I knew he was the one the instant I saw him. The mane of white hair had
something to do with it, I suppose, as did the fact that he wore the
kind of bow tie you had to knot yourself. Everything about him exuded
urbanity and intellectual savvy. I could tell he was a great editor by
the way he slouched in his chair, staring at a manuscript. Here,
finally, was the man under whom I could serve my apprenticeship.
Of course, I got skewered the first time I handed him an article. To this day I remember not only what he said but also the precise way he articulated the individual words, as though each were an arrow aimed at my ego.
" John," he said, " if you dont know how to spell a word, please do me the courtesy of looking it up."
In common with most young writers I had lounged in the illusion that only the ignorant had to look things up. Dictionaries were for dire emergencies. But Van kept a Webster's seventh collegiate on his desk and a big, library-size Webster's on a pedestal nearby, and he consulted them constantly. Now, 5yrs later, as I strain to remember exactly what it was that so awed me, the image that comes to my mind is deceptively simple. I see him reaching for the dictionary.
To Van, writing was a craft. It was about knowing what you had to say and being sharp about it. Every morning he expected you to put a short piece in his in-box the "8:30 piece," he called it. If it wasn't there he stood up, jabbed his finger at the box and said, "well, John, where is it?" And then you stammered while everyone else tried to look busy, pretended not to notice.
When the occasion required, Van produced a scowl that combined outrage, disgust and disappointment, and still included a certain tinge of sadness for the inherent weakness of the human creature. His stare was also a formidable weapon. Early in our relationship I would look up and find Van studying me as if I were a slightly offensive object. There was no defence against that scowl or that stare; either made you wish you could slink away and hide.
Van taught me always to ask the pushy question, always to enquire what was beyond the curtain, always to seek the root truth. So it may seem odd that not one of us ever peered into Van's background, or questioned by what experience or authority he had acquired his godlike status. It simply never occured to us. He was that good.
Van once told me that to write a sentence with a mismatched noun and verb was the literary equivalent of going on stage with your fly open. In this way, first in fear and then in fascination, I discovered my mother tongue. It was not unusual for me to spend a day writing a single paragraph, only to throw it out.
As I stared, straining at my typewriter, Van was the one I was trying to please. Meanwhile I worried about what I had most recently deposited in his basket, for fear that I had done something stupid. But my hope was that it would produce his highest compliment, which was that a piece was " readable" and make him smile.
When I put a piece in his box, Van might acknowledge the fact with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Later, he would look up and stare balefully at the in-box. He would pick up the piece and glare at it for a while. Then Van would breathe an audible sigh of hopelessness and toss the piece back in the box. He would spin his chair round, take off his glasses and stare through the wall of windows.
When Van was finally ready to discuss a piece, he would motion towards a hard, wooden chair that he kept next to his desk. Unspeakable terror siezed me when that moment came. Van's chair was the hardest piece of furniture I have ever sat on.
At times I despaired of ever pleasing the man. When I failed, I hated him, as he made me hate myself for my inadequancy, and yet I loved him for the gentleness I could tell was underneath. When I succeeded, he would beam at me and say loudly enough for all to hear, "Hey, John...that's readable."
By
Of course, I got skewered the first time I handed him an article. To this day I remember not only what he said but also the precise way he articulated the individual words, as though each were an arrow aimed at my ego.
" John," he said, " if you dont know how to spell a word, please do me the courtesy of looking it up."
In common with most young writers I had lounged in the illusion that only the ignorant had to look things up. Dictionaries were for dire emergencies. But Van kept a Webster's seventh collegiate on his desk and a big, library-size Webster's on a pedestal nearby, and he consulted them constantly. Now, 5yrs later, as I strain to remember exactly what it was that so awed me, the image that comes to my mind is deceptively simple. I see him reaching for the dictionary.
To Van, writing was a craft. It was about knowing what you had to say and being sharp about it. Every morning he expected you to put a short piece in his in-box the "8:30 piece," he called it. If it wasn't there he stood up, jabbed his finger at the box and said, "well, John, where is it?" And then you stammered while everyone else tried to look busy, pretended not to notice.
When the occasion required, Van produced a scowl that combined outrage, disgust and disappointment, and still included a certain tinge of sadness for the inherent weakness of the human creature. His stare was also a formidable weapon. Early in our relationship I would look up and find Van studying me as if I were a slightly offensive object. There was no defence against that scowl or that stare; either made you wish you could slink away and hide.
Van taught me always to ask the pushy question, always to enquire what was beyond the curtain, always to seek the root truth. So it may seem odd that not one of us ever peered into Van's background, or questioned by what experience or authority he had acquired his godlike status. It simply never occured to us. He was that good.
Van once told me that to write a sentence with a mismatched noun and verb was the literary equivalent of going on stage with your fly open. In this way, first in fear and then in fascination, I discovered my mother tongue. It was not unusual for me to spend a day writing a single paragraph, only to throw it out.
As I stared, straining at my typewriter, Van was the one I was trying to please. Meanwhile I worried about what I had most recently deposited in his basket, for fear that I had done something stupid. But my hope was that it would produce his highest compliment, which was that a piece was " readable" and make him smile.
When I put a piece in his box, Van might acknowledge the fact with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Later, he would look up and stare balefully at the in-box. He would pick up the piece and glare at it for a while. Then Van would breathe an audible sigh of hopelessness and toss the piece back in the box. He would spin his chair round, take off his glasses and stare through the wall of windows.
When Van was finally ready to discuss a piece, he would motion towards a hard, wooden chair that he kept next to his desk. Unspeakable terror siezed me when that moment came. Van's chair was the hardest piece of furniture I have ever sat on.
At times I despaired of ever pleasing the man. When I failed, I hated him, as he made me hate myself for my inadequancy, and yet I loved him for the gentleness I could tell was underneath. When I succeeded, he would beam at me and say loudly enough for all to hear, "Hey, John...that's readable."
By
