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The same is true of Blake Bailey's superb "A Tragic Honesty," the first biography of Yates. The book does full justice to its enigmatic subject, who died in relative obscurity and absolute penury in 1992. In the decade since, Richard Yates has come to exemplify the brilliant and tormented writer -- the "writer's writer," the consummate crafstman -- who achieves posthumously some of the recognition and adulation largely (and unfairly) denied him in life, rendering him, of course, all the more tragic. Getting rich and famous only after you're dead and can't enjoy it is quintessentially Yatesian; while Yates would have appreciated the irony, he probably would rather have had the cash. If there is cash now to be had, I'm glad it's going to Bailey and (I hope) Yates's heirs, his three beloved daughters.
Like Claire Tomalin's excellent recent biography of Samuel Pepys, "A Tragic Honesty" is both aided and constrained by the writings of the subject himself. Every word of "fiction" Yates wrote was autobiographical, often painfully and obviously so, and not even Bailey, a skillful writer, would presume to tell Yates's story better than Yates told it himself in his work. Bailey ably weaves the lives of Yates's thinly-veiled fictional "characters" into Yates's own tragic private life, which included his shabby-genteel upbringing, his unheroic experiences in World War II, his hatred of and embarrassment over his irresponsible "artistic" mother (an amateur sculptor with delusions of grandeur), his sadness at the mediocrity of his father's life and work, his lifelong raging alcoholism, his mental instability and repeated hospitalizations, his lung problems (TB and emphysema), his need of and failure to get and hold onto money, and his abuse and alienation of all (and there were many) who sought to help or love him (including two wives and three daughters, various agents and editors, other writers, and many, many impressionable and adoring young coeds). While never declining into tedium himself, Bailey details the years of tedious and painstaking craftsmanship that went into the production of some of the most devastating prose ever written, especially Yates's masterpiece, his first novel, "Revolutionary Road." It's always helpful (and somewhat chastening) to be reminded that great books do not simply spring forth fully-formed from the heads and hands of great writers, but rather are often the product of years of anguished and uncompensated effort. Bailey's biography manages to capture all of the contradictions of the great man -- his good humor (usually when not smashed), his vicious cruelty (usually when smashed), his personal generosity, both to young writers and young women (and especially when the two were one), his love of his art, and his abiding anger at the humiliating and pointless writing jobs at which he toiled for years merely to pay his bills -- without resorting to caricature or rendering Yates anything less than fully human. Bailey has steeped himself in Yatesiana, and, with the assistance of many thoughtful and caring people who knew Yates, has given us a valuable portrait of one of the twentieth-century's most under-heralded writers. Buy and read Yates's books first, and then this one.
That work - seven novels including "Revolutionary Road," "Disturbing the Peace," and "The Easter Parade," as well as the short story collections "Eleven Kinds of Loneliness" and "Liars in Love" - has earned a lasting place in post-war American literature. In it Yates probed the flawed dreams of the middle-class. Each book was acclaimed for its craftsmanship and denounced for its bleakness. Sales were usually modest.
Yates's first novel, "Revolutionary Road," appeared in 1961. Borrowing his blueprint from Flaubert's "Madame Bovary," Yates constructed the story of a Connecticut couple who are perilously dissatisfied with a 1950s variation of the American dream. In that book, Bailey writes, "deceptively simple language is like the glassy surface of a deep and murky loch. The first thing one may see is a rippled image of oneself, and then the churning shadows beneath."
Yates was acquainted with murky depths. He was raised in New York City by an improvident and alcoholic sculptor who divorced his salesman father (once an aspiring tenor singer) in her dubious quest for artistic freedom. Drafted into the army as he graduated from high school in 1944, Yates never attended college.
Always clumsy, Yates tried to prove his worth on a German battlefield by volunteering to be a runner even though he had pneumonia. Thus he permanently damaged his lungs and developed TB. After the war, with disability benefits, he quit a publicity job and went to France to learn to write. In this he emulated his hero, F. Scott Fitzgerald, who was likewise intrigued by the tarnished romance of American ambition.
Yates did teach himself to write. He also compounded his lung disease by smoking four packs a day and exacerbated his manic depression with alcohol. His nervous breakdowns became frequent and legendary. Physical and mental illness went hand-in-hand with stubborn irascibility that got worse as he aged, making it impossible for him to sustain a marriage or any of his liaisons with younger women, though he craved female companionship. Later, two of his three daughters kept their distance too, letting their contact lapse to Sunday morning phone calls when they knew Yates would be sober.
He did most of his writing in the mornings as well. He lived in penury and squalor, but supported and educated his daughters by doing corporate publicity, teaching in universities, or writing screenplays and speeches. He died in 1992, leaving in his rental apartment freezer an unfinished novel about his stint as a speechwriter for Attorney General Robert Kennedy. The manuscript was the only object of value he possessed.
Was Yates's art worth such suffering? Reading the biography of a troubled artist may allow saner people to feel superior, to adopt a position of relief that we have not been so burdened with talent. Bailey doesn't let us off with such an easy conclusion. With his intelligent respect for Yates's work, he grants us another way to look at the man: what would Yates have been without his writing, the one thing of which he was proud, the thing he could do extraordinarily well?
Writing did not make Yates mentally ill - it saved him from total collapse. Bailey's excellent biography may do the same for its subject's reputation.
(This review first appeared in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.)