I can’t believe it… Just caught the headline. George Plimpton died today. He was one of my favorite writers. I met him twice: once in college when he signed a copy of his The Best of Plimpton collection and again a few months ago when he came by the book store to promote the new Paris Review collection. Both times he regailed everyone present with a vast array of stories that placed him as an observer or a bystander to some remarkable moments (for example he was in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel when Robert F. Kennedy was killed.) But he didn’t mind being the center of attention either, like when he stepped in the ring with Archie Moore or ran out on the field as quarterback of the Detroit Lions. He put himself in many situations like this because he knew that most folks had, at one time or another, wondered what it might be like to be a modern day gladiator. It wasn’t a stunt really; it felt more like a favor to his friends. And though he wrote a lot about sports, that was only one dimension of his life. He also founded the The Paris Review, perhaps the most significant literary magazine of the last fifty years. It is notable for having published early works by many great writers, and it is also well-known for the “Art of Fiction” (or Poetry, or Drama) interviews included in each issue. There is a wealth of knowledge in each interview; the worlds greatest writers talking about how they write. Most of all he simply seemed like someone who truly loved life. You could see it in his face when he spoke and you could see it in his writing. Whether he was ringside for the Thrilla in Manilla or running with bulls in Pamplona it was really about the joy of it all. Here’s the obit.
Yesterday, I was watching the headlines as I often do, and I was shocked to see the obituary for Bebe Moore Campbell, author of Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, 72 Hour Hold, and many other books, come across the wires. She died, at 56, from complications of brain cancer. Campbell was a well-known writer, but that is not how I came to know her. For a year, when I lived in Los Angeles, she was my landlord.I first met her as the stern Mrs. Gordon - her full name was Elizabeth Bebe Moore Campbell Gordon - when she showed my friend Derek and I a hillside apartment in Silverlake. This upscale nook of the neighborhood was beyond our means - I was working at a bookstore and Derek was helping out on indie film sets - but her price turned out to be just barely in our budget. In the end, it was worth it for the fantastic westward facing view that on the rare smog-free day provided a glimpse of the ocean and for the walk down the hill to Spaceland, a venue where we saw many of our favorite bands.Campbell's daughter lived upstairs - it was a bilevel duplex - and this arrangement gave us a glimpse into Campbell's life. It is odd, in these situations, how well you can come to know people without knowing them as friends, or even acquaintances. It wouldn't be fair to get into all the details here, but we came to learn, in the odd communication beyond mailing in our monthly rent and in the overheard voices that cannot be avoided when one shares a building with someone else, of the challenges in Campbell's life.After a year, I got engaged to Mrs. Millions and moved out. Derek stayed on through two more roommates before leaving Los Angeles. I've never read Campbell's books, but the obits in the New York Times, Washington Post, and from the AP describe their importance and her place as "a best-selling novelist known for her empathetic treatment of the difficult, intertwined and occasionally surprising relationship between the races." I'll remember her as my landlord Mrs. Gordon, but for more, Tayari Jones remembers her as Bebe Moore Campbell, the writer.Update: Richard Prince pens a more substantial obituary of Campbell.Related: Campbell wasn't my only literary landlord.
Michael Crichton died Wednesday after a bout with cancer. Crichton looms large in my history of reading. While other writers introduced me to the potential of literary fiction, it was Crichton who really stoked my love of reading between the age of 12 and 15. I remember reading Sphere in the high school library during free periods as a freshman, and staying up late not wanting to put down The Andromeda Strain, Congo, and of course Jurassic Park, which was passed around my ninth grade class with the feverish excitement that one doesn't normally associate with 14 year olds and books.The arrival of Steven Spielberg's blockbuster movie that summer only heightened the Jurassic Park mania. This was back when CGI special effects, now so mundane, had the ability to astonish, and I can remember sitting in a theater that was buzzing with anticipation waiting for the movie to start, and I was scarcely able to believe that the book could be brought to life. The movie lived up to the hype, and it opened the door to the stream of CGI-driven blockbusters that continue to this day.But the movie was only special in that it made real what had already jumped off the pages of Crichton's books. Crichton's contribution might be measured in book sales and box office receipts, but there is perhaps more value in his contribution to the collective imagination of a generation of young readers.
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The New York Times is reporting that Maurice Sendak has died at 83. In part because I shared a name with its main character, Where the Wild Things Are was a beloved book of mine. Sendak's last book Bumble-Ardy, full of chaotic drawings of mischievous pigs, is a favorite of 19-month-old son's. May Sendak's bountiful imagination and heart live on for many generations in his books.