There's an old idea in literary circles that some of the greatest writers to ever grace the earth are actually out there amongst us, but that no one reads them. And thus they remain unpopular all their lives, die, and due to the conjoined forces of the market system, inept promotion and the hand of fate, the writer's work is never widely read and simply disappears into the dust.
It's a theory that allows a whole lot of shitty writers to get to sleep at night.
But it's not entirely untrue. I don't buy the idea that great writers don't get read at all, but really damn fine writers do, on occasion, for whatever reason, end up with a much smaller circle of fans than they deserve.
These are referred to the Writers You're Not Reading (But You Should Be).
They're out there, really stellar writers that you've never heard of, but not just you...writers that almost no one has heard of.
Consider: Pete Dexter. John Keeble. Richard Price. Mark Hammon. Pat Frank. Jim Thompson. Thomas Williams. Larry Brown.
I can go on, but how much would it matter...cause it's not likely you've heard of any of them.
But the one I want to talk about here is another.
His name is Don Roberston.
And he deserves more attention, too.
I recently completed what makes up a trilogy of sorts, the three novels which encapsulate and narrate the life of Roberston's fantastic character Morris Bird III. The books, in order, are The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread, The Sum and Total of Now, and The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened.
Independently, each book is excellent, fine writing, crafty storytelling, powerful magic in small packages. Together, they rank out as one of the best pieces of literature I've ever read.
ITEM: Republicans were terrible people. Everyone said so. Or anyway, almost everyone.
ITEM: Errol Flynn's indictment for statutory rape did not mean he had raped statues.
--From The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread
The three books chart Morris Bird III's adolescence and ascension into manhood, dipping into three periods of his life, at age nine, then thirteen, and finally seventeen. As coming of age novels, they fall into that category with novels such as To Kill a Mockingbird and The Catcher in the Rye.
In my estimation, Roberston's work holds its own easily with these much better known works, and in many ways his books are more honest, more realistic, and in the long run more compelling. And they're a damn sight funnier.
“A what?” said Grandma.
“An oar,” said Morris Bird III. “When June Weed went away, Mamma called her a filthy oar.”
“Oar! Oh. Oar. Well now.”
“You know what it is?”
Something was pulling and grabbing at the corners of Grandma's mouth. She turned away from Morris Bird III and began fussing with a pot. “Uh, well,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Uh. A oar. Yes indeed.” Then she shook her head from side to side. Her voice was pinched. “No. No. Can't say as I do.”
“Maybe it's like something you row a boat with?”
“Maybe,” said Grandma, fussing with the pot.
“Or maybe it's like what they dig in Wisconsin.”
--From The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread
Roberston writes of adolescence with a deft touch, and he shies away from nothing. It is fascinating to contemplate the novels as a whole, because while each is narrated around the same character, there are differences in the tone, frame of mind, and world view as Morris ages. It is the same effect JK Rowling pulled off as Harry Potter aged, and it is a minor literary miracle when it works.
What is also alters from book to book is the subject matter, for obviously as Morris ages Robertson must account for puberty and all that comes with it. Here, again, Roberston really shines, for he finds a way to address dating, masturbation, and sex head on, not edging around any of it, but also without cheapening any of it, making it tawdry or voyeuristic.
Often, he does this through humor, as in the following passage. Throughout The Sum and Total of Now Morris has abstained from masturbation, finding that when the urge really hits him he can keep his hands off himself by grabbing his headboard, squeezing, and waiting for the urge to pass (mind, Morris is growing up in the 40's and 50's, so masturbation is a moral sin). By The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened, Morris finds the urge too much.
But all this changed one night in the summer of 1949, when he was fourteen and about to God damn explode, one hot July night with the window open and the dull anonymous midnight sounds whirring and pumping out there where lives were being lived, not endured, and the entire world was all hot and bothered and lonely and loving and sad, one night when, while gripping the bedposts so tightly that his hands were fishbelly white and his palms were all tingly and sore from the friction, he, Morris Bird III, that master of virtuous Goody Twoshoes selfcontrol,
actually
and irretrievably
and for once
and for all
and forever
and for good
squeezed the bedposts so tightly that he caused them—both of them, simultaneously—to come loose from the headboard. Which caused the headboard to pitch forward and hit him across the forehead. Which also caused him to yelp like a puppy with its tail caught in an electric fan. Which also caused the bed to collapse. Which created a sound that was like World War III. He knew it all would cause his mother and father to come rushing into the room (which they did, his father hopping on his one good foot). Morris Bird III was sitting up on the fallen mattress, and he was rubbing his head, and he supposed his mother and father would figure he had been jacking off. Which they did. His mother called him Nasty, and his father said: Don't you have any control over yourself? And Morris Bird III wanted to jump out of the window and catch a slow freight to Butte, Montana, and that was the truth. It was a week before a carpenter came to fix the bed, and in the meantime Morris Bird III slept on the mattress on the floor. He jacked off every night, and he slept very well, and his hands developed neither warts nor hairs.
--From The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened
And, finally, Roberston threads an emotional honesty and wisdom throughout each novel. He leaves us with no easy answers. People die, and relationships fail, and love turns to hate, and hate turns to love, and the world is senseless and cruel, but he holds fast onto hope, and onto decency, and onto doing good to others. Like the bravest of writers, Roberston shows us how terribly unfair and hurtful the world can be, especially the world of the very people we love and who love us, and yet he has the true courage to compel us to believe in dignity, love and goodness.
That's a rare gift.
He pressed his fingers against his eyesockets. He saw all sorts of colored lights. He wondered if he still was bleeding from his asshole. (HERE LIES MORRIS BIRD III: HIS RECTUM WRECKED HIM).
--From The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened
I hope you might find the time to track down these works. All three have been republished recently (although Roberston's other work is damn hard to find). Don Roberston is a writer to be admired, and one who deserves to be read, and widely.
If you do, I believe you'll be delighted. Morris Bird III isn't a character you're likely to forget.
