{"id":765,"date":"2010-06-14T11:30:11","date_gmt":"2010-06-14T15:30:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=765"},"modified":"2010-06-14T11:16:01","modified_gmt":"2010-06-14T15:16:01","slug":"meeting-the-goose","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2010\/06\/14\/meeting-the-goose\/","title":{"rendered":"Meeting the Goose"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"

I\u2019d always thought it a shame that Rainer Maria Rilke and Franz Kappus never met. Now, I\u2019m sure that it was a small mercy.<\/p><\/div>\u201cTo want to meet an author because you like his books is as ridiculous as wanting to meet the goose because you like pate de foie gras.\u201d\u2014Arthur Koestler<\/em><\/p>\n

I discovered My Literary Hero when I was fifteen years old, handed his first book by an English teacher who thought I\u2019d like him. Like MLH? I\u00a0loved\u00a0MLH: immediately, completely, and obsessively. It wasn\u2019t a romantic crush; it was a writer crush, and it endured. Over the next thirteen years, I read and reread everything he had written, toting all of his books\u2014essays, novels, short stories, what couldn\u2019t the man do?\u2014from my childhood home to my college dorm to my first apartment to my second, third, and fourth apartments. I read him on road trips, on airplanes, in foreign countries. I scrawled his best lines (poetry!) in my journals. I insisted that friends, family, acquaintances, and random passersby read MLH\u2019s work. I insisted they recognize its excellence. I was a one-girl, and then a one-woman, fan club. MLH was my idol.<\/p>\n

I eventually started to write a book myself. One day, as I was struggling with a passage, I thought, \u201cI bet MLH would know what to do. If only I could ask him.\u201d And then I thought \u201cBut\u00a0could\u00a0I ask him?\u201d Sure enough, his e-mail address was there for the taking\u2014one just needed to be willing to pick through the Internet obsessively for three hours and voila<\/em>! Access!<\/p>\n

I wrote (and revised and rewrote) an e-mail to MLH. Shockingly, MLH wrote back the next day. He\u2019d be glad to help.\u00a0Our correspondence commenced. It was my condensed, digital version of\u00a0Letters to a Young Poet<\/em>. Only he wasn’t advising me on how to write lyrical German poetry; he was advising me on how to appropriately market a non-fiction book about a dog. It seemed similar enough.<\/p>\n

If MLH and I got along famously over e-mail, I figured, we could potentially be best friends in real life. So when I took a cross-country trip several months after my first e-meeting with MLH, I wrote to tell him I’d be passing through his outpost\u00a0and asked if I could buy him a drink. By \u201cpassing through\u201d I meant \u201cdriving thirteen straight hours out of my way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Instead, MLH invited me over for dinner. He was significantly older than I and decidedly non-sleazy, but he lived in the bar-free boonies. That\u2019s how I ended up at his kitchen table.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s also how I made MLH wish we\u2019d never met.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Soon after I began to speak, I saw regret flash across MLH\u2019s face. Had I said something offensive? Ridiculous? Boring? But I had been on my best, most nervous behavior. I hadn’t made any gaffes. But I was a little loopy and he was a little serious. I was a young woman and he an old man. I was urban and he liked to climb mountains. And so it dawned on me that practically upon meeting me, MLH\u00a0had decided that he simply did not like me. I was not the type of individual he wanted to spend time with. Too late: dinner was on the stovetop, so we were captive to decorum.<\/p>\n

I hoped desperately to recover the situation. As I tried to turn the evening around,\u00a0I suddenly knew what it was like to be an awkward teenage boy in the presence of a cold and curvaceous girl. The more I tried to impress MLH, the less impressed he was. The situation spiraled downward rapidly: My mounting insecurity obscured any charm I might have mustered. I blathered. I blabbed. I prayed for the power to shut up.<\/p>\n

I counted the prongs on the fork. Still four. Had I mentioned I liked his house? He served me my food. How had he learned to cook? How were his parents? His plants? Nice shoes! Pretty pillow! I couldn\u2019t stop! After I\u2019d exhausted everything in my conversational arsenal, the room went silent. I panicked.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you had to kick one state out of America, which would it be?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don’t think of the world in those terms.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMissouri!\u201d I blurted. \u201cMissouri is the worst!\u201d Wait\u2014what did I have against Missouri?<\/p>\n

He angrily cut a piece of fish. I wracked my brain: Was MLH from Missouri? Was his mother from Missouri? Had he set a book in Missouri?<\/p>\n

\u201cI’d love to talk to you more,\u201d MLH said, unconvincingly, as soon as our plates were clean. \u201cBut I need to start packing for a trip.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the morning, I wrote a fawning thank you note and added, helplessly, \u201cAn unscientific survey revealed that if most people had to kick out one state, they would kick out North Dakota. Nebraska was a contender but the Springsteen album saved it!\u201d<\/p>\n

I heard the chirps of virtual crickets. Now, I knew what it was like to be both a teenage boy and a bombing stand-up comic. I never heard from MLH again, except for a short exchange when I asked if I could send him my finished book. I couldn\u2019t, he told me politely.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d always thought it a shame that Rainer Maria Rilke and Franz Kappus never met. Now, I\u2019m sure that it was a small mercy. The allure of a literary idol is, in large part, the unspoken conviction that you and this brilliant stranger understand each other. MLH’s prose used to open up new worlds. Now it just brings back the withering memory of MLH rolling his eyes at me over a plate of salmon as I relentlessly insulted the Midwest.<\/p>\n

Justine van der Leun<\/a> is the author of <\/em>Marcus of Umbria: What an Italian Dog Taught an American Girl About Love<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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