Comments on: George Garrett (1929-2008)

By: Kenn Amdahl

Kenn Amdahl — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:29:43 +0000

Writers recognize a doorway to some higher plane; poets open that door so that mortals can see beyond for a moment. George knew how to operate that door as well as anyone. But he’ll be remembered most fondly for teaching simpler craftsmen to open it themselves while he stood back, a big grin on his face.

As one of the simplest of those minor craftsmen, I just want to say thanks, George, for the brief time I got to spend at your feet, and for the times you blessed my crude work, and praised it in the face of all objective evidence.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.
kenn

By: David Madden

David Madden — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 19:25:53 +0000

I was especially proud that it was that fabled editor named George Garrett at BOTTEGHE OSCURE who published my first short story.

Pretty soon I got proud of being among an increasing number of writers in all genres who had gone into orbit around George Garrett, so that I seized the opportunity as early as 1970, when George was only 41, to pay homage to such a man in the pages of THE NEW REPUBLIC, in my review of an anthology of TRANSATLANTIC REVIEW stories: “and there in Paris was George Garrett, whose motiveless magnanimity toward young writers makes agents superfluous.”

For me, as for many, the fabled George Garrett became George, the friend, the fabulous, animated without a lull by fresh ideas and sharp insights, such as the girl in the black rain coat anthology. Come to think of it, George was a sort of Harpo Marx, his overcoat overflowing with notions and surprises, but also, incongruously, a sort of Groucho Marx when the absurd tickled him pink.

Thank God I have a photo of George and me in Richmond, in 1973, on stage, winging it–the bright lights catching only our beaming faces and George’s gesturing hand, blurred in action.

The day he died, I opened one of his works at random and dove into “A Wreath for Garibaldi” [another of my heroes]. George remembers agonizing over whether to keep a promise to a friend to lay a wreath at Garibaldi’s statue in Rome, deciding not to, for reasons that made him feel ashamed, but finally not.

I imagine that none of us who are missing George will lack occasions to lay memories as symbolic wreathes at George’s feet, feet not of stone–feet stepping toward us, hands in flight, that grin signalling the beginning of another great delivery.

George in each of our lives was a recurring blessing and–get this [I am grinning a George grin]–that blessing for each of us is magnified by our belonging to a legion of the blessed.

By: Kelly Cherry

Kelly Cherry — Fri, 30 May 2008 14:53:38 +0000

I first met George in 1962. For all his rambunctious pranking, energetic joking, and fabulous stories, he could also be, to a young girl trying to be a writer before there were M.F.A. programs or widely available workshops or, pretty much, women writers, gentle, encouraging, and thoughtfully helpful. He continued in the same mode as I grew older and it was very much like having a guardian angel, someone who had your back. He was not just a man to be liked; he was a man to be loved, to be grateful for, to be treasured. He still is.

By: Richard Bausch

Richard Bausch — Wed, 28 May 2008 14:18:30 +0000

I was thirty-six and my second novel, TAKE ME BACK, had appeared and been slammed in the NY Times, and George was visiting my college to give a reading. I knew him well enough at that time to let down and relax, and laugh–we were, at that time, friendly associates with mutual pals: Mary Lee Settle, Joseph Maoilo. I complained about the reception to TAKE ME BACK, and he stopped me. “What exactly do you want?” he said. I was stunned. I said, “Huh?” He said, “Well, ask yourself–what is it exactly that you want. You want people throwing palm fronds in front of you as you enter the city?” I laughed and said, “Yeah. Damn right.” And he laughed. “Really, though–what is it that you want out of it? You’ve got a publisher who’s already contracted to do your next book. You have a book out. I know a dozen good writers who don’t have that.” He was fifty-three years old. He made me see Gully Jimson’s meaning: “The artist who expects complete understanding of his work is a fool.” He taught all the time, just by being who he was. And the work–well, as I said elsewhere, I think of what was said when Fitzgerald died, by Glenway Wescott, I think (though it could have been Stephen Vincent Benet, now that I think of it)–addressed to the critical establishment: “There comes a time when one should take one’s hat off, and gentleman I think you can take your hats off now.”

By: Kevin McFadden

Kevin McFadden — Tue, 27 May 2008 23:17:23 +0000

George Garrett told stories with such ease and frequency, you would think it was his way of breathing. It was his way of sharing, of opening lives to each other. Many he got the opportunity to write or sketch down in his novels, poems, essays and criticism…and surely more than he ever wrote down went with him as he passed. His works we have and will treasure. He did much that few will ever know to ensure that the active life of literature in this country would go on, that these stories would be preserved, that others could know what it was to live in our times. Today, the library is safe; but one of its great keepers has passed.

By: Patsy Anne Bickerstaff

Patsy Anne Bickerstaff — Tue, 27 May 2008 20:59:39 +0000

Just yesterday, I had mailed a card to George Garrett, to let him know I was thinking of him. My proudest accomplishment in the Poetry Society of Virginia…even prouder than being its president…was the fact that I had been the person who invited him to join us. He was a dear, kind person, an asset to Virginia and to literature, and a friend to all who knew him. He was greatly loved, and will be sorely missed.

By: Emily Pease

Emily Pease — Tue, 27 May 2008 20:06:58 +0000

I’ll always be both grateful and amazed that George opened his door to me, a complete novice at fiction writing, and allowed me to become a part of one of his classes, taught in his living room once a week (he’d choose the day, and it was always random), after which he’d lay out a spread of chips and cookies, sodas and warmish beer. By letting me in, George changed my life for the better. He became my mentor and my dear friend. I’ve dreaded the day he would pass on from this world, and now it has come. Bless his spirit. In my heart and memory he lives on.

By: Nancy Damon

Nancy Damon — Tue, 27 May 2008 19:56:22 +0000

George Garrett was a wonderful caring human being. He was a great friend and mentor, along with Susan, of so many writers. He was extremely helpful to the staff of the Virginia Festival of the Book.
Just one quick memory.
In 2003, George was the Poet Laureate of Virginia, and was the featured speaker at the Opening Ceremony of the Book Festival. This day in March also happened to be the beginning of the U.S. Invasion of Iraq.
George gave quite a talk… not a political rant…just a poet’s look at war. It was, in this quiet way, more profound than one can imagine.

By: Bryan McKenzie

Bryan McKenzie — Tue, 27 May 2008 19:13:15 +0000

I really enjoyed the time together Mr. G. Thanks for the advice, the time and, especially, the laughs.