Customer Reviews

Familiar Spirits: A Memoir of James Merrill and David Jackson

5 star:		(4)
4 star:		(4)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

Admittedly I err in posting this review. After all, I didn't even become "literary" until I read James Merrill for the first time in 1992, late in his career and well after the world of letters had recognized and honored his life's work. His writing led me to Dante and Milton and eventually to a broad sweep of modern poets. It might lead you there as well.

Alison Lurie, on the other hand quickly establishes her credentials in "Familiar Spirits" as both early, close friend of Merrill, and established member of his literary circle going back over forty years. Who am I to question her re-casting of the poet I know only through luminous verse and conversations with the gods, as a mere mortal? She knew the man. It was she, Lurie reminds us, whom he called, even in his sixties, to weep about a quarrel with his lover. She called him Jimmy.

James Merrill's poetry seemed so often to be glancingly autobiographical... the people and places (and absences) in his life were a substrate upon which he grew some startling and wonderful poetry. But it was always only refracted autobiography. One wondered at the life itself. Yet, during his lifetime, Merrill rarely obliged with more than the slightest bits of extra-poetic reflection.

When Merrill died in 1995 many readers mourned the fact that we would be offered no more glimpses of that life, which had come to illuminate our own in surprising ways. Perhaps, had he lived, his admirers would have eventually, greedily, consumed him. Instead, into the vacuum of that terminated story, came this insider view - a delightful prospect. Reading it, delight turns to dismay as Merrill is, instead, consumed here by a friend.

This book is a rambling hodge-podge of disconnected anecdote and amateurish psychology. Lurie trots out sweeping theories of Merrill and Jackson's flaws while repeatedly noting that in 40-plus years of friendship, of observing the damage she documents here, she was silent. I kept wondering, "why didn't you say something to them?" She notices that in the single reference to her in "Sandover" Merrill mentions "Alison's shrewd / silence." Perhaps she neglects to wonder if Merrill's famously developed pun'ishness wasn't anticipating this shrewish and narrow 'memoir.'

Lurie is almost embarrassing in her evident need for us to believe she was a key player in lives and works that she is simultaneously trashing. She hints that her own comment about the lack of prose writers in the pantheon of characters visited in Sandover might account for the "sudden appearance of Jane Austen and Dickens" in the last part of the trilogy. That coy "sudden" is emblematic of Lurie's style here. (Odd, too, that she was such a fine observer of the poem when she acknowledges that she did not ever read the final two-thirds of "Sandover" until setting out on this book). The credits do not roll the other way, though. She is deeply troubled by David Jackson's inability to get his own work published (rightly suggesting that he deserves some form of co-authorship for "Sandover") and mourns his creative decay. She cites as an example of his "intermittent" creative energy his writing of "proposals for work other people might write." One of these, "a Key West ghost story that I eventually wrote" - she hastens to assure us, "in a different version."

Doubtless Merrill's relationships were as complex and reactive as life will always provide. It's sad to learn that his lifelong beloved, Jackson, is now an emphysemic and alcoholic ghost. It's instructive to consider how their 20-years-long connections to their muses at the Ouija board might represent a collaboration deserving of more examination. It's troubling to wonder at how Peter Hooten, the last love of Merrill's life, might have manipulated the ego of the poet to gain latecomer entrance to the sanctorum Lurie describes from within. But it's just plain unsettling to be led to wonder at the more complex nature of these deep and abiding relationships in Merrill's life by such a shallow and un-insightful guide.

Within "Sandover" itself, Merrill refers to the story as that of "the incarnation and withdrawal of a god." For those of us whose admiration of the man's work cast a mirrored glow on the man himself, a similar withdrawal toward reality is probably a necessary salting. But for the dose of reality to be delivered in such an arch and artless way would surely have left Merrill himself wincing. Not at Lurie's accusations of his myriad blind spots when it came to love, he centered much of his writing around that mystery, but at the singularly graceless form in which they are delivered, here, decades too late.

The appearance of this book becomes something of a commentary on the nature of friendship, on fame, and on the conjunction of the two. Frankly, if Lurie's was as reciprocal a friendship as she would have us believe, that, alone, raises more powerful doubts in one's mind about Merrill's ability to build relationships than any of her psychobabble. But too many, commenting more briefly thus far, have claimed the opposite - have glowed in their descriptions of Merrill as friend - for one not to conclude that Lurie drew some of her conclusions through a darker glass.

The book ends with a luridly counterbalancing "afterwards", waxing eloquent about Merrill's life and work - even to the extent of including Hooten, cast throughout as gold-digger and "B" movie player, in a trio of "beautiful and gifted young men." It neatly reflects the schizophrenia of this book, or perhaps the post-prandial doubts of its author.

If you know little of James Merrill's work, read his poetry first, read "Sandover", too. If, instead, you know and love his work, you are in for a strange experience if you read this book. The second star in this review exists only because the complexity of Merrill's work and life reflects light into this strange, dark little book in ways its author cannot be credited with.

Lurie didn't like James Merrill when she first met him. Five years later, when she was an unhappy faculty wife at Amherst, Merrill appeared on the scene as a writer-in-residence. Either he had changed enough, or she had changed enough, that Lurie ovecame her initial dislike of him so that they could become buddies. In the sexist academic setting of the 1950s (Lurie is savage in describing that jail), Merrill and his lover David Jackson threw her a lifeline, treating her like a person with a brain and someone to have fun with, not to mention publishing her first book. Lurie repays their friendship and favors with this odd little book that is so thin it almost evaporates in front of your reading glasses. As we know from her novels and essays, Lurie is an intelligent and witty writer, and from time to time here she gets off a few zingers. The problem is that there aren't very many, nor are there more than a handful of interesting stories of any depth. Were these celebrated personalities and writer/geniuses, really this pedestrian (Merrill chops vegetables beautifully in a kimono and teaches Lurie how to make a chicken stock!) and at sea? Half of the book covers Merrill and Jackson's experiments with the Ouija board (and their use of it in generating the epic poem that became "The Changing Light at Sandover"). A large portion of this section consists of quotes from the poem along with Lurie's diatribe against Ouija boards in particular and the spirit world in general. What's that about? I closed the book wondering if the few dry personal scraps Lurie spreads out on the table constitute the entirety of what she took away from their 40 years of friendship. If they are, her relationship with the two men seems to have been more superficial than substantive. To her undying credit, though, Lurie is merciless with herself about her biases (she took a dim view when Jackson casually discussed his tricking, and their intimacy died at that point; she also didn't like Merrill's last boyfriend and reams him with an acid tongue). The presence of those biases without more juice to offset them, alas, makes the book rather sour. As a chronicle of "friendship," it clearly broadcasts the age-old warning that in a relationship that goes bad, make sure not to die first.

In spite of the fact that the author reveals a bit too much of herself in this book (a fact which makes you like and then dislike her sometimes) she does weave an interesting theory about the inner workings of Merrill and Jackson's minds. I didn't feel she presented these men dishonestly, though some fans of Merrill's obviously resented the fact that their god was made to appear as a mere mortal---and a somewhat foolish one at that.

Juicy, gossipy, lewd, audacious at times, you had to imagine she was indeed capitalizing somewhat on her friendship with Merrill because she did not wait for her friend David Jackson to die before she began revealing what a mess he had become. Why? If she were afraid SHE would die without having a chance to add her two cents she could have written the book, but not published it until after Jackson's real death.

I guess it's hard to quarrel with her motives as I read it in one sitting, lapping up all the strange, weird revelations about these men. My respect for them was not diminished by her lurid details of their intimate life. Nothing in Key West is ever ordinary...

What was most fascinating about the book though was the fact that Lurie herself became an equal part of the mystery. Was she obsessed with these men? Secretly in love with Jackson? Jealous of them? Twice she had to say that "they were rich and could buy anything they wanted". Twice!

Sadly, Lurie never did manage to do what she wanted---to comprehend these men. This goal never got quite satisfied, so in the end the reader of this book is not quite satisfied.

It is an important memoir though because it is the ONLY one right now offering any insight into Merrill, the man and the poet.

I think you have to accept the book for exactly what it is, one woman's perspective about two men she was close to---but not close enough to truly understand them. It was an honest attempt on Lurie's part and a courageous one even and it did reveal Lurie's writing talent. For better or worse, she certainly did create a very vivid yet terrifying tale about two utterly amazing lives.

How unfortunate that the self-appointed biographer (though she terms it a memoir) of James Merrill should take such a dull and dreary approach, ploddingly setting about trying to debunk James Merrill & David Jackson's decades of experiences with a Ouija board that so beautifully resulted in Merrill's masterpiece, The Changing Light at Sandover.

Alison Lurie, by her own admission, recognizes Merrill as "supernaturally brilliant," but his intelligence is so other than or beyond her own that she literally likens him to a Martian. Apparently unable to comprehend the content of Merrill's epic work, and making it clear that she doesn't even like it, Lurie instead settles for a tedious dissection. Smoke, mirrors, string, simplistic attempts at psychoanalyzing Merrill; surely something besides the truth of reality must be behind all of this communicating-with-spirits hocus-pocus. And, contradictorily, her broad condemning brushstrokes at once paint the Ouija experiences as the mere summoning of Merrill and/or Jackson's unconscious mind(s) (she's offended by what the spirits have to say about her) and the dangerous communing with devils and demons.

Perhaps if she had actually read Merrill's books, instead of mining them for ammunition against him, this mean-spirited little book would have had something of value to offer.

Alas, this book reads as little more than a paean to Lurie's dislike of Merrill, and is ultimately more about how SHE feels about her subject than it is about Merrill himself. It's rather sickening to imagine her years of "friendship" with the man, which seem to have been little more than the collecting of criticisms and private details for future use in this petty volume.

This book does a disservice to the passion, commitment and spiritual intensity of the lives and work of James Merrill and David Jackson as so eloquently and painstakingly communicated in Merrill's work. I recommend interested readers go directly to The Changing Light at Sandover, and skip this diluted and negatively biased "memoir."

A memoir is not a biography, as Lurie reminds us at the beginning of her book. One should be grateful for the revelations that are given, and there are many. Perhaps one should be cheered by seeing the sort of defensiveness a beloved author can arouse, but if the reviewers picked up the book they presumably wanted to "get inside," and that is where Lurie takes us. Who wants the sugar-coated anyway? Lurie opens a door on a rather Gothic menage, a very energized and energizing union, which dilapidated all too predictably into disunion and the cliched gay search for May-December love on the Greek travel plan. She writes with candor, but acknowledges the many missing spaces, temporal and informational lacunae, in her decades of friendship with these fellow authors. Her critical exegesis of the poetry is quite good for a novelist unpracticed in such analysis, and she raises some fair, troubling questions about the content of "Sandover." The Ouija board seemingly acted as a tap for the unconscious thoughts and wishes of its authors, and we find some of these messages, not all of which are palatable, give one insight into the infrastructure of creative sensibility. Ugliness and egotism are part and parcel. Overall, Merrill and Jackson are depicted as serious, generous artists who immeasurably enriched the lives of those around them. Of course, there are faults too, some of them egregious. Several reviewers acknowledge--rather ungraciously--the veracity of Lurie's claim that Merrill's "The Changing Light at Sandover" was produced jointly by Merrill and Jackson, via their rather Dantean peregrinations on the Ouija board. I would ask the Merrill idolators this: if J.M. himself could acknowledge David Jackson as co-creator of "Sandover" in subsequent interviews, why could he not put his lifelong lover's name on the spine of the Pulitzer-winning volume? The charges in other reviews that Lurie is magnifying her own reputation through her friendship with Merrill are shallow and spurious; there is not a single self-aggrandizing sentence in the entire volume, and that is a first for the many memoirs I have read. If anything, Lurie is self-deprecating and respectful of the rigors and liabilities of the artistic life. This book is not the typical memoir but a serious and respectful study of two artistic souls locked in a Narcissus-embrace which ended--as it must--with the mirror permanently distorted.

I've just finished reading this book. I am glad there are a few astute critics here on Amazon. I am sad to see that others refer to the details in Lurie's account as fact though. The first problem with it is, is it a memoir, or a work of poetry criticism? To try to do both, in this manner; that is, giving a few accounts of personal discussions and shared experiences with the subjects, and, at the same time, presuming to explain Merrill's greatest and most complex works, while viewing the whole enterprise through the looking-glass of their intimate relationship, as she perceives it from the outside, seems false, and rather unpleasant. I simply don't believe Lurie's interpretations, her biases and prejudices grate on my nerves, and I wonder, generally speaking, who she thinks she is? Didn't anybody inform her, before the manuscript was published, that it is rather a low and embarrassing account of a major literary figure? It may be cruel to point out too: but one feels her blistering criticism of Peter Hooten, as riding Merrill's bright star, could easily apply to Lurie herself. She seems rather obsessed, through the (if we are to believe her account) sad figure of David Jackson, with, well, fame. It doesn't seem to occur to her, like a lot of other amateurs, that Merrill worked harder and with greater purpose and concentration at his Art than the people around him, which is naturally why he is better known. She contrasts, in a way that makes me uncomfortable, her ugly, boring life with her husband and children, with Merrill and Jackson's youthful beauty and money and exciting travels. ... The overblown sentiments she expresses at the end seem to come out of the blue and refer to nothing previously written in the short book. It's imitation Art, without much insight, or a sense of humor--so unlike Merrill's poems, which any reader would be smarter to delve into, time and again, for true illumination and a delightful peek into the character of a remarkable poet.

In print Merrill admits his faults disarmingly. Lurie brings a different sensibility to the task. This is no literary biography. Whether Merrill and Jackson pair more like Pope and Bolingbroke or Auden and Kallmann would be out of place. This memoir invites comparisons to Scott and Zelda, poets and their faculty wives. It's probably the best thing for future biographies that most of the worst and most prosaic things that could be said about Merrill and Jackson have now been said by a friend. Merrill fans will pick up bits of gossip. Readers unfamiliar with Merrill's work will be pleasantly surprised if they follow this book with his poetry.

Familiar Spirits is a very good, quick read. James Merrill and David Jackson's romantic relationship is lifted up with all its successes and failures.

The book, in addition to being a memoir of a friendship, seems to be a warning buoy in at least a couple of areas. First, by employing counter-examples, it seems to suggest to the reader to tend regularly to one's romantic relationship, and to work through conflicts as they arise. Second, it warns those interested in the supernatural to recognize how interactions with "the invisible world" can drain one's energy and attention from the visible world.

It is interesting that Lurie spends a good deal of time offering literary criticism and interpretation on Merrill's The Changing Light at Sandover. There is a good case made that David Jackson is the uncredited co-author of Sandover. Lurie suggests that helping to shape Sandover was Jackson's greatest literary accomplishment.

I am hoping that this memoir will encourage a Merrill biography. It would be great to get a full account of Merrill's life, along with some pictures of him and of the people most important to him.

Familiar Spirits caused me to want to read Merrill, with whom I was previously unacquainted. My next stop will be The Changing Light at Sandover. I also fell in love with Alison Lurie's thoughtful and easy writing style, and have begun to read her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Foreign Affairs.

This is a breezy and fascinating memoir of Merrill and Jackson and their relationship as seen through Lurie's eyes. Lurie befriended Merrill, and through him Jackson, and was a witness to their love affair, its ups and downs, and Merrill's literary success with his epic poem "The Changing Light at Sandover". Lurie gives insight to the epic's origins by describing the couple's sessions with a ouija board. She also elaborates on Jackson's influence on the epic, a fact which the world seems to want to ignore. Merrill and Jackson's relationship deteriorated as the epic poem gained in popularity, and by the time of Merrill's death in 1995, the two men were hardly speaking. Lurie has written a poignant memoir of her friends, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, and yet it seemed distant, almost through glass. It was as if the book is just a series of thoughts about the two men, without even attempting to make us feel as close to them as Lurie did. I definitely do recommend it to fans of Merrill, as well as those interested in the lives of artists and writers.

Lurie writes a very carefully rendered and bittersweet record of a friendship that was fraught with love, frustration, complexity, and disappointment. She's modest and thoughtful -- nothing like the caricature depicted in some of the comments here of a person inserting herself into the lives of others. In fact, while I've taken a more sympathetic (and less intimate) perspective on Merrill and Jackson's use of a Ouija board, Lurie provides an extremely important, up-close narrative. I read this book more than five years ago and still think of some of its passages today. That's quite rare for any memoir and speaks to the book's depths.