I first encountered Paul Watkins as a memoirist, and then set out to investigate his novels, reading both a later and earlier one. But, because I’d discovered his prose as nonfiction—spoken in his own, highly personal voice—I just had to find a copy of his first autobiographical work, “Stand Before Your God,” an account of his coming of age at English boarding schools. Thank goodness for the Kentucky system of interlibrary loans!
“Stand” is a bit tough to settle into, due to its uncomfortable opening. As a boy, Paul was literally tricked into leaving home at the age of seven to get an education in the centuries-old manner of the English upper crust. Unfortunately, he was an American, and was made to feel the misfit from the first startling moments. Out of this inescapable loneliness his creativity is born, and by page 100, I’d grown so fond of the lad that I was already bemoaning the end of the book.
A few years ago, after finishing “Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber” by David Gelernter, I understood that it’s possible for one to develop such a deep affection for the mind of a writer that the life-span of an exceptional book triggers all the emotions associated with birth, maturation, separation, and, inevitably, the finality of mourning.
I think many dedicated readers would understand what I’m trying to describe. Although I’m a bit uneasy with this phenomenon, I’m not ashamed to admit that on rare occasions, I can actually fall in love with an artist’s creative personality. Maybe it’s even more than that—a non-physical soul union of some type that alters you for the better.
When it comes down to it, most art is basically stupid… but not when it reaches heights worthy of the word. To be able to produce a single significant, enduring work of art is a tremendous achievement, but to consistently connect with others at such an essential level—as Watkins is able to do—almost defies comprehension.