The novelist, essayist, playwright, historian, and all-around brilliant author died today. He was 86. His two books of collected essays, United States and The Last Empire, are two of my all-time favorites. Others prefer his historical novels, and many prefer Myra Breckenridge/Myron, or his more recent historical writing, but for me, those two fat books of essays were transformative reading experiences. Vidal is from a long line of American aristocracy—he's connected in various ways to the Gores, Jackie Bouvier Kennedy, the Auchinclosses, and other old storied names—but he always wrote like he was pissed at everyone, and his elegant mannerisms never got in the way of the sharp stick he jabbed at the eyes of those in power. He wasn't always right, but he was always maddening in the best possible way. I will miss him.
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Three weeks short of Calvino’s sixty-second birthday, he died; and Italy went into mourning, as if a beloved prince had died. For an American, the contrast between them and us is striking. When an American writer dies, there will be, if he’s a celebrity (fame is no longer possible for any of us), a picture below the fold on the front page; later, a short appreciation on the newspaper’s book page (if there is one), usually the work of a journalist or other near-writer who has not actually read any of the dead author’s work but is at home with the arcane of gossipy “Page Six”; and that would be that.Vidal, "Calvino's Death", NY Review of Books, 1985
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