Russian Novelist Ivan Turgenev, "My friend, return to literature!"

Last week I happened upon a copy of "Father's and Sons" by Ivan Turgenev, the 19th century novelist, playwright and short story writer. Here I thought Russian literature was all Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov, then this guy shows up!

As I read, slowly, deliciously, each morning, I traveled to rural Russia in the mid-1800s, into the lives of his exquisitely drawn characters. That's what stood out most: the characters. I had them so firmly imagined that I knew who was speaking each line of dialogue -- it was just that great. The descriptions were simple and detailed and so perfectly consistent that you felt them.

It's a story about a son who comes home from college with an older friend, almost a doctor, who was scientifically-oriented and questioned everything, absolutely everything, causing a stir wherever he went. The story essentially debates, "nihilism" and explores the differences between generations, the differences that are always there. It was fun and interesting, yet deeply philosophical, and Turgenev accomplishes this almost without the reader noticing, it is so deftly done.

It was pleasant reading -- not what everyone says about Russian writers having too many characters and convoluted plots.

I was putting myself there with them, riding in a carriage pulled by a troika of horses, sitting in the garden reading, or spending the afternoon listening to someone playing classical music on the piano. No TV, no radio, no Internet, hell -- no electricity! Up at sun up, lighting a lamp at dusk, asking for a woman's hand in marriage, announcing your arrival at an estate, this is how they lived. I thought of what steadiness and peace and tranquility that would be!

But I'm sure the less romantic side of their existence would make the reality perhaps unlikable for a Modern Man. I remember Henry Miller saying in "Tropic of Cancer" how absolutely frustrating it was to not be "at the machine" (typewriter) when some of the most brilliant thoughts hit. They didn't have laptops or voice recorders or portable HD video cameras, no, they had to remember, sift through it and write it down by hand.

They also defended honor with a duel (you know Tolstoy once challenged Turgenev to a duel?), with both men honestly following the ground rules (8 steps, or 10 steps? One or two shots? You load the guns or shall I? Until death or only wounding?)

So at first I had imagined how easy they had it -- no distractions, no buzzing electricity, no electronic music, no big screen TV. But then I thought of just how easy we have it: online dictionaries, thesauri, quick and easy reference searches on Google to find facts. There are no excuses. And we can always go off to the country and camp out, if we want to.

Back to Turgenev: he was such an influence in Russian literature -- world literature -- on his death bed he pleaded with Tolstoy: "My friend, return to literature!"

Which is what I, and all of us, need to do.

Remembering Barber Bancroft

Obama was elected yesterday marking a new dawn for America. And that is a good thing. It not only raises the hopes of all American children, but the entire world.

Sadly, though, today is the fourth anniversary of the death of my good friend, Barber Bancroft. That morning, November 5th, 2004, he went to teach his eight o'clock English class at Auburn University. In ten minutes, while writing on the blackboard he said, "Oh, my God..." and his students thought he was beginning to recite a poem. Then he slumped on the floor, dead of a massive heart attack at 48.

He had written five novels but had not published any of them. I urged him to concentrate more on the business side of things and he urged me to concentrate more on my writing. We had come from two different worlds but I knew we would always be friends.

Here's what I wrote at the time:

"I met Barber over drinks at Monaghan's Erin Irish Rose pub in the French Quarter (see pic above - that's him smiling across the bar). He was a native Southerner teaching English at Auburn University and would come to New Orleans to get away and work on his novels. We had two things in common: drinking and writing, and we wiled away the hours talking, laughing, arguing and sipping.

The first time I met him he loaned me a book of short stories by Carson McCullers. I read it that night and met him the following day to return it, but he insisted I keep it. We talked about her incredible prose. We argued over Faulkner, Hemingway and the rest. He gave me lists of books to read and movies to see. Then he offered to read and critique a manuscript of mine, telling me it was "very kind" of me to allow him to do so.

Of course, I thought the reverse.

We swapped manuscripts a couple of times over the next two years. Although I'd never had a writing class, he was never condescending. If you wanted to learn, he would teach. And he was just as eager to learn from you. When we weren't discussing serious things, we were laughing most of the time. He was the one who came up with the name for my debut novel, "Jackson Squared."

One of the last things he told me was to read (Russian author) Dostoyevsky. A few weeks later, on another fateful Saturday, his wife called to say he'd collapsed and died doing what he loved most: teaching a class. My heart sunk into my belly and began to ache, as I gazed out over the carefree tourists from my French Quarter balcony.

I am grateful that he came into my life, and I will press on, missing him every day - and the world will too."

Here's what Stacy Jones, one of his students from a writing retreat wrote (on Southern-Drawl.com):

On a Sunday afternoon in June 2004, I arrive at the Hambidge Center, a retreat for artists and writers in the mountains of North Georgia. A small group of people—fiction writers, nonfiction writers, and poets alike—are gathered at this place to meet other like-minded individuals and to hone their respective crafts in workshops during the week.

After I take a seat near the back for the opening remarks, I notice only a handful of men present. Two of them stand out. Both look to be in their late 30s or early 40s; one black and the other white. The black man sports dreadlocks and the white man has pulled his dark hair into a ponytail that hangs down his back...

The man with the dark ponytail is Barber Bancroft. He teaches English at Auburn University and is a novelist. I come to know him because he is my fiction teacher. He ends up in a classroom with five females: me and two other twenty-somethings, a woman in her 50s, and another woman in her 70s....

After we return to the Hambidge Center, Barber invites the three of us to his studio. We sit talking about writing and life well into the night, listening to Barber's blues CDs...

After I have been accepted into the MFA program in fiction writing at The University of Memphis, I e-mail Barber to let him know, considering how he was so encouraging to me, and I tell him he is one of the best fiction teachers I have ever had.

He writes back to thank and congratulate me. Then he signs off by offering what may well be the most simple but important writing advice I have ever received: "Don't stop thinking about it. Keep filling up the pages."

...I wondered, too, if Barber would be teaching any workshops this summer, so I looked online to find his contact information at Auburn. The first thing I located, however, was an article in the "Auburn Plainsman," the campus newspaper, the headline of which read, "English Teacher Dies at 48."

Accordingly, on the morning of last November 5, Barber had just started teaching his 8 a.m. world literature class. At 8:10, he collapsed, and although his students tried to save him by doing CPR, he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

I then found his obituary, which began, "William Barber Bancroft, of Auburn, born Aug. 9, 1956, died Nov. 5, 2004. The Lord took him home to be with Him while teaching his World Literature class at Auburn University."

There was no explanation for his death. He evidently went into cardiac arrest and died. When I last saw him, he looked healthy. It was scary to think that anyone, absolutely anyone, could share a similar fate. I'm sure the day seemed to Barber like any other; he didn't know he was going to die when he went to teach that morning.

And in that moment everything felt full circle: here, again, more than ever, surged the lesson of not waiting until it is too late.