I Death of an only slightly ugly American
’VE often had cause to remark that America’s war in Iraq has turned US citizens abroad into the white South Africans of our day. We Yanks were hard on pale Saffers who popped up in the States during apartheid. At best we treated them with misgiving — more usually with hostility. Never mind that most were in flight from a racist regime, to us they were a symbol of the ZAR and all that was blighted in it.
Chickens, meet roost. Following George W Bush’s years of carnage and waste, carrying an American accent into foreign parts now comes with extra social risk. Utter the word “aluminum” and brace for reverberations of disdain; say “hold the elevator” and watch the lift doors squeak close before you reach them. If you play your quintessential American cards right — the Jack of Brashness, the King of Irrepressibility, and so on — you’ll find yourself accused, in public, loudly and without irony, of being the CIA. It’s enough to make you pass for Canadian. Mind you, some of the most notable Americans abroad have been CIA. This includes a host of writers, one of whom, Peter Matthiessen, died this month aged 86, having led a literary life that positively scintillated.
He’s the only writer to have received the US’s National Book Award for both fiction and non-fiction. Of his novels, two tower above most American literature: At Play in the Fields of The Lord (1965), an unforgettable lesson in the follies of modern Christian missionaries, and Killing Mr Watson (1990), a Florida settler tale that will leave you shaken.
His best-known travel book, The Snow Leopard (1978), has changed the lives of everyone I know who’s read it. Oh, he also founded The Paris Review, one of the most revered literary magazines in history.
Being a spy is the moral equivalent of being a plagiarist
He did that while on the payroll of the CIA. No, it was more egregious than that: he did it — founded The Paris Review, that august and storied repository — as cover for his spying, which included reporting on Americans in post-World War 2 France. “It’s the only adventure I regret,” he said much later in life.
Being a spy is the moral equivalent of being a plagiarist. Once you’re revealed, it usually spells the end of your career. That scarlet S stains like blood — it’s the red bulls-eye at which the stones are cast. But Matthiessen escaped the revelation, somehow, with his reputation intact.
On balance, I think that’s fair. It’s easy to judge, but during the Cold War it was also easy to benefit from the CIA’s cultural largesse. Witness the rumours that swirled around Nat Nakasa’s literary magazine The Classic, or the whispers that attended Lewis Nkosi’s The New African. Both were reputedly funded, in part, by America’s spies, although doubtless without their editors’ knowledge. But as with Matthiessen and his Paris Review, the ends overcame the means.
I have a few ideas for a literary magazine, so hereby accept applications for handlers. I have the right accent, after all, and books make for good cover.