Oh Paddy!
I finished reading Patrick Leigh Fermor's biography, and I'm... readjusting my view of Paddy.
The warts come out, of course, in a comprehensive view of his life. The only school/job at which he ever succeeded was as a spy during WW II, and that was largely because he made up the job far far away from his bosses. To a certain extent he succeeded as a writer, in that his writing was absolutely lovely and layered and learned and mellifluous (and much-awarded). But he also never met a deadline he couldn't scorn or an assignment whose parameters he couldn't ignore. (In some ways, his ability to ignore editorial constrains is breath-taking.) He believed that he needed to wait for his muse to arrive before writing and spent years faffing about instead of buckling down to create first drafts. He was a perfectionist about his writing, and revised his drafts endlessly, to the despair of his editors. (And by the way, no, he never did substantively finish on the third book on the Walk, although something will inevitably be published sooner or later from his notes.)
In some ways, Paddy never had to grow up. He quite literally fucked around (heterosexually) for most of his long life and many of his bills were paid, directly or indirectly, because of his ability to charm women and, to a lesser extent, editors. (He was notoriously referred to once as a middle-class gigolo for upper-class women.)
But he also was an exemplary human. He was enormously interested in pretty much everyone he ever met, was apparently a very giving lover, and loved to talk, sing, recite poetry, joke, travel, and read. And occasionally, create.
He was a romantic, and I believe he would have been happy enough being romanticized by me and people like me.
The book also mentions his friendship with Xan, but never gets to the heart of the relationship. Although, there is one lovely post-War photo of Xan, buck naked, posing like Mercury atop a column amid ruins, that wins points for sheer brio.
So, you know. They were flawed and human, and not the heroes that I could so easily make them out to be. Or, not just that.
Crossposted here (
comments).
The warts come out, of course, in a comprehensive view of his life. The only school/job at which he ever succeeded was as a spy during WW II, and that was largely because he made up the job far far away from his bosses. To a certain extent he succeeded as a writer, in that his writing was absolutely lovely and layered and learned and mellifluous (and much-awarded). But he also never met a deadline he couldn't scorn or an assignment whose parameters he couldn't ignore. (In some ways, his ability to ignore editorial constrains is breath-taking.) He believed that he needed to wait for his muse to arrive before writing and spent years faffing about instead of buckling down to create first drafts. He was a perfectionist about his writing, and revised his drafts endlessly, to the despair of his editors. (And by the way, no, he never did substantively finish on the third book on the Walk, although something will inevitably be published sooner or later from his notes.)
In some ways, Paddy never had to grow up. He quite literally fucked around (heterosexually) for most of his long life and many of his bills were paid, directly or indirectly, because of his ability to charm women and, to a lesser extent, editors. (He was notoriously referred to once as a middle-class gigolo for upper-class women.)
But he also was an exemplary human. He was enormously interested in pretty much everyone he ever met, was apparently a very giving lover, and loved to talk, sing, recite poetry, joke, travel, and read. And occasionally, create.
He was a romantic, and I believe he would have been happy enough being romanticized by me and people like me.
The book also mentions his friendship with Xan, but never gets to the heart of the relationship. Although, there is one lovely post-War photo of Xan, buck naked, posing like Mercury atop a column amid ruins, that wins points for sheer brio.
So, you know. They were flawed and human, and not the heroes that I could so easily make them out to be. Or, not just that.
Crossposted here (
comments).