Michael Davidow's Blog: The Henry Bell Project - Posts Tagged "henry-bell"
I and Thou
I started this blog to augment my author’s page on the Goodreads website; then I added it to my Amazon author’s page. Then I recreated it on the Wordpress platform, where three friendly guys have since pressed the “like” button on an entry called “Mad Man.” That was where I mentioned Matthew Weiner’s Mad Men, the AMC television show. That fact stands out to me. Nothing else has produced such an effect.
So in a shameless attempt to market my work accordingly, here is a brand new entry in which I helpfully compare Don Draper to Henry Bell. I am somewhat handicapped in doing so, because I have still never seen Mad Men. But you can learn a lot about it, by reading the news.
Don Draper is the handsome lead character in a glossy soap opera seen and loved by millions. Henry Bell is the burly lead character in a literary novel known to around five people in New Hampshire, Boston, and Washington, D.C. (there is also someone in Los Angeles). Early on, he is described as the “ant” to another ad-man’s “grasshopper.”
Don and his friends seem to drink a lot, but I’m not sure what (there’s an awful lot of discussion out there about how to make “Mad Men” cocktails). Henry drinks scotch, because he’s a Republican (as for his friends: Bertie drinks bourbon, because he’s a Democrat; Walton drinks tequila, because he’s from California; and Pooch drinks anything, because he’s an alcoholic).
Don seems to have some problem with his wife. Henry loves Paula, in spite of their being divorced.
Don has some other existential crisis going on, too, which seems to manifest itself in various shades of sex and wardrobe changes. Henry’s existential crisis has something to do with Ecclesiastes and the work of Thomas Kuhn.
J. Crew is marketing a line of clothing based on Don and his friends. Henry wears the same grey suit in nearly every scene, and I don’t think Peterson’s neckties survived 1973.
Don is haunted by his time in Korea. Henry fought in Italy, where he attempted to avoid getting the clap.
The actor who plays Don shows up on a lot of magazine covers. When I think about who could possibly play Henry, I think about Sterling Hayden, and Bill Holden. Then I wake up, and I go to work.
And I should probably end with this: Mad Men was created by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Baltimore, and who really liked the sixties. SPLIT THIRTY was written by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Boston, and who really liked the seventies. He wishes Matthew Weiner well. Perhaps they will meet someday.
So in a shameless attempt to market my work accordingly, here is a brand new entry in which I helpfully compare Don Draper to Henry Bell. I am somewhat handicapped in doing so, because I have still never seen Mad Men. But you can learn a lot about it, by reading the news.
Don Draper is the handsome lead character in a glossy soap opera seen and loved by millions. Henry Bell is the burly lead character in a literary novel known to around five people in New Hampshire, Boston, and Washington, D.C. (there is also someone in Los Angeles). Early on, he is described as the “ant” to another ad-man’s “grasshopper.”
Don and his friends seem to drink a lot, but I’m not sure what (there’s an awful lot of discussion out there about how to make “Mad Men” cocktails). Henry drinks scotch, because he’s a Republican (as for his friends: Bertie drinks bourbon, because he’s a Democrat; Walton drinks tequila, because he’s from California; and Pooch drinks anything, because he’s an alcoholic).
Don seems to have some problem with his wife. Henry loves Paula, in spite of their being divorced.
Don has some other existential crisis going on, too, which seems to manifest itself in various shades of sex and wardrobe changes. Henry’s existential crisis has something to do with Ecclesiastes and the work of Thomas Kuhn.
J. Crew is marketing a line of clothing based on Don and his friends. Henry wears the same grey suit in nearly every scene, and I don’t think Peterson’s neckties survived 1973.
Don is haunted by his time in Korea. Henry fought in Italy, where he attempted to avoid getting the clap.
The actor who plays Don shows up on a lot of magazine covers. When I think about who could possibly play Henry, I think about Sterling Hayden, and Bill Holden. Then I wake up, and I go to work.
And I should probably end with this: Mad Men was created by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Baltimore, and who really liked the sixties. SPLIT THIRTY was written by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Boston, and who really liked the seventies. He wishes Matthew Weiner well. Perhaps they will meet someday.
In Vino Veritas
“Right. Was it Chianti wine?”
“What?”
“Chianti wine.”
“Beats me, buddy.”
“Some prefer Montepulciano,” the grand jury man advised.
Did you ever make a mistake, then have to correct yourself? Only a few days ago, I advised the entire planet that Bell drank scotch. Someone saw that, and accused me (hmm) of trying too hard to prove that my hero is (well…) grittier than (ahem) Don Draper (whoever he is). So for the record: yes, Bell does drink scotch. But he also drinks wine.
He is actually hung over from too much wine, when he meets Chan Peterson on Sixth Avenue. He and Paula drink something “cheap” and “Italian” when he returns from California. Peterson finishes a bottle for him, at the old Brasserie (I shouldn’t call it that, because it still exists) (but it isn’t like they save me a table, these days). And he is certainly interested when Bertie Kahn tells him about the “dago restaurant in Rutland” where Pooch probably gets his stock while staying in Vermont.
As for what Bell prefers: though he does not seem particular, our best indication is “claret.”
So, for those of you kind enough to care about these things, please show your support for Henry (and grit in general) by buying (and drinking) a red, with tall shoulders.
And your author promises to get serious again in another posting, soon.
“What?”
“Chianti wine.”
“Beats me, buddy.”
“Some prefer Montepulciano,” the grand jury man advised.
Did you ever make a mistake, then have to correct yourself? Only a few days ago, I advised the entire planet that Bell drank scotch. Someone saw that, and accused me (hmm) of trying too hard to prove that my hero is (well…) grittier than (ahem) Don Draper (whoever he is). So for the record: yes, Bell does drink scotch. But he also drinks wine.
He is actually hung over from too much wine, when he meets Chan Peterson on Sixth Avenue. He and Paula drink something “cheap” and “Italian” when he returns from California. Peterson finishes a bottle for him, at the old Brasserie (I shouldn’t call it that, because it still exists) (but it isn’t like they save me a table, these days). And he is certainly interested when Bertie Kahn tells him about the “dago restaurant in Rutland” where Pooch probably gets his stock while staying in Vermont.
As for what Bell prefers: though he does not seem particular, our best indication is “claret.”
So, for those of you kind enough to care about these things, please show your support for Henry (and grit in general) by buying (and drinking) a red, with tall shoulders.
And your author promises to get serious again in another posting, soon.
Beginner's Luck
He had often needed to stand still until a hand could reach down for him through the stepped-back apartment buildings, the patchwork brick alleyways, the asphalt circuits of New York City; a hand to prop him up, and keep him safe. He would be one moment on a wharf by Sutton Place, or a bar in Yorktown, or an automat in Times Square, then the next moment, he would be in bed, his wife’s white arms around his middle…
There was a charming piece in today’s Times (no, not more of Allesandra Stanley, waxing rhapsodic about the charm of Watergate): a little story about the Morgan Library’s purchase of some letters written by J.D. Salinger to a woman named Marjorie Sheard. They corresponded about their respective writing careers when they were young. Salinger went on to fame and fortune; Ms. Sheard folded away her manuscripts. But she kept those letters, all these years.
I never wrote to famous writers when I was young. I wish I had. But when I started my writing career, after law school, you could still send your manuscripts to actual editors, and a striking number of those people actually wrote back to me. Morgan Entrekin was friendly and encouraging. So were Ann Godoff and Nan Graham (whose telling me that I wrote with “grace and precision” probably made me write another two novels-- gracefully, and precisely). And more. A baker’s dozen were friendly in this fashion.
It’s amazing, really, because when I recall them, my first stories were pretty traditional affairs. The females were beautiful and broken; the males were sensitive and torn. Stoic suffering abounded. So did epiphanies. I can no longer write that way. I can only have sympathy.
So strong is that sympathy, however (“You understand, though. Don’t you, Henry. Every flower in every field. Every Maybelline eyelash, and every Revlon mouth. Every drop of Fanta Orange spit, in every kiss you ever stole. Tell me you understand, man. Please.”), that I find the Salinger-Sheard correspondence to be truly touching. Salinger is a guy I admire, and I miss him, and I’m glad he was nice to Marjorie Sheard.
And now that I think of it, the New York City of Henry Bell belongs to the forties even more than to the seventies. So maybe he overlaps with Holden Caulfield after all.
There was a charming piece in today’s Times (no, not more of Allesandra Stanley, waxing rhapsodic about the charm of Watergate): a little story about the Morgan Library’s purchase of some letters written by J.D. Salinger to a woman named Marjorie Sheard. They corresponded about their respective writing careers when they were young. Salinger went on to fame and fortune; Ms. Sheard folded away her manuscripts. But she kept those letters, all these years.
I never wrote to famous writers when I was young. I wish I had. But when I started my writing career, after law school, you could still send your manuscripts to actual editors, and a striking number of those people actually wrote back to me. Morgan Entrekin was friendly and encouraging. So were Ann Godoff and Nan Graham (whose telling me that I wrote with “grace and precision” probably made me write another two novels-- gracefully, and precisely). And more. A baker’s dozen were friendly in this fashion.
It’s amazing, really, because when I recall them, my first stories were pretty traditional affairs. The females were beautiful and broken; the males were sensitive and torn. Stoic suffering abounded. So did epiphanies. I can no longer write that way. I can only have sympathy.
So strong is that sympathy, however (“You understand, though. Don’t you, Henry. Every flower in every field. Every Maybelline eyelash, and every Revlon mouth. Every drop of Fanta Orange spit, in every kiss you ever stole. Tell me you understand, man. Please.”), that I find the Salinger-Sheard correspondence to be truly touching. Salinger is a guy I admire, and I miss him, and I’m glad he was nice to Marjorie Sheard.
And now that I think of it, the New York City of Henry Bell belongs to the forties even more than to the seventies. So maybe he overlaps with Holden Caulfield after all.
