Dear Genius--: A Memoir of My Life with Truman Capote

Jack Dunphy's literary career was doubly cursed: first by his tendency to write hard, dark, and often bleak stories, the kind that rarely stand much of a chance with general audiences; second by his long relationship with Truman Capote, which had the effect of putting the far lesser-known Dunphy even further into the shadows. Those few who bother to seek out Dunphy's work now usually do so because they are Truman Capote fans and are curious about Capote's long-time paramour; but the fact is, unless a reader's taste in fiction is unusually wide-ranging (as I like to think mine is), the reader who likes Capote is very unlikely to enjoy the fiction of Jack Dunphy. Two more different writers, indeed, can hardly be imagined. Where Capote is lyrical, Dunphy is hard-edged; where Capote is sweet, almost sentimental, Dunphy can be merciless. And "Dear Genius" is exactly the kind of brilliant Dunphy fiction that is practically guaranteed to alienate Capote fans. Yes, fiction: "Dear Genius," though billed as a memoir, is actually a *novel.* It does include Dunphy and Capote as characters (Dunphy narrates some sections), and one can safely assume that there is a good deal of factual material in the sections describing their lives together (or, more often, not together). But, in a move so audacious that one can hardly find words for it, Dunphy has interlaced a purely fictional narrative into the material, the story of a doubting priest, Father Synge, whose faltering faith is given a boost by a random encounter with an aging and drunk Truman Capote. But Father Synge is not really fictional: as Dunphy's headnote indicates, Synge is really himself, another version of himself. And Capote appears in a different guise too: as a brilliant young black boy named Robert Deveraux whom it will be Father's Synge's job to save from a dysfunctional mother. Truth and fiction, fiction and truth are interwoven here in scenes that can be so moving they bring tears to one's eyes---never more so than in the devastating final pages, as Father Synge comes to Dunphy's house to tell him that Capote has died. The final paragraph of "Dear Genius"---heartbroken, heart-breaking---deserves to rank right up there with Joyce's description of the falling snow at the end of "The Dead." Yes, it really is that good!But "Dear Genius" is probably doomed to remain out of print and unread. The book irritates Capote readers, and in part they are justified in this: emblazoning the cover with the words "A Memoir of My Life With Truman Capote" is clearly false advertising, and it should be known that the subtitle was not Dunphy's but his publisher's (Dunphy had subtitled the manuscript "A Tribute To Truman Capote," which is vastly more accurate). But, over and above this, Dunphy is simply too demanding for many readers; he asks too much of those who are looking in his writing for something "like" his vastly more famous friend. Dunphy was like no one but himself. But if you are a reader who can rise to