Michael Davidow's Blog: The Henry Bell Project - Posts Tagged "nelson-rockefeller"
Seconds Count
“And why do you think good old Chandler hired you, Henry? Because he needed to borrow a Rockefeller man, to babysit the pooch? Because he needed a guy who made his name working for Tom Dewey?”
One of the challenges in writing about history is keeping the outcome a secret, not to your readers, but rather to your characters. It would be too easy, in other words, for Bell to lecture Chan Peterson (over their bottle of era-correct Bordeaux): “Hey Chan. That Watergate business is more trouble than you think.” But he never would have done so. Not without a crystal ball. Even though Bell lives in a very particular moment, he sees that moment through the blur of his own experiences.
A corrolary lies in how hard it is to remain coherent for readers who are not only unversed in the history you are writing about, but who may not even care about it. At heart, after all, SPLIT THIRTY concerns a father who is mourning his son. And while that mourning plays itself out during the course of a presidential campaign, where it finds itself mirrored in the losses and needs of every other character, someone else could write a similar book, have it take place at a fashion show, and use Dior and Balenciaga for Rockefeller and Goldwater.
Henry and Pooch and Kahn and Walton are truth-seekers. Where they seek it, is less important than their doing so at all.
Writing this book was therefore a balancing act, between keeping it credible and keeping it meaningful. And that meant introducing certain historical figures, showing why they mattered to these characters, and letting the casual reader in on the secret.
There is Rockefeller himself, of course; a man who never even managed to get nominated for the presidency, but whose political gallantry and personal magnetism gave Bell his war cry (“I’m a liberal, man. You can go fuck yourself.”); there is Barry Goldwater, crushed by Lyndon Johnson in sixty-four, but still the champion of his party’s right wing, whose supporters had thrown rocks at Bell’s wife, a scant eight years before SPLIT THIRTY takes place; there is Tom Dewey, the square to end all squares, but also the moderate and basically decent man that Dick Nixon tried to emulate; and there is Adlai Stevenson, not just the fuddy-duddy who lost to Eisenhower twice, but the bold pioneer of a new politics-- the politics of involved amateurs, housewives with time on their hands, celebrities, and college kids, all “madly for Adlai.”
“Money was money, Walton’s childhood was Walton’s childhood, and there was a hole in the sole of Bell’s shoe from all the walking he had done in Manhattan that month.” That hole was actually borrowed from Stevenson; there’s a famous photograph taken during one of his campaigns, showing his worn-out shoes.
A post-script: My friends at the WordPress site (high five, beautiful people!) seem most interested when I write about fashion and wine. My friends at the Goodreads site (hello strangers! and Laura!) seem most interested when I write about science fiction. I should therefore combine these things, and write about Barbarella, or Princess Leia’s hair. And if I can, I will. But sadly, I’ve written a book about politics. And advertising. And religion. Okay, and hair. (“Would you ever cut your hair like Selma Kahn’s used to be? Short, I mean. Like Mia Farrow. What did she call that. Her Edie Warhol look.” “Andy Sedgwick, you mean. Honestly, Henry.”) So stay tuned, and I will do my best.
One of the challenges in writing about history is keeping the outcome a secret, not to your readers, but rather to your characters. It would be too easy, in other words, for Bell to lecture Chan Peterson (over their bottle of era-correct Bordeaux): “Hey Chan. That Watergate business is more trouble than you think.” But he never would have done so. Not without a crystal ball. Even though Bell lives in a very particular moment, he sees that moment through the blur of his own experiences.
A corrolary lies in how hard it is to remain coherent for readers who are not only unversed in the history you are writing about, but who may not even care about it. At heart, after all, SPLIT THIRTY concerns a father who is mourning his son. And while that mourning plays itself out during the course of a presidential campaign, where it finds itself mirrored in the losses and needs of every other character, someone else could write a similar book, have it take place at a fashion show, and use Dior and Balenciaga for Rockefeller and Goldwater.
Henry and Pooch and Kahn and Walton are truth-seekers. Where they seek it, is less important than their doing so at all.
Writing this book was therefore a balancing act, between keeping it credible and keeping it meaningful. And that meant introducing certain historical figures, showing why they mattered to these characters, and letting the casual reader in on the secret.
There is Rockefeller himself, of course; a man who never even managed to get nominated for the presidency, but whose political gallantry and personal magnetism gave Bell his war cry (“I’m a liberal, man. You can go fuck yourself.”); there is Barry Goldwater, crushed by Lyndon Johnson in sixty-four, but still the champion of his party’s right wing, whose supporters had thrown rocks at Bell’s wife, a scant eight years before SPLIT THIRTY takes place; there is Tom Dewey, the square to end all squares, but also the moderate and basically decent man that Dick Nixon tried to emulate; and there is Adlai Stevenson, not just the fuddy-duddy who lost to Eisenhower twice, but the bold pioneer of a new politics-- the politics of involved amateurs, housewives with time on their hands, celebrities, and college kids, all “madly for Adlai.”
“Money was money, Walton’s childhood was Walton’s childhood, and there was a hole in the sole of Bell’s shoe from all the walking he had done in Manhattan that month.” That hole was actually borrowed from Stevenson; there’s a famous photograph taken during one of his campaigns, showing his worn-out shoes.
A post-script: My friends at the WordPress site (high five, beautiful people!) seem most interested when I write about fashion and wine. My friends at the Goodreads site (hello strangers! and Laura!) seem most interested when I write about science fiction. I should therefore combine these things, and write about Barbarella, or Princess Leia’s hair. And if I can, I will. But sadly, I’ve written a book about politics. And advertising. And religion. Okay, and hair. (“Would you ever cut your hair like Selma Kahn’s used to be? Short, I mean. Like Mia Farrow. What did she call that. Her Edie Warhol look.” “Andy Sedgwick, you mean. Honestly, Henry.”) So stay tuned, and I will do my best.
In Memoriam
“I was a Taft man, in fifty-two. A Goldwater man, in sixty-four. And a Reagan man, in sixty-eight. This year, we never had a chance. Party unity. Am I right, Henry? Just like Rockefeller always talked about.” “Did he? Rockefeller?” Bell’s head continued to throb, and his tongue felt like flannel. “You know what I mean, Henry.” “Sure. You’ve gone for losers, your whole life. But I work for a winner now, and I have no time for this.”
I usually shy away from calling SPLIT THIRTY an “historical novel.” I’m not sure about that genre. I was not so much trying to peg Manhattan in 1972 as to use that time and place to tell a story about the human condition.
One part of SPLIT THIRTY is purely historical, though, and I have actually been concerned that people might not get it. It concerns Bell’s identity as a liberal Republican. I fear people might think he was an outlier of sorts. But he wasn’t. Not much, at any rate.
Recall that the Democrats had the solid South to themselves for a century; if any southerner had issues with Jim Crow, that southerner (black or white) turned to the GOP. Also recall that our big city machines were Democratic to the marrow, coast to coast; if any urbanite had issues with corruption, that urbanite turned to the GOP, too. The cause of progressivism and “good government” tended to be a Republican cause. Its heroes were Theodore Roosevelt, Robert Lafayette, and Hiram Johnson. Republicans were not only liberals. They were good at it, too.
Politics being what it is, though, nothing runs pure. Fear of corruption too easily bled into fear of the immigrant; when America’s blacks moved north, the Republicans lost their edge in civil rights, too. The cranks of the west joined the haters of the east in such numbers that the party of Wendell Willkie eventually doubled as the party of Barry Goldwater (just as the Democrats claimed both Eleanor Roosevelt and Tailgunner Joe). And in fact, Bell’s convictions had already become the minority position in 1972. He knew that. He hated it. But he was never lonely. He always had friends.
Anyway, I mention this for Memorial Day (rather than touting Bell’s war record, which was something he himself, after all, never liked to talk about), because Memorial Day dates from the Civil War — and Bell is from Ohio, which takes its Republicanism from the source: tribal memories of U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman, and Little Phil Sheridan. Have a wonderful summer, all.
I usually shy away from calling SPLIT THIRTY an “historical novel.” I’m not sure about that genre. I was not so much trying to peg Manhattan in 1972 as to use that time and place to tell a story about the human condition.
One part of SPLIT THIRTY is purely historical, though, and I have actually been concerned that people might not get it. It concerns Bell’s identity as a liberal Republican. I fear people might think he was an outlier of sorts. But he wasn’t. Not much, at any rate.
Recall that the Democrats had the solid South to themselves for a century; if any southerner had issues with Jim Crow, that southerner (black or white) turned to the GOP. Also recall that our big city machines were Democratic to the marrow, coast to coast; if any urbanite had issues with corruption, that urbanite turned to the GOP, too. The cause of progressivism and “good government” tended to be a Republican cause. Its heroes were Theodore Roosevelt, Robert Lafayette, and Hiram Johnson. Republicans were not only liberals. They were good at it, too.
Politics being what it is, though, nothing runs pure. Fear of corruption too easily bled into fear of the immigrant; when America’s blacks moved north, the Republicans lost their edge in civil rights, too. The cranks of the west joined the haters of the east in such numbers that the party of Wendell Willkie eventually doubled as the party of Barry Goldwater (just as the Democrats claimed both Eleanor Roosevelt and Tailgunner Joe). And in fact, Bell’s convictions had already become the minority position in 1972. He knew that. He hated it. But he was never lonely. He always had friends.
Anyway, I mention this for Memorial Day (rather than touting Bell’s war record, which was something he himself, after all, never liked to talk about), because Memorial Day dates from the Civil War — and Bell is from Ohio, which takes its Republicanism from the source: tribal memories of U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman, and Little Phil Sheridan. Have a wonderful summer, all.
