If there's one out-of-print book that I'd like to make reappear on shelves everywhere, it would be Mario Puzo's sole collection: The Godfather Papers and Other Confessions.
It was issued in March 1972, as a tie-in with the theatrical release of Francis Ford Coppola’s adaptation of The Godfather. The novel had already sold millions of copies before the film premiered and then sold more than any other book in the world (except the Bible) throughout the 1970s and well into the 1980s
No serious writer ever beat fate with the panache of Mario Puzo. But no writer paid a more serious price for his commercial success.
Thanks to The Dark Arena in 1955 and The Fortunate Pilgrim in 1965, Puzo earned the high praise of literary critics. Sales, however, were dismal. Broke, in debt, nearly 50, with five children and some health problems, he vowed to write a bestseller.
When The Godfather appeared in 1969, his mythic tale enthralled the world (and continues to do so). But from that moment on, he was dead meat to the literati. Even now, his first two novels are scandalously ignored.
The Godfather Papers and Other Confessions offers abundant personal essays ("Choosing a Dream," his meditation on his Italian-American pedigree, is superb) and a number of long-form articles that were originally published in The New York Times Magazine; plus some insightful, deeply felt book reviews highlighting that before The Godfather made him rich (if not respected), Puzo still had the guts to dress down everyone from Norman Mailer to Norman Podhoretz.
There are also two excellent short stories (as textured and varnished as anything by Updike or Cheever) and a hefty slew of quotations from a journal Puzo kept between 1950-1954.
Writers striving today can draw strength from Puzo’s “Notes from an Unsuccessful Writer’s Diary.” Some samples:
But money is really killing everything. I have to work too much overtime. I’m too tired to do any writing . . . Paralyzed by this being in debt. What is hardest to bear is that in those people near to me I do not inspire confidence, or love, or trust, or faith, or respect . . . I think I tried hard. I tried as hard as I could . . .
Not confidence, ego, arrogant blind recklessness . . . but [the] ability to accept all the blows to self-esteem and happiness with hope . . . and pleasure in your art.
The self-pity in all the previous pages would be inexcusable if it were expressed openly to the people involved. I write it here to get rid of it as a health measure. Because the sad fact is that everyone is caught in his own little trap of hopes; they resent me as I resent them. I disappoint them as they disappoint me. Accept.
When assessing Puzo’s first novel for The Saturday Review in 1955, Maxwell Geismar wrote: "I should add that the book is written in the only new language to emerge in our literature since the stylistic innovations of Hemingway. The folk language of the G.I.’s may be shocking, but it is a remarkably colorful, open, and pungent form of speech, which is recorded here with great fidelity. ‘The Dark Arena’ is impressive and illuminating.”
Mario Puzo’s nonfiction is equally illuminating. And no less impressive.
M. J. Moore is a frequent contributor to the Neworld Review.
The old curmudgeon in me often wonders, "Why do we keep asking the opinion of the man in the street? If he knew anything he wouldn't be in the damn street!"
Recently I came across some information in a public survey that confirmed my old curmudgeon's jaundiced view of the man in the street. It was a 2009 Pew Research Center for The People & The Press survey of the public’s attitude towards science, although it was a question that encompassed artists that caught my attention.
The public was asked whether certain professions contribute "a lot" to society's well-being. Seventy percent of the public thought scientists did, which was close to their opinion on members of the military (84 percent), teachers (77 percent) and medical doctors (69 percent), whereas only 31 percent of the public thought artists did, just above lawyers (23 percent) and business executives (21 percent).
Although I was pleased to see scientists listed among those that a majority of people think contribute a lot to the well-being of society, I am skeptical whether they truly know what they are talking about. And I was dismayed to see that only 31 percent of the public believe that artists contribute to the well-being of society despite the public’s lives being made at least slightly better and at least slightly more tolerable every day, because of the work of artists.
Let's take scientists first. Although if I had I been asked, I would have enthusiastically stated that I believed scientists contribute a lot to the well-being of society, I have to wonder how most of the respondents interpreted the question. Were they thinking of scientists who do pure research, who go off on quests for knowledge simply for the sake of that knowledge, whether it is the quantum structure of the universe, the family tree of Homo sapiens, the roots of consciousness, or the origin of life?
Or were they thinking of those scientists—and the technologists and engineers who follow them—looking to apply their science to something nicely practical and potentially profitable, from medical techniques and drugs, to new sources of clean energy to ever more powerful computers, ever more versatile cell phones, and ever more realistically violent video games?
I would be willing to bet it was the latter. For those are tangible items that not only everyone can see, almost everyone has arguably benefited from. But had the public been asked if the research that physicists are now doing at the CERN Large Hadron Collider, or the data to be gather from Curiosity, the newest Mars probe, or the knowledge that has been pouring in from the Hubble Telescope, or the discovery of strange new species at the bottom of the oceans, if the public had been asked if any of this contributes to the well-being of society, does anyone really think the polling would have reached 70 percent?
This fruit from the tree of knowledge may inspire awe and wonder, but does anyone really think it makes our days better and brighter?
Well—I do. I believe that it is inherent in Homo sapiens to quest after knowledge, and if that quest isn't heeded the well-being of all eventually suffers. I just don't believe that most of the public believes this.
I may just be an effete elitist, of course, and I welcome counter arguments, but I believe that when most people think of well-being they think of tangible benefits, things they can touch and see and assess; not benefits that are more, for lack of a better word, ethereal. Which may be why artists only polled 31 percent.
If I may be so bold to define art as the self-expressions of Homo sapiens, would it then be logical to assume that many people see art as a self-indulgence, something done essentially for the benefit of the individual artist, and not for society?
But to make such an assumption you really have to underline the "A" in art and further assume that the public considers art as being only that which has been defined as "high" or "fine" or "profound." In this view, art is that which the artists, and some critics, may consider rarefied, but which is not really liked or understood by the masses.
The masses, far from being ashamed by this, often take pride in it, making them reverse effete elitists.
My definition of art, that it is the self-expressions of Homo sapiens, though, gives it a rather broad scope, taking in everything from the most esoteric modern composer of note-less music, to that guy in the bar who can burp out the first ten notes of any song you care to name.
His art may not be profound, and certainly may not contribute to the well-being of society, but it cannot be denied that it is an expression of his self.
Even if we back up from the burping troubadour (and who wouldn't want to?) my definition still assumes that artists are not just people who put cows in formaldehyde, or write music you can't hum, novels without plots, and poetry a minute amount of Americans read, but also those people whose genuine and sincere expressions create works that have been both celebrated and damned as "popular art."
From the best—and we always want to discuss the best—in film, television, music, books, and theater to the finest work of architects designing buildings of stunning grace and beauty, or of regional craft fair jewelry designers who make pieces that call out to you and say, "That's me!" or "That's my lover!" or "That's my friend!" Such art pervades our daily lives and it is often what we most enthusiastically share with others.
If it is inherent in Homo sapiens to quest for knowledge it is also inherent in Homo sapiens to express themselves, and those expressions can be in words, music, movement, stone, wood, paint, or light. If it is not in our individual abilities to express ourselves well, with subtlety and finely honed craft (no matter how much we may want to), we still, all of us, have the ability to appreciate such expressions.
It is wonderful when artists express, for example, stories that speak for us and to us, in essence giving them to us as our own if we want them. If cut off from that, if we could not share the expressions of artists, and share them with others, would we not become frustrated, our emotions thrown into chaos, our view of the world surrounding us squeezed into a narrow aperture letting in little light? And would not that be detrimental to our well-being?
Scientists and artists both contribute "a lot" to society's well-being, because their work—the quest for knowledge and the expression of selves—are essential human endeavors. If both of those endeavors were not carried out, we would be less human and our society would be diminished.
If the old curmudgeon in me is right, that the public—atavistically known as the “man” in the street—places the contributions of scientists to the well-being of society far above those of artists because they overvalue the popular in science and take for granted the popular in art, then that is sad. If they knew the true value of both, I believe the percentages would have been much closer—and both very high.
But what do I know? I'm just the effete elitist in the street.
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