David Markson, R.I.P.

One of America's greatest writers has passed on, and even though I shouldn't have been surprised - he was 82 years old and not in the greatest of health the last few years - I am. Gutted, actually. And based on the reaction on Twitter and various blogs, I'm far from the only one. In a way, David Markson needed the Internet, or more accurately, vice versa, to find his rightful place in the literary world. Quotation approprations, short declarative sentences, quick bursts with acres of thought, meditation on artists and writers at work, and a tremendous study of consciousness marked Markson's output since WITTGENSTEIN'S MISTRESS (1988) opened with the phrase "In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street." And as our collective attention spans decreased and dovetailed from mass-market pursuits, there was Markson to clue us in to something greater, more amorphous perhaps, but something that pinged the outer reaches of what he termed "seminonfictional semi-fictions."

Others will chime in with more reasoned and coherent essays on what Markson meant for American literature, and I'll link to those as I do to other missives below once they come in. But I got to know the writer's work, and later on, a little bit, the man, through his earliest output, a couple of entertaining and erudite crime novels featuring a scamp of a private detective named Harry Fannin. I'd read THIS IS NOT A NOVEL and had been excited and blown away, and just weeks later I was assigned to write my very first piece for the Los Angeles Times - a double review of those two Fannin novels, EPITAPH FOR A TRAMP and EPITAPH FOR A DEAD BEAT.

Markson clearly wrote the books for money, and a way to make use of some of the genre knowledge he'd gleaned working as an editor for Dell, then one of the pulp paperback mills that couldn't quite hold a candle to Fawcett Gold Medal's granddaddy status. But not unlike John Banville's pseudonymous mystery novels, the Fannin books couldn't help but betray the rudimentary building blocks of themes and topics Markson spent his entire later career working through: baseball, bad puns, William Gaddis's THE RECOGNITIONS, and the writer's struggle for relevance and the artist's relationship to creative pursuits. Years later, I'm still not sure both EPITAPH books qualify as great crime fiction, but they stand out in a way that a great majority of the pulp offerings of then and the more contemporary books of now simply do not. But Markson had greater literary and philosophical goals and those are what he should be remembered for.

After that review he got in touch with me - oddly enough by email, through a friend, since he did not own a computer - and we corresponded a little, by postcard and letter. I'd see him at the Strand Bookstore sometimes, one of his regular haunts, shooting the shit with the cavalcade of managers working the review copy desk in the basement (I hope very much that the Strand will publish its own tribute to the man; one of his very last public appearances was there, in the fall of 2007.) That year, I think, is when the critical tide turned in Markson's favor. He was honored by the American Academy of Arts & Letters, and New York Magazine named him "the best writer you never heard of."

I saw Markson last at the public memorial for David Foster Wallace. I hadn't seen him around for several months and asked after him and his health. But the answer, at least to me, was obvious. He was more frail. He didn't have to articulate his sadness over Wallace's suicide, that a much-younger man with prodigious talent had died too soon, and that it was a far different feeling from watching friends your own age pass on. A thought passed through my head that Markson might not be around much longer and I should get back in touch, lest the inevitable catch me off-guard. Like many good intentions, it wasn't acted upon.

And even if there had been plenty of advance warning, that off-guard feeling would have come for all those who admired what David Markson did, who argued whether the Red Sox really were the best baseball team ever, who listened to his stories of being around the Beats and drinking (too much) at the White Horse Tavern, and who appreciated what he meant to a greater literary culture that, only now, may finally understand him in a greater way and accord him proper due. 

Other Tributes and Links:

• Associated Press obituary - reveals Markson died at home in bed on June 4, and that his body will be cremated following a private memorial service. Markson also asked that he receive no public memorial, but his literary agent and former wife Elaine said "I'm ignoring that request."
• New York Times obit --  with some interesting comments from Pete Hamill
• Albany Times-Union obit - with comments from William Kennedy
• Jacket Copy/LAT
• HTMLGiant obituary
• A.D. Jameson, "Loving David Markson"
• Gigantic Sequins tribute
• Pictorial tribute from Jim Behrle
• Ed Champion pays tribute
• Claude Scales' tribute
• Orbis Quintus tribute
• The Constant Conversation tribute
• Glenn Kenny's tribute
• Mutant Eggplant
• Scott Bowen
• Jeff Laughlin (The Awl)
• James Yeh (The Faster Times)
• John Williams (The Second Pass)
• Tony's Book World
• Early Rising
• Colton Brown
• Kenyon Review obit
• Bookforum obit
• GalleyCat obit
• Metafilter thread
• 1989 interview at Dalkey Archive
• 2005 interview at Bookslut
• 2007 interview at Conjunctions
• 2007 reading/appearance at the 92nd Street Y
• 2008 interview by Michael Silverblatt
• Niagara Falls Reporter appreciation
• A David Markson introduction, MadInkBeard
• The Complete Review's collection of David Markson criticism
• Correspondence with Gilbert Sorrentino

Comments

[Michael Padgett]

I came here looking for the Weekend Update and get this sad news I hadn't seen anywhere else despite spending a couple of hours on the internet this morning. For anyone who values literary excellence, "Wittgenstein's Mistress" is certainly one of the essential works of 20th century fiction. I bought the two crime novels when they were reprinted a few years ago, and never got around to them. Now would be a good time.

[Jed Markson]

Thank you for your kind words about my father. He would have appreciated them.
Thank You,
Jed Markson

[Mike Hudson]

woke up to the news that my great and good friend, the author david markson, died yesterday at 82. i've thought of him as "america's greatest living novelist" since reading his "wittgenstein's mistress" in 93. we carried out a long and sometimes contentious correspondence throughout that time, spoke on the phone a few times a year...huge red sox fan. hated the yankees. i'll miss his presence among us.

Mike Hudson

[Mort Gilles]

I was a friend of David's and will miss him. I am looking at a photo that he gave me, taken around 1960, of him with Jack Kerouac leaning against him, passed out. In addition to being a great writer, he was a great story-teller and nobody told a joke quite like David. He was a rabid Red Sox fan and would tease me relentlessly about my preferred team, the much hated NY Yankees. How I will miss that ribbing and the tales of hanging out with Vonnegut, running into Dimaggio at Toots Shor and seeing Ernest and Mary Hemingway at a fight at the Garden. David was one of a kind and perhaps he will now get the recognition he has so long deserved.

[Greta]

He was a legend around our house, although I never met him. My dad was a childhood friend of David's back in Albany, NY and he had lots of stories to tell of their exploits playing in the streets and running from stray dogs and trouble. Dad died a couple of years ago and mom has been sorting through his belongings. I stopped by to see my mother this morning and she told me the sad news that David passed away. She also told me that she had just recently thrown out correspondence from David to my dad. Darn, mom.

[Tyler Malone]

Check out http://readingmarksonreading.tumblr.com for scans of some of Markson's marginalia...