Of Bohemianism and Creativity: Life as Narration By the time I finished reading this haunting and poignant book, I was wondering whether there is a connection between self-exile (a term I use very loosely) and man’s unending desire to narrate. Creation is a solitary act. When I was still living in my hometown, I loved escaping to my bedroom after dinner, making myself detached from my people, who used to sit in the drawing room watching soap operas. I used to read stuff here and there, mostly mystery novels, paranormal science and the like, and loved to imagine stories - though I hardly wrote any. It was an early fascination with things mysterious. During those days, I longed to be alone on some mountain, in a cozy hut with a warm hearth in it. I never had the faintest idea what I was going to do in that hut. But thinking about that hut made my adrenaline rush. Even today, when I look back and think about my teenage years, the image of that hut suddenly pops up, as if I had actually lived there. I outgrew that phase as I started searching for a job. It was stupid really, but such fascination is unavoidable while one is growing up. Only few of us really end up being bohemians. Joseph Mitchell’s beautifully rendered, symphony-like biography of an eccentric bohemian named Joe Gould is a work of classic storytelling. Gould was a tramp who lived on the streets of Greenwich Village, and survived on food and cloths donated by people who cared for him, or those who helped him out of pity. Though very unkempt, and irritating at times, he was a genuinely interesting character. Mitchell creates a very vibrant sketch of Gould’s complex personality that remains with you for days after the reading is over. What interested me most was Gould’s life ambition – Oral History of the world, the book he had spent his entire life writing, and which, according to him, would be an accurate history of the world. The piles of papers already written for “Oral history” exceeded Gould’s own height. At one of Mitchell’s meetings with him, Gould even condemned his untidy, vagabond life, but immediately consoled himself that this was the only way to live if he had to write the “Oral history”. How else could he capture people talking? Because “people talking is history”. Funny thing is that most of the people in Greenwich Village knew about the herculean task he had subjected himself to, and often inquired about its progress.Because he didn’t have a home, kind and concerned people in the neighborhood sheltered his many piles of pages, so in a way his book in the making was scattered under various roofs. After he died they couldn’t find the “Oral History” in those pages. Maybe that is why Mitchell’s biographical portrait of Gould has the word “secret” in it, but the secret here is not something that a reader awaits like in the mystery novels. It is about human weakness, and the little, insignificant things one does to keep going. I assure you readers that it is hardly a spoiler, as the pleasure of the book totally lies in the way Mitchell takes you through this unusual life.Gould used to write big time. While to those around him he appeared to be taking constant notes, a notion he always emphasized, he was, in fact, re-writing the same few chapters dealing with seemingly trivial events in his own early life. He suffered from a psychological condition called hypergraphia: an obsessive urge to write. It is not incorrect to state that he spent his life writing junk, and that the “Oral history” everyone eagerly waited for never existed. Gould left many threads unanswered. Mitchell narrates to us the life of this clochard, an apparent intellectual trying to capture the unconscious of the “shirt-sleeved multitude”, with such meticulous observation that the narration in turn becomes Mitchell’s own art – as if Gould, through living an immaterial life waited for someone who will finally capture him in words, and make him immortal, at least in the papyrus memory. I was fascinated by two insignificant essays Gould tirelessly wrote all his life: one was based on his father’s death (which must have meant a great deal to him), and other was on ketchup or something related to tomatoes. Just imagine: a person assumes detachment from society, and lives like a tramp to write about certain events of his youth over and over again – interesting but sad. But I think I have sensed something in Gould’s biography, to which Mitchell points in passing, which may contain a key to understand him: his block. Gould had envisioned a theme, which if written with great dedication could have been a unique, if not greatest, book on human history. But he must have felt that the theme was bigger than him - a feeling that he was trying to lift himself by lifting his own shoelace. I have gone through this feeling myself. Writing in itself is a curious, at times arduous, affair. I sometimes get amused how I started writing after leaving home. Though I loved creating plots, and used to imagine scenes of my stories during long bike rides with friends, I never wrote a word when I was at home. Away from home, solitude made me write. So in a way, what I loosely refer to as self-exile here, and what Gould imposed upon himself, seems like a necessary condition. After writing short-stories here and there, when I finally conceived a grand plot, I was suddenly made aware of my current limitations. The plot looked so terrifyingly big that I would just put it aside and write trivial things instead – things not even worth writing. At one point I even tried writing a book on the impossibility of writing a book. So I think I intuitively understand Gould when he writes about tomato ketchup, trapped in a strange loop. Gould had created an illusion, a mask, about the “Oral history” being written, while in reality it was not. He used to hide behind this mask, and enjoyed the possible glory his work was to bring, or to some extent the rumor of which already brought. It was his incapability to write what he had envisioned that in itself became a story worth telling. He narrated his tale through living, and not writing. He should thank his stars that there was a Mitchell to capture it. His passion laid, not in recounting the “Oral history”, but in recounting his life, his incapability.
Sorry folks, but Joe Gould's Secret was just meh to me.First of all, it is not the mistake of the narrative, or even the author himself - or Joe Gould's, for that matter - that his "secret" is yawningly predictable. So predictable, in fact, that the tragic nature of it reads a little bit banal. It's so baseline realistic and understandable as to lack the ability to compel. The lessons to infer, the character of the man, are so obvious that the insight one could garner is a miniscule non-event. I feel it was a mistaken heuristic on the part of the reader to go "oooo, a secret!" and start salivating for a plot twist that wasn't there, nor was it meant to be there. It's not an Agatha Christie novel, people. It's a shame to me that Mitchell, as a cracker-jack reporter, took so long to figure it out...unless, of course, that stretch was fabricated. I could understand why the comments, then, equate him as a reporter to him as an excellent writer of fiction.The problem with some of the language put into the dialogue in the second essay is horrifically inauthentic. Not that such a burden to have a photographic memory on Mitchell's part is necessary, but the dialogue he does attempt to create is clunky, overly exposition-driven, and awkward on top of a bit tone-deaf. Honestly the way he tried to fashion words into people's mouths oftentimes reached a Twilight-level of awkwardness. Indeed, if these words were indeed a raw transcription, some true things do not translate well to solid artistic presentation. (Side note: I felt the first essay was better-written, and I wish the second didn't reiterate so much of the first in a more slipshod fashion).Joe Gould, as a character, is a tritely tragic real-life character who is not unlikeable due to his eccentricities, if that makes sense, but more in the "we-all-know-this-type-of-person-already" kind of way. The crusade against the focus on "un-likeable" people is one I can equate to "I don't like different people" or "I don't want life to seem real." I am happy to watch a good story about an anti-hero or something of the sort (TL;DR I'm with Roxane Gay on that). The thing is how on-the-nose he is as a person. He's simply eccentric and opinionated (and stinky) in a boring way.My last issue is that Mitchell's "romantic" view of NYC isn't really there for me. I suppose this is a compelling-enough document to glorify or reminisce about a by-gone era of New York bohemianism, but really, is this scene one worth commending or re-visiting? And if it is, shouldn't there be a better example? As far as the bars and locations, I guess people seem to have an NYC boner just from hearing addresses (oh fap fap fap, the Bowery everybody, omgggg) or just hearing that such-and-such deli was on 76th Street. Often this is enough to trigger that magical, fantastic whiff of smugness inherent in knowing something, anything about NYC. But I wasn't charmed particularly. Not by Joe Gould, not by Mitchell (and his dubious ethical system), and not this portrait of the city. But yeah, I've had about enough of egotistical windbags. He wasn't even a funny one, either. Sorry to hear he lied at length about a silly project, but, ho hum. And we all die someday in pathetic circumstances, by the way. So ho hum there, too.I do like that the more money he does seem to have the more willing people are to give to him, because he just seems more reliable with a steady income. That was a cool insight. Ta da, that's it.
What do You think about Joe Gould's Secret (1999)?
As Joan Didion said, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." Greenwich Village bohemian Joe Gould had a story, "An Oral History of Our Time," which was handwritten in numerous composition books, and reported to be millions of words long and stored safely underground on a duck farm in Long Island. Joseph Mitchell had a story about Joe Gould. Well, two, really. His pair of pieces for The New Yorker are combined for this fascinating book. While written in 1942 and 1964, respectively, Mitchell's reporting style is contemporary—no doubt because of his influence on modern nonfiction. It's an insightful character piece that delves into the power of storytelling and the fear of mediocrity.
—Josh Luft
Joe Gould's Secret tells the real story of a homeless man that lived off of a dream: he dreamed that he was a gifted writer; and he sold that dream to a number of people that fed him and eventually provided him with shelter and money for drinks. He was no writer at all; but he was very entertaining; and nobody knew that he wasn't really writing anything. This book is very successful showing his wonderful personality and the different tricks he applied to get some cash out of the people around him. I Loved it!
—Ariadna73
Starts out a bit snooty (as might well be expected from New Yorker types), but then becomes most intriguing indeed. Unfortunately though I have to say that my interest was lessened considerably by the revelation of the Secret. And afterward I had a tough time getting a grasp on the author's version of ethics, as he keeps the whole business quietly to himself. A lot of amusing moments anyway, such as the following excerpt: "My heart sank. Oh, God, I remember thinking, I'm in for it now. He'll come in looking for letters practically every day from now on. And every time he comes in, he'll talk and talk and talk. And he'll keep on doing it, year in and year out, until I die or he dies." lol Reminds me of Basil Fawlty to Manuel: "Please try to understand before one of us dies."
—TrumanCoyote
