A Tragic Honesty: The Life and Work of Richard Yates

To call Richard Yates's life a tragedy is an understatement: tuberculosis, emphysema, a 4-pack a day cigarette habit, severe alcoholism, and poorly regulated manic-depressive illness all were combined in a man who seemed hell bent on destroying his health and many of the intimate relationships he so desperately needed. Yet one comes away from this tale strangely uplifted. Yates was a man who kept writing, even as his health and sanity faded, and who preserved a relentless commitment to both his artistic vision and to his craft. Bailey's detailed description of the manuscript found in Yates's freezer after Yates had died should be required reading for anyone who ever said "I want to write a novel," or anyone who wonders what it really takes to be a great writer. It's tempting to come away from this book focusing only on Yates's obvious and huge psychological disturbances. I had tears in my eyes while reading the final pages, especially the last words, which the author gives to Andre Dubus, Yates's beloved former student and buddy. But this is not just another tale of a mood-disordered, alcoholic writer: Bailey is far too good a writer to leave the reader with mere desolation, though there is plenty of desolation in this story. Bailey writes with compassion, affection, and even humor. Yates's quirkiness and madness are offset by a sense of his fundamental goodness, even though he was insufferable in the demands he placed upon others, particularly the women in his life. Nowhere is this goodness revealed more than in Baileys' description of Yates's deeply touching and affecting relationships with his three daughters. Perhaps few fields demand as much of their practitioners, with so little prospect of reward, as does writing. Frank Conroy, the head of the Iowa Writer's Workshop has said that writing is a test of character. If so, then Yates clearly passed this test, even at the expense of nearly all other areas of his life.

As a recent inductee to that lucky fraternity of readers whose pleasure it has been to read the work of Richard Yates, I was excited to discover that a large and impressive biography had been written about the man. And I am even more pleased to report that Bailey does his subject no disservice; with the same unflinching honesty and scalpel-sharp prose Yates demanded from himself and his students, Bailey catalogues the many trials and tribulations of Yates' life. Depressing as his life was, and as reprehensible and inscrutable as his behavior sometimes was, Yates still comes across as heroic in his dedication to his craft---and a likable, eccentric and sometimes demented curmudgeon to boot. Not only is Yates' occupation as a writer explored at length, but other important facets of his character are fairly represented, such as his tender dedication to his daughters and the terminal bachelordom of his later years. That such an excellent biography should be written about Yates ten years after his death is testament to this writer's legacy, and hopefully portends the long overdue resurgence of his stock among those of us to whom great literatue matters.

Blake Bailey's lucid and surprisingly uplifting biography draws attention to a much-admired but much-neglected novelist. Richard Yates's life was a relentless series of hopes, disappointments, and recoveries. Each time his life took another turn for the worse, he devoted himself more manically to his work.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 a

Richard Yates is not for everybody. To read Yates's novels and short stories is to be confronted with irrefutable evidence of the inescapable bleakness, futility, and self-delusion inherent in modern human existence. Most people prefer stories about anthropomorphic bunnies who get into danger -- light danger -- overcome it, and get home in time for supper. This is not surprising, given the inescapable bleakness, futility, and self-delusion inherent in modern human existence. But for masochists, lovers of exquisitely crafted and unforgettable prose, and those capable of receiving and accepting harsh truths (without committing suicide), reading the works of Richard Yates is a rewarding (if unarguably depressing) experience. 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 helpf

Blake Bailey masterfully captures the sad life of Richard Yates. Yates' work was far more autobiographical than I had ever realized, and Yates himself -- his actions, the things he says -- often resembles a character from one of his own books. The haunting effect of this biography is that it reads, at times, like a lost Yates novel. This is the good new for Yates fans. The bad news is that Yates' life was even sadder than I had anticipated (and I had anticipated a very sad life). I have read much of the source material used in this book beforehand, and it is to Blake Bailey's credit that he synthesized it into something much more powerful and affecting than straight reportage: He has given us flesh and blood, Mr. Yates himself, a man as tragic as any figure in literature. Kudos to Mr. Bailey. This book should appeal to Yates' fans, as well as anyone who wants to read a gripping tale of an artist's troubled life.