My Very Brief Encounter with Gore Vidal

Gore Vidal on the Amalfi Coast
(photo from the Guardian)

When I lived in Italy, I worked with a Canadian who spoke with Gore Vidal at a Roman dinner party. My colleague told me of a way to informally meet the celebrity writer. All I had to do was telephone him; his Amalfi Coast home had a phone number listed under the name of his companion, Howard Austen.

I admit I didn't have the chutzpah to make the call. The situation was saved when the Puccini scholar Deborah Burton simply picked up the phone and inquired if and how a meeting could be arranged. Austen said he and Vidal would be in Ravello (see photo) and they typically took a walk in the early evening. We could meet them on the street.

And that's what happened. Vidal was taller and bigger built than I had anticipated; I stood on a curb to look him in the eye. Greetings were exchanged. I expressed my admiration for his work. He and Mr. Austen thanked us, wished us well, and walked away. No paparazzi, no socially ambitious hostesses, no publicity handlers. Just two men out for their evening passegiata in a provincial Italian town where they, of course, were well known.

No, it was not a big deal from any rational perspective. Yet, seeing the flesh-and-blood people responsible for outstanding literature is, and remains, very special for me. There's nothing rational about it. And make no mistake, Vidal's essays stand among the best in American writing.

When giants move on, we sense its significance. Gore Vidal's passing leaves American belles lettres without a dominant, defining, defiant personality.