{"id":59308,"date":"2013-09-12T11:15:25","date_gmt":"2013-09-12T15:15:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=59308"},"modified":"2013-09-12T10:38:51","modified_gmt":"2013-09-12T14:38:51","slug":"driving-mr-murray","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/","title":{"rendered":"Driving Mr. Murray"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"MurrayLarge\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection <\/em>The Omni-Americans, which infuriated the African-American intellectual establishment in the early seventies; the novel <\/em>Train Whistle Guitar, likely headed for a classic\u2019s long life; the essay <\/em>South to a Very Old Place, not just as funny as anything written in last century\u2019s second half, but a searching investigation of black-and-white relations; the jazz treatise <\/em>Stomping the Blues, another probable classic and a life-changing text for musicians, and <\/em>The Hero and The Blues, Murray\u2019s bracing exposition of his aesthetic.<\/em><\/p>\n

In the mid to late nineties, writer Tony Scherman spent a good deal of time with Murray; these memories are drawn from that period.<\/em><\/p>\n

In 1996, having read most of Albert Murray\u2019s published books, I decided to write about him. We spoke once or twice to arrange a meeting, and I drove in from the country to the middle-class Harlem apartment complex at 132nd Street and Lenox Avenue where Murray, his wife Mozelle, and their daughter, Michelle, had lived since 1962.<\/p>\n

Ringing the doorbell, I got no response. Finally the chain was unfastened, the door swung open, and it was plain right away why it had taken Albert Murray so long to get to the door; he could hardly walk. Two spinal operations and severe arthritis had cruelly reduced his mobility. He inched along, entirely focused on the task at hand: reaching his destination. His condition must have been maddening, but in my three-hour visit, he never complained. Yet when his speech grew querulous and his patience short, I\u2019m sure that such behavior came not merely from impatience with interlocutors who didn\u2019t think as speedily as he did, but from being in permanent pain. I came to see his big, handsome grin as something designed to show that bad luck and trouble would never set him back. <\/p>\n

At eighty, Al Murray was still a handsome man. Below a nose that was slightly broader than aquiline was a small, neatly trimmed mustache. He was tastefully and semiconservatively dressed, and\u00a0while shaking his hand, I caught a whiff of first-class cologne. Murray\u2019s smile was winning: appealingly crooked, crinkling the skin around his eyes, immediately creating an empathetic, welcoming air.<\/p>\n

The apartment was small but congenial. The living room\u2019s only floor-to-ceiling wall was entirely obscured by Murray\u2019s library, oriented towards nineteenth- and early twentieth-century fiction, but rich in other genres. I had never met anyone else who seemed to have read, and reread, every book of consequence.<\/p>\n

Interviewing Murray could drive one crazy, he held so doggedly to his opinions. I can\u2019t recall his ever approaching anything like, \u201cHmm. Maybe you\u2019re right after all.\u201d He could get nasty: \u201cHave you ever heard any Armstrong at all<\/i>?\u201d I could get every bit as pissed off\u2014at times it was not very good communication. Yet Murray\u2019s irritation never lasted; he always quickly returned to eager explication of the idea at hand.<\/p>\n

He was happy to have me to materialize weekly. I was just the latest prot\u00e9g\u00e9; he needed us. So for two or three years, I spent many a Saturday afternoon at 45 Lenox Terrace. When I could longer make weekly visits, I dropped by sporadically throughout 2001.<\/p>\n

A friend wanted to know how I would characterize my relationship with Murray. \u201cStudent?\u201d he asked. \u201cProt\u00e9g\u00e9? Disciple?\u201d<\/p>\n

“Chauffeur,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n

My mentor and I would leave his building, clamber into my car\u2014a tough job for Murray even with the doorman\u2019s or my help\u2014and head downtown. Our first stop was usually the Duane Reade on Sixth Avenue in the mid-Forties, where I would hop out and pick up Murray\u2019s weekly medicinal and health supplies. I could never understand why we drove eight miles for Metamucil when there must have been two or three Duane Reades in Murray\u2019s vicinity.<\/p>\n

We often went further downtown. Once we stopped at a posh office-chair outlet on West Fifteenth Street that someone had recommended. A salesman glided over.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m looking for something that\u2019ll let me write another two, three books,\u201d said Mr. Murray with his winning smile. Predictably disarmed, the fellow wound up telling us that he was an ex-junkie whose roommate in detox had been Billy Higgins, Ornette Coleman\u2019s\u00a0first drummer.<\/p>\n

\u201cI heard you gentlemen talking about jazz,\u201d he said, \u201cso I figured you might be familiar with Billy.\u201d The guy didn\u2019t know he was stepping onto a minefield. Mr. Murray had no use, none at all, for Ornette Coleman. Whether he couldn\u2019t or wouldn\u2019t, the man did not swing. Played out of tune, too. I braced myself for a trashing of Higgins\u2019s former employer, but none came. Smiling pleasantly, Mr. Murray listened to the salesman\u2019s tales of kicking with Billy. And swinging his arms wide and generously, our new friend insisted that we ask him anything about the merchandise. Murray settled on a top-dollar chair after which, on the drive uptown, he launched into a discourse on high standards and the importance of elegance.<\/p>\n

Given Murray\u2019s famous disdain for pop music, I was delighted to come across a January 1960 letter from Murray, then stationed in the Air Force in Los Angeles, to his almost lifelong intellectual colleague Ralph Ellison.<\/p>\n

\n

I went to two RAY CHARLES dance dates \u2026 Wonderful time \u2026 Man, that goddamned Ray ass Charles absorbs everything and uses everything. Absorbs it and assimilates it with all that sanctified stew meat smelling, mattress stirring, fucked up guilt touchy violence, jailhouse dodging, second hand American dream shit, and sometimes it comes out like a sermon by one them spellbinding stem winders in your work-in-progress [Ellison\u2019s never-to-be-finished second novel] and other times he\u2019s extending Basie\u2019s stuff better than Basie himself.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

So much for the moldy-fig charge.<\/p>\n

I often met Murray after Jazz at Lincoln Center concerts. We sought each other out in the emptying house and I\u2019d take his elbow and help him up the aisle, then the outdoor steps to my car. I sometimes grew mildly resentful of\u00a0the role (forgetting that I had volunteered for it), imagining other concertgoers considering me Murray\u2019s lackey. In retrospect, if I were, I was getting plenty back.<\/p>\n

As we\u2019d head uptown, not all of our talk was serious. Murray might sing the praises of Henry Aaron, Willie Mays, or other Alabama Landsm\u00e4nner<\/i>.<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s next on your writing agenda?\u201d I might ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cScooter\u2019s next. Next series of episodes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Scooter is the autobiographical hero of Murray\u2019s four novels.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut then it\u2019ll be a tetralogy.\u201d<\/p>\n

He cracked up. \u201cWhy do you get into these academic things? I don\u2019t give a fuck what you call it, man! Anthony Powell had twelve volumes! I\u2019m just writing a story. You ever read any Anthony Powell?\u201d<\/p>\n

I remarked once that it must feel great for him and Mrs. Murray to have been together so long; there was all that trust and mutual awareness. He said that no, it wasn\u2019t great. \u201cBecause you\u2019re always worrying about who\u2019s going to go first and leave you alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

I asked him how he felt when he woke up in the morning.<\/p>\n

\u201cGlad that I\u2019m alive.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou say that pretty jauntily.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not? Look at all those people I knew that are dead!\u201d<\/p>\n

Shortly after my oldest daughter was born, in September 1997, Murray and I were talking on the phone.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s her name?\u201d<\/p>\n

“Louisiana.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLuzana Cholly!\u201d (A character in the novel Train Whistle Guitar<\/i>.)<\/p>\n

God, what an ego!<\/em> I thought. The whole world is an extension of himself.<\/em> Oh well. The ego was just part of the package.<\/p>\n

Neither of us realized it at the time, but my daughter\u2019s birth was the beginning of the end of our relationship. He grew irritable when I stopped showing up every Saturday. He was a father; didn\u2019t he remember how much time a baby swallows up?<\/p>\n

We hadn\u2019t seen each other for a long time when I stopped by to loan him Don DeLillo\u2019s Underworld<\/i> and a big new book on the founding documents. Some time afterwards, we spoke on the phone and he asked me over. \u201cI\u2019m holding those books of yours.\u201d I never went. Out of an impulse I couldn\u2019t identify, I considered our friendship a closed book.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/center><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t remember who told me that Murray was seriously ill, due to the merciless advance of his old foe, arthritis, and now with dementia. It took me a long time to visit him. Finally I drove to 45 Lenox Terrace, rode the elevator to the eighth floor, rang the buzzer, and waited.<\/p>\n

He lay on his back on a hospital bed in one of those white gowns with no back. I approached the bed and bent down. His face was deeply lined. The thick creases looked rubbery. He smiled nonstop, but the smile looked like a grimace, so that his face resembled a tragicomic mask.<\/p>\n

He spoke in an incoherent babble. But a moment occurred when I was almost certain that that there was a functioning mind behind the chatter; I thought I heard him say \u201cculture,\u201d which, I insisted to myself, meant he remembered who I was. I showed him the magazine interview we had done in 1996, when we\u2019d met. He looked intently at the big color photographs. Did he know the man in them? I just couldn\u2019t tell.<\/p>\n

There was a bouquet on the living-room table from a Murray prot\u00e9g\u00e9 infinitely better known, and more faithful, than I: Wynton Marsalis. I stood up to say my goodbyes. It was 2010. I sometimes \u201cchecked\u201d on him through mutual friends, friends who visited Murray regularly. But I never went back.<\/p>\n

Tony Scherman always considered Albert Murray his only-ever mentor. Scherman had written only about what Mr. Murray would have called \u201cvernacular\u201d music\u2014pop, jazz, blues, etc.\u2014for a long time (fifteen years?)\u00a0when he butted up against Mr. Murray in 1996. Whereupon he broadened his horizon to an extent he would never have thought possible. I\u2014I mean he\u2014began writing about literature, art, issues in history, and American culture (which for Mr. Murray was \u201cincontestably mulatto\u201d\u2014he, more than anyone else, exploded blacks\u2019 and whites’ rigid mutual separation.) Hanging out with Mr. Murray was the equivalent of grades K through grad. School. Anyway, I haven\u2019t been studying pop music much. Just the universe\u2014the one I first explored with the Man.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The Omni-Americans, which infuriated the African-American intellectual establishment in the early seventies; the novel Train Whistle Guitar, likely headed for a classic\u2019s long life; the essay South to a Very Old Place, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":596,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[11817,6047,1889,11205,330,11818,11819,11820,11821],"class_list":["post-59308","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-in-memoriam","tag-albert-murray","tag-anthony-powell","tag-don-delillo","tag-henry-aaron","tag-jazz","tag-orentte-coleman","tag-ray-charles","tag-williw-mays","tag-wynton-marsalis"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nDriving Mr. Murray by Tony Scherman<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"September 12, 2013 \u2013 The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Driving Mr. Murray by Tony Scherman\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 12, 2013 \u2013 The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2013-09-12T15:15:25+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"600\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"523\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Tony Scherman\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Tony Scherman\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"9 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Tony Scherman\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/2df35abdf81f88fde496c919cb75ba9c\"},\"headline\":\"Driving Mr. Murray\",\"datePublished\":\"2013-09-12T15:15:25+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\"},\"wordCount\":1769,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Albert Murray\",\"Anthony Powell\",\"Don DeLillo\",\"Henry Aaron\",\"jazz\",\"Orentte Coleman\",\"Ray Charles\",\"Williw Mays\",\"Wynton Marsalis\"],\"articleSection\":[\"In Memoriam\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\",\"name\":\"Driving Mr. Murray by Tony Scherman\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2013-09-12T15:15:25+00:00\",\"description\":\"September 12, 2013 \u2013 The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Driving Mr. Murray\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/2df35abdf81f88fde496c919cb75ba9c\",\"name\":\"Tony Scherman\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/c095b3065952fee741d86d23495e9fdd1cf9037e548dbd18df74da5b30a16209?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/c095b3065952fee741d86d23495e9fdd1cf9037e548dbd18df74da5b30a16209?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Tony Scherman\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/tscherman\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Driving Mr. Murray by Tony Scherman","description":"September 12, 2013 \u2013 The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Driving Mr. Murray by Tony Scherman","og_description":"September 12, 2013 \u2013 The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2013-09-12T15:15:25+00:00","og_image":[{"width":600,"height":523,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Tony Scherman","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Tony Scherman","Est. reading time":"9 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/"},"author":{"name":"Tony Scherman","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/2df35abdf81f88fde496c919cb75ba9c"},"headline":"Driving Mr. Murray","datePublished":"2013-09-12T15:15:25+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/"},"wordCount":1769,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg","keywords":["Albert Murray","Anthony Powell","Don DeLillo","Henry Aaron","jazz","Orentte Coleman","Ray Charles","Williw Mays","Wynton Marsalis"],"articleSection":["In Memoriam"],"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/","name":"Driving Mr. Murray by Tony Scherman","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg","datePublished":"2013-09-12T15:15:25+00:00","description":"September 12, 2013 \u2013 The author Albert Murray died, on August 18, after a long illness. He was ninety-seven. Among Murray\u2019s eleven books are the essay collection The","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/MurrayLarge.jpg"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/09\/12\/driving-mr-murray\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Driving Mr. Murray"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/2df35abdf81f88fde496c919cb75ba9c","name":"Tony Scherman","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/c095b3065952fee741d86d23495e9fdd1cf9037e548dbd18df74da5b30a16209?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/c095b3065952fee741d86d23495e9fdd1cf9037e548dbd18df74da5b30a16209?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Tony Scherman"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/tscherman\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/59308","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/596"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=59308"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/59308\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":59364,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/59308\/revisions\/59364"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=59308"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=59308"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=59308"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}