Wednesday, August 17, 2005
(1:45 PM) | Brad:
Fame Is But a Fruit Tree
As some of you know, I am writing a PhD thesis ostensibly on the subject of Herman Melville & theology. Most of the time, I like to think I privilege the latter half of the interdisciplinary marriage; but, when I'm actually working on the bloody thing, I find I mostly prefer the former. There are loads of reasons for this, but it is primarily due to my sophomoric affection for artists (and, yes, theologians) who are regarded by most of their contemporaries as bat-shit insane. For the life of me, I cannot help but swoon when I read reviews like this:That Herman Melville has gone 'clean daft', is very much to be feared; certainly, he has given us a very mad book [Piere; or, The Ambiguities]. . . . The sooner this author is put in ward the better. If trusted with himself, at all events give him no further trust in pen and ink, till the present fit has worn off. He will grievously hurt himself else -- or his very amiable publishers.
The great thing about a review like this is that it makes me wonder whether there is anybody writing today whose literary fate will be similar to that of Melville. That is, decisively rejected by his or her reviewers, indeed most of the culture at the time, as craptastic; but, say, fifty years after dying, are hailed as one of America's greatest literary voices.
Any suggestions? (Note: the author doesn't have to be completely 'underground' -- i.e., this isn't an obscurity contest. He or she might very well be an 'author's author', in much the same way as Hawthorne seemed to dig Melville's stuff, and even wrote articles defending it, when nobody else did; or perhaps was known for a while and inexplicably flamed out / isn't even writing anymore, as was the case with Melville, who died some thirty five years after he wrote his last novel. )
