Essays and Lists

Octogenarian Hotties

By posted at 6:00 am on August 18, 2016 21

oldwoman1.
American book publishers have forever been on the lookout for the next hot young thing. In a country built by people who shucked the old world in favor of a new one they got to make up on the fly, this hunger for newness — in books and just about everything else — was probably an inevitable strain of the national character. And it hasn’t been an entirely bad thing. A very cursory list of American writers who got published before they turned 25 includes Truman Capote, Michael Chabon, Bret Easton Ellis, Jonathan Safran Foer, Langston Hughes, Norman Mailer, Carson McCullers, Karen Russell, Gore Vidal, and David Foster Wallace. Not a single dog in that pack.

But for every hot young thing who went on to a long and venerable career, there are dozens, hundreds, who blazed briefly and then vanished. Moreover, publishing’s abiding obsession with fresh voices ignores a curious fact about our current literary scene: a startling number of the finest writers at work today are not twentysomethings; they’re eightysomethings. Yes, we’re witnessing the unlikely rise of the octogenarian hottie. (Fellow staff writer Sonya Chung explores and celebrates the work of later-in-life writers at our sister site, Bloom.) Here are sketches of a half-dozen members of this implausibly durable and prolific tribe.

2.
Gay Talese
At the age of 84, Gay Talese has just published his 14th work of non-fiction. As we have come to expect from one of our greatest living journalists, The Voyeur’s Motel is richly reported, elegantly written — and deeply disturbing. Above all, it’s a testament to the payoffs when a skilled reporter stays in for the long haul. Talese, who once wrote for and then wrote a book about our newspaper of record, calls himself “a man of record.” In bulging file cabinets in his subterranean bunker in New York City, he tucks away every scrap of research for possible use at a later date. He discards nothing because he understands that everything has the potential to become a story.

covercoverThis obsessive collecting accounts for the existence of The Voyeur’s Motel. The titular character is Gerald Foos, who bought a motel near Denver in the 1960s for the express purpose of spying on his guests. He cut holes in the ceilings of several rooms, then installed fake vents that allowed him to climb into the attic and observe everything that happened in the rooms below. In 1980, Foos wrote an anonymous letter about his project to Talese, who was about to publish his best-seller about sex in America, Thy Neighbor’s Wife. “I did this purely out of my unlimited curiosity about people and not just as some deranged voyeur,” Foos wrote, adding, “I have logged an accurate record of the majority of the individuals that I have watched, and compiled interesting statistics on each…”

Intrigued, Talese eventually visited the Manor House Motel and accompanied Foos into his attic observatory for several voyeuristic sessions. But since Foos was not willing to reveal his identity — and since Talese insists on using real names — the notes went into Talese’s file cabinets, along with the copious journal entries Foos began to send. Foos insisted that his retrofitted motel was not the lair of “some pervert or Peeping Tom,” but rather “the finest laboratory in the world for observing people in their natural state.” He saw himself as a “pioneering sex researcher” in a league with Masters and Johnson.

Foos’s journals chronicled every imaginable kind of participant in every imaginable scenario: sex between happily and unhappily married couples, group sex, swingers, cross-dressers, a nun, drug dealers, prostitutes, con artists, wounded Vietnam veterans, and one guy who had sex with a teddy bear. Foos even witnessed a murder. But since the voyeur remained unwilling to go on the record, Talese filed away the journal entries and eventually forgot about Gerald Foos.

Then in 2013 — 33 years after he first wrote to Talese, and several years after he sold his two motels — Foos called Talese to announce that he was finally willing to go public with his story. Talese was ready. He had everything he needed in chronological order in his file cabinets, including the fact that the voyeur’s experiment became a long slide into misanthropy. After decades of peeping, Foos concluded: “People are basically dishonest and unclean; they cheat and lie and are motivated by self-interest. They are part of a fantasy world of exaggerators, game players, tricksters, intriguers, thieves, and people in private who are never what they portray themselves as being in public.”

When Talese made one last research trip to Colorado in the summer of 2015, Foos took him to the site of the recently demolished Manor House Motel. Foos was hoping to find a souvenir in the fenced-in platter of dirt, but after a while he gave up. When his wife suggested they go home, he said, “Yes, I’ve seen enough.” There was to be one major hiccup. As the book was going to press, a Washington Post reporter dug up the fact that Gerald Foos had failed to tell Talese that he had sold his the Manor House Motel and then repurchased it in the 1980s — after the events recorded in The Voyeur’s Motel. Talese warned in the book that Foos could be “an inaccurate and unreliable narrator,” adding, “I cannot vouch for every detail that he recounts in his manuscript.” Despite these clear caveats, Talese blurted to a Post reporter that his book’s credibility was “down the toilet” and he would not be promoting it. Happily, Talese quickly came to his senses and disavowed his disavowal, then vigorously set about promoting a book that only a “man of record” and a gifted journalist could have written.

Cynthia Ozick
coverAt the age of 88 — “piano keys,” as she merrily puts it — Cynthia Ozick has just published her seventh volume of criticism, Critics, Monsters, Fanatics, and Other Literary Essays, the yin to the yang of her high-minded novels (read our interview with Ozick here). A self-proclaimed “fanatic” in the cause of literature, Ozick is not ashamed to be wistful about the passing of a time when “the publication of a serious literary novel was an exuberant communal event.” In a sense, Ozick is a keeper of a guttering flame, but she presses on, living in the bedroom community of New Rochelle where she has lived since the 1960s, not far from her girlhood home in the Bronx. She rarely ventures beyond the neighborhood supermarket these days, and she still writes late into the night at the Sears, Roebuck desk she has owned since childhood.

coverOne sign of greatness in a writer of fiction is the ability to make readers care about characters and worlds that would ordinarily be of no interest to them. I approached Ozick’s 2004 novel, Heir to the Glimmering World, with more than a little trepidation. It’s the story of a young woman named Rose Meadows who accepts a job as assistant to Rudolf Mitwisser, an imposing scholar of a medieval Jewish heresy known as Karaism. The novel unfolds in the Bronx in the mid-1930s, amid an enclave of refugees from Europe’s gathering storm. Not exactly my kind of set-up, but my trepidation vanished before I reached the bottom of the first page. I was beguiled, swept away.

The publication of that novel also served as a reminder that Ozick can be funny in a brazen, Buster-Keaton kind of way. Thirty-eight years after publishing her first novel, Ozick got sent out on her first book tour to promote Heir, a form of exquisite torture and humiliation that she chronicled for the New York Times in a story that should be required reading for every aspiring novelist and every comedy writer. Yes, high literature may be all but dead in America, but it helps that a keeper of the flame is still able to make us laugh out loud.

Toni Morrison
covercoverLast year, at the age of 84, Toni Morrison, our only living Nobel laureate, published a slender novel called God Help the Child. Unlike her previous 10 novels, this one avoids large historical themes — particularly slavery and its unending repercussions — and instead tells a fable-like story of a well-off cosmetics executive named Bride living in modern-day California. The damage done to children has been an abiding preoccupation of Morrison’s, going all the way back to her first novel, The Bluest Eye, in which an 11-year-old girl is pregnant after being raped by her father. In God Help the Child the damage is less brutal but no less insidious. Bride’s mother, Sweetness, was instantly and forever appalled by her daughter’s dark skin: “It didn’t take more than an hour after they pulled her out from between my legs to realize something was wrong. Really wrong. She was so black she scared me. Midnight black, Sudanese black.”

coverWhile God Help the Child is not Morrison’s finest work — how many novels rise to the level of Beloved? — it offers an insight into the sources of one writer’s late-career flowering. Arthritis has put Morrison in a wheelchair, and writing is not only a way out of physical pain, but a way to control her world. As she told The New York Times Magazine last year:

I know how to write forever. I don’t think I could have happily stayed here in the world if I did not have a way of thinking about it, which is what writing is for me. It’s control… Nothing matters more in the world or in my body or anywhere when I’m writing. It is dangerous because I’m thinking up dangerous, difficult things, but it is also extremely safe for me to be in that place.

Philip Levine
covercoverThis fall, nearly two years after he died at the age of 87, the poet Philip Levine will posthumously publish a slim but sumptuous miscellany called My Lost Poets: A Life in Poetry. A former U.S. poet laureate who came up through the infernos of his native Detroit’s auto factories, Levine was productive right up to the end of his long life, producing the essays, speeches, journal entries and verse fragments that make up this welcome new collection. It is, in essence, the story of how one poet got made, and it’s best read in tandem with Levine’s only other book of prose, The Bread of Time: Toward an Autobiography, from 1994. The new book offers a lovely description of Levine’s very first poems, composed when he was a teenager, at night, in woods near his home in Detroit. He called them “secret little speeches addressed to the moon.” Years later, on a return visit to his hometown, Levine encounters an elderly black man who is scratching out a garden and an existence amid the city’s ruins. As the two men talk, life and poetry merge. As Levine put it: “There are those rare times in my life when I know that what I’m living is in a poem I’ve still to write.”

Joan Didion
covercovercoverNow 81, Joan Didion has produced three fairly recent memoirs that prove beyond all doubt that she is a master stylist and one of our keenest social observers. The first of the three books, Where I Was From, is my favorite, a cold-eyed reassessment of the myths and assumptions Didion once held about her family and her native California, what she now scorns as “the local dreamtime.” The other two books, The Year of Magical Thinking and Blue Nights, are unflinching dissections of the grief Didion lived through after the deaths of her husband and daughter. Bravery, it turns out, is not the exclusive province of the young.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti
coverAt the age of 97 — which makes him the only nonagenarian in this tribe — the poet, publisher and painter Lawrence Ferlinghetti is shopping a new book called To the Lighthouse, a surrealistic blend of fiction and autobiography. Ferlinghetti, who has published some 50 volumes of poetry, including the million-copy-seller A Coney Island of the Mind, is still represented by his long-time literary agent Sterling Lord, who is a spry 95.

3.
So why is it that some writers dry up while others keep producing good work deep into the twilight of their lives? There is no single reason for this late-career productivity, just as there is no single approach that unifies these writers. Talese and Ozick continue to plow the same furrows they’ve been plowing for decades, to great effect. For Morrison, writing is a way to escape physical pain and assert control. For Levine and Didion, the late years became a time of looking back, of revisiting origins and reassessing beliefs. For Ferlinghetti, it’s a chance to explore a new form. If their motivations and methods vary, it’s safe to say that all of these writers share Morrison’s need to write forever, that they’re in the grip of what the writer Roger Rosenblatt has called “the perpetually evolving yearning.” There will always be something new to say, maybe even some new way to say it.

coverIn his posthumous collection of essays, On Late Style: Music and Literature Against the Grain, Edward Said contended that late-life work isn’t always a summing up, or a display of accumulated wisdom, or a reassessment; it can also be “a form of exile” marked by “intransigence, difficulty and unresolved contradiction.” Said cited Jean Genet and Ludwig von Beethoven, among others, as exemplars of this intransigence. Late style can also be a response to the breakdown of the body, as when Henri Matisse underwent colon surgery at age 71 and, no longer able to stand and work at an easel, gleefully embarked on what he called his “second life,” a 13-year flurry when he sat in a wheelchair and used simple scissors and sheets of colored paper to create the ebullient, child-like cutouts that would become the exclamation point of his long career. He kept at it until he suffered a fatal heart attack at the age of 84. The painter Chuck Close, who underwent a major stylistic shift of his own in his mid-70s, recently said, “The late stage can be very interesting. Had Matisse not done the cutouts, we would not know who he was.”

coverThe above list doesn’t pretend to be exhaustive. It omits countless octogenarians who are still doing fine work, as well as writers who were productive until they died in their 80s (and beyond), including: Maya Angelou, who died at 86 in 2014; the poet John Ashbery, still prolific at 89; Saul Bellow, who died at 89 in 2005; E.L. Doctorow, who died last year at 84 and will posthumously publish his Collected Stories next year; Elizabeth Hardwick, who died at 91 in 2007; Gabriel García Márquez, who died at 87 in 2014; the Canadian short story master and Nobel laureate, Alice Munro, still working at 85; Philip Roth, (who is currently in retirement but was productive into his 80s); James Salter, who died last year at 90; and Tom Wolfe (85).

As different as these writers are, they do have one thing in common: they were all in for the long haul, and they all found a way to keep up the good work.

Image: Wikipedia, Girolamo Nerli





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21 Responses to “Octogenarian Hotties”

  1. Max
    at 3:16 pm on August 18, 2016

    Don`t forget about Joseph McElroy.

  2. Fred Blinkerdolt
    at 8:03 pm on August 18, 2016

    Good article Bill. Age before beauty. Though there are a couple dogs in the under 25 list, chief among them Foer, the worst writer of his generation. Interestingly it could turn out that Ellis, Russell, and Chabon wrote their best book pre-25. Just goes to show a few people have one decent book on them, but it’s very rare to find a writer who does it consistently into their 80s and beyond.

  3. Bat of Moon
    at 11:34 pm on August 18, 2016

    Um, William H. Gass

  4. steven augustine
    at 4:03 am on August 19, 2016

    This is a good place to quote from Henry Miller’s “On Turning Eighty” but I never managed to get my hand on a copy and the citations available, online, are too obvious! But, certainly, Miller is a grand example of a writer who was still going strong into his ninth decade… still strong, importantly, after having battled as much resistance as any writer living in “The West”, in the 20th century, had… he was arguably more anathematised than Joyce himself. But he remained smiling long after many of his original tormentors were grinning in their graves.

  5. Bill Morris
    at 8:36 am on August 19, 2016

    Steven Augustine: Duh! How could I possibly omit Henry Miller, one of the lodestars of my youth? He may not have aged all that well, but he’s certainly to be commended for breaking new ground and staying in for the long haul. Always merry and bright, that was his motto. Thank you all for reading The Millions.

  6. steven augustine
    at 12:03 pm on August 19, 2016

    @Bill Morris

    Funnily enough, I went through the article several times, sure that I must have missed his mention! laugh

    “He may not have aged all that well…”

    Also funny: he ages better the older I get…

  7. Miguel
    at 6:39 pm on August 19, 2016

    Fine article, but how can you forget William H. Gass?

  8. Mary E.Carter
    at 8:27 pm on August 19, 2016

    Colette.

  9. Heather Curran
    at 10:32 am on August 20, 2016

    Great essay although title “octogenarian hottie’s” grates. I respectfully mention and honour the National Book Award Winner Peter Mathiessen who died in 2014 after writing In Paradise. His Watson Trilogy is mind blowing and absorbing story of a violent man and the history of settlers in Florida. Thanks Bill for an interesting article reminding us of the great men and women who, regardless of age, dazzle us with their wit and wisdom.

  10. priskill
    at 1:02 am on August 21, 2016

    A great antidote to the obsession with the artist-as-embryo trope that seems to drive so much publishing.

    I will say, at the risk of troll-like moralizing in the comments column, that I lost respect for Talese the minute he climbed the ladder. He offered some kind of authorial rationalization that didn’t really stick — i don’t think he convinced himself. Talese’s willingness to cross over the line from reporter to active peeping tom was shocking, not to say illegal. All those nameless people thinking they were alone in their hotel rooms were robbed of something precious by Foos, and, unfortunately, by Talese. Yes, Foos is a fascinating, self-deceiving, monstrous character, and Talese conveys that very well. But he dirties his own hands and that is sad. Still, I really enjoyed this piece, so thank you.

  11. steven augustine
    at 2:40 am on August 21, 2016

    “A great antidote to the obsession with the artist-as-embryo trope that seems to drive so much publishing.”

    Exactly! When publishing started imitating pop (and pushing young model-types on us) I had to become extremely cautious about my book buying, because the books I took a chance on were increasingly faux-knowing, undercooked, derivative and so on. Musical prodigies work because you don’t need a fund of Life Experience to sing or write great music; the same for studio-Arts prodigies, math prodigies, computer-programming prodigies. But, in the overwhelming majority of cases, in order to Write well you need to have something to say, and having something to say takes lots of time. I was writing wonderfully glib and facile things, delighting my friends, already, in college. But I knew I had nothing to say yet… because I didn’t even fully understand what little *had* happened to me.

  12. priskill
    at 7:20 pm on August 22, 2016

    Steven Augustine –yes! And, sure, there are always the phenoms who blow you away at 19– Bill Morris’s list attests to that — but the rank and file really do benefit from some living to go with all that genius. Interesting point about music, art, math, and computer prodigies not requiring the same depth of life experience. Hadn’t made that connection and it makes sense.

  13. steven augustine
    at 7:31 pm on August 22, 2016

    @priskill

    I’m going to print up a t-shirt and wear it rebelliously:

    “MOST OF MY LITERARY HEROES ARE DEAD (OR UGLY)”

  14. steven augustine
    at 7:41 pm on August 22, 2016

    @Heather

    Peter Matthiessen was a very interesting case… not many Wikipedia entries begin like: “Peter Matthiessen (May 22, 1927 – April 5, 2014) was an American novelist, naturalist, wilderness writer and CIA agent.”

    I hope he wrote about all that in truthful depth, somewhere, and arranged to have it come out posthumously (before I’m posthumous, too)…

  15. James
    at 7:49 pm on August 22, 2016

    Other names worth mentioning: Lore Segal, who thankfullly is still with us at 88; her most recent novel, Half the Kingdom, was published just three years ago. Herman Wouk recently celebrated his 101st birthday and the release of a memoir, Sailor and Fiddler.

  16. priskill
    at 12:09 am on August 23, 2016

    @Steven — I would buy that shirt. I’ve never read Mathiessen and Heather’s and your comments have lit a fire.

  17. Heather Curran
    at 10:22 am on August 23, 2016

    Steven and Priskill, always a pleasure reading your comments. James, good call on Lore Segal, love her.

  18. Mary O
    at 8:43 pm on August 23, 2016

    Paula Fox, also in her 80s, is one of the greatest living writers today.

  19. Tim
    at 12:03 pm on August 24, 2016

    Did you guys see the movie Genius? I watched it last night. Really inspired me. I put up 6 new non-profit sites this morning. I now I get to have people who write in for help. Life is Good!
    Tim

  20. Ann
    at 6:13 pm on August 24, 2016

    What about un-American writers we wish we’d gotten a chance to meet in this life (but they’re too old, it’ll never happen)? The wonderful John Berger- Here is Where We Meet, just one recent title, packed with thoughtfulness, plus lemon soup. Also the recent Portraits.

  21. il'ja
    at 4:34 am on August 26, 2016

    And nary a whisper about Cormac McCarthy? At 80, he figured he’d try to write a screenplay. Forget about what Ridley Scott did to it as a film, that script is a master class in postmodern storytelling. And if y’all can name a more anticipated title than “The Passenger”, I’d like to hear of it. The man turned 83 a month or so ago. Hotties? This old man is scorching.

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