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Dr. Seuss could rock.
Even into his seventies, Dr. Seuss could be surprisingly hip. In 1975, CBS aired The Hoober-Bloob Highway, another of his collaborations with DePatie-Freleng, but unusual in that it wasn’t based on a Dr. Seuss book. Instead, Geisel had written an original teleplay in which Mr. Hoober-Bloob, from a location high above the Earth, gives yet-to-be-born children the opportunity to decide if they want to live as humans on the planet below. With songs by Geisel and composer Dean Elliott, Geisel was proudly referring to The Hoober-Bloob Highway as a rock musical in the same vein as Jesus Christ Superstar or Godspell. He had enjoyed the experience so much, in fact, that he told the Los Angeles Times he was even considering writing a ballet or a full-blown rock opera for Broadway. “About what? I don’t know,” he confessed. “That’s why I haven’t done it. But I’ve done so much lyric writing in putting the television things together that I’d like to do an opera.”35 He’d even come to change his views on television, which he once considered the greatest threat to children’s literacy. “Television is the biggest, the most exciting medium there is,” he said. “I just want to live long enough to do something terrific on TV.”36
Still, he understood that television remained reading’s primary competitor, vying for the time and attention of elementary school students everywhere, every day. Even with the recent efforts on public television to teach children the alphabet on Sesame Street or phonics on The Electric Company, Geisel remained convinced those shows, no matter how well intended, were no substitute for the power of reading an actual book. “I want to . . . give kids the opportunity to have books if they are excited about them and want them. They should be allowed to find the joys of reading,” said Geisel.37 He also called out parents who put children down in front of the television set instead of reading to them. “Kids who have no interest in books are usually from slob parents who themselves had no interest in books,” said Geisel. “The trouble is, the hour parents used to spend reading to their kids is now spent drinking martinis which, let’s face it, is more fun.”38
Audrey, who loved hearing Ted talk excitedly about reading, encouraged her husband to do more book signings and tours to bring his positive message to the masses. More important, she also thought it was good for Dr. Seuss to leave the Tower every once in a while. “Lately it seems as though Ted’s really quite happy to sit on his little mountain and produce,” said Audrey. “But every once in a while, he feels he has got to come down and touch hands again. He’s a very humble person and always seems amazed on these trips that there’s anybody out there.”39
As it turned out, there were plenty of people out there, eager to see, touch, and talk with Dr. Seuss. Fans would stand in line for hours for a chance to get his autograph—and more and more, the fans standing in line were adults in their thirties or forties who had grown up on his books and were now waiting in line with children of their own. And even at age seventy-two, Geisel still had stamina. At most appearances, he would generally announce that he would be signing for an hour—but then after the hour was up, he would stay to sign books for everyone who had been in line, usually spending two or three additional hours to make sure everyone in line got an autograph and quick hello.
Watching as hundreds of children eagerly pressed around Dr. Seuss as he signed books, reporters were apt to keep asking Geisel the same question over and over again: Do you like children? Geisel had a careful reply. “I like children in the same way that I like people,” he said. “There are some stinkers among children as well as among adults. I like or dislike them as individuals.”40 Ted smiled at nearly every child—he rarely lost his patience even as children huddled around him, leaning on the table, breathing in his face, fingers in their noses, many of them clutching well-loved books. Conversation was kept to a minimum; he might quietly say, “Thank you,” or ask, “Is this your book?” “I don’t talk with them a lot,” Geisel admitted. “I prefer to look into their eyes, personal contact, you know. I can tell what they’re thinking.”41
While countless parents had sent children to their rooms with a Dr. Seuss book to keep them busy, there were times fans took his reputation as a great babysitter a bit too literally. Once on an airplane, a stewardess asked Geisel if she could put an upset little girl in the seat next to him to see if perhaps Dr. Seuss could “calm her down by telling her some stories.” Geisel gamely did his best, telling her to be good and talking to her quietly—and meanwhile “wishing that the plane would make an emergency landing.”42 Still, he understood why kids tended to gravitate toward him. “My books don’t insult their intelligence. Maybe it’s because I’m on their level. When I dropped out of Oxford, I decided to be a child, so it’s not some condescending adult writing.”43
By Random House’s own count, it had sold more than sixty-five million Dr. Seuss books by 1976—nearly eight million of which were copies of The Cat in the Hat.44 When editor Walter Retan warmly reminded him that Bennett Cerf had once declared Dr. Seuss to be Random House’s one true genius, Geisel was typically dismissive. “If I were a genius, why do I have to sweat so hard at my work?” he mused. “I know my stuff always looks like it was rattled off in twenty-three seconds, but every word is a struggle and every sentence is like the pangs of birth.”45 He still continued to work at his desk eight hours a day, seven days a week. “If I didn’t, I would become a bum,” he told the Rocky Mountain News.46 Standing at the window of his studio with one journalist, Geisel gestured at the beach below. “Those are some of my retired friends down there, but retirement’s not for me!” he said. “For me, success means doing work that you love, regardless of how much you make. I go into my office almost every day and give it eight hours—though every day isn’t productive, of course.”47 If nothing was happening, it was back to the couch and the growing pile of books on the coffee table—mostly “history or some classy junk.”48 At the end of the day, it was cocktails with Audrey, or he would swim, poke around in his rock garden, “or yell out to [neighbor] Jonas [Salk], and we’ll go and drink beer and have a good time.”49
Some days, however, he was visited by Dr. Worthen from the UCSD eye clinic, who would sit in with Geisel in his Tower studio for more than hour, applying eye drops as part of the treatment for his eye problems as Geisel relaxed on the couch. In 1976, he had gone through another surgery, part of the ongoing effort to remove the cataracts that had resulted in what he called a “dulling brownout” in his field of vision.50 While Geisel’s eyes were now improving, he was still having a hard time focusing on small details—an inconvenience that had affected the way he had completed his latest book, The Cat’s Quizzer. Subtitled Are You Smarter Than the Cat in the Hat?, the book was largely a collection of brainteasers, puzzles, and trivia questions—and with his eye problems, Geisel had been forced to draw his pages at a larger size, with thicker lines, and then had the Random House production department reduce each page for publication.
While his eye for fine detail might have been compromised, his sense of color was as keen as ever—and The Cat’s Quizzer, with a jumble of bright colors on each page, required careful work by Random House’s design department to precisely match Geisel’s mandated hues. As the Geisels packed and prepared to leave for an extended visit to Australia and New Zealand in the late spring of 1976, Audrey jokingly remarked that they were probably wise to leave the country while the art department was still working on The Cat’s Quizzer. “So many colors,” she said, shaking her head in mock regret. “So much on every page.”51
While Dr. Seuss was still something of a head-scratcher to readers in the United Kingdom, Geisel’s UK publisher, Billy Collins, who also negotiated Ted’s Australian deals, had found a strong fan base among readers in Australia and New Zealand. The sales numbers, in fact, were particularly impressive: in a region with a population of a little more than 13 million, Australians had purchased nearly 1.5 million Dr. Seuss books.52 Collins casuall
y wondered if Dr. Seuss might want to make a trip halfway around the world to meet some of his most enthusiastic fans. Geisel—who had fallen in love with the place during his 1964 visit—didn’t need to be asked twice.
Given the strong sales numbers down under, it was little wonder Geisel was greeted as a rock star almost the moment he landed at New Zealand’s Auckland Airport on April 26. His arrival was announced on the front pages of most newspapers, with banner headlines like “Dr. Seuss Drops In” and “What’s Up Doc?”53 His photograph was everywhere. On the front page of the Wellington, New Zealand, Dominion, he was having a drink with their winner of the Esther Glen Medal, presented for outstanding children’s literature. In an Auckland paper, he was shown with his arm draped around a young lady dressed as the Cat in the Hat, grinning happily as he clutched his Air New Zealand bag. In another, he was standing outside a bookstore wearing a gigantic bow tie, with Audrey beside him, showing genuine interest in a group of people dressed as Seussian animals.
The Geisels were whisked across the region in high style, galloping through Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, and Adelaide, and feted wherever they went. At the Hotel Wairakei in Taupo, he found the restaurant menu featured fresh trout à la Dr. Seuss. At several locations, he found himself presenting awards—usually bicycles—to young readers who had submitted essays explaining why they loved Dr. Seuss, and signing autographs for long lines of children. There were countless photos with cutouts of his characters, and with fans—usually young women—dressed as the Cat in the Hat. And always, at the end of each day, was a scheduled happy hour.54
Both Ted and Audrey found themselves sitting for countless interviews during their two weeks, and each of them—perhaps feeling they were half a planet away from home, where no one would ever read what they said—provided remarkably frank answers. Audrey in particular opened up to the New Zealand Evening Post, talking about her hatred of plastic surgery and her interests in psychology—she was particularly interested in Transcendental Meditation, ESP, “all that pop psych that’s comin’ down the pike,” she said—and sharing her daily exercise regimen, though she complained that “when you’re traveling, you can feel the flab beginning to develop.”55
Ted, it seemed, couldn’t eat breakfast without having a journalist at his elbow, asking questions with a tape recorder running. But Ted didn’t seem to mind. He had charmed his interviewers right from the start, when a Southland journalist asked if it was okay if reporters referred to him as Dr. Seuss instead of Ted Geisel. “I would be offended it you call me anything else!” he responded happily.56 With a cigarette constantly burning, Ted talked at length about literacy, sounding genuinely alarmed about reading competency in the United States—especially when compared with Australia, which he called “the most literate country I have ever visited . . . Everyone [here] reads anything they can get their hands on.”57 He fretted that in the United States, “the situation is getting worse all the time—20 percent of college freshmen take remedial reading58 . . . Some graduates can’t even make out a laundry list,” he said.59
“Right now in the United States we have a nation of people who don’t read much,” he continued. “My revolution is to try to supplant the Dick and Jane or Janet and John thing. Children don’t want to read about hitting a ball with a stick.”60 While he was thrilled to have played a part in the demise of the Dick and Jane readers, he tried to remain modest about his own contributions to children’s literature. “I look at the world through the wrong end of my telescope, clean it up a little, put it down with some of my silly cartoons, and hope that children find reading books can be interesting and fun.”61
On Saturday, May 22, the Geisels left Sydney on a Qantas flight bound for Honolulu, on their way back to San Diego. Ted was genuinely sad to leave what he called the “readingest” country in the world.62
He’d have little time to ruminate on his Australian experience. Geisel returned to the Tower in time to work with the La Jolla Museum of Contemporary Art on a seven-week exhibition called “Who Is Dr. Seuss?” Ted carefully selected artwork hanging on the walls around his own home, handing over not just paintings but also a few of his old taxidermy heads as well, including a Mulberry Street unicorn. In the blank spaces on the Tower walls, Ted helpfully posted drawings of a cat holding a sign reading, “A masterpiece is missing from this spot.”63
The museum exhibit opened in time for the 1976 holiday season. Geisel was noticeably grumpy at the opening—his eyes were bothering him again—but the crowds were large and enthusiastic. And despite some grumbling from critics that Dr. Seuss’s work would never be worthy of being called contemporary art, museum director Sebastian Adler, who helped arrange the exhibit, defended the show—and Geisel—passionately, calling him “beyond category.”
“He’s not just an illustrator, not just a painter, not just a cartoonist, though he is all of those things. He simply stands alone,” said Adler. “Ted Geisel is one of the most important artists in this country.”64
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In March 1977, Geisel’s longtime agent, Phyllis Jackson, died of a heart attack at her home in New York at age sixty-nine. Geisel was devastated. Jackson—concisely eulogized as “tough, but a lady”65—had been looking out for him for nearly three decades. Ted sat quietly in his Tower studio for three days, unable to work, mourning Jackson with a grief so profound it frightened Audrey. Trying to cope in his own way, Geisel handwrote a short verse he called “How Long Is Long?,” which he dedicated to Jackson “with all my love.” “So Long is forever,” he noted sorrowfully. “I guess I won’t be seein’ ya.”66
There would be no Dr. Seuss book in 1977; following a second operation for his cataracts, Geisel was again having trouble discerning colors. “I’ve slowed down,” he admitted. “It was impossible for me to mix a palette—I didn’t know which colors were which. With my cataract, I had two color schemes—red became orange, blue became slightly greenish. My left eye was like Whistler, and the right one was like Picasso, seeing things straight and clear in primitive colors.”67 He was still due for one more surgery to remove the cataract in his other eye—“they claim I’ll be as good as Picasso,” he joked68—but until then, he was having to relearn and readjust his sense of color.
While illustration was out of the question—at least for the moment—Ted could still write, and in spring of 1977, he had been asked to deliver a commencement speech for Lake Forest College in Chicago. Geisel had initially accepted the invitation from the college with the understanding that he was simply receiving an honorary degree; only later had he been informed that he was expected to speak. Geisel was annoyed—“I talk with people, not to people,” he grumbled to Lake Forest president Eugene Hotchkiss69—but eventually conceded. He was determined, then, to keep his remarks short, preparing a short poem—which he was still fussing with on the morning of the speech—called “My Uncle Terwilliger on the Art of Eating Popovers.” In it, Ted related how his uncle was always very careful to eat only the solid part of each popover, and spit out any air. It was advice worth listening to, he told a rapt audience, as he encouraged them to follow his Uncle Terwilliger’s example:
As you partake the world’s bill of fare,
That’s darned good advice to follow.
Do a lot of spitting out the hot air.
And be careful what you swallow.
The audience erupted in whoops and cheers; Dr. Seuss was a radical. The students in the audience, who’d been raised on his books, suspected it, but now they were sure of it. Geisel later joked that the students had cheered only because his speech had been short.
More and more now, college students who’d been raised on his work as children were taking it even more seriously as graduate students and academics. Geisel was amused to find his books being vivisected and reinterpreted as scholars analyzed even books like Green Eggs and Ham for deeper or hidden meanings. Geisel was particularly taken with the w
riting of scholar and essayist Selma G. Lanes, whose 1971 book of essays Down the Rabbit Hole contained an entire chapter devoted to his work. Lanes was a fan, but her adoration was expressed in such academic doublespeak (“Dr. Seuss in his books . . . can be said to provide his young disciples with a literary release not so far removed from orgasm”70) that Geisel could barely keep a straight face. He would very kindly write her a note applauding her analysis, even as he teased her for not allowing her “voluminous research to bog down the spirit of your writing.”71
Still, Geisel could remember his own days as a graduate student—when he’d been challenged to scrutinize the life and works of Jonathan Swift—and understood that overblown academic analysis of his own work was probably inevitable and, as far as he was concerned, almost always amusing, if misinformed. “The people who are working for their doctorates do the most amazing things,” he mused to the Los Angeles Times. “For example, they’ll take a book of mine that has only one color in it and talk about my great color sensitivity . . . and why I chose that color—when the fact is that Bennett Cerf called me up one morning and said, ‘We’re having a bit of a financial problem, so cut down your colors.’”72 Joan Knight, who served briefly as his secretary, remembered receiving fan mail from “readers treating him like a philosopher, trying to interpret what he wrote, trying to get him to say he was preaching some unsaid message, but he never would. All he wanted was for people to read.”73
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