Clovers In The Atmosphere

William Styron died last week. William Styron was my great uncle. He married my grandfather's sister, Rose, and they moved out of the orbit of our family network. In every marriage, someone packs up the trunk and moves away physically or spiritually. He was our elephant in the room; far and away the most famous person to whom any of us was related, but clearly someone over whom we did not feel ownership. I am certainly not about to tell you some kind of personal tale of vibrant, gruff, fanciful childhood memories in the style of stephen james joyce. I probably only spoke to 'Uncle Bill' twice. My only distinct memory of him is watching him come downstairs to eat soup and then retreat upstairs at a lunch after I graduated from college. It was always funny to me that he was this great "bard of depression" who gave seminars and spoke at length about his personal struggle, because he was always just the guy who didn't talk in the years that he came to thanksgiving. He and his descendants came down to DC from new york about every five years, and the baltimore-washington axis of the family were always a little perplexed by them. To our clade of earnest jews engaged primarily in advanced degree having and sociology, the broad artistic sweep of the styrons was engaging but also confusing. His son was an actor/director, his daughter-in-law a dancer, his wife a poet, his grandson had something to do with recording music. This all fell in line with the idea of our relative by marriage as "literary giant," but bill himself never fit that Mailer-esque ideal. His clothes weren't fashionable nor were his eyeglasses. He did not gesture or allude, his eyes didn't sparkle conspiratorially, nor speak of Montmarte or Morocco in an off-handed way the way one imagine internationally renowned writers to do. (Where is Padma Lakshmi when you need her?) In fact, he rarely said anything to anyone. I guess that is what having a depressed relative is all about even if he wrote a great book about it years ago. Rest In Peace, Bill.