To answer my own question: I’m not sure that I ever did have what we might call heroes. I expect not. Yes, there were those beings on the silver and small screens that thrilled me: modern day warriors, today’s Tom Sawyers, our myths and legends: revisionist knights of Western round tables, who rode into town and, whether by happenstance or design, save the beleaguered or right long past wrongs; the self-sacrificing youth of Dieppe and Juno, who gave all against the looming tyranny, that we may be free today; then there’s Luke and Han; Bond, James Bond; Indiana Jones, etc.
They (my “heroes”) evolved over time: Woodward and
Bernstein in “All the President’s Men,” Redford’s Roy Hobbs in “The Natural,”
Newman’s “Cool Hand Luke,” each bucking oppressive authority, however self-servingly
or self-destructively. Film is well and good, motion pictures loom large in our
modern psyche; but these heroic figures on screen aren’t real, not really, are
they; and even if they were/are, they are confined to a foreshortened
narrative, characters in a play.
Heroes ought to be real. And larger than life.
Inspirational people are another thing, altogether. That
I can embrace. I can still find example in film, but what would be the point in
that? Who, really, wants to aspire to be a fictional figure?
Who then, in my ever-evolving consciousness, inspires/-ed
me? And why?
Shall I list those who come to mind?
I must, mustn’t I.
First and foremost, I suppose, is Shakespeare. Was there ever an author of plays or prose who captured human consciousness as completely, his hopes and fears, his angel and demon within? Macbeth and Hamlet come to mind instantly, they being two of his best tortured souls. But I would be remise if I did not point to the Machiavellian Iago, the duplicitous scamp Falstaff, to Prince Hal’s transformative arc. I am swept away by Shakespeare’s words, suffused with the depth and intonation and pacing they were so obviously intended to be performed with. Indeed, I’ve heard that Shakespeare is best experienced live, rather than read. Is he, though? That depends on who and how he’s performed. When passing through Stratford-Upon-Avon, I heard recordings of famous actors reciting passages with such emotion that I could only lament my tepid introduction to him in school, where few teachers could muster up more than an altogether uninspired recitation. So too certain performances; but I blame the actors less than I do the artistic director and producer for those fumbles. My soul cringes even now, remembering them. We must experience Shakespeare done right if we are to judge him properly.
The next figure how looms large in my imagination is Charles Dickens. If there ever was a Victorian social justice warrior, he might be it. He stood against child labour, debtors’ prisons, he established foundations to aid “fallen women.” I suppose we might say that he waged war against poverty. This comes to no surprise if one recalls his father’s imprisonment for debt, his own toiling in a blacking-warehouse, and his subsequent obsession with London’s disaffected. Those experiences inspired Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Pip, each likely himself thinly disguised. Having been face to face with cruelty and indifference surely gave birth to Scrooge, Fagen, Uriah Heep, and Mr. Tulkinghorn, to say nothing of psychopathic, homicidal Bill Sykes. Regardless how dismissed his writing was when he was alive (described by some as intellectually lacking), I must disagree with those past critiques: I personally was and am enamoured by his infinitely memorable characters, his turns of phrase, and was initially astonished at how funny his books turned out to be. But it’s he himself that I am most enamoured with: He might have remained mired in London’s most low stratum, but he didn’t; he had the fortitude to escape poverty and drudgery to become perhaps the most famous and celebrated person of his age. He was not without fault, however. His treatment of his wife was deplorable, however generous he was to others; in fact, he was hardly faithful: He had a very lengthy affair (indeed, he was travelling with his mistress when he survived the horrific train accident that ought to have ended his life). That said, he was a creature of his time, not to defend him in his infidelity (a great many of his compatriots comported themselves no better; indeed, his friend Wilkie Collins {though never married} carried on with two mistresses at the same time). On the whole, though, I believe Dickens was a good man. He was probably a better man than most, then.
J.R.R. Tolkien. I’ve read The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings more than a few times, beginning long ago and a childhood far, far, away; and do to this day. Tolkien’s prose never fails to impress me, perhaps more now. That said, I’ve only read The Silmarillion once, to date (although I plan to do so again in the near future), on the heals of reading LotR, and thought it read like the Bible. I’ve skimmed the first bit recently and have not changed my opinion. Tolkien was, without doubt, influenced by the King James Bible when he was musing upon Middle Earth’s origins. He mused a lot. Indeed, he appears to have begun creating his canon even before The Great War. He wrote so much unused mythos that it required 12 volumes of The History Of Middle Earth to reveal it all. I can’t say I know a great deal about Tolkien, himself, though, regardless how high he stands in my imagination. I have seen the bio-pic detailing his early years, and have read his Father Christmas letters he wrote to his children, but little more. What I do know is impressive: linguist, professor, creator of languages, writer/editor of The Oxford English Dictionary, one of the fabled Inklings, to say nothing of The Hobbit and LotRs. I expect to learn more, shortly, having picked up his biography and book of letters.
Ernest Hemingway was my introduction to literary fiction. Do I like Hemingway? I don’t know. I adore his writing. But as a man? I expect that, were I to have lived in his time and met him, I would not. He presented himself as the uber-man. He hunted, fished, safari-ed, attended bullfights (and appears to have idolised bull-fighters). He boxed. But by all accounts, appears to have been dismissive and misogynistic. Was he, though? True, he was married four times. But I believe he never ceased loving Hadley, his first, till his dying day, regardless how life played out. I’m not sure he ever understood women. He may never have tried. He never once considered their inner voice in his writing. That said, he rarely considered any male inner voice, either, preferring to write only what was entirely necessary to tell his tales, inviting us, his readers, to fill in the rest. Personally, I believe that his entire body of work was an attempt to reconcile his (and his generation’s) experiences of the Great War. Gertrude Stein once said of him and them: “You are a lost generation” (give or take), and he and they spent a lifetime writing about it and their aftermath. Regardless his manly postering, he and they, especially those ex-pats he introduced me to, were formative for me: his “A Movable Feast,” and “The Sun Also Rises,” and Fitzgerald's “The Great Gatsby” are still a few of my favourite novels.
I suppose in this day and age we cannot include something
of film in what influences and inspires us. Steven Spielberg and John Hughes
entertained me on screen during my formative years as no other filmmakers
apparently could, so much so that I can’t imagine my youth without their
collective bodies of work. Aspects of Spielberg films resonate with me, like no
other (I could try to explain, but will not here). Hughes appeared to understand
those of us of a certain age, we Generation Jones/GenX cuspers, as completely
as all others seemed to either ignore or revile us. Why? They just did. Perhaps
they were kindred souls.
Stanley Kubrick, however, is on a different plane, altogether. One need only watch 2001: A Space Odyssey to understand that Kubrick was a man before his time. Add to that the rest of his films and one imagines that few directors will ever aspire to his skill and vision. Who has not been terrified by The Shining? Horrified by both Paths of Glory and A Clockwork Orange, each for different reasons? Wondered how war seems remotely possible after viewing Full Metal Jacket, or Dr. Strangelove? Wondered what the fuck is going on in Barry Lyndon or Eyes Wide Shut? And wondered how AI Artificial Intelligence might have differed from Spielberg’s had he had time to film it, himself? Kubrick may be as inexplicable as his films defy close scrutiny. But he was always provocative.
A new edition to this list is David Foster Wallace. My tragic hero, taken from me/us too soon, sadly by his own hand. I’ve begun inching my way through the works he left behind in preparation for tackling his masterwork, Infinite Jest. I began long ago by watching his interviews. I’m now reading his collected essays. When I’ve completed those I’ll read his short stories, then his first novel. Only with those complete will I attempt Infinite Jest again. I failed once. It’s obvious to me that he was without doubt exponentially smarter than I am, so perhaps that’s why I failed: I had not prepared properly for such a vast undertaking. Even so, I relate to so much of what he wrote in essays. He makes me laugh. Literally. I find myself barking out loud at certain passages. Moreover, he appears to have been a kindred soul – perhaps I flatter myself. I could never be. Not wholly. I survived. He did not. He could not overcome whatever tortured his soul.
Runners up?
There are a few. More than a few, actually, too many to list, maybe. Who can limit themselves to a small list after so many decades? Thus, these below are by no means also rans.
I love Ray Bradbury, perhaps, more than most SF writers. His is some of the greatest Science Fiction ever written, to my mind. He was less interested in the gadgets to come than how they might affect the human condition.
Beethoven certainly comes to mind, not solely for his music – which may be unparalleled in all of history – but for that angry portrait we all know him by. His was a tortured soul, it would seem.
Speaking of tortured souls, Lord Byron, described by a lover as “mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” certainly stands out from the fold, even if I’ve yet to read much of his poetry. One wonders whether it was his epic poetry or his reputation that lays claim to his enduring myth. Indeed, his might be the one that sparked what we know are “cult of personality.” His legend lives on, even if few can claim to know anything about him, by our describing people and characters as Byronic – proud, moody, and cynical, yet capable of deep, strong affection. Attractiveness helps (I recall Ethan Hawk’s youthful visage being referred to as Byronic). Note that being safe, steadfast, and trustworthy are never concurrent with being Byronic. Perhaps I wish I were Byronic, even though I know I can hardly lay claim to that description.
Louis Armstrong never fails to astonish me. Born in poverty, he was saved from that fate by the generosity of a Jewish family who bought him his first trumpet. The rest is history. He may not have invented Jazz but he certainly transformed music as we know it. I once heard a music historian (on Ken Burn’s Jazz) claim that Louis Armstrong invented modern “time.” Anyone who reads music will understand what that means.
Sinatra. Frank is one of those people who require only one name. His is a supposedly checkered history: rumours of mob connections spot his history, tarnishing his rise to fame. Regardless of whether that is true or not, Frank was an undeniable talent. Bobby-soxers screamed at his performances. He was for God-knows-how-long the best-selling recording artist of all time. His career spanned seven decades. He owned his own recording company. He was an actor, a singer, a global personality. Blue Eyes. Chairman of the Board. Founder of the Rat Pack. His legend lives on. Not bad for a gin-joint entertainer from Hoboken.
Did Jack Kerouac create the ‘60s? Maybe not. But he and the Beat Poets (most notably Allan Ginsberg) definitely lit the flame that caused that conflagration. Personally, I think he and his buddy, Neal Cassady, were dicks, who partied way too hard and lived without responsibility, dying young. But we have to recognise how powerful an influence “On the Road” (and AG’s “Howl”) had on a generation. On us too, truth be told. I read it (both). I found it (them) a difficult read, lacking good structure, and sufficient punctuation; but I also found it (them) inspirational. It made me want to travel the world. (And Rage and Howl.)
The Beatles. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Need I say more? ‘Nuff Said. Maybe not: their lyrics were never be as poetic as Simon and Garfunkel’s (few could aspire to that level, to my mind), but they were (and probably still are) the most influential group to have ever existed. I think so, anyway. Prove me wrong.
David Bowie. Every album is drastically different from every other he produced. To say nothing of how different his were to everyone else’s. The way he transformed himself, album to album, was in itself transformative. I was devastated by his loss.
Bruce Springsteen may be the poet laureate of the common man. He is for me, anyway. His songs give life to the characters within, illuminating America like no other. My favourites? The River and Nebraska. It would take too long to explain here. Suffice it to say I’m a sucker for tragedy.
Paul Theroux is a new edition to my list. He would describe himself as a novelist (and does in the essays I’ve recently read by him), but in truth he is likely more famous as a travel writer. He, to me, inspires travel even more than Kerouac, and though I would never be so bold or courageous a traveller as he is in his books, he makes me wish that I had that very courage.
This list is by no means exhaustive. But it is
reflective. Note that there are no actors mentioned. Are they inspirational? They
are – to actors. Some are to me, but I believe they don’t make the cut because
they are famous for portraying other people. I do love certain actors and their
body of work: Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, Paul Newman, Robert Redford,
Harrison Ford, etc. Who doesn’t love film in this day and age?
I ought to be ashamed that there are no women listed
above. There should be. But I’m male. I’m inspired by men. I expect most women
are inspired by women. I don’t believe we should apologise for that. This does
not say that I’m not a fan of creative women, because I am: Jane Austen, the
Bronte sisters, Agatha Christie, Stevie Nicks; I expect this list is long, too;
but I’ve never wanted to be a woman. And to be honest, I am as perplexed by
women as Hemingway was on his most generous day.
