When I was but a lad in elementary school, I was obsessed with the Marx Brothers. I quoted Groucho at every turn, preceding his erudition with, "As Groucho says...." Eventually, my classmates began to mock me, often making faces and saying, with a sneer, "Groucho said this; Groucho said that." I am pleased to report that this relentless disdain did nothing to dim my affection for the Marxes, which has only grown deeper and stronger as I approach the end of middle age.
As a fan, I am always hungry to learn as much as I can about what it must have been like to live in their households, to be raised as a child by one of them, and to know what was going on in their heads. After all, I imagine one must keep their wits about them to keep pace with the rapid fire dialogue that was such a staple of their performing. I remember Jack Lemmon saying on a documentary, "And the literate quality of their humor? Oh, boy!" I have now read two books that cover Groucho's recollections (one of which, "The Marx Brothers Scrapbook," he rather forcefully disapproved); with The Groucho Letters, I feel as if the picture of the workings of his remarkable mind becomes somewhat more clear.
His wit is featured here in abundance, especially when he corresponded with someone who considered themselves intellectual. He saves his choicest barbs for those who would assume they had some sort of authority over him. He uses language that I doubt would be widely approved today, mostly slurs against gay people. But perhaps the most eminent feature of his writing is what must have been crippling insecurity. Toward the end of his television career, in which he served as the prominent host of the quiz show "You Bet Your Life," his letters indicated deep concerns what would become of his financial status, even though he was a multimillionaire at the time. He also is not shy in admitting that he is afraid he will be forgotten; yet often in the same breath, he laments that his rapid aging would prevent him from doing much more lucrative work anyway. His first wife (Ruth, his contemporary) and his third wife (Eden, considerably younger than him) bear frequent mention, but he avoids the subject of how troubled his marriages were. Regarding family in other respects, he unfailingly closes his letters with love and good wishes toward the families of his friends, but says comparatively little about his own children.
For all that is praiseworthy about his prose, I still had trouble getting absorbed into this book. I am not sure what I expected. Maybe I wanted to learn more about how he accomplished his humor, but apparently he did not hold his comedy ion as high esteem as did his fans. He does make some astute criticisms of entertainment in his time, and he will occasionally wax philosophical about politics. But reading his letters was like being the last one in line at a buffet. We're not getting the fullness of a rich meal; we're getting just enough tidbits to keep us moving along to the next station, and we end up just a touch unsatisfied.
As formidable as his wit was, I have inferred from other readings that Groucho felt considerable anguish at the thought that he would be forgotten. His words in his correspondence reflect that fear. But I wonder what he would make of the adulation granted him today, decades after his death. I further wonder what he would have written about it.