Book Description:
Lavishly illustrated, The Way It Wasn't offers an intimate firsthand encounter with 20th-century Modernism, from the extraordinary man who defined it for America.
James Laughlin—poet, ladies' man, heir to a steel fortune, and the founder of New Directions—was still at work on his autobiography when he died at 83. He left behind personal files crammed with memories and memorabilia: in 'M' he is taking Marianne Moore to Yankee games (outings captured here in charming snapshots) to discuss 'arcane mammals,' and in 'N' nearly plunging off a mountain, hunting butterflies with Nabokov ('Volya was a doll in a very severe upper-crust Russian way').
With an accent on humor, The Way It Wasn't is a scrapbook loaded with ephemera—letters and memories, clippings and photographs. This richly illustrated album glitters like a magpie's nest, if a magpie could have known Tennessee Williams, W.C. Williams, Merton, Miller, Stein, and Pound. In 'C': 'I wish that nice Jean Cocteau were still around. He took me to lunch at the Grand Véfours in the Palais-Royal and explained all about flying saucers. He understood mechanical things. He would advise me.' In 'P': 'There was not much 'gracious living' in Pittsburgh, where at one house, the butler passed chewing gum on a silver salver after coffee.' And: 'The world is full of a large number of irritating people.' In 'H' there's Lillian Hellman: 'What a raspy character. When I knocked at her door to try to borrow one of her books (hoping to butter her up) she only opened her door four inches and said words to the effect: 'Fuck off, you rapist.'' Marketing in 'M': 'I think it's important to get the 'troubadours' into the title. That's a 'buy-me' word.' In 'G': 'Olga asked Allen Ginsberg if he was also buying Pound Conference T-shirts for his grandchildren. She was most lovable throughout.' In 'L': 'Wyndham Lewis wrote 'Why don't you stop New Directions, your books are crap.'' And we find love in 'L': 'Cicero noted that an old love pinches like a crab.' But in The Way It Wasn't James Laughlin's love of the crazy world and his crazier authors does not pinch a bit: it glows with wit and enlarges our feeling for the late great twentieth century.
|
