
In his essay "Why I Live Where I Live," Harry Crews writes: "I can leave the place where I live a couple of hours before daylight and be on a deserted little strip of sand called Crescent Beach in time to throw a piece of meat on a fire and then, in a few minutes, lie back sucking on a vodka bottle and chewing on a hunk of bloody beef while the sun lifts out of the Atlantic Ocean...and in three hours be out on the end of a dock, sitting in the Captain's Table eating hearts-of-palm salad and hot boiled shrimp and sipping on a tall, icy glass of beer while the sun I saw lift out of the Atlantic that morning sinks into the warm, waveless Gulf of Mexico. It makes a hell of a day."
Gainesville is an hour or so from each coast and is a fun little city full of students, homeless people, third-circuit country stars, ex-hippies, rednecks, and University doctors and teachers. Even though there's really only one option for shopping or Thai food, those one options are pretty good. We have Lillian's (Tom! Tom!), the Spanish-style Alachua County library, feral cats, and The Bambi Motel. You run into people you know all the time. The rent's affordable. The bars are weird. And it's close to beaches, springs, a psychic-medium town, a Greek sponge-fishermen town, Disney World, the Weeki Wachee mermaids, a sea island plantation, and a Jesus-theme amusement park.
But I never would have got here if not for Harry Crews. His book
A Feast of Snakes is one of the sexiest things I've ever read. I threw my shit in my car and drove down here because I figured Gainesville must have something going on I'd want.
I haven't met Harry yet, but I've sent him a bunch of letters and was able at one point to convince several people that I was pregnant with his child. A friend of mine here actually worked for an insurance company for a little while, and one day he had to drive out to this address to deny the potential customer a life insurance policy, and low and behold it was Harry Crews. From what I hear he's still a remorseless maniac partying himself into the grave -- apparently why the insurance company turned him down. I don't like that he's alone, but I do like that he's stuck to his guns about the bad habits. That's heartening, somehow.
Other books you should read of his are
Car,
A Childhood, and
The Gospel Singer. He appears in the film
Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus, and he had a new book out last year, I think, called
An American Family. Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth said of it: "He'll break your heart but he'll always bring you love." True that. Harry's kind of perceptive irreverence is what helps me stay hopeful about people.
As a side note, I recently saw the film based on his 1973 novel
The Hawk Is Dying. It was filmed here in Gainesville and features a shot of one of my favorite pool halls, The Silver Q. The film played at The Hippodrome, our downtown theater that you can drink in (they have a bar -- so fun). In the back row were ten grisly kids who claimed to be students of the MFA program Harry used to teach at. I thought it might've made him happy to know they were there.