Charitable art

In the NYTBR , Margo Rabb discusses the frequent experience of disillusionment that readers have when they meet the authors of books they love. When they aren’t perfectly loathsome, writers are often smaller, less witty than the constructed persona of the “author.”

But then there’s the other side of the coin, the fact that petty, small-minded writers cannot produce the greatest and most expansive of fiction. Rabb quotes extensively from an interview with George Saunders, who says “You can read Mailer or Hemingway and see — or at least I do — that what separated them from greater writers (like Chekhov, say) was a certain failing of kindness or compassion or gentleness — an interest in the little guy, i.e., the nonglamorous little guy, a willingness and ability to look at all of their characters with love.”

Saunders contrasts these examples with the easy demeanor of Tobias Wolff: “Toby was the first great writer I ever met and what the meeting did for me was disabuse me of the idea that a writer had to be a dysfunctional crazy person . . . . Toby was loving, gentle, funny, kind, wise — yet he was producing these works of great (sometimes dark) genius. It was invigorating to be reminded that great writing was (1) mysterious and (2) not linked, in any reductive, linear way, to the way one lived: wild writing could come from a life that was beautifully under control. Watching him, I felt: O.K., nurture the positive human parts of yourself and hope they get into your work, eventually.”

And this from Saunders: “A work of art is something produced by a person, but is not that person — it is of her, but is not her. It’s a reach, really — the artist is trying to inhabit, temporarily, a more compact, distilled, efficient, wittier, more true-seeing, precise version of herself — one that she can’t replicate in so-called ‘real’ life, no matter how hard she tries. That’s why she writes: to try and briefly be more than she truly is.”

In writing as in everything else, the greatest of these is love.