'Reading My Father:' Growing Up With William Styron

Reading My Father by Alexandra Styron
 
Reading My Father
By Alexandra Styron
Hardcover, 304 pages
Scribner
List Price: $25
Read An Excerpt

"Take a lesson from me," Irwin Shaw advised William Styron. When you become a father, "dole the child out to yourself in small doses, for your career's sake."

Styron was predisposed to take this advice. "The Novel," his youngest daughter Alexandra tells us in her exquisitely written biography Reading My Father, "owned his heart." Success for Styron came early in life with Lie Down in Darkness (1951), but he remained a perfectionist, producing in his 81 years only two more novels, The Confessions of Nat Turner (1967) and Sophie's Choice (1979), each of them accompanied by "setbacks, occlusions, and long, dark nights of the soul," writes Alexandra. Although his four children, she says, "couldn't point to any good evidence to support it," they felt "loved by him and strangely compelled by his outsize need."

Reading My Father delivers a portrait of an immensely talented and troubled, agnostic and alcoholic man—and a candid, compelling account, by turns heartwarming and heartbreaking, of his daughter's struggle to understand, forgive, and maybe even like him. It also vividly re-creates the delights of life as the child of a cultural icon. When she was ten, Alexandra remembers, she looked down from her bedroom window in the family home on Martha's Vineyard to watch Frank Sinatra lather up in the outdoor shower. A few years later, on Christmas day, she and her father—tipsy, but "steadfastly jolly"—listened to Leonard Bernstein twist "Jingle Bells" into a "barnstorming Russian chastushka."

Alexandra Styron is the author of All The Finest Girls and the daughter of William Styron. She has contributed to The New Yorker and The New York Times, and lives in Brooklyn.

Alexandra Styron is the author of All The Finest Girls and the daughter of William Styron. She has contributed to The New Yorker and The New York Times, and lives in Brooklyn. Rex Bonomelli hide caption

itoggle caption Rex Bonomelli

A patient, thoughtful, and generous critic of the work of other writers, Styron didn't read drafts of Alexandra's own novel-in-progress. When she phoned with the news that it had been accepted by a publisher, he declared, "That's wonderful," and hung up abruptly.

When her father famously descended into depression and madness, Alexandra did her duty, visiting and reading to him, not so much for him "but for the good of the collective." She "felt a lot less like Cordelia in King Lear," she writes, "than like Michael Corleone in the third installment of The Godfather."

Styron took a long time to die. His daughter's account of his final days manages to capture the emotion without becoming maudlin. As she awaited the inevitable, Alexandra made peace with the father who had often ignored her. She was touched by the affection "Op-pop" showed for her son, Huck—and by the sight of the two of them, be-diapered males, sitting side-by-side, peering out the window of Massachusetts General Hospital. Alexandra was ready to read Sophie's Choice, for the first time. She was ready, as well, to caress her father's skin, and "ease his flight into the beyond."

Excerpt: 'Reading My Father'

Reading My Father by Alexandra Styron
 
Reading My Father
By Alexandra Styron
Hardcover, 304 pages
Scribner
List Price: $25
Read An Excerpt

One

We buried my father on a remarkably mild morning in November 2006. From our family's house on Martha's Vineyard to the small graveyard is less than a quarter mile, so we walked along the road, where, it being off-season, not a single car disturbed our quiet formation. Beneath the shade of a tall pin oak, we gathered around the grave site. Joining us were a dozen or so of my parents' closest friends. The ceremony had been planned the way we thought he'd have liked it—short on pomp, and shorter still on religion. A couple of people spoke; my father's friend Peter Matthiessen, a Zen priest, performed a simple blessing; and, as a family, we read the Emily Dickinson poem that my father had quoted at the end of his novel Sophie's Choice.

Ample make this bed.

Make this bed with awe;

In it wait till judgment break

Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,

Be its pillow round;

Let no sunrise' yellow noise

Interrupt this ground.

My father had been a Marine, so the local VA offered us a full military funeral. Mindful of his sensibilities, we declined the chaplain. We also nixed the three-volley salute. But we were sure Daddy would have been pleased by the six local honor guards who folded the flag for my mother, and the lone bugler who played taps before we dispersed. Of military service, my father once wrote, "It was an experience I would not care to miss, if only because of the way it tested my endurance and my capacity for sheer misery, physical and of the spirit." The bugler, then, had honored another of my father's quirks: his penchant for a good metaphor.

A year and a half later, I was walking across the West Campus Quad of Duke University, my father's alma mater. Passing beneath the chapel's Gothic spire, I opened the heavy doors of Perkins Library and headed for the Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library. It is there that the William Styron Papers, 22,500 items pertaining to his life and work, are housed. I was at the end of my third trip to North Carolina in as many months. Before I flew home to New York that afternoon, there were two big boxes I still hoped to get a look through.

In 1952, when he was twenty-six, my father published his first novel, Lie Down in Darkness. The book was an immediate success, and he was soon hailed as one of the great literary voices of his generation. Descendants of the so-called Lost Generation, my father and his crowd, including Norman Mailer, James Jones, and Irwin Shaw, embraced their roles as Big Male Writers. For years they perpetuated, without apology, the cliché of the gifted, hard drinking, bellicose writer that gave so much of twentieth-century literature a muscular, glamorous aura. In 1967, after the disappointing reception of his second novel, Set This House on Fire, my father published The Confessions of Nat Turner. It became a number one bestseller, helped fuel the tense national debate over race, and provoked another one regarding the boundaries of artistic license. Sophie's Choice, published in 1979, won him critical and popular success around the world. Three years later, with the release of the film adaptation starring Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline, that story also brought him an extraliterary measure of fame. Winner of the Prix de Rome, American Book Award, Pulitzer Prize, the Howells Medal from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and France's Légion d'Honneur, my father was considered one of the finest novelists of his time. He was also praised, perhaps by an even larger readership, for Darkness Visible, his frank account of battling, in 1985, with major clinical depression. A tale of descent and recovery, the book brought tremendous hope to fellow sufferers and their families. His eloquent prose dissuaded legions of would be suicides and gave him an unlikely second act as the public face of unipolar depression.

As it turned out, the illness wasn't finished with my father. I think we all recognized, in the aftermath of his cataclysmic breakdown, that Bill Styron had always been depressed. A serious drinker, he relied on alcohol not only to self-medicate but to charm the considerable powers of his creative muse. When, at sixty, liquor began to disagree with him, he was surprised to find himself thoroughly unmanned. For many years after his '85 episode, he maintained a fragile equilibrium. But the scars were deep, and left him profoundly changed. He was stalked by feelings of guilt and shame. Several setbacks, mini major depressions, humbled him further and wore a still deeper cavity in the underpinnings of his confidence. It seems that my father's Get out of Jail Free card had been unceremoniously revoked. And though he went about his business, he'd become a man both hunted and haunted.

* * *

One day when I was still a baby, not yet old enough to walk, my mother went out, leaving me in the care of my seven-year-old brother, Tommy, and nine-year-old sister, Polly. Before she left, my mother placed me in my walker. For a while, Polly, Tommy, and the two friends they had over played on the ground floor of our house while I gummed my hands and tooled around the kitchen island. Then, one by one, the older kids drifted outside. Maybe a half hour later, they found themselves together at Carl Carlson's farm stand at the bottom of our hill. On the makeshift counter of his small shed, Carl sold penny candy; no one could resist a visit on the couple of days a week he was open. It took a little while, scrabbling over bubble gum and fireballs, before, with a sickening feeling, my siblings realized that nobody was watching the Baby. Racing back up the hill, Polly burst into the kitchen but couldn't find me. After a minute or so, she heard a small moaning sound and followed it to the basement door. I was still strapped in my walker, but upside down on the concrete floor at the bottom of the rickety wood stairs. My forehead had swelled into a grotesque mound. My eyes were glassy and still. Cradling me, Polly and Tommy passed another stricken, terrified hour before my mother got home and rushed me to the hospital.

I've known this famous family story for as long as I can remember. But I was in my thirties before Polly confessed a detail I'd never known: our father was upstairs napping the whole time. Afraid for her own life as much as for mine, she couldn't bring herself to wake him.

Until 1985, my father's tempestuous spirit ruled our family's private life as surely as his eminence defined the more public one. At times querulous and taciturn, cutting and remote, melancholy when he was sober and rageful when in his cups, he inspired fear and loathing in us a good deal more often than it feels comfortable to admit. But the same malaise that so decimated my father's equanimity when he was depressed also quelled his inner storm when he recovered. In my adult years, he became remarkably mellow. A lion in winter, he drank less and relaxed more. He showed some patience, was mild, and expressed flashes of great tenderness for his children, his growing tribe of grandchildren, and, most especially, his wife.

He also managed, for the first time, to access some of his childhood's unexamined but corrosive sorrows. In 1987 my father wrote "A Tidewater Morning," a short story in which he delivered a poignant chronicle of his mother's death from cancer when he was thirteen. The story would become the title of a collection of short fiction, published in 1993, that centered on the most significant themes of his youth. During these years he also wrote several essays for The New Yorker, Esquire, The New York Times, Newsweek, and other magazines. He published a clutch of editorials; wrote thirty some odd speeches, commencement addresses, eulogies, and tributes; and traveled frequently to speak on the subject of mental illness.

As for long fiction, it was less clear what he was doing. (If there was a golden rule in our house when I was growing up, it was, unequivocally, "Don't ask Daddy about his work.") First and foremost, my father was a novelist. "A high priest at the altar of fiction," as Carlos Fuentes describes him, he consecrated himself to the Novel. He wrote in order to explore the sorts of grand and sometimes existential themes whose complexity and scope are best served by long fiction. With a kind of sacred devotion, he kept at it, maintaining his belief in the narrative powers of a great story—and he suffered accordingly in the process. His prose, laid down in an elegant hand on yellow legal pads with Venus Velvet No. 2 pencils, came at a trickle. He labored over every word, editing as he went, to produce manuscripts that, when he placed the final period, needed very little in the way of revision. But, even at the height of his powers, this meant sometimes a decade or more between major works. Like that of a marathoner running in the dark, my father's path was sometimes as murky as it was long.

Excerpted from Reading My Father, by Alexandra Styron. Copyright © 2011 by Alexandra Styron. Excerpted with permission by Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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