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Scott Zieher |
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In
November 1994 the National Book Awards took place in New York and a good
friend in publishing got me and two friends tickets to the reading the night
before the ceremony, including invitations to the cocktail reception
following. The
reading was stellar. Gaddis,
couched between Sherwin Nuland and James Tate, read quietly in his muffled
way the Crease opinion legalese surrounding Melville.
Not easy to deliver, but ever so relevant and compelling in light of
our hero’s plight. The
laughter was rare punctuation during his performance, but well placed when
present. I
raced to the reception afterwards. I
brought Frolic with me, knowing
this might be the only opportunity to meet the man and actually having
something to say to him other than “I loved The
Recognitions etc etc. etc.” He
arrived late. All three people with me urged me to approach Gaddis, once he
appeared. I was reticent.
He was surrounded after his late arrival -- his small flock of
followers was powerful enough to corner him next to a potted plant.
His son attended him graciously and quietly.
Finally the cocktails kicked in and the crowd parted.
I made my way to Gaddis without the book and told him I had a story
for him. I relayed the tale of
my own Harry Lutz. Our old boy
nearly doubled over laughing; he was smoking and drinking champagne, and I
could hardly believe his glib approachability.
Obnoxious as it is, I’ll quote my journal entry, of November 15,
1994, for the event: "He told me a Nikolai Gogol story:
that if you name a character he is out there somewhere, waiting to
sue you… his son said, “Let’s hope not.”
“No,” Gaddis said. Then he said, “I’d like another glass of wine,” and his
son said he’d “like to go.” Gaddis
said, “I’ll drink it quickly.” G.’s
son then offered me (a full one already in hand, for muster) a drink.
I declined, showing him. And
then we were alone for a moment and he told me how glad he was that this
was over. “The hullabaloo?” I asked him, and he said “No, the
reading” and how ridiculous it was, “like Oscar night.”
I asked, “Did that have anything to do with your choice of
excerpt?” and said I thought it was a great excerpt, “acerbic,” I told
him it was (acting like I was at my best, using the perfect word --
fucking moron). He said, “Good,” and we clicked out Veuve Cliquots.
His son returned. The two of them remained edged up to the coffee and cookie
table, hidden underneath a palm tree, tucked strategically, all the while.
I then told G. that I was as faithful to The
Recognitions as I could be, and tried to get everyone I knew to read it.
He thanked me. I thanked him and he actually laughed and patted me on
the back. I told him my
“prayers” would be with him at the award ceremony the following night,
and he actually thanked me again and actually laughed and patted me on the
back again. We separated
awkwardly. We shook hands. My friends Gary, Sabina, Beth, and Eileen all encouraged me
to ask for an autograph, just as he was leaving.
I did. He signed the
book in a shaky hand: That’s my
brush with greatness, as factual as a Humble Servant to the Gaddis Community
can make it. |
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