But enough of that. Because it may be already apparent, I have not mentioned an aspect of walking that for me, at least, is absolutely essential: one must be alone. There are communal walks that are fun, but I am not referring to these, only to the ones where some sort of creativity can take place. Here a dog may be a welcome exception to the rule of solitude; one's dog—whose physiology prevents it from being a chatterbox—can be a wonderful companion, making no conversational demands while providing an animated connection with one's surroundings. On a walk the writer doesn't want to get so totally absorbed in his thoughts that he loses sight of the countryside; despite the rewarding trancelike periods I have mentioned, one must also enjoy the scenery—otherwise an indoor treadmill would suffice. This is where Aquinnah becomes important to me—important as I am to her, I might add, since her enthusiasm for walking is persistent and obvious, verging on the frantic as she waits for the stroll. The offspring of a black Labrador sire and an incredibly sweet-tempered golden retriever, she acquired her mother's tawny hue plus a large measure of her gentle saintliness, while the paternal genes gave her pluck and boisterousness. At the risk of an absurd anthropomorphism, I must say that the result is a bit like an amalgam of Mother Teresa and Muhammad Ali: moral grandeur and fierce tomfoolery in one beast, with just a touch of the lunacy of each model.
Aquinnah—the name is Wampanoag Indian from Martha's Vineyard—has been surgically deprived of her capacity for motherhood, and the transformation has made her neither less feminine nor rudely masculine but somehow pleasantly androgynous, mixing all the maddening and beguiling singularities of both sexes: timorousness and reckless courage; an almost feline fastidiousness combined with the gross corruption of a creature whose greatest joy is to dive, sleazily grinning, from a hayloft into a towering pile of cow manure; a docile homebody one day and a swaggering wanderer the next—and so on. I delight in the remarkable variety of Aquinnah's many natures—never more so than on our hundreds of walks together, whether she be trotting ladylike by my side or streaking out across a field for some prey that her nose detects far more quickly and surely than my vision. At that instant, with her caramel hair abristle and her white muzzle glued to the spoor, she appears to my somewhat nearsighted eyes as fierce and as fleet as a lioness of the Serengeti, although I must confess that not once, not a single time, has she tracked down so much as a chipmunk.
[From a manuscript in Styron's papers at Duke University. Composed ca. 1985.]
“In Vineyard Haven”
Once at a summer cocktail party in Menemsha I was asked by a lady: “Where on the island do you live?”
“In Vineyard Haven,” I replied.
She suddenly gave me a look that made me feel as if I harbored a communicable disease. “My God,” she said, “I didn't think anyone lived there.”
Well, people do live there, and the moment of the year that I look forward to with unsurpassed anticipation is when I roll the car off the ferry, negotiate the fuss and confusion of the dock area, wheel my way past the homely façade of the A&P, twist around down Main Street with its (let's face it) unprepossessing ranks of mercantile emporiums, and drive northward to the beloved house on the water. On an island celebrated for its scenic glories, Vineyard Haven will never win a contest for beauty or charm; perhaps that's partly why I love it. The ugly duckling gains its place in one's heart by way of an appeal that is not immediately demonstrable. The business district is a little tacky, but why should it be otherwise? It is neither more nor less inspiring than other similar enclaves all across the land. People often think they yearn for quaintness, for stylishness, for architectural harmony; none of these would be appropriate to Vineyard Haven, which thrives on a kind of forthright frowziness. A few years ago, an overly eager land developer—now mercifully departed from the island—was heard proclaiming his desire to transform downtown Vineyard Haven into a “historical” site, similar to the metamorphosis effected by Mr. Beinecke on Nantucket. It is good that this plan came to naught. How silly and dishonest Cronig's Market and Leslie's Drug Store would look wearing the fake trappings of Colonial Williamsburg.
As for residential handsomeness, the good town of Tisbury cannot compete with Edgartown—that stuffy place; even so, had the lady from Menemsha walked along William Street or viewed more closely some of the dwellings lining the harbor, she would have discovered houses of splendid symmetry and grace. She would have also found some of the noblest trees lining the streets of any town its size on the eastern seaboard. It is this loose, amorphous “small townness” that so deeply appeals to me. A large part of the year, I live in a rural area of New England where one must drive for miles to buy a newspaper. The moors of Chilmark and the lush fens of Middle Road then, despite their immense loveliness, do not lure me the way Vineyard Haven does. I like the small-town sidewalks and the kids on bikes and the trespassing gangs of dogs and the morning walk to the post office past the Café du Port, with its warm smell of pastry and coffee. I like the whole barefoot, chattering mêlée of Main Street—even, God help me, the gawping tourists with their Instamatics and their avoirdupois. I like the preposterous gingerbread bank and the local lady shoppers with the Down East accents, discussing bahgins.
Mostly I love the soft collision here of harbor and shore, the subtly haunting briny quality that all small towns have when they are situated on the sea. It is often manifested simply in the sounds of the place—sounds unknown to forlorn inland municipalities, even West Tisbury. To the stranger, these sounds might appear distracting, but as a fussy, easily distracted person who has written three large books within earshot of these sounds, I can affirm that they do not annoy at all. Indeed, they lull the mind and soul, these vagrant noises: the blast of the ferry horn—distant, melancholy—and the gentle thrumming of the ferry itself outward bound past the breakwater; the sizzling sound of sailboat hulls as they shear the waves; the luffing of sails and the muffled boom of the yacht club's gun; the eerie wail of the breakwater siren in dense fog; the squabble and cry of gulls. And at night to fall gently asleep to the far-off moaning of the West Chop foghorn. And deep silence save for the faint chink-chinking of halyards against a single mast somewhere in the harbor's darkness.
Vineyard Haven. Sleep. Bliss.
[New York Times Magazine, June 15, 1990.]
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to Rose Styron for permission to assemble this collection and to Robert Loomis and Noah Eaker for suggestions about its form and arrangement. Michael V. Carlisle provided valuable assistance and advice throughout.
I thank the curators at the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University; the Manuscript Division of the Library of Congress; and the Irwin Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, University of South Carolina, for their expertise and courteous service.
Bryant Mangum located an important reference to The New Yorker. Ethan Mannon and Bethany Ober Mannon, my research assistants, were most helpful with transcriptions, annotations, and other editorial labors.
J.L.W.W. III
William Styron’s Nonfiction: A Checklist
A: BOOKS
First American editions:
This Quiet Dust and Other Writings. New York: Random House, 1982. xii, 308 pp. Expanded edition, New York: Vintage, 1993. xiv, 354 pp. The expanded edition adds six items and substitutes a later memoir of James Jones for the memoir that appears in the 1982 edition. See Section C below.
Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness. New York: Random House, 1990. x, 86 pp.
Havanas in Camelot: Personal Essays. New York: Random House, 2008. x, 166 pp.
B: FIRST-APPEARANCE CONTRIBUTIONS TO BOOKS
Best Short Stories from The Paris Review. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1959. Introduction by Styron. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982), but cited there incorrectly as the article “The Paris Review” from the August 1953 issue of Harper’s Bazaar, the fourth item in Section C below.
The Artists’ and Writers’ Cookbook, ed. Beryl Bar
r and Barbara Turner Sachs. Sausalito, Calif.: Contact Editions, 1961. Styron's recipe “Southern Fried Chicken (with Giblet Gravy).”
Under Twenty-five: Duke Narrative and Verse, 1945–1962, ed. William Blackburn. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1963. Introduction by Styron.
The Four Seasons. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1965. Boxed set of four etchings by Harold Altman. Introduction by Styron.
Double Exposure. New York: Delacorte, 1966. Photographs by Roddy McDowall. Styron's prose sketch “Lillian Hellman.”
Authors Take Sides on Vietnam, ed. Cecil Woolf and John Bagguley. London: Peter Owen, 1967. A statement by Styron appears on p. 70.
Encyclopaedia Britannica. Chicago: William Benton, 1972. Vol. 22 contains Styron's entry for Nat Turner, p. 413.
A Death in Canaan, by Joan Barthel. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1976. Introduction by Styron. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “A Death in Canaan.”
William Styron: A Descriptive Bibliography, by James L. W. West III. Boston: G. K. Hall, 1977. Preface by Styron.
Duke Encounters, ed. Elizabeth H. Locke. Durham: Duke University Office of Publications, 1977. Styron's untitled memoir of William Blackburn, pp. 77–80. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “William Blackburn.”
Peter Matthiessen: A Bibliography, 1951–1979. Compiled by D. Nicholas. Canoga Park, Calif.: Orirana Press, 1979. Introduction by Styron. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “Peter Matthiessen.”
The Wheat and the Chaff, by François Mitterrand. New York: Seaver Books, 1982. Introduction by Styron. Collected in the expanded edition of This Quiet Dust (1993) as “François Mitterrand.”
Conversations with William Styron. Compiled by James L. W. West III and W. Pierre Jacoebee. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1985. Foreword by Styron.
Donald S. Klopfer: An Appreciation. New York: Random House, 1987. Styron's memoir of Klopfer. Privately printed.
The View from Space: American Astronaut Photography, 1962–1972, by Ron Schick and Julia Van Haaften. New York: C. N. Potter, 1988. Foreword by Styron.
The Human Experience: Contemporary American and Soviet Fiction and Poetry. New York: Knopf, 1989. Foreword by Styron.
William Styron's Sophie's Choice: Crime and Self-Punishment, by Rhoda Sirlin. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1990. Foreword by Styron.
To Reach Eternity: The Letters of James Jones, ed. George Hendrick. New York: Random House, 1989. Foreword by Styron. Collected in the expanded edition of This Quiet Dust (1993), where it replaces an earlier memoir of Jones from New York, June 6, 1977, which is listed in Section C below.
Doing Justice: A Trial Judge at Work, by Robert Satter. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1990. Introduction by Styron.
Arthur Miller and Company, ed. Christopher Bigsby. Norwich, England: Arthur Miller Centre for American Studies, 1990. Styron's sketch of Miller. Collected in My Generation (2015) as “My Neighbor Arthur.”
Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, Ninth Series, ed. George Plimpton. New York: Viking Press, 1992. Introduction by Styron.
Writers Dreaming: 25 Writers Talk About Their Dreams and the Creative Process, ed. Naomi Epel. New York: Carol Southern Books, 1993. Styron's contribution is on pp. 270–79.
No Beast So Fierce, by Edward Bunker. New York: Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Books, 1993. Introduction by Styron.
The Face of Mercy: A Photographic History of Medicine at War, by Matthew Naythons. New York: Random House, 1993. Prologue by Styron.
Fathers and Daughters, by Mariana Cook. Photographs. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1994. Introduction by Styron. Collected in My Generation (2015) as “My Daughters.”
Dying Without God: François Mitterrand's Meditations on Living and Dying, by Franz-Olivier Giesbert. New York: Arcade, 1998. Introduction by Styron.
Dead Run: The Untold Story of Dennis Stockton and America's Only Mass Escape from Death Row, by Joe Jackson and William F. Burke, Jr. New York: Times Books, 1999. Introduction by Styron.
The Education of a Felon: A Memoir, by Edward Bunker. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2000. Introduction by Styron.
Novel History: Historians and Novelists Confront America's Past (and Each Other), ed. Marc C. Carnes. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001. Includes an exchange between Styron and Eugene D. Genovese. Styron's contribution is titled “More Confessions.”
Farewell, Godspeed: The Greatest Eulogies of Our Time, ed. Cyrus M. Copeland. New York: Harmony Books, 2003. Includes Styron's eulogy for Lillian Hellman. Collected in My Generation (2015) as “Lillian's Bosom.”
C: NONFICTION IN PERIODICALS AND NEWSPAPERS
“William Styron,” New York Herald Tribune Book Review, October 7, 1951, p. 26. Autobiographical sketch. Collected in My Generation (2015) as “Autobiographical.”
“Letter to an Editor,” Paris Review 1 (Spring 1953), 9–13. Statement of purpose for the journal. Collected in My Generation (2015).
“The Prevalence of Wonders,” Nation, May 2, 1953, pp. 370–71. Contribution to a symposium on creativity. Collected in My Generation (2015).
“The Paris Review,” Harper's Bazaar 87 (August 1953), 122–23, 173. On the founding of the journal.
“Novel, Far From Dead, Is Very Much Alive,” Richmond Times-Dispatch, November 29, 1953, p. 14. On the future of novel-writing.
“If You Write for Television…,” New Republic 140 (April 6, 1959), 16. On the TV version of The Long March. Collected in My Generation (2015).
“Mrs. Aadland's Little Girl, Beverly,” Esquire, November 1961, pp. 142, 189–91. On Florence Aadland and Tedd Thomey, The Big Love. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “The Big Love.”
“The Death-in-Life of Benjamin Reid,” Esquire, February 1962, pp. 114, 141–45. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“As He Lay Dead, a Bitter Grief,” Life, July 20, 1962, pp. 39–42. On William Faulkner's funeral. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “William Faulkner.”
“The Aftermath of Benjamin Reid,” Esquire, November 1962, p. 79 ff. On capital punishment. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “Benjamin Reid: Aftermath.”
“New Editions,” New York Review of Books, Inaugural Issue, February 1963, p. 43. Review of Frank Tannenbaum, Slave and Citizen: The Negro in the Americas. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “Slave and Citizen.”
“Overcome,” New York Review of Books, September 26, 1963, pp. 18–19. Review of Herbert Aptheker, American Negro Slave Revolts. Collected in My Generation (2015).
“An Elegy for F. Scott Fitzgerald,” New York Review of Books, November 28, 1963, pp. 1–3. Review of Andrew Turnbull, ed., The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“The Habit,” New York Review of Books, December 26, 1963, pp. 13–14. Review of The Consumers Union Report on Smoking and the Public Interest. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“A Southern Conscience,” New York Review of Books 2 (April 2, 1964), p. 3. Book review of Lewis H. Blair, A Southern Prophecy. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“MacArthur,” New York Review of Books, October 8, 1964, p. 305. Review of Douglas MacArthur, Reminiscences. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“Tootsie Rolls,” New York Review of Books, May 14, 1964, pp. 8–9. Review of Terry
Southern and Mason Hoffenberg, Candy. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “Candy.”
“This Quiet Dust,” Harper's Magazine 230 (April 1965), 135–46. On the Nat Turner Rebellion. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“ ‘John Fitzgerald Kennedy…As We Remember Him,’ ” High Fidelity 16 (January 1966), 38, 40. Review of a book/record set, John Fitzgerald Kennedy…As We Remember Him, Columbia L2L 1017.
“The Vice That Has No Name,” Harper's Magazine 236 (February 1968), 97–100. Review of B. G. Jefferis and J. L. Nichols, Light on Dark Corners.
“The Shade of Thomas Wolfe,” Harper's Magazine 236 (April 1968), 96, 98–104. Review of Andrew Turnbull, Thomas Wolfe. Coll
ected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “ ‘O Lost!’ Etc.”
“William Styron Replies,” Nation 206 (April 22, 1968), 544–47. Essay-length letter replying to charges by Herbert Aptheker relating to Nat Turner.
“The Oldest America,” McCall's 95 (July 1968), 94, 123. On the Virginia Tidewater region. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982).
“In the Jungle,” New York Review of Books, September 26, 1968, pp. 11–13. On the 1968 Democratic National Convention, Chicago. Collected in This Quiet Dust (1982) as “Chicago: 1968.”
“My Generation,” Esquire, October 1968, pp. 123–24. On writers of his generation. Collected in My Generation (2015).
“On Creativity,” Playboy 15 (December 1968), 136–39. Symposium. Styron's contribution is on p. 138.
“Acceptance by Mr. Styron,” Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the National Institute of Arts and Letters, 2nd series, no. 21 (1971), pp. 30–32. Styron's acceptance speech for the Howells Medal for Fiction, awarded May 26, 1970, for The Confessions of Nat Turner. Collected in My Generation (2015) as “Acceptance.”
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