GONE TO THAT GREAT PORT WARWICK IN THE SKY

Just a quick word on William Styron, who died earlier today of pneumonia at his home in Martha's Vineyard. He was 81. He was the author of several books, including The Confessions of Nat Turner, Set This House On Fire, Sophie's Choice, and Darkness Visible.

Styron's writing inhabited a unique territory, running on the plain-spoken cadences of writers like Salinger and Vonnegut, without forefeiting lushness in style or drama. This was true whether he was writing about the glowing and idle rich in an Italian Villa, or his weathered, ossified father in Port Warwick, the fictional city modeled on my and Styron's shared hometown, Newport News, Virginia, or as he slowly waded his way through a stark and compelling deconsruction of his battle with clinical depression.

Styron's work was gorgeous and intricate without being ornate, and never lacked for humor or distinct and engaging drama. There was, to me, something particularly American about his prose: Golden Age of Hollywood plots with distilled human emotions as raw as any Beckett. He was careful not to give anything more tenderness than God had already provided. His was real romance, without sentimentality.