Photo Courtesy of Wiki Commons

by Alissa Fleck

Journalist and self-proclaimed Bob Dylan obsessive Michael C. Moynihan read Jonah Lehrer’s Imagine: How Creativity Works and realized something was not right. This skepticism ultimately resulted in Lehrer’s outing as a fraud—an inventor and tinkerer of material when it was convenient, when it suited his thesis. Many praised the book’s genius from the outset, but Moynihan knew something was off by chapter one—things seemed to fit a little too neatly.

The well-worn proverb proclaims truth is stranger than fiction—was Lehrer so determined to say something new, something “genius,” he was willing to dip into the realm of the invented? Certainly fiction has its place, but was Lehrer so egotistical as to believe what he could invent and tailor would somehow be more earth-shattering than reality? Life, and literature, are arguably far more interesting when we plumb the depths of the real, which explains how Moynihan instantly succeeded in pulverizing Lehrer’s facade.

It might be easier to invent, but complication—the kind you cannot fabricate—is undoubtedly where interest lies.

Greil Marcus, culture critic and renowned Bob Dylan aficionado (he’s penned a few books on the subject), reacted to the scandal: “I read the Dylan material in a bookstore and for me it was shallow, obvious, and most of all gaseous. Now we know why.”

Marcus said people were “pressing that book on [him],” insisting they’d never understood Dylan before. As if the point is, after all, to “understand” Dylan. And, particularly, to understand Dylan through Lehrer’s young, hip lens. Maybe the problem lies in our culture’s insistence on such understanding.

Someone, under the pseudonym of fictional TV news anchor Will McAvoy, wrote on Twitter: “It became clear Jonah Lehrer had fabricated quotes from Bob Dylan when it was discovered he was able to get coherent quotes from Bob Dylan.” What does it say about us that we demand such coherence from existence?

If it wraps up neatly enough for such a book, with a thesis on which you can tie a bow, it’s probably too neat for real life.

In seeing the publication process through to completion, in waiting, knowing this book would drift around for literary eternity, I wonder, did Lehrer feel proud of his invention? Did he feel fulfilled?

Chances are you haven’t heard of Paul Nelson before—but if you’re a fan of rock music, you owe him a huge debt of gratitude. Nelson pioneered the field of rock criticism with his first-person style as an editor at Rolling Stone in the 1970s, where he was among the earliest supporters of Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and Warren Zevon. But by the early 1980s, Nelson’s personal struggles with obsessive-compulsive disorder and depression—as well as professional clashes at Rolling Stone—brought his career to a crashing halt. Dropping out of the scene, Nelson languished in obscurity in New York City, writing only a handful of pieces before his death in 2006.

Five years later, Kevin Avery is giving Nelson’s legacy the boost it so badly deserves. Conversations with Clint: Paul Nelson’s Lost Interviews with Clint Eastwood, 1979-1983 (Continuum), which Avery edited, was published last month. Now comes Everything Is an Afterthought: The Life and Writings of Paul Nelson (Fantagraphics Books), a deeply moving biography that captures not only Nelson’s tragedy, but also celebrates the ardor and artistry of his life and work.

How did you first encounter Nelson’s writing?
When I was a teenager growing up in Salt Lake City, I subscribed to Rolling Stone and the Village Voice. I was reading all their critics—Greil Marcus, Dave Marsh, Jon Landau—but out of all of them, Paul Nelson was the one who really struck a chord with me.

What stood out to you about his style?
In the mid-to-late ’70s, rock music was still being discovered. There were no hard and fast rules, so in a way criticism was an act of discovery for these writers and they were just expressing what they liked. Paul was able to do that in a way that was not only personal, but also he would draw from film, books and his knowledge of folk music. You also got the feeling that he was a mysterious character. There would be hints dropped that there was an unhappy guy behind all these reviews. His writing was beautiful. This was music criticism that could be read as literature.

What was the interview process like for Everything Is an Afterthought?
It snowballed. One person would lead me to two others who would lead me to four others. A lot of this was accomplished by good will, old friends of Paul’s who really wanted to see his work in print again. I found that among Paul’s friends there was the most immense amount of collective guilt that I’ve ever encountered. They felt like, as a whole, they had let him slip away. Paul didn’t make it easy. A lot of them did try to call Paul and he didn’t return their calls. Paul was very good at shutting doors in his life and not turning back.

Was there anyone you couldn’t reach?
I really wanted to talk to Clint Eastwood. I found it such a compelling story that here’s a guy who, in 1979, says, “OK, yeah, you can interview me for Rolling Stone,” and the process goes on for four years. I wanted to ask, “What was it about Paul that made you want to let him keep coming back?” On the other hand, the fact that this wasn’t answered allowed me to write Conversations with Clint.

How did you select which of Nelson’s pieces to include?
Early on, I had it in my mind that I’d publish everything that he had written, but it soon became clear that this wasn’t going to be possible. Ultimately, the determining factor was: Does this contribute to Paul’s story?
Paul’s story is in his writing. When I gained access to his belongings, I was able to read his original manuscripts. Very often some of the most personal stuff had been taken out either by him or by editors.

Which writers today carry on in Nelson’s footsteps?
The two writers who leap immediately to mind are Jonathan Lethem and Mikal Gilmore. Their work not only reflects Paul’s influence but also demonstrates a respect for his tradition.

Are there plans to print more of Nelson’s work, such as his unpublished interviews with legendary mystery novelist Ross Macdonald?
That’s possibly my next book. It’s a little more daunting because with the Clint Eastwood tapes, I was working with 17 hours of material, but with Macdonald it is about 45 hours. Paul reached out to Macdonald as much as a fan as out of the need to connect with somebody who understood where he was in his life at that time. Paul clearly knew those books inside and out and goes through them systematically. I think it would make for a fascinating book.

Kevin Avery will be reading at the Strand Bookstore, 828 Broadway (at 12th Street) on Wed., Nov. 9 at 7 p.m. Joining him will be renowned music critic Dave Marsh, Nelson’s friend and colleague.

Headshot of author Kevin Avery. Photo courtesy of Kevin Avery

Kristine Keller & Marisa Polansky

Downtown doesn’t really need a designated day devoted to dressing like Bob Dylan, Lady Gaga or Danny Zuko, but just because we don’t need it doesn’t mean we won’t embrace it. It’s human nature to dream of being someone else entirely. The popularity of Halloween isn’t the candy, the creepy or even the costumes. It’s the freedom we acquire from shedding the old and becoming the new.

One night, tired of looking at our white walls and inspired by Penélope Cruz’s infectiously bold performance in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, we interpreted Jackson Pollock through wide and talentless fingers and threw paint at our walls. The next morning, we wordlessly and collectively decided the only thing worth keeping from the night before was our memories.

At Home Depot, in the midst of choosing between eggshell and sand, a plucky associate checked our paint-stained hands and said, “Painters huh? Let me show you where we keep our good brushes.” We purchased an entire set. We knew, of course, that one painting does not a painter make, but something about having this stranger believe it made us believe it. If only for a moment. Halloween is like that moment 1,440 times in a row.

As many a good parent would say, the only thing that matters is what you think about you. However, as many a person living in the real world would say, what other people think about you matters a whole hell of a lot. Just ask the participants of the notorious Stanford Prison Experiment. The study made a roar in the ’70s when social psychologist Phillip Zimbardo selected 24 psychologically healthy males and randomly assigned half to play the role of “prisoner” and the other half to play the role of “guard” in a simulated prison.

Though there were no discernible differences between the two groups of participants before the study, once they were administered labels and costumes and placed in a prison context, their fictitious entities soon became a frightening reality. The guards took their position to the extreme and showed a flagrant disregard for the rights of the prisoners with verbal assaults, public humiliation and a total lack of scruples. In concordance, the prisoners succumbed to their new roles as well. Each prisoner was stripped of their birth name and only given an ID number to be used throughout the study—prisoners became emotionally drained and riots ensued. The study was terminated after only six days.

Though the experiment raised eyebrows and ethical concerns everywhere, it brought forth a powerful notion: the theory of deindividuation. This theory is usually used to describe the feeling of anonymity and loss of self-identity that individuals take on when given a certain label or name in the context of a sizable group. When placed in a group setting, individuals are less accountable for their actions and have the opportunity to relish behaviors that they would not have ordinarily been able to commit.

On All Hallow’s Eve, deindividuation occurs the moment you put on your Native American headdress and do a synchronized dance next to a construction worker and policeman. With the right costume and attitude, anyone has the opportunity to become who they’ve always wanted to be, whether it’s a painter, prisoner, princess or president. Not only do you get to dress like a fantasy, but your behaviors, actions and emotions are predicated on that new idea of yourself. This new identity gives the identifier the courage and ammunition to behave the way the costume necessitates. Moreover, the more we are treated like a naughty secretary, Michele Bachmann or a WWE wrestler, the more we will inhabit that persona.

In previous years, we’ve witnessed witches fly, cheerleaders shout affirmations and sailors open doors, but we can’t help but wonder if it’s not just the magic of Halloween but rather, the magic of New York City. After all, there is no place better suited for maintaining your anonymity than the 917. Freedom comes from reinvention and the notion of possibility is paved into the sidewalks of this city. There’s no one to tell you that you can’t be who you want to be. Don’t wait for someone to give you a label.

We say, why not take a cue from Oct. 31 and have the fortitude to be who you dream and let New York be your mask. Of course, our brushes have been long forgotten behind dust and dish detergent and we haven’t painted a thing since that fateful night, but we just may have thought of this year’s costume. Or better yet, a new career.