I felt I had to interrupt everything to say “Happy
Birthday!” to William Gass, a great American author.
That’s
because William Gass turns eighty-nine today. Obviously it’s not every day that
a man turns eighty-nine. It’s only one day that he does. And that day, in the
case of the great William Gass, is today.
What can
you say about William Gass? Plenty, I guess. The more you knew about him would
help how much you could say. What I know is at least a few hundred Henry
Wadsworth words worth. He was born on this date in the year such-and-such,
eighty-nine years ago, so you do the math if you like, and he’s still alive,
thank god, as of today, July 30th, 2013, so far as I know (I shake
my fist in the air, metaphorically speaking, and say “So stay alive and don’t
make a liar of me William Gass)!
He’s the
author of a veritable cavalcade1
of great books, some of which I’ve read or been meaning to read, read and
forgotten, or half-understood, or put down in the middle of, books such as “The
Heart of the Heart of the Heart of the Heart of It,” “Middle C,” which is about pianos and
Hitler and something else, “The Tunnel” which is also about Hitler and other
things, more books, too, there’s a short one, for instance, all about the color
blue (I look forward to the day, may it come soon, because at 89 everything is pretty much now or never, when he writes one about
mauve!), and other books on top of those about writing and literature and
language and why its so important to read and write, important for the
“culture” and important for you too, and, well, stuff like that.
William
Gass. Not enough is said about him on a day-to-day basis and you might be
itching to understand why.
Me, too.
I can shed no light on this
matter. Or very little light. Or a light so scanty it’s not much to see by.
He’s
never sent a piece of mail-art, for instance, not that I known of, not to me
personally, not that I’ve ever gotten anyway, but that shouldn’t stop us from
saying happy birthday to the man. I’m sure he’s mailed stuff, lots of stuff,
bills and whatnot, just try and get through this world without doing that, I
dare you, manuscripts to his publisher and agent, no doubt he’s mailed. He’s
been in the postal system, let’s just say that!
If you
have any mail-art he’s sent to you I invite you, pending his permission, of
course, to post it. I invite him to send me some, too, if he’s so inclined. My
slot is always open to him (I didn’t mean that the way it sounded!!!) and I
suggest we all send him a piece of something or other, whatever you can spare a
stamp on. He’s worth it!
He’s won
some awards here and there. I forgot, or neglected to mention that until now,
or didn’t know about. I think he won a National Book Award somewhere along the
line. Or maybe two. Who’s counting? No Pulitzers, though. No Nobel Prizes. No
Man Booker Prizes, not that I know of, not that he’s not worthy. He’s been
nominated for stuff he didn’t win, I’m sure. Who remembers the names of the
winners? Who remembers much of anything nowadays? Not me! I say, “Their
freaking loss, William Gass!”
Anyway,
let’s all raise a frothy head from whatever depths of our own private personal
despair even, raise them up, these heads, these knobs of flesh, bleary-eyed,
tear-stained, or whatever, uncomprehending as they may be, to Mr. William Gass,
today, on this his 89th birthday, and let us give a cheer in as
cheerful a voice as we can muster, each to his own mustering of conscience, and
say “Happy Birthday William Gass!”
Write
on!
Notes:
1. [cav·al·cade noun \ˌka-vəl-ˈkād,
ˈka-vəl-ˌ\ 1: a : a
procession of riders or carriages b : a procession of vehicles or
ships 2: a dramatic sequence or procession ] –Merriam Webster Online Dictionary
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