Gay Talese, 91, is a living legend of journalism. He wrote what is considered the greatest magazine story ever published, "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold," which appeared in the April 1966 issue of Esquire. His latest book, Bartleby and Me, is out now. Talese spoke to Esquire at his home in Manhattan.
You’re talking to a guy who just turned in a book. Jesus Christ, I’m 91 and I finished a book. Not only did I finish a book, but I also read it over and I like it. Looking over 70 years as a published writer, I’m not anything but happy with what I did.
One of the things about being 91 is that you always think you’re going to be dead a week from now. So you’re always ahead of the game.
When you’re a shop owner’s son, you learn good manners.
The store my parents had was a former newspaper office called the Ledger. My mother had a dress shop on one side and my father had a tailor shop on the other. But the tailor shop didn’t make any money. The dress shop made a lot of money. We lived off my mother. I still live off my wife.
I picked up from my parents that clothes are important. When you own a store, you dress for your customers. When you’re a reporter, you dress for your customer. My customer is who I’m interviewing.
My mother was a great listener. She would get people to talk about their lives. She was the daughter of immigrants. She wanted to know her customers. Who are they? A lot of my journalism comes out of my mother’s tutelage.
I wore a fedora as a kid. On the one hand, I didn’t like having my hat thrown against the school bus or dirt thrown on my clothes in the schoolyard. On the other hand, I liked the fact that my father and mother were beautifully dressed. I also thought my mother was the prettiest woman in the town.
Ocean City was founded by Methodist ministers. They never allowed a drink there till this day. Everybody was a WASP. The poor people were mostly Irish. The poor Irish kids called me “dago” all the time.
My father made suits for the publisher of the weekly newspaper. Through that connection, I got to be the high school correspondent to our local newspaper. I wrote a column. I was not a football player or an athlete. I was not a scholar. Bad grades. But I had that column. I had status.
This article appeared in the 90th Anniversary issue of Esquire
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I didn’t want to be a five-w reporter—who, what, why, where, when. I didn’t want to be a hard-news reporter. I wanted to be a fucking writer.
My real stars were fiction writers. I wanted to be a fucking writer of nonfiction, but I wanted to have literary status. I’m not sure I ever got it, but I wanted it.
I thought Thy Neighbor’s Wife was a great book. It got killed.
The massage parlor gave me a stage. I always wanted a scene. How can I write a book about a massage parlor? It’s going to be Jean Genet Goes to a Massage Parlor. It didn’t work. So I start hanging around massage parlors. Secret sex was going public. There was a redefinition of morality.
I was always a voyeur. When I was living as a nudist and a great fucking fornicator at Sandstone, I called my wife Nan up. I’m with all these frolicking orgyists. “Hey, Nan. I’m over here, 60 people with no clothes on.” I’m describing an orgy like I’m Edward R. Murrow in London during World War II. I was never ashamed of what I was doing even when I was embarrassing her.
I’m not going to apologize. For what? Writing what I wanted to write? No. I’m not going to apologize for writing well.
People think that sex is important, that love is important. It’s not important. One thing is important: respect. Sex is not important at all. Sex is the introduction. Sex is the handshake.
I wanted to be present and accounted for. The art of hanging out. Be there! Get off the fucking telephone. Show up!
I can’t remember one good review in my life. I had some mixed reviews. I’m the master of mixed reviews. For the first time in my life, I don’t give a fuck.
Part of the reason I’m married to the same woman for 64 years, she’s the only person that’s given me good reviews.
I wasn’t arrogant. I was ambitious. I was very mannered, very controlled, respectful, deferential. My father said, “You have to produce.” I had to produce. I had to keep writing; I had to keep working. I have to. You have to produce.
Everybody you meet has an unwritten novel. Everybody. That waiter, the bartender, the doorman outside. The mission of a nonfiction writer is: I want to know their story, be the first to write it. Because if I don’t, no one knows their story.
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