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| Two Men |
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| George Mallory and Shel Silverstein |
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This is Dark Cloud on Wednesday, May 12, 1999. It would be well nigh impossible to juxtapose two more different men. George Mallory and Shel Silverstein were of different times, different cultures, different world views, and were about as physically dissimilar as two individuals can be within the same species. And yet there are things that unite them in my mind so closely they remain in my memory, if not in total comfort, at least in gentle good humor and mutual regard. This may not be apparent to those of you blessed with increased sanity, so it may require some explaining. Shel Silverstein, who died Sunday, was a very clever poet and all around wordsmith, playwright, and songwriter. Although he wrote hit songs and Oscar nominated tunes, he is best known for his association with Hugh Hefner and Playboy magazine in the sixties, wherein he wrote of himself as a dirty old man hanging around the Aryan goddesses of the mansion. This was funny and effective, if severely dated, but it was a false image. His humor was gentle and self-deprecating, highly intelligent and, it must be said, childlike. In fact, although he wrote superficially smarmy songs like "A Boy Named Sue" for Johnny Cash and "Three Legged Man" for John Denver and The Mitchell Trio, he is best known for writing genuinely great books like "The Giving Tree" which fascinate children and clench the throat of the parents equally. There are so many terrible books for children, and you sometimes forget how passionless, how stupid they are until you revisit Silverstein, who in less than a hundred words created layer upon layer of substance that moves people fifty years apart in age. How many writers can do that? E. B. White, Charles Dodson, some others, maybe. Dr. Seuss made no pretense of substance for adults. Silverstein was a very civilizing factor in the early days of Playboy and the sexual revolution; he was spoken of with great affection by all who worked with him, and together with cartoonist Gahan Wilson kept Playboy from becoming an utterly Hedonistic screed with naughty pictures. Say what you will about Hugh Hefner: he knew talent, he paid talent, he kept talent. Think that common? Ask any writer you know about how underrated Playboy was as a writer's vehicle. If Playboy kept Silverstein afloat while he wrote his kid's books, Hefner should be honored for it. Silverstein was only a toddler when George Mallory was killed attempting to climb Mt. Everest in 1924. Mallory's body has been frozen stiff for seventy five years when it was found this month only about two thousand feet from the top of Everest, and it is an open question whether or not he and his single companion were on their way up or down after summating the world's highest peak thirty years before the Hillary expedition. The released photograph of the body is grimly compelling. Among other things, it looks like it was only a recent death, for the body is not distorted and, in fact, the discoverer of the corpse could not refrain from pointing out that the muscular strength of this most famous mountaineer of legend is still impressive even after seventy five years of death. His leg had been broken and he had clearly turned his face to the mountain to await death, which must have been horrible. Mallory was a British aristocrat, famous for his masculine beauty, physical stamina and strength. He knew Virginia Wolfe and all the literary people of his nation and time, he was written about by them, and he seems to have had a place in the hearts of those subject to literary homoerotic fantasies. His death, like that of Robert Falcon Scott twelve years previous, was yet another in a seemingly endless series of British failures on the brink of success. Mallory is the one who, when asked why in the world he or anyone wanted to climb Everest, replied "Because it is there." Pithy, corny now, but utterly perfect, combining contempt, truthfulness, and expressed desire. The expedition that discovered Mallory's body also commented on the equipment used in 1924. Heavy leather, canvas, wool and hemp - stuff too heavy, too weak, too thin to be even considered by today's climbers. Also, no Sherpas, no huge entourage, not a single journalist. Two guys, two axes, some rope. Compare his efforts to those of Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air. In the year before his death, speaking at Harvard, Mallory was asked again, after two failed attempts on the world's tallest peaks, 'why?' His answer: "For the stone from the top for geologists, the knowledge of the limits of endurance for the doctors, but above all for the spirit of adventure to keep alive the soul of man." It is bunk, of course, but inspiring bunk delivered by the last men of the 19th century, of which Mallory was one. His was the age of James Barrie and Peter Pan, or Robert Stephenson and Treasure Island, of Scott and the race to the Pole. He died in his prime at a great feat, just as heroes are supposed to. Silverstein merely biodegraded, had heart disease.And your question is, after all this, what unites Silverstein and Mallory? Simply this: They were as children in a world of adults, one cynical and trying to share an innocence long lost, and one who never left it, never admitted its currency of fame and glory were all bosh, even if you carried out the last instructions, dying young and leaving, even after seventy-five years, a beautiful corpse. And, unfortunately, they shared one more thing: they died alone. We all do, of course. And that's all most of us will ever share with them. |
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