{"id":124215,"date":"2018-04-12T14:01:43","date_gmt":"2018-04-12T18:01:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=124215"},"modified":"2018-04-13T12:25:31","modified_gmt":"2018-04-13T16:25:31","slug":"what-do-poets-talk-about","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/12\/what-do-poets-talk-about\/","title":{"rendered":"What Do Poets Talk About?"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

J.\u2009D. McClatchy with his husband, Chip Kidd.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

J.\u2009D. McClatchy, one of America\u2019s foremost men of letters, died in his home Tuesday at the age of seventy-two. He was the author of eight volumes of poetry and a string of acclaimed opera librettos. He also was a prolific editor, anthologist, translator, critic, the longtime editor of <\/em>The Yale Review, and the president of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He won too many awards and fellowships to list with brevity here. His poems appeared frequently in <\/em>The Paris Review, and his Art of Poetry interview<\/a> appeared in our Fall 2002 issue. I first met him when I was twelve or thirteen years old. He sat down next to me on my parents\u2019 couch and complimented my dress, pinching the fabric between his fingers to feel it. I jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and breathlessly told my mother that one of her friends was being inappropriate with me. She laughed warmly\u2014Sandy, as his friends called him, was both very gentle and very gay.\u00a0I last saw him two years ago at the Miami Book Festival. A mutual friend asked if, now that I had published a book, I considered myself a writer. I found myself flustered, unsure how to respond. Luckily, Sandy stepped in. \u201cA writer is only a writer when they are writing,\u201d he said firmly, then winked at me. It\u2019s an answer, an understanding, a confidence that I have carried around in my pocket ever since.<\/em>\u00a0\u2014Nadja Spiegelman<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As the spouse of one of my closest friends, Chip Kidd, I got to know Sandy McClatchy as one might know, well, a friend\u2019s spouse. Chip and Sandy met in the early nineties, Chip and I having been friends for a few years before and I first learning of Chip\u2019s infatuation when he mailed me a color-xeroxed eight-by-ten-inch publicity photo of Sandy with the words PROPERTY OF C.K.<\/small> written diagonally in red across its lower quadrant like bubble letters on a school spiral notebook. Though I felt like I\u2019d been passed a secret note in math class, I offered up my heartiest of congratulations because Chip had been single for a while. Privately, however, I was worried: Chip and I really only talked about comics and dumb stuff; this guy was a poet and opera librettist. What do poets and opera librettists talk about? What was I<\/em> going to talk about if I ever met him?\u00a0<\/p>\n

Fortunately, I didn\u2019t have to worry; Sandy didn\u2019t talk down to anyone. He treated you as if you were a genuinely interesting person with whom he\u2019d longed to converse\u2014which of course made you try to actually act like one. Fortunately, I was still in the thrall of reading Flaubert\u2019s Madame Bovary<\/em> when we did meet, so I had something I could semicredibly grind on about. Looking like something of a silvery hawk, his nose curving over a mischievous ten-o\u2019clock-shadow smile, Sandy always seemed perched to toss some quip or withering aside from his beak, and as the clich\u00e9 goes, he was not one to suffer fools gladly (though with Chip as his husband and therefore a parade of cartoonists muddying their threshold over the years, he must have suffered plenty). After our first meeting, I was sure I\u2019d made an ass of myself, but a few days later, in the mail arrived a large brick of a package, James Merrill\u2019s personal copy of the first printing of Nabokov\u2019s Ada<\/em>, which Sandy had inscribed to me, adding that of all people he knew, he thought I\u2019d appreciate it most.<\/p>\n

After that, I relaxed, he and I engaging in conversations about books and writers and classical composers we both admired, and even if he did find me a tiresome dummy, he never let on. I always assumed him to be unfailingly proper, but he was also something of a prankster. One night, in the early aughts, he met up with Chip, another cartoonist, and me for dinner while the three of us were in the middle of a book tour; we\u2019d all spent the morning and afternoon doing interviews, yet here I was on the phone with a publicist politely trying to accommodate the request for another\u2014which would\u2019ve chewed well into our dinner hour. Sandy, annoyed, took the phone from my hand, amplified his already imposing well-educated accent, and, introducing himself as our \u201chandler,\u201d insisted that there was simply no way \u201cthe authors\u201d would be able to accede to any further interviews that day, thank you very much. Then he hung up.<\/p>\n

I was horrified.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow,\u201d he said, pleased. \u201cShall we go to dinner?\u201d<\/p>\n

He invited me to contribute to T<\/em>he Yale Review,<\/em> regularly sent along kind birthday greetings to me and my wife and gifts to our daughter (sharing godfatherly duties with Chip), and somehow thought I\u2019d be qualified to design the sets for his opera based on Winsor McCay\u2019s Little Nemo<\/em>. Most memorably, on one visit to New York, he and Chip invited me over to meet Shirley Hazzard, whom he knew I\u2019d appreciate not only for her own notable literary achievements but also for her marriage to Francis Steegmuller, who\u2019d spent the better part of his life as the English-speaking world\u2019s preeminent Flaubert scholar. I was genuinely wowed, if one can say \u201cwowed\u201d in the same paragraph as \u201cShirley Hazzard.\u201d<\/p>\n

Even if we didn\u2019t see each other that often in person, we wrote back and forth every year, usually around our birthdays, and his notes were chatty and elevating, though always with some devilish taint to them. He delighted in dragging Chip to see some erudite play or opera just as Chip regularly dragged him to see the latest Iron Man<\/em>. In 2011, in response to my emailed birthday wishes, he wrote:<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen, decades from now, you too reach the venerable age of 66, you\u2019ll understand why I chose to celebrate the occasion by going to a performance of King Lear<\/em> by the Royal Shakespeare Company. Because it was my birthday, Chip felt he HAD to accompany me\u2014and sat there writhing! So I made myself melancholy and ruined Chip\u2019s day. Ta-dah!\u201d<\/p>\n

So I guess that\u2019s what a poet-librettist is like. Or at least the one I knew. And the one whom I\u2019ll greatly, greatly miss.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chris Ware is the author, most recently, of <\/em>Monograph and <\/em>Building Stories.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  J.\u2009D. McClatchy, one of America\u2019s foremost men of letters, died in his home Tuesday at the age of seventy-two. He was the author of eight volumes of poetry and a string of acclaimed opera librettos. He also was a prolific editor, anthologist, translator, critic, the longtime editor of The Yale Review, and the president […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1462,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[1731,21342,5816,868,3101,33717,2364,15927],"class_list":["post-124215","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-in-memoriam","tag-chip-kidd","tag-j-d-mcclatchy","tag-james-merrill","tag-madame-bovary","tag-nabokov","tag-sandy-mcclatchy","tag-shirley-hazzard","tag-winsor-mccay"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat Do Poets Talk About?<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Chris Ware remembers J. 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