Images pass through my brain, before my eyes. Past loves. It is pleasant. They haunt me. Sometimes they are beautiful, sometimes hideous. I lie in the dark half awakened by them. The beginning of a narrative forms. It is a wonderful introduction, but I know it will not be there when I wake. All this beauty. All this misery. It is impossible to hold onto a person, it seems. They are always their own. For all our desire, there is a world of pain that awaits. How many heartaches, heartbreaks? Great loves, perhaps. . . we are only permitted a few. There are loves and there are great loves. If you settle for love, you might be alright. They might last a lifetime. The great loves will only break your heart and haunt you until the final moment.
I read an article in Vanity Fair last night about Cormac McCarthy's great, unknown muse. I stole that photo from the article (link). That is McCarthy's muse, now in her 60s. Augusta Britt. They met when she was 16, he 42. They ran off to Mexico when she was 17. It was complicated, she says.
"He was the love of my life," she confides. Of course they couldn't hold onto one another, but they couldn't lose one another, either. Throughout the years, they called, they wrote letters. Once in awhile, they would meet.
I first read McCarthy in 1985 when "Blood Meridian" was released. I was in my old college town and had gone to the bookstore there, one of the best bookstores in the country. The staff were tenured. Each had a specialty, an area in which they had degreed, and they ordered all the books for that department. I had been friendly with the fellow who ran the fiction section. He had long hair and was not so much older than I. It had been many years since I'd seen him, but when I walked in, he remembered me and we chatted for a bit. He asked me if I had read McCarthy. No, I said. He took me to the fiction section and handed me a book.
"You have to read this. I promise you, it is the best book this century."
I was hooked on McCarthy. He was virtually unknown. In grad school, I told professors that everyone else should put down their pens, that this guy was THE writer. They didn't listen to me at first. Later, though, they apologized in recognition. One wrote me a long note about it and signed it, "Bad Taste Bob."
McCarthy's personal life was a mystery. He didn't do interviews. Journalists sought out his ex-wife. She was living near my old college town. I was dismayed that I had not been the one to find her. She said McCarthy kept them purposefully poor when they were married. They lived without running water, bathed in the lake behind their house. He was offered money to speak at colleges, but he refused. When they divorced, he went west, stayed on the road.
Years later, when "All the Pretty Horses" was published, he consented to one interview with a fellow from the New York Times. From that, the legendary McCarthy was born. He carried a lightbulb in a lens case that he screwed into motel lamps so he could read as those cheap motels had only low wattage bulbs. He played pool in rough bars. He drank beer.
Etc.
There was no mention, of course, of his falling in love with a young girl and, breaking the law, running away with her to Mexico.
I have my own tale. She was beautiful, of course, a colt who grew into Pegasus. She sprouted wings and flew to great heights. I couldn't hold her, of course, but we kept in touch. Great loves don't die. They don't wither. They stay with you like a. . . .
I'll stop there. This is a one off writing. I am not working on it, going back to rewrite and revise. If I continue, I will only strain the metaphor. Simile. Trope.
"Santa Fe killed the Cormac I knew. He gained fame, wealth, and fancy superficial friends. He turned his back on his old friends like Jimmy Long (J-Bone) and Billy Kidwell. They were left to die, forgotten and alone. He lost much of his compassion and kindness. As the Institute crowd claimed more of his time, he struggled to write. Couldn’t write. How could he? He’d stifled or killed that which inspired him. The advance for The Passenger was spent. He was obligated. These last many years he has taken up drinking again. Living in majestic splendor but enjoying none of it. Surrounded by junk and the clutter of a lifetime. Haunted."I've not read the two novels he was working on for years, the two he published simultaneously before he died--"The Passenger," and "Stella Maris." When "No Country for Old Men" was published, I was startled at first by the seismic change in sentence structure and writing style. But it was apropos. I got it. I thought it was brilliant.
When "The Road" was published, it got rave reviews. I thought it was an unreadable bore. Years passed. McCarthy was now famous and wealthy. I remember seeing him with his young son when "No Country for Old Men" was nominated for eight Oscar awards. It won four including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor, and Best Adapted Screenplay. At the start of the show, McCarthy looked silly proud in his tuxedo, smiling like a movie star. In the four acceptance speeches, nobody, not one person, thanked or even mentioned him. His smile faded, his head seemed to flatten. The last shot I remember them showing of him was with his teeth clenched, his grin a secret grimace.
All press reports were about his Fellowship at the Santa Fe Institute. He was, they said, enthralled by his fellow geniuses, great mathematicians and scientists. It seemed wrong. . . completely.
I don't think I will ever be able to read his final novels.
But. . . I am envious of this fuck (link). Vincenzo Barney.
He's the author of the article. He's the one who Augusta Britt is confiding to. They feel a kinship, he says. Biographers are seeking her out, but she is only confiding in him. So he writes. I looked him up. He has a subscription page on Substack. I went to it, but I would be required to pay a monthly fee to read his articles. I declined. Later, I got this in my email. In part,
So you’re a fan, huh? I have a few others too: best-selling novelist Jonathan Lethem and co-founder of Los Angeles Review of Books and novelist Matthew Specktor. (See their endorsements on my About page.)
It’s protocol in these emails to implore you to upgrade to a paid subscription for all my brilliant bonus content—but I’d rather take this moment to just say thank you. You see, I’m a young, ambitious, energetic, impoverished (don’t quote me here) writer who dreams of writing my best for you. I will howl into the void if I have to, but I would much rather hear your voices than my own echoes. For standing here with me, I am forever grateful.
I employed a fellow who has written much for many publications of similar or greater quality than Barney, but the demise of print has cost him much, and he, too, I believe, has taken to Substack. Fuck. . . I should move my blog there. Would you pay $5/month to read this?
Ha!
I will write him.
"Dear Mr. Barney. I am indeed, and have for many, many years, been howling into the void. If you would like to join me for no money at all, you can read me here (link) (link). For nothing at all, you could join my tens of readers monthly. It is an awkward, un-edited, unrevised thing, but you can pretty much count on it daily. With illustrations. I look forward to seeing you there."
O.K. Yea. I'm jealous of the young shit. Rather, who I should be contacting is Augusta Britt.
"Dear Ms. Britt,
We must meet. You don't know me, but I have just become aware of you through Mr. Barney's Vanity Fair article. It was good, but I am certain you will enjoy my company at least as much as you do his. I have lived a good bit and am sure you will find I have more gravitas than he. I am confident you will want to confide in me. We share somewhat similar stories. I look forward to hearing from you. Best. . . ."
I should go back on the hooch again. My mind is becoming strangely active. It is disconcerting.
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