Southern Bookman

David Talbot's "Season of the Witch" Gives Compelling, Loving Portrait of San Francisco

After a recent trip to San Francisco, I found that part of me, as with the old song about leaving the heart, remained in the beautiful city by the bay. To bathe in my San Francisco vibe, I downloaded on my Nook tablet David Talbot's history of San Francisco from the 1960s through the aftermath of AIDS, "Season of the Witch."

Talbot, the founder of the online news site Salon and a San Francisco transplant from Los Angeles, gives a fascinating account of San Francisco's bigger than life characters and major late 20th century events, from the Summer of Love to the SLA's kidnapping of Patty Hearst, to the People's Temple James Jones tragedy and the killings of Mayor George Moscone and councilman Harvey Milk. The book, packed with details and based on a number of interviews, rivals Jonathan Mahler's similar history of New York, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx Is Burning." Along the way, Talbot presents a gallery of characters, from left-wing lawyers, Neanderthal cops and politicians, to musicians, artists, thugs, murderers,  and political activists. He gives fresh looks at well-known figures such as former Mayor and now U.S. Sen. Dianne Finestein, 49ers coach Bill Walsh, politico Willie Brown, newspaper columnist Herb Caen and others. By the way, he also gives a minor, if interesting, rundown of the history of the famed Tony Bennett song, "I Left My Heart in San Francicso," which I've recently been playing repeatedly on the piano.

The book received a mean-spirited and off-base scolding in The Sunday New York Times Book Review from someone named Ellen Ullman, who blasted Talbot for giving two chapters to the San Francisco 49ers winning the Super Bowl, bringing healing and normality to a city that had endured decades of extreme politics and social upheaval, and, at least in her eyes, slighting the role of lesbians in rebuilding and healing the city. Talbot penned a protest of the review, which the Book Review printed, along with a weak rejoinder from Ullman.  After reading Talbot's book, I think that Ullman was completely wrong. Her piece points up the continuing decline in the book review's standards in choosing reviewers, along with their writing and judgments.

She does point to a strength of the book, Talbot's in-depth interviews. And, the two chapters devoted to the 49ers are the least compelling in the book, not because of a falloff in the quality of writing and research, but because the winning of the Super Bowl pales in comparison to the dramatic events that shook San Francisco in those years.

Anyone who lived through those times and has a strong knowledge of what occurred in the city will find a wealth of new information in "Season of the Witch." The last pages devoted to the AIDs crisis are a poignant testimony to the human spirit. The book made me feel, paraphrasing John F. Kennedy, "eich bin en San Franciscan."

Speaking of the Nook, I was full of happiness at the tablet after using it to download a copy of Los Angeles food critic Jonathan Gold's collection of reviews about ethnic restaurants in that city, a tome I'd looked for fruitlessly for years in bookstores. Alas, just when my Nook feelings had reached a new high, I bought a volume of writings by legendary rock critic Lester Bangs, only to find blank pages when I tried to read it. (A commentary on the lost brain cells of the era?) I called the Nook helpline, and talked for some time to a friendly Asian woman, who, although we couldn't understand every other word, gave me detailed instructions about how to fix the problem. However, her solution didn't work, so she promised to report the situation to a technical team, whom she said would need a week or two to fill the empty spaces with Bangs' vivid prose. I hope that occurs, but I'm skeptical, especially since Nook apparently no longer sends me emails confiming my purchases.

Despite the occasional breakdowns, I'm generally happy with the Nook, after my initial impulse to take it back after receiving it as a Christmas gift. I still love print on dead trees, but the Nook offers many advantages. I find it eases the acquiring and reading of books. Several weeks ago, I downloaded the Sunday Washington Post for 75 cents, and marveled at the facility in reading the newspaper, flipping through the pages with e-ease.

James Lee Burke Shows Jarring Contradictions, Literary Skill in Latest Work, "Creole Belle"

James Lee Burke's Dave Robicheaux books represent the most extended excursion I've made into the macho crime-novel genre. I've read one or two of books by Elmore Leonard and a couple by Carl Hiassen, and probably five by Burke, whose descriptions of western and southern Louisiana enflame my nostalgia for my native state.

I've just finished Burke's latest, "Creole Belle," finding it a mixed bag, as usual with his books. As with Hiassen and Leonard, the villains possess cartoonish evil natures. Burke enjoys violating crime fiction rules, memorably laid down by Leonard a few years ago. At times I wish Burke would hew more closely to Leonard's standards; Burke's frequent philosophical digressions make me long to get back to the plot. Unlike Leonard counsels, Burke is big on the weather, in Burke's books, it seems the rain is falling in every scene, or clearing up. HIs effects grow repetitive, a number of scenes begin with nearly the same wording.

Burke shows signs of wanting to be the serious literary writer he once was, which is one reason he goes against Leonard. I realize that Burke's descriptions of nature and Louisiana towns are a major reason I like his work. Burke overwrites, his words drifting deep into the purple, but when he's under control, he achieves a masterful, poetic depth.

In his latest work, Burke gives even more emphasis to Robicheaux's sidekick, Clete Purcell. He also introduces a couple of other characters, who are more outrageous cartoons than real characters. As with Burke's previous book, a prequel to "Creole Belle," he shows an end of life, elegiac wistfulness.

Burke strives to paint Robicheaux, Purcell and their families as more virtuous characters than the evil-doers. But, part amusingly and part dismaying, Purchell and Robicheaux reveal themselves as more sadistic and brutal than the evil guys they end up slaughtering. Much of this violence comes off as gratuitous, as if Burke enjoys showing how far he can go.

In "Creole Belle," Burke takes on the oil companies and the gulf oil spill, although he never mentions the perpetrator, BP, by name. While he blasts the oil companies for ruining the traditional Cajun lifestyle, he shows his characters driving from say New Iberia to New Orleans without forethought, a freedom that would be impossible without the oil companies. Thus, while painting big oil as evil, he presents a society irrevocably addicted to oil.

Burke again goes too far with his descriptions of violence; and his depictions of women are plagued by an combination of leering sexism and old fashioned paternalism. His dialogue can be clumsy and heavy-handed, along with his historical/philosophical musings. The best parts of the book are when he shows his talent as a literary artist, such as the finely imagined final scene of Clete Purcell and some Vietnamese children he befriends at a Key West beach.

Despite his contradictions, displays of careless writing and lack of consideration for the reader, Burke in the end transcends his weaknesses, presenting a tragic and artistically moving portrait of Louisiana culture under siege by environmental degradation and societal change.

A Trip to San Francisco

I've just returned from that exquisitely literary city, San Francisco, where I quickly made my pilgrammage to the Beat cathedral, City Lights Books, in a racy North Beach area. My son accompanied me, and I proudly showed him Jack Kerouac Alley next to Lawrence Ferlinghetti's book-jammed spot. Seeing Saint Jack's sign and standing in the soft West Coast light, I felt a momentary wash of emotion, a mourning for the lost days of freedom and hope that Kerouac captured.

Inside, my son was amused by the sections devoted to radical politics and writing. I found a book on Jimmy Rodgers, the old Mississippi singing brakeman, surprised that my interest in old roots music would be met by City Lights, which I place in another literary/intellectual/artistic realm than country and western. Goes to show the universality of the City Lights collection, quite an anachronism these days, but quite common at independent bookstores back 30 years ago.

City Lights is also an excellent press; and I purchased a nice City Lights poetry anthology. After making my purchases, I saw a new book by the great guitarist Ry Cooder, a short story collection called "Los Angeles Stories," published by City Lights, but didn't buy it right then. Later, at another bookstore, this one located on Second Street downtown, I did buy it to take home with me.

With all of its tomes on anarchism, socialism and the like, City Lights is a capitalist place. I pointed out to my son a book on type and fonts that I had read, checking it out of the library, and he, a type wonk, decided to buy it, then complained over and over about its $30 cost. 

My son wasn't impressed when we returned outside and I pointed out to him the nearby Hungry I, once the center of the cutting edge standup comics like Mort Sahl and Lenny Bruce. I was happy to see the old spot, assuming that it still gives a forum for comedians, poets and musicians. A few days later, we happened on a cool spot called Melt, where we listed to jazz for several hours from two different bands, the first a trio and the second a packed tightly together group with piano, bass, sax, guitar, two drummers, and a guy playing trumpet and French horn. Each group had a musician playing standup bass, a wonderful instrument.

The spirit of Dashiell Hammett and Sam Spade floated in the cool bay breeze when I sat at a sidewalk spot drinking coffee and saw a sign above a storefront advising that here was the office of a private eye. Our companion, a resident of the neighborhood, said the P.I. had left a few years ago, but in my mind I was already forming the detective novel about the place. San Francisco is one of those magical places that inspires writing. 

Ben Bradlee Unveiled

Jeff Himmelmann's portrait of Washington Post legend Ben Bradlee upset Bob Woodward, who didn't like Himmelmann's disclosure that Bradlee cast some doubt on Woodward's "Deep Throat" myth. Woodward and Bradlee apparently both grew angry with Himmelmann, Bradlee's assistant, and I was swayed by Woodward and Bradlee that the book, cleverly titled "Yours in Truth," crassly sought to stir up scandal and controversy and was not worth reading.

Well, being a Washington Post/Bradlee junkie, although not as vervent as I am with The New York Times and New Yorker, I decided to download the the book on my Nook. Well, the book is quite enjoyable, and I credit Himmelman with uncovering some new, interesting information about Bradlee that Bradlee declined to disclose in his memoirs. Beyond intriguing takes on the Bradley/Katharine Graham relationship, Bradlee and first wife Toni's friendship with John and Jacqueline Kennedy, Bradlee's leadership of the post and his personality, and Bradlee's marriage to Sally Quinn, along with Watergate, Himmelmann is an engaging writer.

Apparently, the book has caused waves among the Georgetown set. I don't know how much of Himmelman is right, but a lot of what he says has the ring of truth. Plus, it's sort of pleasing to have Woodward, known for dredging  up secrets about American presidents, being stung himself. I haven't heard what if any reaction Woodward's Watergate mate Carl Bernstein had; Himmelmann gives an interesting portrait of Bernstein, who with all of his flaws comes off as more appealing than Woodward. He also gives a human dimension to the Bradlee legend, showing him as often a more ineffective leader than his reputation claims.

"Yours in Truth" is largely based upon Bradlee's files of memos, letters and other writings. Himmelmann also carried out an impressive number of interviews. Himmelmann at times loses control of his narrative thread, but all in all gives a more balanced, nuanced portrait of Bradlee than presented in "All the President's Men" and other books. As an old newspaper guy, my overriding feeling is one of sadness at how diminished newspapers, including the Post, have become since their heyday in the Watergate era.

Farewell, Gore Vidal

Gore Vidal's death came as a surprise, as if I believed that his supercilious, patrician intellect would even intimidate the Grim Reaper. Alas, Vidal died this week at age 86, showing that he, too, was mortal.

I agreed with the late Christopher Hitchens and others that Vidal's writing in later years spun off the rails into ravines of crankiness and absurdity. His contenton that George W. Bush knew in advance about Sept. 11, following his belief that FDR had advance knowledge of Pearl Harbor, was one example, as was his nutty admiration for Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh.

Vidal, though, will always live in my personal pantheon of literary stars and characters. When I was a young man, reading his essays revealed many of the negative aspects of American culture, politics and society. I'd suspected much of it previously, but Vidal gave me a language and framework for understanding the abuses of American power and the corruptions of our culture. Along with other radical writers  I discovered at the time, he made a major contribution to my skeptical, critical outlook about our history, government, literature, economy, business and culture.

I made an attempt to read Vidal's historical novels, but I found his fiction artificial and stagy. His essays pulsed with energy, laced with satiric humor and a world-weary, cynical learning. With all of his erudition, he also had brilliant insight into American popular culture, particularly movies, TV and the theater. He championed writers like the neglected Dawn Powell and fired blasts at overly popular figures. Although I was too young to remember them, I enjoyed accounts of his TV feuds with William F. Buckley and Norman Mailer. I also found his late memoirs entertaining.

Another voice with whom I measured my life is gone. The decline of the American republic that Vidal accurately registered in his best work accelerates. Writers such as he appear more and more as sirens sounding without affect, lost in the cacophony of ignorance.