Books that have for a main character a writer often prove difficult for authors to offer up, as their narrator will more often than not, reveal themself, even if it is not done so intentionally. I noted in an earlier post, Stingo, from Sophie's Choice, who is the sad and sensitive stand-in for William Styron, and then there is, of course, Hank Chinaski for Buk, and Burrough's William Lee. Each of these authors uses their alter-writer-self to varying degrees of ego and self-deprecation, and with equally varying degrees of success. It can also be a risk in that it may distract the reader from the real tale, by making them wonder how much of the protagonists thoughts are "biographical," while from the creator's perspective, the sense of revelation might cause them to write more close to the vest, causing them to wrap themselves within the writer within.
The devastating tale of too-soon genius and destructive madness of The Color of Light by William Goldman, who if you are more familiar with as the screenwriter for The Princess Bride, may stun you, though perhaps not as much if you know Marathon Man (the novel or the movie). Certainly Goldman is comfortable in his sense of the treacherous, but what sets The Color of Light apart from his other stories, even those that use cruelty as easily as a smile, is the relentless menace that bears down on his characters throughout the novel.
In The Color of Light, Goldman gives us Charley "Chub" Fuller, who may or maay not be too much of himself, I never got a sense that Charley was more real than a dream Goldman might have had of himself at one time (or perhaps a fear of himself). Charley is a promising young writer, who with the help of his eccentric college buddy, "Two Brew" Kitchel pushing him to succeed as his agent/editor manages to have his first novel published at a very young age. Perhaps in a bit more deflection of the character as alter-soul, Goldman has Charley deal not only with the difficulty of early and easy success, but also has him struggle of how to decide to fictionalize his life; whether or not to use his own or whether he can get away with using his father's experiences as a soldier and subsequent alcoholism.
As in his other brilliant novel, Boys and Girls Together, The Color of Light is rich with unexpected human connections and coincidence; each of the characters, who are as different from one another as they can be, return to one another over several years, under increasingly unusual (and often difficult) situations, and as they do, they are each left with a newly-created bond of trauma. And then there are always the obstacles in those moments of desperate desire; whether it be to capture their dreams or satisfy their passions. And when the troubled love of Charley's life finally leaves her husband and returns to him with her daughter, in one of Goldman's cruel twists, Charley finds his creativity blocked; distracted by beauty and want, by destructive love, and the mind's deceptions. He is barely able to complete his follow-up work with a half-realized collection of short stories, and after that, more trouble lies ahead for him.
And as the novel progresses intensifies the emotional struggle of Charley. Every joy, every imagined wish destroys him a little more. By the second half of the novel, innocence is twisted so far, and you realize, so naturally, that it practically becomes obscenity. While on the surface it may seem that the characters do nothing but wander about their lives, in moments you may recognize as your own, it is the shock of the psychological, for the characters and in turn, the reader that stuns you in the end. What Goldman does for character, what he does, perhaps better than most, is defy you to love the people he creates for you, and like the cliched car crash, you realize, and often know, that you can't help but keep looking for what pain lies ahead. For it is only when we are certain of joy that we are vulnerable to such destruction.
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I am most of the way through my third reading of The Color of Light. And I'm terrified. Because after the first time I read it, I threw it across the room with my skin crawling. The cruelty was that bad. I don't remember why; it was back in the mid-80s, when the book first came out.
I keep my books. So I kept this one as well. And eventually, I forgot the horror I felt from my first reading, and read it again. This time, I remember being very tempted to burn my copy, or at the very least, drop it in a wastebasket.
Goldman's writing is exquisite. It feels far too real for me to be able to distance myself from the situations to which he subjects Chub.
This time, the book had been sitting on my nighttable for over a month. I'd pulled it off the shelf while looking for something to read, but I could tell that I was avoiding it. It occurred to me... I'm older now. I've lived through a lot of cruelty and horror myself, and maybe the previous reactions I had to the book were due to my earlier naivete. So I started reading it again. I almost put it down when he forshadowed Jesse's death. But I had to keep going. He's only just now met Bonita-Krause-she-has-the-loveliest-eyes, and I know that I will never be able to write with a fraction of his skill and understanding. But I also know that while I may hurt my characters if necessary, I will never do so with such wanton cruelty.
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