Here McMurtry provides a chatty, low-impact tour of notable influences and turning points in his literary life. I got a certain amount of pleasure from little vignettes and intersections with famous lights in the literary world, but I think most prospective readers would have to be a real fan of his books to get significant rewards from reading this. That is certainly true for me, as he is my favorite author of all. Over the decades I’ve read 29 of his 33 novels. On the other hand, I’ve only read 3 of his 14 nonfiction works. A big reward from this volume was coming to understand his special pride in achieving his ambition at becoming a “man of letters” and catching on to how his output in a long stretch of his mature years has leaned toward essays, personal and travel memoirs, and reviews.
“Literary Life” is second in a memoir trilogy. An earlier volume, “Books”, covers his life as a “bookman”, i.e. a collector and manager of bookstores in Archer City, Texas, and Washington DC. A subsequent one, “Hollywood”, delves into his life in connection with film-making. I was surprised to learn that fully a dozen of his books were filmed, the most notable being “Hud”, “The Last Picture Show”, “Terms of Endearment”, and “Lonesome Dove” (movie and miniseries). He considers himself lucky to get sustaining income from the book trade and script writing. There was one point when he was teaching at Rice University and had achieved tenure, but he broke away from the academic track to open a rare bookstore in DC with his wife Marcia Carter. I haven’t read either of these memoirs as I mainly am interested in background to help me appreciate his fiction.
I appreciate the humility McMurtry shows in his judgment of his own work. Though much admiring of the more experimental writing of the Beats, the postmodernists, and the New Journalism by the likes of Tom Wolfe, he is almost apologetic for choosing the path of old-fashioned realism:
I believe the one gift I had that led me to a career in fiction was the ability to make up characters that readers connect with. My characters move them, which is also why those same characters move them when they meet them on the screen.
There's not a lot here on his approach to writing, but I appreciated this distillation of how he invests in his characters:
The thrill lies in the rush of sentences, the gradual arrival of characters who at once seem to have their own life. Faulkner said that he just listens to his own characters and writes down what they say. I watch mine, and try, like Conrad, to make the reader see what’s going on. You soon lose the sense, in writing fiction, that you yourself are making things happen.
We get very little personal information about McMurtry’s family and early upbringing beyond citing his getting hooked on books at age six by a collection of adventure and hunting tales left him by a cousin going off to war in 1942. We get some interesting details on some of his early mentors and literary excursions in college at Rice and then in grad school at a small state college, where he took his first writing class. Though he wrote 63 short stories, he reports destroying them all shortly before graduating. Of his participation in the famous writing program at Stanford, we get short shrift in terms of coverage of any key inspiration or help on shaping his drafts of his first two manuscripts (Stegner was away on sabbatical). Instead, we get some details on his competitiveness with fellow student Ken Kesey. More than individual authors, it is the broader community of people on many walks of life behind literature that spurred him on:
To a beginning writer such as myself even the slightest literary ferment was good. Professors, book editors, reviewers, journalists, book salesmen, fellow beginners, authors of first books, girl (and boy) friends and mistresses of all of the above, drew me in and made me believe that this was a game I could have a part in; at the very least I could teach.
He discusses literary styles and genres in various ways, but this one quote is the only nugget on the craft of writing that sticks with me:
The thrill lies in the rush of sentences, the gradual arrival of characters who at once seem to have their own life. Faulkner said that he just listens to his own characters and writes down what they say. I watch mine, and try, like Conrad, to make the reader see what’s going on. You soon lose the sense, in writing fiction, that you yourself are making things happen.
Two of my favorite reads of McMurtry are his early novels “Leaving Cheyenne” (1962) and “The Last Picture Show” (1966), both coming of age tales set in rural Texas in the 50s. The first is a tale of two friends who share the love of a same woman over a long haul, with their contrasting and converging perspectives on the same events in their lives. The second is so bleak, yet touched with grace, humor, and hopeful resilience.
Another favorite is “Terms of Endearment” (1975), which is wonderful in its portrayal of a mother-daughter relationship as young Emma deals with a philandering husband, motherhood, and cancer in the academic community in Houston. His ability with this to make you laugh and cry at nearly the same time is a high art. I go with the crowd (and Pulitzer Prize committee) in tagging “Lonesome Dove” (1985) an overall favorite. His 10th book, it was the first to sell more than five thousand copies. The sprawling saga of a challenging cattle drive from southern Texas to northern Montana is for many the best fictional portrait of the post-Civil War American West. For me its elaboration of the friendship between ex-Texas Rangers Augustus McCrae and Woodrow Call—the former jocular, romantic, and literate and the latter terse, moralistic, and stubborn-- was a profound pleasure (perhaps only matched by that between Aubrey and Maturin in Patrick O’Brian’s nautical series on the Napoleonic Wars).
I had to wait another 19 years to read another McMurtry in the same 5-star league as these others, which was “Folly and Glory” (2004), the final volume of his tetralogy “The Berrybender Narrative.” Some of my Goodreads friends sampled a book or two in the sequences of “The Last Picture Show” (recently concluded at five novels) or the “Lonesome Dove” tetralogy, but only one sustained the hunt for another winner through this tragicomic saga of an aristocratic family’s hunting tour of the West in the 1830s (and he gave it two stars). For me, the character of the British Lord’s daughter Tasmin stands tall for larger-than-life characters in fiction, so lusty, resourceful, and open to loving both a primitive frontiersman and the educated son of Sacagawea. I also felt that the parody and satire in the series did an effective job in heralding the greed, exploitation, and genocide already dominant in the West three decades after Lewis and Clarke’s epic exploration. I feel in left field on my affinity with the series. In a review of the one-volume collection of the tetralogy, a snide critic in a 2011 issue of the Texas Monthly made the following conclusion, painful for me to read:
The epic already having been written, all that is left for McMurtry to do is create a mock epic (on the order of Don Quixote) or revamp Father Knows Best. McMurtry chooses the latter. In a book about the wild, wild West, it is depressing how many chapters take place in a nursery: there’s an excess of mothers, milk, munchkins, munchies, and milquetoast males. Meanwhile, out on the prairie, the frontiersman Jim Snow performs heroic deeds and kills bad Injuns when he’s not spouting biblically inspired exfoliations of the Word. It’s as though McMurtry took the worst of James Fenimore Cooper and married it to the worst of Jane Austen.
In McMurtry’s opinion, his best novel is “Duane’s Depressed”, number 3 in his “Last Picture Show” series. He admits to loving this blue-collar character and the evolution of his self-understanding, and, in concluding his life in the recent “Rhino Ranch”, to missing him like lost friend or family member. He says the same about the character Emma Horton; however, I think her mother Aurora Greenway was more endearing to me (played so well by Shirley MacLaine in the movies). I was happy to see this judgment of “Terms of Endearment”:
Although I think the last sixty pages of Terms of Endearment are among the very best pages I have written, it was while I was writing them that I began to sour on my own work. The minute I finished that book I fell into a literary gloom that lasted from 1975 until 1983, when the miracle of The Desert Rose snapped me out of it.
On his “Leaving Cheyenne”, he demurs on it bearing any reliable wisdom about love relationships:
It’s a Jules et Jim-like novel about a very long relationship between a rancher, his hired hand, and the woman they both love. I was very young and cannot have known much about long relationships when I wrote it, but still, it seemed to work and is the very favorite of many of my readers.
On “Lonesome Dove” he notes it has had the opposite impact from its overall thrust:
It’s certainly a book with some power, and part of the power comes from the fact that we’re retracing a myth—the myth of the cowboy, or of the American West as a whole. …
I don’t dislike Lonesome Dove … The book has reinforced the myth by being made into an extremely appealing and successful miniseries, which will achieve its twentieth anniversary this year. …
What I learned from writing it was that myth is tenacious. Any attempt to deromanticize the cowboy will only boomerang and end up striking whatever it attempts to debunk.
Of his nonfiction he is most happy with “Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen”, which I need to read. He describes it as part autobiography about his heart attack and its consequences and exploration of Dairy Queens as a venue for the dying art of oral storytelling.
McMurtry provides generous acknowledgement of the support and impact of his editor for most of his career, Simon & Schuster’s Michael Korda, who is also a fellow author that I appreciate. For example:
Moving On was not the Great American Novel but for a time I thought it was. The only person to share my opinion was my new editor, Michael Korda.
This memoir reads a lot like a casual conversation, which has its pluses and minues. So often, like in a discussion, he qualifies his revelations of fact with “I think” or “perhaps”, even though the points in issue could readily be checked with research. It is easy to suspect laziness behind such qualifications of facts presented (e.g. Kesey’s first two manuscripts being burned up in a fire). I ended up concluding that the concern was with McMurtry’s state of mind with respect to writing and how he got there, so perceived truth trumps reality I suppose.
As I noted, he shows grace in his humility, and it doesn’t seem false:
Should I be bitter about the literary establishment’s long disinterest in me? I shouldn’t, and mostly I’m not, though I do admit to the occasional moment of irritation. …Time will sort us out, determine who was really good from who was mediocre.
This does not mean I think I’m very likely to make the high-end cut. Little of my work in fiction is pedestrian, but, on the other hand, none of it is really great. Maybe it will seem better to readers fifty years from now than it does to me today.
Meanwhile, I wish more of my Goodreads friends will give more of his works a chance.