Dying for Fame
by John Cooney
JULY 27, 2010 TAGS:
Swedish author Stieg Larsson can make you sick. If you’re a writer, that is.
His Millennium Trilogy of thrillers, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, and the latest, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest, are extolled globally. They’re raking in a stupendous fortune. Moguls on both sides of the Atlantic are clamoring to turn “the Girls” into movies.
A writer’s dream? Nah. The problem is that the poor guy’s dead. He had a massive heart attack at age 50 before even one Millenium was published. Writers want to have their cake and be able to eat it, not have it served as a snack at their wakes.
Driven by inner demons, creative spirits all over the world slave away in obscurity at easels, desks and keyboards hoping their peers will recognize their genius, and fame and fortune will tumble their way. Only a smattering, of course, live to see their ambitions fulfilled. Once they die, you’d think all bets are off, but that’s not true. That Larsson’s comet rose from the grave so soon after his death is unique. Far too often, years and sometimes generations elapse before a writer or artist finds the appreciative audience they craved.
Consider John Kennedy Toole, whose picaresque novel, A Confederacy of Dunces, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1981 -- 12 years after he committed suicide. His mom found the novel in a drawer years after his death and took it to writer Walker Percy. Percy loved it and shepherded it through the publishing process.
It may come as a surprise to realize that some of those whose fame we take for granted today died in obscurity. Consider Franz Kafka, whose edgy, witty, much-revered works, such as The Trial and The Metamorphosis, are now considered essential 20th-century literature. When he died at age 40 in 1924, only a few friends even knew he’d been writing. He considered himself a failure, an irony his characters would have appreciated.
Such much-heralded folks as poet Emily Dickinson and naturalist Henry David Thoreau also passed on without causing a literary ripple. OK, you can argue that shy, eccentric Emily worked to keep out of the limelight, mainly by spending most of her adult life in her bedroom and rarely leaving the house. She wrote an estimated 1,800 poems, only seven of which were published during her lifetime. After her death in 1860, her sister, Lavinia, persuaded some literary friends to edit and publish sis’s stuff. Dickinson’s first collection appeared in 1890 to a burst of acclaim that quickly cooled. In 1924, her work was rediscovered. She’s been with us ever since.
Thoreau’s belated popularity didn’t hit its stride until the 1920s, although he died in 1862. He himself paid for the unnoticed publication of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers in 1849, later in self-mockery noting that he had a library of 900 books, “over 700 of which I wrote myself.” Other than a small group of friends, such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, few people were aware of his literary endeavors. In the 1920s, celebrity finally found him. His work was widely hailed in Europe, then at home. Resistance to Civil Government (later re-titled Civil Disobedience) drew admirers such as Mahatma Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr. Today, more than 20 volumes of his work are available.
The art world has its own dead down-and-outers who became lords of galleries and museums. Vincent van Gogh, depressed over encroaching old age and probably the fact that he had only sold one of his hundreds of startling portraits, landscapes and still lifes, shot himself in 1890. Fame sought him out a decade later when German Expressionists intuited his unique view of art. In 1990 his Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold for $82.5 million.
Then there’s Paul Gauguin, the painter, sculptor, ceramist and printmaker, who as broke and depressed an unknown as van Gogh unfortunately spent nine weeks painting with him in Arles. The two had a bitter spat over Impressionism. Van Gogh menaced Gauguin with a razor, thought better of it and ran to a local brothel where he cut off his earlobe and gave it to a hooker named Rachel for safekeeping. Needless to say, Gauguin left Arles and labored on in obscurity until his own death in 1903. After being ridiculed at an exhibition in 1910, his work gradually came back to life. Then in 1942, with the release of the film The Moon and Sixpence, based on Somerset Maugham’s novelized life of Gauguin, his art hit megabucks status. (Four years ago, Christie’s auctioned off his painting L’Arlesienne, Madame Ginoux for $40 million.)
Composers we now consider superstars were dismissed in their own times, too. Dumpy little Franz Schubert cranked out hundreds of Romantic musical compositions, most of which he never heard performed. In 1828, he died in Vienna of typhoid at age 31, admired only by a handful. His work came to the public’s attention 10 years later when German composer Robert Schumann came across his Symphony in C Major (the Great) in the chest where Ferdinand Schubert had stored his brother’s works. But it wasn’t until the turn of the century that commercial success came Franz’ way.
Johann Sebastian Bach’s more than 1,000 compositions didn’t catch on until long after he was dead. He was known in Germany as a virtuoso organist. Meanwhile, under weekly Sunday deadlines imposed by the churches for which he worked, he cranked out vocal and instrumental compositions for choirs that were met by crushing indifference. After his death in 1750, he fell into oblivion with only a few like-minded souls appreciating his stuff, including Beethoven and Mozart. Public interest in him perked up in 1829, when a version of his St. Matthew Passion was performed by Felix Mendelssohn. Bach’s stature grew over the years, reflected by his grave being rediscovered in 1894, after nearly 150 years of nobody caring where it was. Today, his picture is found on T-shirts and his music played on electronic synthesizers and found in hip-hop mixes.
All of which goes to show that the ancient hero Achilles may have gotten a bum steer when the gods told him fate only offered him two paths: a long, unexciting life or a short one that would bring him fame and glory. Who knows? Maybe he could have died at a ripe old age only to be lionized later.
John Cooney is a journalist and author of both non-fiction and fiction books.
His Millennium Trilogy of thrillers, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, and the latest, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest, are extolled globally. They’re raking in a stupendous fortune. Moguls on both sides of the Atlantic are clamoring to turn “the Girls” into movies.
A writer’s dream? Nah. The problem is that the poor guy’s dead. He had a massive heart attack at age 50 before even one Millenium was published. Writers want to have their cake and be able to eat it, not have it served as a snack at their wakes. Driven by inner demons, creative spirits all over the world slave away in obscurity at easels, desks and keyboards hoping their peers will recognize their genius, and fame and fortune will tumble their way. Only a smattering, of course, live to see their ambitions fulfilled. Once they die, you’d think all bets are off, but that’s not true. That Larsson’s comet rose from the grave so soon after his death is unique. Far too often, years and sometimes generations elapse before a writer or artist finds the appreciative audience they craved.
Consider John Kennedy Toole, whose picaresque novel, A Confederacy of Dunces, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1981 -- 12 years after he committed suicide. His mom found the novel in a drawer years after his death and took it to writer Walker Percy. Percy loved it and shepherded it through the publishing process.
It may come as a surprise to realize that some of those whose fame we take for granted today died in obscurity. Consider Franz Kafka, whose edgy, witty, much-revered works, such as The Trial and The Metamorphosis, are now considered essential 20th-century literature. When he died at age 40 in 1924, only a few friends even knew he’d been writing. He considered himself a failure, an irony his characters would have appreciated.
Such much-heralded folks as poet Emily Dickinson and naturalist Henry David Thoreau also passed on without causing a literary ripple. OK, you can argue that shy, eccentric Emily worked to keep out of the limelight, mainly by spending most of her adult life in her bedroom and rarely leaving the house. She wrote an estimated 1,800 poems, only seven of which were published during her lifetime. After her death in 1860, her sister, Lavinia, persuaded some literary friends to edit and publish sis’s stuff. Dickinson’s first collection appeared in 1890 to a burst of acclaim that quickly cooled. In 1924, her work was rediscovered. She’s been with us ever since.Thoreau’s belated popularity didn’t hit its stride until the 1920s, although he died in 1862. He himself paid for the unnoticed publication of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers in 1849, later in self-mockery noting that he had a library of 900 books, “over 700 of which I wrote myself.” Other than a small group of friends, such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, few people were aware of his literary endeavors. In the 1920s, celebrity finally found him. His work was widely hailed in Europe, then at home. Resistance to Civil Government (later re-titled Civil Disobedience) drew admirers such as Mahatma Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr. Today, more than 20 volumes of his work are available.
The art world has its own dead down-and-outers who became lords of galleries and museums. Vincent van Gogh, depressed over encroaching old age and probably the fact that he had only sold one of his hundreds of startling portraits, landscapes and still lifes, shot himself in 1890. Fame sought him out a decade later when German Expressionists intuited his unique view of art. In 1990 his Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold for $82.5 million.
Then there’s Paul Gauguin, the painter, sculptor, ceramist and printmaker, who as broke and depressed an unknown as van Gogh unfortunately spent nine weeks painting with him in Arles. The two had a bitter spat over Impressionism. Van Gogh menaced Gauguin with a razor, thought better of it and ran to a local brothel where he cut off his earlobe and gave it to a hooker named Rachel for safekeeping. Needless to say, Gauguin left Arles and labored on in obscurity until his own death in 1903. After being ridiculed at an exhibition in 1910, his work gradually came back to life. Then in 1942, with the release of the film The Moon and Sixpence, based on Somerset Maugham’s novelized life of Gauguin, his art hit megabucks status. (Four years ago, Christie’s auctioned off his painting L’Arlesienne, Madame Ginoux for $40 million.)
Composers we now consider superstars were dismissed in their own times, too. Dumpy little Franz Schubert cranked out hundreds of Romantic musical compositions, most of which he never heard performed. In 1828, he died in Vienna of typhoid at age 31, admired only by a handful. His work came to the public’s attention 10 years later when German composer Robert Schumann came across his Symphony in C Major (the Great) in the chest where Ferdinand Schubert had stored his brother’s works. But it wasn’t until the turn of the century that commercial success came Franz’ way.
Johann Sebastian Bach’s more than 1,000 compositions didn’t catch on until long after he was dead. He was known in Germany as a virtuoso organist. Meanwhile, under weekly Sunday deadlines imposed by the churches for which he worked, he cranked out vocal and instrumental compositions for choirs that were met by crushing indifference. After his death in 1750, he fell into oblivion with only a few like-minded souls appreciating his stuff, including Beethoven and Mozart. Public interest in him perked up in 1829, when a version of his St. Matthew Passion was performed by Felix Mendelssohn. Bach’s stature grew over the years, reflected by his grave being rediscovered in 1894, after nearly 150 years of nobody caring where it was. Today, his picture is found on T-shirts and his music played on electronic synthesizers and found in hip-hop mixes. All of which goes to show that the ancient hero Achilles may have gotten a bum steer when the gods told him fate only offered him two paths: a long, unexciting life or a short one that would bring him fame and glory. Who knows? Maybe he could have died at a ripe old age only to be lionized later.
John Cooney is a journalist and author of both non-fiction and fiction books.
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