The new cover for the paperback and ebook appearing spring 2014


COLUMNS ON MARILYN MONROE

SHORT TAKES

Dana Andrews Meets Marilyn Monroe

Sometime in 1950, Charles Feldman, a powerful Hollywood agent, brought a struggling actress with him to the home of Dana Andrews. This actress had been signed by Twentieth Century-Fox in 1946 and then dropped after six months. She had worked another six months at Columbia and was again dropped. Her few other small parts seemed to sum up a desultory career. I’m referring, of course, to Marilyn Monroe. Dana greeted his visitor, he later told an interviewer in an oral history now in the archives at Columbia University, but she made no impression on him. This was not unusual. Although a few people in Hollywood did perceive Monroe’s potential, most did not. What grieves me is that it took Marilyn Monroe nearly nine years to become a star—virtually the same amount of time it took Dana to progress from roles in the Van Nuys community theater and at the Pasadena Playhouse, to second leads in B pictures, to small parts in A list productions, to stardom in Laura. Fox studio head Darryl Zanuck initially deemed Monroe unphotogenic! And after Dana's first screen test, the cameraman told him he photographed "heavy." At best, Dana could expect to have a middling career as a character actor. In short, Dana Andrews and Marilyn Monroe had quite a bit in common. In all likelihood, the shy Monroe would not have opened up to Dana. And Dana was famously reserved among most of his Hollywood confraternity. As mad as he was about becoming a star, he disliked publicity and pageantry and probably dismissed Marilyn as just another showgirl.

Joyce Oates, Blonde

Oates gives me credit for helping to shape her vision of Marilyn Monroe. I will return the compliment by saying that if I were still working on a biography of Monroe, Oates’s treatment of Monroe’s mother would have a decided impact on my narrative—not because Oates has new material, but because she presents Monroe’s harrowing life with a mentally unstable mother with power and freshness. Gladys’s sudden mood shifts, the arbitrariness of her behavior, terrorizes Norma Jeane, who grows up with an extraordinary sense of life’s fragility, of how all one counts on can suddenly be taken away—just as her mother was abruptly taken away to an asylum. An overwhelming feeling that any phase of life can be a temporary phenomenon hit the young Norma Jeane very hard and became, I believe, a permanent part of her psyche. In some sense, I knew as much before reading Oates, but the novel makes me feel it in my bones. And I can imagine another biography relying on Oates not for facts, but for the ability to convey a terror that never left the girl who became Marilyn Monroe.

Oates invents dialogue, something a biographer cannot do. But her dialogue is the equivalent of a biographer’s reading of a situation, customarily conveyed through speculation, surmise, and reportage. Oates is dramatizing, in other words, what a biographer may feel or imagine but cannot articulate in language attributed to his subject. Of course, novelists can do much more: invent characters, plots, and situations that are not biographical evidence. And Oates performs this trick as well, though not as well, I think, as she might have done. I find some of her scenes to be factitious.

What Is Left Out

And what gets left out of the Acknowledgments is often tied to what is omitted in the biographical narrative. My first lesson in that sad fact came while interviewing an important source for my biography of Marilyn Monroe. We were discussing the last  months of her life and those close to her. Much has been written about the drugs Monroe took and, of course, about her state of mind during her last days. Many biographers have wondered how she obtained so many Nembutal capsules since she was under an internist’s care who was consulting with her psychiatrist. Quite suddenly, my source, X, said, “It’s too bad about Y.” Y was one of those who felt so sorry for Marilyn that he could not resist giving her pills just to get her through the day--or the night. X was speaking of a man who was not a medical professional but who was one of those charged with keeping her in good physical condition. X and Y were friends, and they now regarded me as a friend too. We had all become quite fond of one another. What I had been told did not alter significantly an understanding of how Monroe died, but it did shed some light on a situation where those who tried to abet her also disabled her. Divulging this one comment would have made my narrative just a little more saturated with the atmosphere in which she lived and died. But both X and Y had been enormously helpful and believed in my biography. In the end, I just couldn’t betray them and so I betrayed my biography.


 


 

Marilyn Monroe: A Life of the Actress

In American popular culture Marilyn Monroe has evolved in stature from Hollywood sex symbol to tragic legend. Most books about Monroe stress the sensational events that surrounded her-this book is the first to deal honestly and critically with Monroe as an actress, evaluating her moves as crucial forces in the shaping of her identity. Through careful examination of her performances, from her small appearances in The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve to her memorable roles in Bus Stop, Some Like It Hot, and the The Misfits, the author traces her development from cover girl innocent to an actress devoted to her craft. Based on extensive interviews with many of Monroe's colleagues, close friends, and mentors, this comprehensive, critically balanced study describes her use of Method acting as well as her instruction with Michael Chekhov and, later, the Strasbergs. Carl Rollyson has written a refreshing analysis and appreciation of Marilyn Monroe's enduring and, until now, underestimated gifts as a creative artist.

"More than anything else in her life, Marilyn Monroe wanted to be taken seriously as an actress. Rollyson had done just that in Mariilyn Monroe: A Life of the Actress. It will be important to both film historians and to Marilyn’s fans -- and it would have made Marilyn feel honored and worthwhile."
--Gloria Steinem

"A wonderful, highly readable book, the first biography that truly shows the actress at work."
--Ellen Burstyn


"Carl Rollyson has written a solid, in depth investigation of Marilyn's life and work, an antidote to the flood of melodrama and gossip that has dominated most writing on the subject. An intelligent, sympathetic study."--Norman Rosten, author of the highly regarded memoir, Marilyn: An Untold Story

"Rollyson takes her and her talent seriously . . .and what he has to say is enlightening and often surprising . . . no matter how many more books are written about her . . . none will provide the insights this does into the person, the persona and . . . the work of Marilyn Monroe."--Variety

" A scholar's analysis of Monroe as an actress, written engagingly enough to tempt Monroe fans. . . . His analyses of her movie roles and how she filled them are crucial to understanding Monroe, the woman and the actress. Rollyson's achievement is his dedication to examining Monroe from every conceivable angle."--The Baltimore Sun


Fragments: The Long View

Fragments: Poems, Intimate Notes, Letters of Marilyn Monroe (2010), and MM-Personal: From the Private Archive of Marilyn Monroe (2011) have received considerable attention, but no published review—so far as I know—seems to understand what a momentous change in Monroe’s biography these books constitute. I mean a change in writing about her life. For one thing, I never expected to see these books discussed in The New York Review of Books. Larry McMurtry’s piece is not that good, but it signals a cultural shift in attitudes that has been a long time coming. Marilyn Monroe, in short, reminds me of no one so much as Virginia Woolf.

To explain I need go back to the dark days of Monroe biography, to what I am going to call the pre-Norman Mailer period. Before Marilyn (1973), she was viewed as a rather pathetic figure—a victim of Hollywood, a vulgar popular cultural figure, just a generally messed up human being. Of course, there were exceptions to this view. Diana Trilling wrote a sensitive piece about Monroe’s artistry, and other writers and artists who met Monroe were impressed with her wit. Two biographers, Maurice Zolotow and Fred Guiles, took her seriously, but still treated her mainly as a woman who all too often succumbed to the pressures of her career and rarely seemed in control of what was happening to her. Embedded in their narratives, however, was another Monroe, one far more proactive, canny—even cunning—that was overwhelmed by tales of how many takes it took for her to say, “It’s me, Sugar,” in Some Like It Hot.

Enter Norman Mailer, genuinely interested in Monroe but also weighted down with the urgent need to produce a big picture book and sensational copy that would yield significant royalties to be applied to his prodigious alimony payments. Reading Norman Mailer then was like encountering the fog of war. Feminists were on his case for his baroque depictions of a sex goddess and his penchant for working up burgeoning conspiracies about her connections with the Kennedys and the plots to murder her. After an appalling performance on 60 Minutes—edited to make Mailer look as crass as possible—few reviewers took his book seriously.

What a pity. To date, Mailer has been the only American writer ever to explore the problems of biography seriously as a genre while actually writing one. He even quotes Virginia Woolf on the subject—although, in fact, he filches the quotation from Zolotow’s book. I am reminded that both Zolotow and Guiles accused Mailer of plagiarism—not a charge either could sustain, but one that seems plausible because he did, indeed, rely heavily on their work. Such reliance was, in fact, his strength. He drew on their evidence to demonstrate that much of Monroe’s unhappiness had to do with thwarted aspirations. He did not deny her self-destructive impulses so much as show how they were like contraindicated drugs that interfered with her artistic genius.

When Mailer’s book appeared, it had so many strikes against it that no one seemed to notice that for all its failings, his work marked a fundamental shift in perceptions of Monroe, a shift than could be summed up in one word: Napoleonic—his term for her overweening ambition. For the first time, really, he displayed that side of her for everyone to see—that is, everyone who was not busy clucking over his opportunism and sexism.

At the time, I was engaged in a study of Mailer, not Monroe, but I began to see that he was leading me to my true vocation: writing biographies and writing about writing biographies. Not until 1979, when I was offered a contract to produce a bio-bibliography of Monroe, however, did I seriously consider what I could add to the already voluminous literature about her. I spent a summer re-reading Guiles, Zolotow, Mailer, and other biographies and realized two things: 1) I was getting bored reading and summarizing what others had written about her, which is what I was supposed to be doing in a bio-bibliography, and 2) Her three best biographers knew next to nothing about acting and had missed what should be the focus of a Monroe biography. In my view, a Monroe biographer needed to address two questions: 1) Why did she turn to acting as a way of finding an identity and fulfilling herself, and 2) To what extent—on the screen—did she actually achieve her goal? These biographers had no vocabulary to describe her acting and thus were at a loss when it came to discussing the nexus between her life and her art.

I doubt that I would have realized the deficiencies of earlier biographies if I had not been a trained actor, one who at a very early age turned to acting for many of the same reasons that Monroe was attracted to the art. In brief, acting allows you to be someone even before you know who you are or what you want to become. And as an actor, you can’t just say you are so and so; that so and so has to arise from a complex arrangement of gestures, postures, and mannerisms that are developed both in the privacy of a rehearsal room and in front of fellow actors, audiences, crews, and directors. Monroe began to form a self in the absence of a “mirror,” a parent who could acknowledge and validate her. Her mother was mentally ill, and Monroe was never sure about the identity of her father, so turned to the theater as a kind of compensation—as I did after my father died while I was still a child.

Because of my own voracious reading and commitment to acting I also understood why Monroe built an impressive library of works on psychology and physiology, keeping copies of Mabel Elsworth Todd’s The Thinking Body as well as an edition of Freud’s letters on her bedside table. But what interested me as a younger man in the 1980s was Monroe’s battle with concentration. When she remained focused, she created an extraordinary range of performances, from the introvert in Bus Stopto the extrovert in The Prince and the Showgirl Watch just those two films, and you will see why I think she is a great actress. Each performance is a de novo creation of a vocabulary of gesture and movement that is inimitable. In her major roles, Marilyn Monroe did not repeat herself.

What broke Monroe’s concentration, I thought, was related to her traumatic childhood and to the factory-like process of motion picture making, the rigid schedule of Hollywood productions that she detested. In this regard, my conclusions were not much different from those of other biographers. What I failed to realize is that it was not her background or her working conditions that did her in. On the contrary, as Fragments and MM-Personalshow, it was her acute self-consciousness, her Virginia Woolf-like obsession with watching herself and scrutinizing her relations with others. She did not keep diaries as faithfully as Woolf did, and she did not have Woolf’s literary gifts, but Monroe had a sensibility like Woolf’s that ultimately pursued itself to the point of extinction. In short, it was not the traumatic childhood, not the movies, not the failed marriages—not her even her disappointed hopes—that led to her demise, but rather her unrelenting focus on herself. (This self-consciousness appeared very early, at least as early as her first marriage, which is to say years before she became a star, or even had an acting career.)

I can best illustrate my point by analyzing a six-page typewritten, undated personal note, probably written in 1943, less than a year after Marilyn married James Dougherty, her first husband, on June 19, 1942, just over two weeks after she turned sixteen (then the age of consent in California). I had no access to this letter when I wrote my biography. I relied on other biographical accounts, Monroe’s own published statements, and photographs that present a fresh, healthy, and apparently untroubled and unsophisticated young woman. When I first read the personal note in Fragments, I thought the editors had misdated it. Monroe writes part of it in the past tense, employing a ruminative tone that is startling coming from a teenager.

Before commenting on what Monroe says, though, I need to ask: Is this a personal note? That is just the title her editors supply. Was Monroe writing for herself? The piece does not read like a scrap of a diary or journal. It is retrospective, as if the marriage were over—which in a way it was, even though the couple would not divorce until September 13, 1946. Whatever you call it, this piece of writing is suffused with an intense disenchantment seemingly bearing no relationship to the cheerful, dependent creature Dougherty described in his memoir about his marriage to Monroe. Judging by her “personal note,” the man never even glimpsed the depths of the young woman he married. He was nearly six years older, but she was the mature one—or should I say the perceptive one? Dougherty always professed amazement that his Norma Jeane had metamorphosed into Marilyn Monroe. “I never knew Marilyn Monroe,” he liked to say. He did not realize, however, that he never knew Norma Jeane either.

Monroe begins her self-analysis by calling herself an “advanced child,” more comfortable during her adolescence (an in-between age) with younger children or adults than with her peers. Dougherty—a little sophisticated, with a love of classical music—seemed a mature match for her. In retrospect, however, she speculated that she may simply have made him into a sort of dream man, a projection of her own desire to feel secure. He was one of the few men she did not see as sexually repulsive, one who could fulfill her fleeting notions of romantic adventure. And she wanted to please her elders (chiefly her guardians, Ana Lower and Grace McKee) who thought the marriage a good idea. The marriage also served, she thought, as an escape from the problems of adolescence.

Norma Jeane’s understanding of mixed motivations and the complex of factors that governed her early marriage is, as the editors of Fragments observe, impressive. It is fascinating to see how she describes a “nervous tension” derived from her playful fantasies of becoming a model. I thought immediately of how quickly and decisively she left Dougherty behind when photographer David Conover showed up at the airplane factory where Marilyn worked, telling her she was “natural.” I had written in my 1986 biography that then and there Norma Jeane settled on a career, but I had no idea of how ready she already was for the appearance of someone like Conover. I had presumed her decision was spontaneous and took her by surprise. But it is apparent now that his entrance into her biography provided not only an opportunity, but was also a release for her pent-up energy.

She describes herself in the first year of marriage as an “intense introvert” with very little connection to others, except for a very few people who had some understanding of her desire to withdraw. She mentions reading as one of her solitary pleasures. Although some of her syntax is hard to follow, the overall impression she conveys is that of a profoundly alienated young woman easily depressed by even “slightly foreboding” circumstances.

One of those circumstances is her “bitchy withdrawn” reaction to her husband’s interest in another woman. Norma Jeane seems more upset about what she is feeling than about the woman in question—or even about her husband. Her “romantic esthetical soul,” she suggests, is responsible for making him out to be “some great lover,” when, in reality, this is just a situation she has allowed herself to be drawn into. In other words, the entire episode is a projection.

Now at this point, she addresses not herself but “a person who remembers growing up” and who can appreciate how difficult it is for her to establish an “objective, analitical view” without seeming “to pompass” about her “relatively simple thoughts.” The misspellings, like her shaky syntax, suggest the tenuous but tenacious dynamic of her effort to understand herself. But what a sense of self she manifests, trying to imagine  another person trying to figure out her life. Pardon me, but I feel like she is speaking to her biographer. How many people, even those who become icons, are already notating themselves at seventeen? Does this young woman strike you as the naïve Monroe of most accounts? She is tentative about her self-examination—suggesting that it is not worth much and should be thrown into the wastebasket—but that attitude reminds me of the mature star, who always doubted she had understood her roles and given her best performance.

Characteristically, Norma Jeane is then “sidetracked” by a comment on the perceptiveness of children, an attribute they lose touch with while growing up. This digression is, of course, nothing of the kind, but rather an extrapolation from her own experience. As is so often the case with the woman who would become Marilyn Monroe, I sense her utter aloneness. No one is at hand to take up the connections she is trying to make between herself and the way the world works. Later, her fame would in countless ways prevent her from fully engaging with others.

In her own case, Monroe suggests, marriage to Dougherty cut her off from those insights that develop in childhood. Or, as she puts it: “My first impulse was one of complete subjection humiliation, alonement to the male counterpart.” She began to tremble as she wrote these words, but then stepped back—almost like a psychologist or perhaps a poet—remarking: “I just want to keep pouring it out until this great pot in the mind is, though not emptied, relieved.” She is still worried that what she is writing is “crap,” but that concern surely is the sign of intelligence, of the doubt that physicist Richard Feynman thought the hallmark of the modern mind.

Of course, Fragments does not reveal a great thinker or poet, but the book does show Monroe’s affinity for both types, an affinity which, I believe, is what drove her to acting. Right now I’m writing a biography of the actor Dana Andrews. For some time, he kept his own “Fragments,” a diary-journal in which he tried to articulate his view of himself and the world. Ultimately, he realized he did not have the kind of concentrated literary power that would make him a writer, but he used that same power in a series of extraordinary performances over a ten-year period, 1944 to 1954. Monroe did much the same thing between 1952 and 1962. One of the attractions of the acting profession for personalities like Andrews and Monroe is that their roles can, at least temporarily, express through the words of others a conception of self and world that is otherwise not within their reach.

Norma Jeane returns to the theme of a husband who has betrayed her, and she is enraged not so much by his infidelity per se, but because it struck a blow to her “unsteady ego.” She needs to feel loved, she confesses, and perhaps this desire to be wanted is the only kind of love she feels for Dougherty. But she seems prepared to do without even that much love if it means playing “second fiddle” to another woman.

For a time she thought her husband was honest with her, but then she interjects: “Its hard not to try and rationalize and protect your own feelings but eventually that makes the acceptance of truth more difficult.” I think about her mentally ill mother, the various working class families that took care of her, the influence of one of her Christian Science guardians, and none of them came close to speaking this kind of language, or showed this kind of sensibility. Norma Jeane was in her world a nonpareil, although I doubt that anyone noticed as much.

No one has ever offered a better diagnosis of Norma Jeane/​Marilyn Monroe than she does in her concluding paragraph: “Its not to much fun to know yourself to well or think you do – everyone needs a little conciet to carry them through & past the falls.” Most of us carry with us some kind of illusion about who we are and what we can accomplish. Certainly this is true in my case. I can think of many writing projects that I would not have completed if I had known, from the start, how much trouble they would entail. So imagine the life of a young woman who did anticipate trouble, who could not help but observe herself, and who chose a profession in which she was on display all the time. Her self-consciousness could be paralyzing and was relieved only by moments of acting when she could embody another being. What a relief it would be to act unconsciously and ultimately, to be unconscious, no longer obliged to carry the burden of self, a burden already shouldered by Norma Jeane when she was still three years away from her first appearance in a motion picture. To carry that same burden as Marilyn Monroe was all the more deadly.

Selected Works: Click on titles for reviews and photographs

e.g. Fiction, History, Magazine Articles, etc. goes here
Carl Rollyson not only provides an introduction to her essays, novels, plays, films, diaries, and uncollected work published in various periodicals, he now has a lens through which to reevaluate classic texts such as Against Interpretation and On Photography, providing both students and advanced scholars a renewed sense of her importance and impact.
This first biography of Susan Sontag (1933–2004) is now fully revised and updated, providing an even more intimate portrayal of the influential writer’s life and career. The authors base this revision on Sontag’s newly released private correspondence, including emails, and the letters and memoirs of those who knew her best.
Chapters on Marilyn Monroe, Lillian Hellman, Martha Gellhorn, Norman Mailer, Rebecca West, Susan Sontag, Sylvia Plath, Amy Lowell, Michael Foot, Jill Craigie, Dana Andrews, Walter Brennan, and Willam Faulkner.
A Private Life of Michael Foot adopts a no holds barred approach to biography, leaving a political figure stripped bare, and revealing a deeply complex, introverted man for all to see.

The first biography of the prodigiously hard-working actor who embodied the Western ideal
A documentary approach to the life and legend. With details of her childhood, her young adult years, her ascent to superstardom, and the hour by hour moments leading to her tragic early death, this volume supplements—and, in some cases, corrects—the accounts of previous biographies.
A riveting examination of Amy Lowell’s private life and lover, Ada Russell, who did so much to make Lowell’s career possible The startling discovery of a new Amy Lowell lover who perished on the Lusitania. A compelling window into Lowell’s gregarious character. Concise readings of Lowell’s most important poems reveal the depth and range of her erotic imagination. An astute analysis of the way biographers and critics have maligned Lowell as a person and poet.
A revisionist view of the poet, her fellow writers, and their biographers. In this series of essays, beginning with a look at how her own biographers have behaved, I have tried to re-conceive the familiar anecdotes and episodes, circling back again and again to certain incidents and contretemps, as the point of view shifts from one writer to another. As a kind of coda to my quarrel with biographers is an essay, “Remembering Amy Lowell,” in which I assess the varying degrees to which the memoirs of her present a credible person and poet. I have not paused to define in any great detail terms such as Imagism, although I’ve included an essay on the Imagists in an appendix as well as the full texts of the poems discussed in this book. These appendices provide a context for the discussion of Lowell and her contemporaries and serve, I hope, as an inviting introduction to her work.
A biography of the great film noir actor. Here at last is the complete story of a great actor, his difficult struggle to overcome alcoholism while enjoying the accolades of his contemporaries, a successful term as president of the Screen Actors Guild, and the love of family and friends that never deserted him. Based on diaries, letters, home movies, and other documents, this biography explores the mystery of a poor boy from Texas who made his Hollywood dream come true even as he sought a life apart from the limelight and the backbiting of contemporaries jockeying for prizes and prestige. Called “one of nature’s noblemen” by fellow actor Norman Lloyd, Dana Andrews emerges from Hollywood Enigma as an admirable American success story, fighting his inner demons and ultimately winning.
Here, at last, is the true story of Sylvia Plath's last days and her estate's efforts to shape her husband's role in her death and the world's understanding of Plath and her work. Here, too, is a new Sylvia Plath, immersed in popular culture and proto-feminism, presaging the way we live now.I wrote this biography because there were aspects of Sylvia Plath that other biographers have overlooked or misunderstood. But as I wrote I re-read my predecessors. I checked to see how others had handled the same material. I think my practice in doing so is worth mentioning because I have dispensed with a good deal of the boilerplate that most biographers feel compelled to supply. I say little, for example, about the backgrounds of Plath’s parents. I don’t describe much of Smith College or its history. I do very little scene setting. Previous biographers do all this and more, and what strikes me about their work is how distracting all that background is for someone wishing to have a vision of Sylvia Plath, of what she was like and what she stood for. To put it another way, since earlier biographers have done so much to contextualize Plath, I have not wanted to repeat that exercise, as valuable as it can be for the Plath novice. Instead, I have concentrated on the intensity of the person who was Sylvia Plath, restricting my discussion of her writing only to the truly crucial pieces that advance my narrative. I have tried to write a narrative so focused that a reader new to Plath biography may feel some of the exhilaration and despair that marked the poet’s life. I wrote this biography because there were aspects of Sylvia Plath that other biographers have overlooked or misunderstood. But as I wrote I re-read my predecessors. I checked to see how others had handled the same material. I think my practice in doing so is worth mentioning because I have dispensed with a good deal of the boilerplate that most biographers feel compelled to supply. I say little, for example, about the backgrounds of Plath’s parents. I don’t describe much of Smith College or its history. I do very little scene setting. Previous biographers do all this and more, and what strikes me about their work is how distracting all that background is for someone wishing to have a vision of Sylvia Plath, of what she was like and what she stood for. To put it another way, since earlier biographers have done so much to contextualize Plath, I have not wanted to repeat that exercise, as valuable as it can be for the Plath novice. Instead, I have concentrated on the intensity of the person who was Sylvia Plath, restricting my discussion of her writing only to the truly crucial pieces that advance my narrative. I have tried to write a narrative so focused that a reader new to Plath biography may feel some of the exhilaration and despair that marked the poet’s life.
The first biography that truly shows the actress at work.-- Ellen Burstyn A new edition, revised and updated, from University Press of Mississippi. In American popular culture Marilyn Monroe has evolved in stature from Hollywood sex symbol to tragic legend. Most books about Monroe stress the sensational events that surrounded her-this book is the first to deal honestly and critically with Monroe as an actress, evaluating her moves as crucial forces in the shaping of her identity. Through careful examination of her performances, from her small appearances in The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve to her memorable roles in Bus Stop, Some Like It Hot, and the The Misfits, the author traces her development from cover girl innocent to an actress devoted to her craft. Based on extensive interviews with many of Monroe's colleagues, close friends, and mentors, this comprehensive, critically balanced study describes her use of Method acting as well as her instruction with Michael Chekhov and, later, the Strasbergs. Carl Rollyson has written a refreshing analysis and appreciation of Marilyn Monroe's enduring and, until now, underestimated gifts as a creative artist.
America's most controversial radical playwright. Through diaries, letters, government files, and interviews Carl Rollyson draws a vital and vibrant portrait of the life, the work, and the legend of Lillian Hellman, America's most controversial radical playwright. Rollyson explores the sources and backgrounds of her best-selling memoirs, the development of her politics, her successful screenwriting career, and her famous appearance before the House Committee on Un-American Activities. He provides entertaining and informative accounts of her feud with Mary McCarthy, her many love affairs and surprising friendships. He also provides a provocative and compelling portrayal of this complex and brilliant woman, who was called everything from a "viper", "a goddam liar" to "an empathetic genius with a highly original and penetrating mind." Near death, Hellman spoke of being blocked; this biography will show what got in her way.
The first biography of Gellhorn, relying on key archival sources and interviews with her friends and associates. Martha Gellhorn died in February 1998, just shy of her 90th birthday. Well before her death, she had become a legend. She reported on wars from Spain in the 1930s to Panama in the 1980s, and her travel books have become classics. Her marriage to Ernest Hemingway and affairs with legendary lovers like H. G. Wells, and her relationship with two presidents, Roosevelt and Kennedy, reflect her campaigns against tyranny and deprivation, and her outrage at the corruption and cruelty of modern governments. This controversial and acclaimed biography portrays a vibrant and troubled woman who never tired of fighting for causes she considered just.
Delves beneath the surface to examine the forces that made Sontag an international icon, exploring her public persona and private passions, including the strategies behind her meteoric rise to fame and her political moves.
The first book to survey the broad range of Sontag's work. Includes a comprehensive glossary of Sontag's extensive allusions to literary figures and ideas.
Twenty-five years of writing about female icons and biography. Female Icons: Marilyn Monroe to Susan Sontag Bits and pieces that resulted not only in a biography of Marilyn Monroe but also in much of the work subsequently done on Lillian Hellman, Martha Gellhorn, Rebecca West, Susan Sontag, and on the nature of biography itself. This book includes New York Sun book reviews dealing with female icons such as Mary Stuart, Mary Wollstonecraft, The Brontës, Marie Curie, Harriet Tubman, Zelda Fitzgerald, and Sylvia Plath.
The standard biography of one of the 20th century's greatest prose stylists.. What is new in this second edition of Carl Rollyson's standard biography? It begins with a portrait that attempts to evoke the living person in all her dimensions. It concludes with an interview with one of her favorite secretaries, Elizabeth Leyshon, who eluded him in the 1990s but provided new insights into her employer's character for this book. The biography's new title emphasizes that Rebecca West was a prophet-one not always appreciated in her own day. As early as 1917, she understood where the world was headed and realized that the revolution in Russia held out false hope. Because she took this view as a socialist, those on the left scorned her as an apostate, whereas she understood that Communism would result in a disaster for the British left. Readers wishing to gauge the range of West's fiction and nonfiction should read Woman as Artist and Thinker, published by iUniverse. Rollyson has read his words anew, sharpening sentences, omitting words and paragraphs-sometimes entire sections-in order to provide a refreshing, more engaging, and spirited account of one of the world's major writers.
The first book to explore the entire corpus of her extraordinary career.
Religion, politics, and the writing of biographies.
Filmmaker, feminist,, wife--a twentieth century woman.
The first literary biography of Norman Mailer, updated and revised
Essays in Biography is a play on words conveying an attempt to explore the nature of biography in pieces about the history of the genre and in portrayals of biographers (Plutarch, Leon Edel, and W. A. Swanberg), literary figures (Lillian Hellman, Jack London), philosophers and critics (Leo Strauss and Hippolyte Taine), political figures (Winston Churchill and Napoleon), and artists (Rembrandt and Rubens).
For those addicted to reading biography, enhancing their pleasure by providing insight (or you might say, the inside word) on how biographies are put together.
Provocative reviews of American subjects, originally appearing in The New York Sun.
A candid and revealing account, by an expert in the minefield of the biographer’s contentious work
A terrific companion for biography writers and lovers.-- James McGrath Morris, editor of the monthly "The Biographer's Craft"