Notes on Character Profiles

There are few works that I enjoy reading more than character profiles—entire bodies of writing dedicated to parsing out the fascinating nuances of an individual. One of the reasons why I flipped literary sides from fiction to nonfiction was my reverence for authentic character. People and the quiet dramas that consume them enthrall me—so much so that I began to feel that neglecting this ready wealth of resources that sit beside me on the bus, pass me on the stairs, talk loudly into their cell phones ahead of me in line, was a tantamount to criminal. For a person like myself, who so easily becomes absorbed by the miniscule concerns of my little life, the idea that the personal worlds of others are just as complex and discouraging at mine is deeply comforting. I am drawn to the formulating depths of individual character, and therefore drawn to writing that dives in to such places.

It seems to me that a great profile is neither wholly complimentary, nor is it wholly damning. It should come close to both the truth of how that person is perceived by the public and the realities of how they perceive themselves. A great character profile should be human, and by that I mean multifaceted, vaguely self-contradictory, a little gritty and illuminating in the connections it builds (or does not build) between the individual and the masses. I would argue that all great nonfiction should have elements of an excellent character profile—even nonfiction that does not include humans, as character can be found far beyond the limits of flesh and blood.

Our readings this week is evidence not just of superior character profiles, but also of the different forms such profiles can successfully embody. We have a character built through pointed questions and a subject’s own words in “Janet Malcolm, The Art of Nonfiction No. 4.” Joan Schenkar briefly but concisely explores Theodora Keogh’s character through a double lens of her life and her writing. And, in John Jeremiah Sullivan’s work, we have an essay that analyzes Andrew Lytle’s character by evaluating its decline or adulteration in the Southern writer’s old age.  Three different subjects, three different authors, three different forms—but these pieces are the same in that they each offer unique and moving insight into the lives they profile.

Some note on each of these works:

Andrew Lytle. Source: thefsw.org

"Mister Lytle: An Essay." There are many admirable elements to this essay, not least of which is the smooth-flowing prose that both sets a scene and analyzes it. What I admire most about this piece, however, is that Sullivan resists the urge to go beyond the scope of his own knowledge concerning Lytle. He could have easily provided some summary of who Lytle was before he became so old, could have gone on about his publishing credits and reputation prior to his sad cabin days. Instead of going this easy, diplomatic route, Sullivan instead offers up a profile that hinges upon what old age did and did not take from Lytle. He doesn’t pussy-foot around Lytle’s decrepitude but lets it stand as an authentic representation of the author’s character and style.  Is this character profile a complete representation of the Lytle himself? Yes, in that it shows him as he was during the year Sullivan knew him, and no, because it shows him as he was during just that year. But who is to say that a character profile must be thorough, all encompassing? I appreciate that Sullivan threw out the notion that he needed to represent the author in all of his dimensions and instead focused in on one dimension to hint towards all of the many other elements of this fascinating character.

Ms. Keogh. Source: newyorksocialdiary.com

"The Late, Great Theodora Keogh." This is a rather cosmetic comment, but I must say that I truly appreciated the two photos included in this article. Because it was short in length, these visual aides added an extra element to Schenkar’s profile. The photos back up in an indescribable way the assertions made about Keogh’s character. It makes me think about the Devil in the White City and how changed the text may have been had Larson included photos of Holmes, the murderer.

Janet Malcolm. Source: www.jewishjournal.com

"Janet Malcolm, The Art of Nonfiction No. 4." What struck me most about this interview was how much one can learn about Malcolm’s character from the questions she chose not to answer from the interviewer. At first, my thought was that the candidness of a face-to-face interview would be lost in an email exchange, but I was happy to see that I was wrong. You can feel the tension between Malcolm and some of these questions, as well as some of her own answers, and these tensions reveal much about the author, especially in regards to how she sees herself and wants others to see her.

Of course, one must consider the venue in regards to the success of these profiles—and I look forward to reading what my brilliant classmates have to say on this subject. All three of these pieces are from The Paris Review—a magazine for writers, produced by writers. With it’s nearly 60 years of existence and masthead and TOC so continually weighted by the lustrous names of the literary elite, this publication has an aura and influence all its own. Such provenance and authority no doubt influences the work produced for its pages.

First—The Paris Review seems to know its audience. They don’t waste precious space detailing each author’s bibliography because they assume their readers will already know such information, or at least will possess the smarts and incentive to look it up. Furthermore, The Paris Review knows the lens through which its articles are read. This is writing for writers, meaning that inquiries into the nuances of the profession, of technique and philosophy are prioritized. These three pieces are not profiles that are concerned only with the subject as a writer, or with the subject as a layperson—these writings demonstrate the necessity of evaluating both sides—of evaluating a writer’s professional and personal life in order to obtain the most insightful profile. They seek to enlighten the reader not just to the useful bits of writerly advice the subject divulges or divulged, but also to the ways in which the subject lived, thought, struggled. In these areas the authors of these pieces seem to have mined the most value, for they are pointing us towards writerly lessons that the subject himself may not have known he could offer. In addition to gearing articles to its specific audience and creating space for three-dimensional artist profiles, the editors and writers of The Paris Review also ensure that the text printed is of a comparable caliber to the text they analyze. By this I mean only that the writing produced for the magazine is often rich, smart and beautiful, which of course seems only fitting given its topics and contributors. Such excellent prose translates into powerful profiles in these three instances, which then lends to the narrative authority of the authors.

I have questions regarding the reception that these sorts of works have/had outside of the writing community. Though I know no non-writers who read The Paris Review, I do know quite a few non-writers who read The New Yorker, which often publishes similar author profiles in its editions. My fellow book-nerds tend to love these long-form inquiries into the writers’ life, but those less enchanted by the literary world have voiced annoyance regarding such pieces. Some claim that profiles like these can be “boring” since they don’t really care about how many hours the author spends writing a day, or what kind of pen she can’t live without. Others find such profiles almost offensive—they claim that there is something lost when a writer pulls back the curtain to reveal the grimy inner-workings behind the production of a celebrated volume. Its as though the magic of literature is being stolen from them in these close looks into writers’ lives. These are individuals that maintain that a book should stand alone and that understanding it should be done without the consideration of its creator. Of course, I can’t fully sympathize with these complaints, but I can’t shake the need to question what might be lost in looking at a writer’s professional work through her personal life. Does doing so enlighten or narrow our view of the literature? For writers, the answer to this seems easy, since we gain so much from seeing the “big” picture surrounding a work of great writing—but what about the rest of us?