Welcome to the Deep Dive. Today we're taking
a, well, a deep cut into 20th century American
letters. We're going to explore an author who
critics consistently praise, but who remains,
you know, largely unknown outside of his one
big success. That's right. We are talking about
Mark Harris. Yeah, Mark Harris, a novelist, a
literary biographer, professor. His life was
just a fascinating mirror of the very themes
he wrote about. It really was. When most people
hear the name Mark Harris, if they know it, they
think, bang the drums lowly. Yeah. That classic
baseball novel. Exactly. But as we unpack the
sources today, you find this life just defined
by like four decades of intense academic work,
sharp journalism, and this incredible output
of fiction, really focused on social critique.
So our mission today is kind of... To move beyond
the dugout. Totally. Explore the extraordinary,
you know, multifaceted career of this writer.
He often felt like he was under the radar, despite
his talent. And we actually have his own words
to guide us, which is perfect. He summed up his
books himself. Oh, yeah. What did he say? He
said they were, and this is a quote, about the
one man against his society and trying to come
to terms with his society and trying to succeed
within it without losing his own identity or
integrity. Wow. That's it, isn't it? That tension.
Success versus moral survival. It feels like
the engine behind everything he did, every book.
It's the perfect lens. Born Mark Harris Finkelstein,
Mount Vernon, New York, 1922. Right. And yeah,
he crafted the famous Henry Wiggin Quartet, those
baseball novels. Banging the drum slowly, the
big one. Lived a long, productive life. Passed
away in Santa Barbara back in 2007, age 84. Right.
But to really get that integrity piece he championed,
we have to start right at the beginning. with
this kind of foundational conflict that really
kicked off his career. Okay, let's do that. Let's
unpack this theme, identity, the price of integrity.
Go right back to 1940. He's just out of high
school looking for work. What's the first big
defining act? It's a huge one. He changes his
name. Born Mark Harris Finkelstein. In 1940,
right after graduation, drops the Finkelstein
completely. Just becomes Mark Harris. Wow. Okay.
And do the sources give explicit reasons for
this? I mean, that's a pretty dramatic step.
Oh, yeah. It wasn't casual. It was presented
as, well, a professional necessity driven by
prejudice, basically. OK. He stated pretty explicitly
that he dropped the surname because, and this
is his reasoning, it was a difficult time for
kids with Jewish names to get jobs. Right. So
right at the start, launching his career. Yeah.
He has to make this compromise. A profound one.
To succeed in the very society he's about to
spend his life critiquing, he first has to mask
a core part of his identity. That sets such a
tone, doesn't it? The central theme of his life's
work, succeeding without losing integrity. It's
immediately complicated by this, you know, pragmatic
sacrifice just to get in the door. Absolutely.
It must have given him this deep, almost painful
awareness of those social barriers. Yeah. Baked
in from day one. He knew what society demanded,
what the cost was. Exactly. But at the same time,
you see this other side developing, this intense
devotion to truth, to observation. And it starts
really early. You're talking about the diary?
The diary. It's almost unbelievable. The sources
say he started keeping a daily diary when he
was just 11 years old. 11. 11. And what's truly
astonishing is he kept it up every single day
for the rest of his life. Wait, every day? No
breaks. Every single day. We're talking over
seven decades of continuous writing, self -analysis,
recording detail. It's a sort of credible dedication.
It really is. Yeah. And you can see how that
kind of commitment to introspection, to precise
documentation becomes the bedrock for his writing
style later. That very grounded, realist. A writer
who commits to that kind of meticulous record
for 70 years. That's someone who believes deeply
in observed truth. Absolutely. And this need
to confront reality, document it. It gets tested
almost immediately by the war. Right. World War
II. Harris gets drafted into the U .S. Army,
January 1943. And his experience there, it quickly
becomes this crucible. Well, he wasn't just,
you know, a reluctant soldier. He developed this
serious growing opposition to the war itself.
And that gets compounded, really exacerbated
by his anger over the racial discrimination he
saw, pervasive in the army at the time. OK, so
this deep moral political outrage, it doesn't
just sit there. He acts on it. He does, dramatically,
which tells you a lot about his commitment to
that integrity idea, even when it's risky. What
did he do? He chose confrontation. In February
1944, he went AWOL, absent without leave. from
Camp Wheeler, Georgia. Oh, during wartime. That's
serious. Very serious. And it wasn't just, you
know, skipping out for a bit. It seems like it
was a deliberate act of protest, defiance against
the military structure, which for him probably
represented that rigid discriminatory society
he already felt alienated from. Wow. Okay, so
what happens? High stakes move. He gets arrested
pretty quickly, but then crucially he's hospitalized.
The official diagnosis was psychoneurosis. Okay.
But here's the key detail, the outcome. He receives
an honorable discharge. April 1944. An honorable
discharge? After going AWOL and being hospitalized
for psychoneurosis? Exactly. That is fascinating
in itself. It's like he navigated the system,
he challenged it to the breaking point, but somehow
emerged with his reputation, his honor, intact.
It almost perfectly mirrors that theme you mentioned.
The individual versus society, finding a way.
Yeah. The lived contradiction. That must have
fueled his art. Absolutely. He found a way to
resist, and that experience becomes immediate
raw material. His first novel, Trumpet to the
World, comes out in 1946. Just two years after
his discharge. Right. And that book, along with
something about a soldier later in 57, they directly
channel that wartime experience, the outrage
over racial injustice, the military rigidity.
So his early life is just this intense period,
social friction, dropping the name, going AWOL,
and every conflict just pours straight into his
fiction. You got it. The struggle isn't just
his theme, it's his autobiography in a way. It
makes the writing feel so necessary, not abstract
at all. Exactly. It's processed directly from
lived experience under duress. That pressure
cooker defined his voice. Realist. critic that
intensity is amazing especially when you think
about how unstable his professional life was
right after the war oh completely let's trace
that this next phase he's juggling everything
right journalism academia trying to be a novelist
the sources really paint a picture of just relentless
hustle after the discharge in april 44 he jumps
right into journalism May 44, the daily item
in Port Chester, New York. But it doesn't stick,
right? No, stability was elusive. Constantly
moving, changing roles. He goes to New York City,
works for PM, that progressive newspaper. Right,
I've heard of that one. Short -lived, though.
Yeah, and he was only there two months before
getting fired. Fired, okay. Suggest maybe a clash
or just that restless idealism, maybe. Could
be. The instability continues. But you have to
think, this is phenomenal training for a novelist
aiming for realism. Right, good point. Where
next? St. Louis. International News Service,
July 45. And it's there, amidst all this chaos,
that he meets Josephine Horan, his co -worker.
And marries her. Yep. March 1946. But even that
connection doesn't really anchor the job situation.
He resigns just four months later. Wow. That
sounds exhausting, constant flux. Geographically,
professionally. It really was. An intense grind.
Basically up until 1948, we see him pop up in
Albuquerque writing for the Albuquerque Journal.
Okay. Then Chicago. And this is interesting.
He's writing for publications focused on black
life like Negro Digest and Ebony. Ah, so that
commitment to social justice, the stuff that
fueled his AWOL protest, it's showing up in his
journalism choices, too. Absolutely. It's consistent.
And then finally, back to the York for the Park
Row News Service. OK, we need to pause here because
while he's doing this frantic short term journalism
scramble, moving, getting fired, moving again,
he somehow finishes and publishes his first novel.
Trumpet to the World. Right. 1946. That says
everything about his commitment, doesn't it?
The literary mission was just non -negotiable,
even when his life was completely unstable. That's
the core commitment. And, you know, the journalism
itself, even if it was chaotic, must have fed
the writing immensely. Bouncing around cities,
different communities, writing for Ebony. That
gives you a raw, unvarnished look at America.
Yeah, the foundation for that authenticity his
novels are known for. Definitely. And it seems
like that period of intense, maybe draining realism
spurred a change, a strategic pivot. Towards
something more structured. Exactly. The journalism
hustle finally leads him to academia. February
1948, he enrolls at the University of Denver.
Big shift. He gets his master's in English in
51. And he kept going. Oh, yeah. He clearly saw
the value in deep scholarly grounding. He gets
a Ph .D. in American Studies in the University
of Minnesota. Finishes that in 56. And his Ph
.D. topic. That's really revealing, isn't it?
About his politics, his interests. Absolutely.
His dissertation was on Randolph Bourne. The
progressive writer. Yeah, the intellectual. Bourne
was famous for opposing U .S. involvement in
World War I. His essay, War is the Health of
the State, huge critique of how war empowers
government, suppresses dissent. So for Harris,
who went AWOL during war, choosing Bourne is
like this massive academic validation of his
own lifelong stance, the individual resisting
the state. It's a perfect connection. He's using
his academic platform to kind of legitimize the
very conflict he lived through. And after the
doctorate, he moves into teaching. A really long
career as an educator. How long are we talking?
Nearly five decades. Starts September 56, San
Francisco State College. He stays there for 11
years until 67. That must have felt like incredible
stability after all the earlier moving around.
11 years in one place, yeah. But then he's since
moving again within academia this time. Seems
like it. A succession of... Pretty major university
posts, but often shorter stays. Purdue, 67 to
70. Okay. California Institute of the Arts, 70
to 73. University of Southern California, 73
to 75. University of Pittsburgh, 76 to 80. So
he's circulating through some big writing programs.
Highly sought after, clearly. Definitely. Reflects
his growing reputation as both a writer and a
professor. And where did he finally land his
longest academic home? That was Arizona State
University, ASU. He joins the faculty there in
September 1980, professor of English, mostly
teaching creative writing, and he stays there
until he retires in 2001. 21 years. Wow. Yeah.
So 21 years nurturing the next generation. It's
such a contrast to that chaotic start in journalism,
isn't it? It's a really powerful trajectory from
frantic newsrooms to revered tenured professor.
What do we know about his philosophy of writing
during this academic time? How he saw the writer
and reader? We get a fantastic insight, actually,
thanks to the literary critic Wayne Seaboo. Oh,
yeah. From the rhetoric of fiction. That's the
one. In that really influential 1961 book. Booth
actually quotes Harris, calls him a fine young
novelist. OK. And he uses Harris to illustrate
this core principle about narrative style and
what readers should expect. And this goes right
back to his realism, rejecting handholding. Exactly.
Harris's quote was, you will no more expect the
novelist to tell you precisely how something
is said than you will expect him to stand by
your chair and hold your book. Huh. That's brilliant.
Succinct. It's like a declaration of literary
integrity. Respect the reader's intelligence.
Totally. The writer. creates the authentic world,
the vernacular, the detail. But you, the reader,
you have to engage, interpret. The writer doesn't
do it for you. It's a demanding view. Very modern.
It is. And just to show you the mix of high principle
and, well, pragmatism. Yeah. In 1960, while he's
teaching at San Francisco State, he already appears
as a guest contestant on You Bet Your Life. Groucho
Marx's show? No way. Yes. Apparently using that
very popular platform to promote his latest book.
That's fantastic. The ultimate synthesis, right?
Integrity and hustle. Appearing on Groucho to
sell serious literature. Get to do what you got
to do, I guess. Okay, so let's pivot now to the
work he is absolutely best known for. The Henry
Wiggin Quartet. Bang the drum slowly. This is
where that theme, individual navigating society,
finds its most, well, accessible platform. And
maybe it's the most profitable one. Definitely
the most profitable. So, the Henry Wiggin Quartet,
four novels, all about professional baseball,
all narrated by the same guy, Henry Arthur Wiggin.
Pitcher for the fictional New York Mammoths.
Right. And the defining thing, right away, is
the voice. They're written almost entirely in
American vernacular. Very immediate, authentic,
voice -driven. And they span a good chunk of
his career. The Southpaw in 53. Bang the drums
slowly. In 56. A ticket for a steam stitch in
57. And then a big gap. Yeah. Much later. It
looked like forever in 1979. But the anchors
clearly banged the drum slowly. Oh, absolutely.
The sources confirm this was Harris' only true
popular success. The story. It's intense. Focuses
on the relationship between Wig and the star
pitcher and his teammate Bruce Pearson, the catcher.
Right. Diagnosed with a fatal illness, Hodgkin's
disease, and the team, the Mammoths. They become
this microcosm of society. Grappling with mortality,
loyalty, class differences within the team. And
that story just resonated hugely. Multiple adaptations.
Right. Cemented its place in pop culture. Instantly.
The novel's power was obvious. 1956, the year
it's published, it gets adapted for TV. The United
States Steel Hour. Which was a big deal back
then. Prestige television. Huge deal. And get
this casting. Paul Newman plays Henry Wiggin.
No, man. And Albert Selmy plays Bruce Pearson,
the catcher. That immediately gave it massive
visibility. Incredible. And then the movie, the
1973 film, maybe even more famous now. That film
really solidified it in cinema history. John
D. Hancock directed it. Michael Moriarty as Wiggin.
And Robert De Niro. And Robert De Niro as Bruce
Pearson. A really crucial early role for De Niro,
showcasing that ability he had to inhabit these
complex, vulnerable characters. Absolutely. And
importantly, the sources note, Harris himself
wrote the screenplay for the 73 film. Oh, he
did? That's significant. Yeah. speaks volumes
about his commitment to controlling the narrative
integrity, making sure the transfer from page
to screen honored his grounded, realistic vision.
That's rare for an author to successfully shepherd
their own work into a major film like that and
keep the artistic fidelity. Very rare. And the
story wasn't done yet. It even got adapted for
the stage. Really? Yeah. A stage version, played
at the next theater in Evanston, Illinois in
1992, just shows the enduring power of that relationship,
those themes. Loyalty. Mortality. They work everywhere.
OK, let's talk critical assessment, because this
is where the argument for Harris's maybe genius
really lies. It wasn't just popular. Critics
say these books redefined the baseball novel.
The praise is immense. Nicholas Dowadoff, editor
of Baseball. A literary anthology gave his defining
quote. So the four Wiggin books elevate the baseball
novel into unmistakable art. Unmistakable art.
That's placing him right at the top. Within that
specific genre, but also in the broader American
literary canon. Absolutely. And then there's
Roger K. Miller, writing for the Denver Post.
He does this really interesting comparison, putting
Harris directly against other famous baseball
novels. Helps us see why Harris's approach felt
different, maybe superior to some. Who did he
compare him to? Well, Miller went all out praising
Harris. He even used the full amazing title.
Bang the Drum Slowly by Henry J. Wiggin. Certain
of his enthusiasms restrained. Huh. Love that
title. Right. And Miller claimed it was better
than Bernard Malamud's The Natural. Better than
The Natural. Wow. Why? What was the argument?
Malamud's book is iconic. The distinction comes
down to realism versus fantasy, which brings
us right back to Harris's core integrity thing.
Okay. Malamud's The Natural. He uses magical
realism, right? Myth, legend, the supernatural
hero, the symbolic bat. Right. Wonder Boy. Exactly.
Miller and critically Harris himself, they favored
a much starker reality. The sources are explicit.
Harris did not like fantasy, especially in baseball.
For him, baseball was this working class, deeply
human drama. Introducing fantasy, it kind of
corrupted the social critique potential. So his
preference for realism in baseball wasn't just
a taste thing. It was philosophical, aligning
the genre with his bigger mission. Precisely.
And Miller also compared Harris favorably to
Robert Coover's experimental classic, The Universal
Baseball Association. Another complex one. Yeah.
Miller said Harris's novel was at least as good
as Coover's, which is high praise. Coover's book
is about a fantasy game. But Miller notes, like
Harris's and all good baseball novels, it's about
more than just baseball. Right. But the key difference
is method. Coover uses fantasy and experimental
structure to explore deep truths. Harris uses
pure, observed, vernacular realism to do the
same thing. His integrity demanded that the backdrop,
the baseball world, feel absolutely real, grounded
in social reality. That grounding, the specific
details, language, social hierarchy, that's what
let the Wiggin novels be more than just sports
fiction. They're about death, class, loyalty.
Filtered through that honest, sometimes naive
narrator voice, Henry Wiggin. That voice is just
essential. Harris nails that authenticity, not
through fancy literary language, but through
this immediate accessible vernacular. Captures
the sound of the locker room, the kind of blunt
honesty of that world. Another facet of his dedication
to observe truth. Exactly. The baseball novel
is clearly a massive achievement. But like we
said at the start, just one piece of this incredible
output, let's broaden out again, section four,
the sheer diversity. Social novels, plays, biographies,
and his own autobiographical work. Yeah, we definitely
need to circle back to that first novel, Trumpet
to the World, 1946. Born from the war experience.
Right. And it immediately establishes him as
a serious social novelist, tackling this explosive
topic. A young black soldier married to a white
woman on trial for hitting a white officer. Published
right as the civil rights movement is really
gathering steam. Very relevant. Incredibly relevant.
Showed his finger was right on the pulse of critical
American issues from the get -go. And his second
wartime novel, Something About a Soldier, that
even got adapted for Broadway. It did. Briefly.
Stage version by Ernest Kenoy, January 62. Starred
Salminia. Salminia, wow. Yeah. Shows his social
critiques had reach, commercial and artistic,
across different platforms. And Harris also wrote
his own original play, Friedman and Son, in 63.
Okay. So, fiction, drama. And then his academic
side shows up in serious scholarship, too. Biography,
editing. Right. He wasn't just making stuff up.
He was digging into others' lives, too. Two significant
literary biographies. First one, City of Discontent,
an interpretive biography of Rachel Lindsay back
in 52. Rachel Lindsay, the poet. Yeah. Complex
guy. Troubled. Known for his populist spirit,
trying to bring poetry back to the people. You
can see the connection, right? Harris and his
commitment to accessible democratic writing.
Kindred spirits, maybe. And the second biography.
Another literary giant. Saul Bellow. Saul Bellow.
Drumlin' Woodchuck, published in 1980. Bellow.
Okay. Another major Jewish -American writer wrestling
with identity, modern life. Exactly. Clearly
a significant subject for Harris. These choices
just underscore his consistent interest in writers
navigating those complex social -cultural identities.
And he put serious time into editing, too, bringing
other figures to light. Absolutely. He edited
selected poems of... Vachel Lindsay in 63, continuing
that early interest. But maybe the biggest editing
job was on James Boswell. Boswell, Samuel Johnson's
Boswell. That's the one. In 1981, he published
The Heart of Boswell. Six journals in one volume.
Imagine the work involved, synthesizing all that
18th century material. That's incredible versatility.
Baseball players, American poets, Jewish novelists,
and now editing Boswell's journals. And even
that work got adapted. The Boswell editing led
to two television plays, Boswell for the Tenfold
in 83 and Boswell's London Journal in 84. It
just shows this effortless movement, doesn't
it? Contemporary American vernacular, one minute,
deep historical scholarship, the next, always
focused on authentic human life. That's the thread.
But maybe the most revealing part of his whole
body of work is when he turned that lens on himself,
the autobiographical trilogy. Oh, yeah, this
is essential for understanding Harris. He didn't
just write standard memoirs. It was more like.
Deep embedded self -documentation. Often putting
himself right in the middle of charged situations
specifically to chronicle them. Okay, let's take
the first one. Mark the Glove Boy or The Last
Days of Richard Nixon. Published 64. It chronicles
Nixon's failed run for California governor in
62. Harris literally embedded himself in the
campaign. As the Glove Boy, what does that mean?
It's like who? The small peripheral figure. the
observer who's there but not powerful, documenting
the big political machine from the inside but
slightly removed. He used his journalist's eye
on the spectacle, the mechanics of political
theater, political failure. He was there for
Nixon's famous last press conference, you know,
you won't have Nixon to kick around anymore.
Wow. So he needed that immersion, not critiquing
from afar, but right there, like a field reporter.
Exactly. And that immersion continues in the
next autobiographical book. Takes him way outside
American politics. We're two. Sierra Leone. The
book is 21 twice. A journal. Published 66. It
chronicles his time in the Peace Corps there.
He joined the Peace Corps. Yeah. Again, not just
observing. Actively participating in this idealism
-driven thing in a totally new environment. Putting
his own values under real -world strain. It's
a journal of self -discovery through service.
Far from academia or baseball. And then the third
piece, the formal autobiography. Right. Best
father ever invented. The autobiography of Mark
Harris. 1976. This one pulls it all together.
His life from late adolescence up to 73. The
name change, the war, the journalism chaos, the
early academic and literary success. These three
books together, they just show this commitment
to radical honesty, documentation, living out
the realist principle he applied to his fiction.
Absolutely. It's incredible, reflecting on the
sheer volume, but also the thematic cohesion
across all these genres. He keeps coming back
to that core theme. Individual integrity versus
society, whether it's a dying catcher, a poet,
or himself in Africa. And this is why people
use that under the radar phrase so much with
him. His obituary in the Denver Post nailed it.
One of that legion of under the radar writers
who for decades consistently turned out excellent
novels and went largely unsung. Maybe too principled,
too dedicated to pure realism to chase the kind
of fame fantasy might have brought. Could be.
He stuck to his guns. And returning to that core
philosophy, it really does all circle back to
that quote you shared earlier. Yeah. His life's
work dedicated to stories about the one man against
his society and trying to come to terms with
his society and trying to succeed within it without
losing his own identity or integrity. He lived
it, starting with the name change through the
AWOL incident and channeling it all into his
writing, his teaching, his scholarship. Exactly.
And it's interesting, too, that continuation
of this critical, maybe documentarian impulse
in his family. His nephew is a writer, too. Yeah,
side Serafia Azada. also a highly regarded writer.
He wrote that powerful memoir, When Skateboards
Will Be Free, a memoir of a political childhood.
Fascinating. That dedication to writing, critical
observation, it's a persistent legacy. It seems
so. And for anyone listening who wants to dive
even deeper into Harris's mind, all his papers,
including those 70 -plus years of diaries, they're
archived. Special collections at the University
of Delaware. Yeah. An incredibly rich resource
for anyone studying 20th century American literature.
What an immense legacy. Art and self -documentation
intertwined. Okay. Okay, so to leave you with
a final thought, reflecting on this whole challenging
life. Yeah. We know he felt he had to change
his name. Mark Harris Finkelstein became Mark
Harris just to survive, get a job, achieve success
early on. Right. A pragmatic choice driven by
prejudice. Yet the work he created was defined
by this absolute unwavering commitment to authenticity,
to integrity, especially that famous rejection
of fantasy demanding grounded realism. So it
raises this really interesting question for you,
the listener, to think about. What does it really
cost an artist or anyone ambitious to make those
initial compromises with a biased society just
to get in the door? And how does that early struggle,
that compromise of identity, maybe paradoxically,
end up sharpening and defining the very unmistakable
art they create later? Right. Harris sought integrity
through realism. But the path to that art. was
paved with this initial act of, well, assimilation.
Why was that realism so crucial for him? Perhaps
because of that early experience. Something to
chew on. What's the real relationship between
compromise and artistic integrity? A profound
challenge. As you reflect on the diverse, complex,
and fiercely principled life of Mark Harris.
Thanks for joining us for this deep dive.