Skip to main content

Furious Hours

Some people believe that an artistic career should become easier with time: Why would it be hard to walk out on stage if you had witnessed yourself do this, with success, over and over again? But the opposite is often true. If you move people, then you (maybe) feel compelled to pull off the same magic trick repeatedly, and you get stuck in your head. Witness the story of Amy Winehouse.

I think stage fright is (also) what happened to Harper Lee. I think, if she hadn't had such a tremendous impact with "To Kill a Mockingbird," she might have produced more. There was a sense that the next work had to be a magnum opus, and it's hard to produce anything under those conditions.

Some thoughts on "Furious Hours," a new book about Lee:

*The murder trial Lee ultimately failed to cover might have been one good, compelling article. It maybe didn't need to be a book. If only Lee had freed herself to try something small. The trial concerns a voodoo preacher who very clearly murdered at least one wife. He's someone you have seen in other news stories: The guy in mid-life who feels liberated by slaughtering another person, and then begins slaughtering again and again. (I sort of think this is like Michael Peterson, in "The Staircase," but Peterson has stopped at two corpses, or at least two corpses we are aware of.)

*I'm thinking the murder would have been a fine subject for a Calvin Trillin-ish piece, like the ones you see in "Killings." If only Trillin had spoken with Harper Lee!

*Almost twenty years passed between "Mockingbird" and Lee's attempt to reinvent herself as a true-crime writer. In that time, Lee had assisted Capote on "In Cold Blood." It's not yet clear (to me) what else had happened to Lee. The genius of "Furious Hours" is that it blends a murder story with the story of a failed, famous would-be chronicler: A Lee biography meets a lurid horror tale. Why hadn't anyone thought of this earlier?

I'm noticing that "Furious Hours" is not just a favorite of the NYT, but also a favorite of Vulture, at the least. This will continue to be a big book; David Grann, of "Lost City of Z" fame, has contributed some breathless praise. Happy reading!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...