Tuesday, November 07, 2006

 
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.

Comments:
Wow, I wish my quiet relatives had the excuse of being William Styron. -EW
 
Britt,

I'm very sorry for your loss.

I had no idea that William Styron was your uncle. I met William Styron once, in a master's tea at Pierson College. He's one of my father's absolute favorite authors, so I bought a couple of copies of his books and, after his speech, introduced myself to him and he signed a couple of books for my dad. He's one of America's great literary figures, and your family is justifiably proud of him. -Terry
 
Thanks for writing that up. I've been thinking for the past week of something to write and came up with nothing. Not only have I never met him, I've never even read any of his books, which is shameful. All I got is the famous Punk-ing with the lobster bisque. So I suppose I can thank him for my item on Black Table. But 2 great writing resources connected to our family (Shirley Povich was both a colleague of my dad's father and his family is friends with my mom's parents) and I never discussed it with either. Bill Styron I have a legit excuse, but Shirley Povich, I put off scheduling a lunch meeting to discuss sportswriting because I was a self-absorbed college student. In the words of Red Forman, bad things happen to [me] because ... [I'm] a dumbass.
 
The prof I'm teaching for just mentioned WS in lecture this week on his shortlist of great 20th-century American novelists. If you know PF you know that means something.
 
My great-uncle CK Stead is also a writer, and I can't remember him ever saying anything to me. Perhaps there is a pattern. He wrote the novel that the 1977 "classic" movie Sleeping Dogs is based on (at least everyone in my family insists it was classic, though I've never met anyone who has actually seen it).
 
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