Books of Influence I: Early Childhood

There’s been a round of “Books that influenced me,” always an interesting game but one it’s easy to cheat at. And why should the list be limited to books? Why not include music or paintings or photographs? And what, he asked argumentatively, does “influence” mean? Usually the adverbs “positively” or “beneficially” are assumed, but it’s possible that someone who found, say, Ayn Rand toxic was “influenced” by The Fountainhead because he ran as fast as possible in the other direction.

And, besides, what is, even, good influence?

Starting in second grade, I inhaled the Tom Swift Jr. books as they came out. I lived in a town with a scanty bookstore supply, but we did have a Marshall Field’s store, and back in those days that meant a pretty good book section. I think I got all of them through Number 21; the cover art for the following tomes ring no bells. I remember looking at one or two when I was in my early 20s, and being struck by how badly written they were. By the time I was 10 or so I could polish off their consistent 200 pages over a weekend. Influence? Not by giving me any of my intellectual or spiritual baggage. But yes, certainly, by opening the doors of reading.

Better books all ‘round, I think, were Duane Decker’s Blue Sox baseball books, found in the library along the wall of the children’s room, fourth shelf from the bottom. They were, I think, out of print when I discovered them; my father may have recommended them. No web site for this series, but a lot of hits for the interested reader to Google. The Blue Sox were an imaginary Major League Baseball team. Each book in the series focused on one player in his first couple of seasons with the team. I remember them as pretty good, not only because I was wild about baseball at this time (a game the one-eyed cannot play well). Each player had some obstacle to overcome; there was a fireballing pitcher who lost his stuff and had to learn to win with “junk” and cunning; an immensely talented centerfielder who had to overcome his overweening ego and insecurity; a black player who had to defeat prejudice and the team’s color line; a war vet catcher who had to overcome what today we’d call post traumatic stress disorder. I remember the stories and travails of Chip Fiske, Russ Woodward, Bud Walker, Marty “Beef Trust” Blake, and Tweet Tillman better than I remember any of the Tom Swift plots. In memory, Decker’s books were tightly plotted, with strongly outlined characters and well designed, believable conflicts.

The Library also brought me the stories of Freddy the Pig, which I found hysterically funny. They may have warped me for life. Considering that I seem to have moved directly and a bit precociously from Freddy to Evelyn Waugh, you can see what I mean. Walter Brooks’ bizarre pig taught me to enjoy fantastic humor, and I am sure that if I wanted to I could draw a line straight from Freddy through Flanders and Swan and the Pythons to Terry Pratchett (oh, lordy, he’s got another Nan Mac Feegle book out. The Nan Mac Feegle are almost as funny as the drop bears, or the “horse” Snowy).

So sometimes influence is a matter of setting the course. Here are three groups of fiction that I cannot claim to be great works (well, maybe for Freddy) but which set the stage for great work. About that, tomorrow.