I finished up A Fan’s Notes last night, and found myself, towards the last few pages of the book, just pausing and looking up.  Tears in my eyes, I felt this struggle and pain and fighting against the dying of the light.

Fan’s Notes is what it is, a fictional memoir on the sloppy writer’s life of Frederick Exley. A suffering artist, no doubt,  in real life. One who spent time in institutions, who never saw the end of the bottle, a glutton who gorged himself with food and simply lived, with the occasional street fight.

And he adored Frank Gifford and saw something in Gifford’s rise and fall that opened up a chasm within himself.  His muse.  A muse in the form of a beautiful, well built, sturdy football player. The popular guy, the one with all the success.  And Exley rooted him on every step of the way. And defended Gifford’s honor when a cruel and judgmental public grew tired and bored of the eventual old and injured Gifford.

Gifford himself threw a party for Exley.  However, as in the case with artists like this, it didn’t help Exley in any way. The pain and suffering is the grit that he needs.  To me it seemed like pity from Gifford.  A pity Exley didn’t need.

Exley was and is the tragic hero and the everyman. The guy or gal in each of us that craves the excess and the madness that comes with writing.  The person inside that loves writing so much and needs to write so much that the high is fed and fed by all the rest of the vices.  The alcohol, the drugs, the food, the sex, the fantasy life. The observation of all the people in the world and how do we write them? How do we get the racing narrative in our brains all down on paper?

Exley did it in such a masterful meaningful way. He meandered a lot through Fan’s Notes but he journied well.  He was a slob and he knew it. He made no excuses at all.  He was certainly no John Irving who ever remains fit and businesslike.

No,  Irving is the long distance runner, the long performer, in it for the long haul.  Skilled, toned, and ready.

Exley is the one hit wonder, the guy out of left field who suddenly wins the race, then disappears from view, but you never forget him.  And in that brief spurt, or ejaculation,  shall we say,  of words, he changes everything and connects with us all.

God bless you Frederick Exley.