 except for bonus, which is 1-10.

Score: 80

Genre: 13 Traditional mystery, hampered only by the reader's belief that Monk's quest to find his wife's killer isn't going to happen here.
Realism: 14
Character: 14 Told from Natalie's point of view, you get to appreciate Monk's weird, but logical (from his POV) behavior.
Setting: 14 A new country to visit is a good way to freshen a series.
Theme: 11
Style: 11 Plain prose that gets the job done, without any missteps.
Bonus: 3

What do these numbers mean?
Other links to "Mr. Monk Goes to Germany."

Lee Goldberg's blog: A Writer's Life
USA Network's Monk site: "Monk"

Joe Klein Fesses Up (1996)

2008-07-17T12:47:00-05:00

As children, we're taught to tell the truth, that the truth will set you free. But when journalist Joe Klein, then-Newsweek columnist and reporter, then-CBS consultant, stood up and admitted that he was the anonymous author of "Primary Colors," the bestselling roman à clef about President Clinton's first presidential run that had been published under the pen name "Anonymous," he sunk his credibility along with that of his friends and his employers.

Why? Because he lied to the wrong people.

The publication of "Primary Colors," with its unflattering portrait of Clinton, during the presidential campaign of 1996, hit the best-seller list and sparked a furious guessing game over the identity of its author. Was it a journalist who covered Bill? Was it a White House insider? Was it someone in the New York / Washington media world? Lists were drawn up, names named.

Of the possible candidates, Joe Klein was firmly in the "I'm not me" camp. Even after President Clinton suggested he was a candidate. Even after former Clinton speechwriter David Kusnet tagged him in a Baltimore Sun article.

But Klein went ballistic after Vassar professor Don Foster found Klein's stylistic fingerprints all over "Primary Colors." There were similiarities in word selection, especially unusual adjectives ending in -y and -inous. Klein loved to compound words into long strings; so did Anonymous. Klein favored the use of the colon: thus. So did Anonymous: thus. Foster even thought he found a self-identification in the novel's first sentence uttered by the protagonist, a black man: "I am small and not so dark." Transpose small into German, and you have "I am klein and I'm not really black."

But when the journalists came back and asked Klein about it, he did not hesitate to take a moral stand:

"Now I know what it's like to be the Flavor of the Week. It is not me. I did not do it. This is silly." (CBS interview)

"Let me just say New York magazine hired the wrong computer and the wrong expert (heh-heh). They probably should have hired the one playing Garry Kasparov (heh-heh)." (Answering machine message)

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, DEFINITELY, I DIDN'T WRITE IT!" (Presidential campaign press room, New Hampshire)

The denials were so emphatic and so firm, that even Foster, in his book, "Author Unknown," admits to wondering if he got it wrong.

While the stylistic tics in Klein's writing didn't do him; it was his handwriting. Washington Post reporter David Streitfeld bought the typescript to "Primary Colors" from a book dealer and had an expert perform a handwriting analysis that forced Klein, the next day, to appear on a podium, wearing a plastic eyeglasses and nose, and admit, "My name is Joe Klein and I wrote ‘Primary Colors.'"

Klein's confession didn't lay the story to rest. While Random House officials counted up the additional sales of "Primary Colors," the rest of the press weighed in on Klein's character. His friends were hurt because he lied to them. Media critics worried that Klein's lies hurt the media's credibility.

As for Klein, he and CBS parted away, and eventually he left Newsweek for Time magazine. Presumably, he still travels in the same media circles, and talks to the same media people. Whether or not they believe anything he says is another question.

Born: Elbridge Gerry, Declaration of Independence signer, politician, Marblehead, Mass., 1744; Punch, satirical magazine, London, 1841; S(hmuel) Y(osef) Agnon (ps. Shmuel Yosef Czaczkes), novelist, short-story writer, Buczacz, Austria-Hungary, 1888; Erle Stanley Gardner, mystery novelist, Malden, Mass., 1889; Christina Stead, novelist, Sydney, Australia, 1902; James Purdy, novelist, short-story writer, Fremont, Ohio, 1923; László Nagy, poet, Felsoiszkaz, Hungary, 1925.

Died: William Somerville, poet, Henley-in-Arden, Warwickshire, 1742; Adam Smith, economist, philosopher, Edinburgh, Scotland, 1790; Dorothea Dix, social reformer, author, Trenton, N.J., 1887; "A.E." (ps. George William Russell), poet, journalist, Bournemouth, England, 1935; Oskar Braaten, playwright, novelist, Oslo, Norway, 1939; Susanne K. Langer, philosopher, Old Lyme, Conn., 1985.

Quote for the Day: "It's a damn good story. If you have any comments, write them on the back of a check." — Erle Stanley Gardner, who was born today in 1889

Lord Byron’s Round Trip (1824)

2008-07-16T12:46:00-05:00

JULY 16

Lord Byron embarks on the last journey of his life that will, a year later, return him to England in a coffin at the age of 36.

A few months before, a group of English liberals working to free Greece from Turkish occupation had approached him at his home in Italy. The Ottoman Empire had ruled the country since the 1400s and had several times successfully suppressed revolts. Two years ago, the Greeks tried again, but the war was not going well. England and France were staying out of it, but a group had formed in London to help and had raised some money. Question was: who should they give it to? They asked Byron to visit the country on their behalf.

Byron was torn. Years of high living had affected his health. He had grown thick around the middle, his hair was greying, and his club foot made travel difficult and painful. The poet who had once bragged bagging 200 women in 200 straight nights had settled down with an Italian countess who left her husband for him.

But it appears that Byron was also tired of carousing and was searching for meaning in his life. The day before his 33rd birthday, he wrote in his diary:

Through life's road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing - except, thirty-three.

Finally, it may be that Italy had grown a little too hot for him. He had recently been involved in the Carbonari Movement against Austrian rule over Italy, and its failure in 1821 made Austrian officials suspicious of Byron.

Perhaps another factor came the next year, when his daughter, Allegra, died of consumption, and his friend, Percy Bysshe Shelley, drowned in the Bay of Spezia. The funeral traumatized Byron. Shelley's body had been left on the shore for several weeks, and when health officials refused to allow it to be removed for burial, it was decided to cremate the remains on the beach. When he saw the lighting of Shelley's funeral pyre, he vomited, jumped into the bay and swam to his boat.

So Byron decided to go. He purchased a brig, the Hercules, armed it, and, on July 16th, set sail for Greece.

There, he found chaos. The Grecian forces were under several leaders, none of whom trusted the others. At the request of Prince Alexander Mavrocordato, he traveled to Missolonghi, a town on the western coast. There, he tried to organize resistance, drawing on his vast fortune and the power of his personality. He supplied funds for the relief of refugees, for paying soldiers, for maintaining the Greek fleet. He helps to arrange for a loan to the Greek government.

For a poet with no military training, it seems that Byron was able to accomplish more than what the Greeks were capable of, but he also had to spend much of his time and energy on smaller tasks. He arranged the repatriation of a Turk taken prisoner by Greek pirates, smoothing over a clash between the elite Suliote troops and the townspeople. Later, after the Suliotes had worn out their welcome, he paid their back wages so they would leave.

At the same time, something told him that the end of his life may be drawing near. It was a family legend that his mother had visited a fortune teller before his birth, and said that the child's 37th year would be very dangerous.

On Jan. 22, his last birthday, Byron reflected on his 36th year:

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here: - up to the field and give
Away thy breath!

While trying to get the Greeks organized to attack the Turks at Lepanto, Byron's health began to fail. In February, two seizures left him speechless for awhile. His doctors bled him, but he recovered anyway.

On the evening of April 9, is was caught in a rainstorm on horseback and comes down with chills, fever and rheumatic pains. He has trouble sleeping and suffers from severe hip pain. His doctors want to bleed him some more, but he refuses. He suffers headaches. Again, the doctors approach with their leeches, but he beats them off. His condition changes day by day:
* April 13: Byron's well enough to leave his bed.
* April 14: Byron's back in bed and delirious.
* April 15: Still feverish, but the pains in his head and joints fade. That night, he begins coughing and vomiting. He agrees to be bled.
* April 16: The doctors arrive, but his fever has eased. They bleed him anyway: a "full pound" of blood in the morning, another pound two hours later.
* April 18: Byron says, "I want to sleep now," and falls into a coma. He dies 24 hours later.

The Greeks mourn his death. Byron's heart is buried at Missolonghi and his body returned to England. It is refused burial at Westminster Abbey for reasons of "questionable morality." Later, in a generous act of sensitivity and critical taste, they place a plaque in Poet's Corner. In 1969.

On July 16, 1824, a year after he set out on his quest, Byron's journey ends as his body was laid to rest in the chancel of the Church of St. Mary Magdalene in Hucknall-Torkard, Nottingham. The Greeks, through more battles and the intervention of British, French and Russian forces, win independence from the Ottomans in 1832, but with a Barvarian prince as king. But it was independence, fulfilling Byron's hope expressed in "The Isles of Greece":

The mountains look on Marathon --
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might yet be free
For, standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

Born: Ida B. Wells, journalist, anti-lynching activist, Holly Springs, Miss., 1862; Kathleen Norris, novelist, San Francisco, 1880; Anita Brookner, novelist, art historian, London, 1928; Robert Sheckley, sci-fi author, Brooklyn, N.Y., 1928; Dag Solstad, novelist, playwright, short-story writer, Sandefjord, Norway, 1941.

Died: Ned Buntline (ps. Edward Judson), author, playwright, Stamford, N.Y., 1886; Edmond Goncourt, novelist, historian, critic, Champrosay, France, 1896; Hilaire Belloc, poet, historian, essayist, Guildford, Surrey, 1953; J.P. Marquand, novelist, Newburyport, Mass., 1960; Heinrich Böll, novelist, near Bonn, West Germany, 1985; May Sarton (ps.Eleanore Marie Sarton), poet, novelist, short-story writer, memoirist, York, Maine, 1995; Stephen Spender, poet, critic, essayist, London, 1995; Carol Shields, novelist, Victoria, British Columbia, 2003.

Quote for the Day: "The appeal to the white man's pocket has ever been more effectual than all the appeals ever made to his conscience." — Ida B. Wells, journalist, anti-lynching activist, who was born today in 1862

Last Act for Chekhov (1904)

2008-07-15T11:06:00-05:00

As a dramatist, Anton Chekhov would have appreciated his death if we were not so busy at the time dying.

Like the four major plays his reputation rests on — including "The Cherry Orchard" which debuted six months before his death — it was tragic, poetic, even a bit nostalgic. There were even elements of the comic, including a scene reminiscent of "Fawlty Towers."

The final act of Chekhov's life took place at a German spa, where at 44 he sought treatment for the tuberculosis that had grown worse in the last few years. He had expressed hopes of recovering enough strength to travel to Manchuria, where his skills as a doctor were needed in the Russo-Japanese War. But he knew the true state of his symptoms. Before he left for Germany, he told a friend, "I am going away to croak."

His friends knew it too. When he took the stage in January during the third interval at the debut of "The Cherry Orchard" in Moscow, his condition shocked his friends in the audience. The play had not been going all that well so far, and the sight of him, hunched over, thin and nearly bloodless, just before the last act killed the play's reception.

If he was disappointed, he did not show it. Despair was not Chekhov's way. He fled the Russian winter by going to Yalta, but the cold followed him. Dressing became difficult, and the food excreable. He took opium for his pain. His teeth were crumbling. He tried working on some short stories, then on manuscripts sent to a literary magazine run by a friend. Soon, he grew too tired.

When spring came, he returned to Moscow, where he consulted a German doctor, who diagnosed Chekhov with pleurisy and emaciation and recommended a change of diet from boiled eggs to that rich in butter and cream. Not surprisingly, he gained weight and his morale improved. He praised his doctors. "My advice, let Germans treat you ... I have been tortured for twenty years!!!"

At his doctor's recommendation, he traveled with his wife, Olga Knipper, an actress in the Moscow theater that hosted his plays, to the spa at Badenweiler, where he would be treated by a Dr. Schwörer. He is allowed outdoors, but most of his time is spent in bed, coughing and at times feverish. "Anton is sun-tanned, but feels bad," his wife writes. "His temp. all time, today even in the morning it was 38.1*. Nights are agony. He can't breathe or sleep ... You can imagine his mood ... He never complains."

By June, Dr. Schwörer relents and let him drink coffee. His wife injects him with morphine and digitalis and administers oxygen as needed. He is read the German newspapers, and grieves as the Japanese inflict defeat after defeat on his country. He thinks about writing a play, about passengers on an ice-bound ship.

But mostly, he's bored. He wants to visit Italy. He wants to do something. He writes a friend that, "I just have shortness of breath and serious, probably incurable, idleness."

One evening, he entertains his wife with a funny story. There's a hotel, he says, packed with fat Americans and Englishmen, and one evening, they're told that the cook had left and there would be no dinner. She laughs helplessly as he describes the reactions of each guest. She's literally gasping for breath.

A few hours later, it is his turn. Chekhov awakens at 2 a.m., delirious, muttering something about his nephew, Kolia, a sailor. He's in danger. He must be helped. Olga administers chloral hydrate and places ice over his heart. Dr. Schwörer comes and sends for oxygen. Chekhov is injected with camphor. The doctor checks his pulse, frowns, thinks. Then, with a sigh, he follow proper etiquette when the patient is dying and calls for champagne. Chekhov sits up and shouts ‘Ice sterbe' [I am dying]. The bottle comes. He polishes off a glass and murmurs "I haven't had champagne for a long time." The glass was taken from his hand, and as it was set on the table, an odd gurgling sound came from Chekhov's throat. The doctor checked for a pulse, but there was none. He was gone.

They waited until morning to move the body. Out of respect for the guests, a laundry basket was brought. But the basket was not long enough to stretch Chekhov out, and besides, rigor mortis had set in. The best they could do was put him in a half-sitting position. A witness wrote, "I walked behind the men carrying the body. Light and shade from the burning torches flickered and leaped over the dead man's face, and at times it seemed to me as if Chekhov was scarcely perceptibly smiling at the fact that, by decreeing that his body should be carried in a laundry basket, Fate had linked him with humour even in death."

There was more to come. For the train journey to Moscow, Chekhov's coffin was put into a car used to labeled Fresh Oysters. At the station, a procession of 4,000 accompanied the body to Novodevichie cemetery. Along the way, they encountered a military band leading a procession of a general killed in the war, and some ended up following the wrong body. The ceremony at the cemetery became a spectator sport, as the writer Maxim Gorky complained to his wife:

People climbed trees and laughed, broke crosses and swore as they fought for a place. They asked loudly, ‘Which is the wife? And the sister? Look, they're crying ... You know he hasn't left them a penny, [Publisher Adolf] Marx gets the lot ... Poor Knipper ... Don't worry about her, she gets 10,000 a year in the theatre,' and so on. [Opera singer Fiodor]Chaliapin burst into tears and cursed: ‘And he lived for these bastards, he worked, taught, argued for them.'

Gorky was furious. "This is how we treat our great writers." But Chekhov would have been amused.

Born: Thomas Bulfinch, historian, mythologist, Newton, Mass., 1796; Edward Channing, historian, Dorchester, Mass., 1856; Richard Armour, poet, literary scholar, San Pedro, Calif., 1906; Hammond Innes, novelist, Horsham, England, 1913; Gavin Maxwell, author, naturalist, Elrig, Wigtown, Scotland, 1914; Iris Murdoch, novelist, philosopher, Dublin, 1919; Arianna Huffington, journalist, pundit, Athens, Greece, 1950.

Died: Anton Chekhov, playwright, short-story writer, Badenweiler, Germany, 1904; Irving Babbitt, critic, Cambridge, Mass., 1933; Paul Gallico, novelist, journalist, Monaco, 1976; Eleanor Estes, children's author, Hamden, Conn., 1988.

Quote for the Day: "A bad review is even less important than whether it is raining in Patagonia." — Iris Murdoch, who was born today in 1919

“Desiderata” Rises From The Grave (1965)

2008-07-14T11:03:00-05:00

When Adlai Stevenson collapsed from a fatal heart attack on a London street in 1965, he left behind a number of impressive accomplishments: reformist govenor of Illinois, two-time Democratic presidential candidate, ambassador to the United Nations. But his death brought one more accomplishment, by popularizing a never-remembered poet's best work and helping to create an urban legend.

This is a story woven from two strands, involving Stevenson and the St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Baltimore. First, the Stevenson story.

On the day after Christmas, The New York Times published a story about Stevenson's tradition of creating a special Christmas card every year. When he died, on his nightstand was found a poem he intended to use for his 1965 card. Because no name was attached to Stevenson's copy, "Desiderata" was attributed to the world's most disseminated author, anonymous.

In fact, "Desiderata" was written by Max Ehrmann of Terre Haute, Ind. Born in 1872, the youngest of five children, lived nearly his whole life in his home town, except for a brief stint at a college down there road — where, he later wrote, he "contracted a disease I never have shaken off. The disease was idealism." He also spent two years studying law and philosophy at Harvard. That was the extent of his travels.

Back home in Terre Haute, Max tried to make a living by his pen. When he couldn't, he worked: attorney for a few years; credit manager at the overall factory owned by his family; the county's deputy prosecutor. Still, he kept writing, with the desire "to leave to my country a bit of chaste prose that he caught up some noble moods. ... If, in an hour of noble elation, I could write a bit of glorified prose that would soften the stern ways of life, and bring to our fevered days some courage, dignity and poise — I should be well content."

Five years after penning those noble sentiments in his journal, in 1927, Max wrote "Desiderata," with its words of advice suitable for a Hallmark card or a graduation speech.

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story."

Fast-forward about 30 years. Max is long in his grave, and his widow has arranged with a publisher to put out "The Collected Poems of Max Ehrmann." The rector of St. Paul's Church in Baltimore, the Rev. Frederick Kates, came across a copy of the poem. He had a habit of passing out inspirational materials during Lent, so in 1959, about 300 parishioners found in their pews copies of "Desiderata," with the standard notation at the top "Old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore A.C. 1692".

With the two strands in place, it's time to tie them together. Adlai Stevenson's friends honored his memory by printing and sending his Christmas card containing "Desiderata." The next month, a national United Methodist magazine sealed the birth of the urban legend by featuring "Desiderata" on its cover, as if written on parchment, with the credit "FOUND IN OLD SAINT PAUL'S ANGLICAN CHURCH, BALTIMORE, DATED 1692."

The poem's popularity grew, fueled in 1972 when a record by radio talk show host Les Crane hit #8 on the Billboard charts. The record inspired a parody by National Lampoon's Tony Hendra that proved equally popular. It opens:

Go placidly amidst the noise and waste, and remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof.
Avoid quiet and passive persons, unless you are in need of sleep. Rotate your tires.
Speak glowingly of those greater than yourself; and heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys.
Know what to kiss - and when.
Consider that two wrongs never make a right, but that three do. Wherever possible, put people on hold.
Be comforted, that in the face of all irridity and disillusionment, and despite the changing fortunes of time, there is always a big future in computer maintenance.

Ever since, the poem's fans have been drawn to St. Paul's to visit the birthplace of "Desiderata," only to be told: a) the church wasn't built in 1692; b) the poem can't be found here anyway; and c) would you please go away?"I'm sick of it," the Washington Post quoted the rector in a 1977 article. "I've been dealing with it 40 times a week for 15 years. Forty times a week." The rise of Max Ehrmann's profile as creator of "Desiderata" may have eased the pressure since then, but the church's website still tries to keep the record straight. And one hopes that Max Ehrmann, formerly of Terre Haute, Ind., is content. His "glorified prose" has found a home in the nation's heart.

Or, in some cases, on their backs.

Born: Benjamin Thompson, poet, Quincy, Mass., 1642; Punch, humor magazine, London, 1841; Owen Wister, novelist, Philadelphia, 1860; Irving Stone, novelist, San Francisco, 1903; Isaac Bashevis Singer, novelist, short-story writer, essayist, Radzymin, Poland, 1904; Woodrow Wilson "Woody" Guthrie, Okemah, Okla., 1912; Natalia Ginzburg, playwright, short-story writer, novelist, Palermo, Italy, 1916; Arthur Laurents, playwright, screenwriter, director, Brooklyn, N.Y., 1918; Linda Hasselstrom, poet, essayist, Houston, Texas, 1943.

Died: Madame de Staël (ps. Anna Louise Germaine Necker), author, critic, Paris, 1817; Anton Chekhov, playwright, short-story writer, Badenweiler, Germany, 1904; Raymond Loewy, designer, Monte Carlo, 1986; June Jordan, poet, novelist, essayist, children's author, Berkeley, Calif., 2002.

Quote for the Day: "Originality is not seen in single words or even in sentences. Originality is the sum total of a man's thinking or his writing." — Isaac Singer, who was born today in 1904

Reader’s Almanac: 7/13

2008-07-13T12:43:00-05:00

Born: John Clare, poet, farm laborer, Helpston, Nottinghamshire, 1793; Isaac Babel, short-story writer, Odessa, Ukraine, 1894; Kenneth Clark, art critic, author, London, 1903; Wole Soyinka, playwright, Abeokuta, Nigeria, 1934; David Storey, playwright, novelist, Wakefield, Yorkshire, 1933; Oluwole Soyinka, author, Abeokuta, Nigeria, 1934; Cheech Marin, writer, actor, comic, Los Angeles, Calif., 1946.

Died: Alfred Stieglitz, photographer, editor, New York City, 1946; Gabrielle Roy, novelist, Quebec, Canada, 1983.

Quote for the Day: "The greatest threat to freedom is the absence of criticism." — Oluwole Soyinka, Nigerian writer, who was born today in 1934

Reader’s Almanac: 7/12

2008-07-12T12:37:00-05:00

Born: Henry David Thoreau, essayist, poet, philosopher, Concord, Mass., 1817; Pablo Neruda (ps. Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto), poet, Parral, Chile, 1904; John Lahr, theater critic, essayist, Los Angeles, Calif., 1941.

Died: Desiderius Erasmus, author, scholar, Basel, Switzerland, 1536; Sidney Hook, philosopher, educator, 1989.

Excerpt: "I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beechtree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines." — Henry David Thoreau, "Walden"

Quote for the Day: "The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading; but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty." — Pablo Neruda, who was born today in 1904

A Crane Shot of Popular Culture

2008-07-11T16:52:00-05:00

While researching next week's Reader's Almanac entries, I came across one of those weird cultural connections.

It's about the poem "Desiderata." You know: "Go placidly amid the noise and haste / and remember what peace there may be in silence." In 1971, a recording of the poem became an earwig. Distinctive, somewhat cheesy but an earnest, optimistic poem that was probably needed at the time. Remember, it was a time when Walter Cronkite would give the casualty count from the Vietnam War in the same fashion as the Dow Jones Industrial Average: daily casualty, plus weekly, placed alongside the projected enemy casualty count, so you can tell who's winning, he said ironically.

Anyway, the guy who narrated the poem is Les Crane. He's now retired, but it seems he did a lot of things. In the early ‘60s, he did a late-night show from the hungry i nightclub, interviewing Barbra Streisand and other newcomers. His late-night talk show on ABC gave a platform for Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, George Wallace and Robert F. Kennedy. Even Bob Dylan talked to him. (Were any of them on the Carson show? Doubt it.)

In addition, he was married for a time to Ginger Grant. They had a daughter who's seems to be doing well as a screenwriter and novelist.

In the 1980s, Crane moved into software. His company published a classic adventure program, and a minimalistic paddle game, and a very good chess program, that I used to play when it was published by a neat little game company called Electronic Arts.

Les seems to be one of those key people who may be noted for one thing, but worked behind the scenes shifting the cultures paradigms. Imagine, the guy who helped publicized the civil rights movement and liberal causes became the forerunner of Rush Limbaugh and Bill O'Reilly, drove "Desiderata" like a spike into a vampire into the heart of American culture, and helped popularlize computer gaming in the 1980s. And getting to boff Ginger Grant for awhile as well. That seems to be a life well spent.