With his phenomenal ear and rococo prose—not to mention the sort of wit that can still leave a reader helpless with laughter and delight—A.J. Liebling (1904-1963) captivated an entire generation of readers. His mandarin style was more or less impossible to imitate. But he offered a good many subliminal lessons to the aspiring journalist, as Pete Hamill recounts in the following conversation with CJR’s James Marcus. Hamill, who has always shared Liebling’s fascination with the underbelly of urban life, is the author of numerous books and several million words of journalism. He edited The Sweet Science and Other Writings, a Liebling compendium just published by the Library of America, as well as an earlier volume, World War II Writings.
Let’s start with your own experience of Liebling. You met him just once, I believe.
That’s right. It was at the Patterson-Liston fight in Chicago in 1962, where the scene was a lot more fun than the fight, which was over in less than one round. There was every conceivable character there—James Baldwin, Mailer, and all the boxing guys. And there was Liebling. Harold Conrad, an old Brooklyn Eagle guy from the Forties, was in charge of the press, and he brought me over. Beforehand he said, “Don’t shake his hand, he’s got gout.” So I gripped his forearm—I looked like a guy who was afraid of a pickpocket. He winced slightly, and said a few nice things about some stuff I had written for the Post.
Did you talk for long?
It was a very brief thing. He was not a big talker. Like most great reporters, he was a listener.
Was it a thrill for you?
Oh, I was delighted. I had never gone to journalism school. Like all would-be writers, I was an autodidact of the first order. And Liebling’s press pieces were a kind of education in the business. They weren’t simply a political take on one thing or another—they were about the craft. He pointed out the sort of slovenliness that can creep into journalism.
Did you ever attempt to mimic his style?
No, I wasn’t trying to write like Liebling. Nobody did. He was the master of the baroque. That’s why he has no imitators, not any more than Murray Kempton does.
Questions of style aside, then, what did you take away from him as a young reporter?
His delight in the raffish. My second year at the Post, I pulled the 8:00-to-3:00 shift, covering Broadway. I’d go to Lindy’s, where I would nurse a single cup of coffee because I was broke, and talk to the press agents and the flacks. These were the kind of characters that Liebling would write about. By 1962, of course, they had mostly disappeared. They had gone to Vegas to do legally what was illegal in New York.
So you caught the tail end of that scene.
I did. But it taught me to pay attention. Once I found a house detective at the Hotel Taft named Tiptoe Tannenbaum. If Liebling didn’t invent him, Runyon did.
Yet Liebling didn’t confine himself completely to lowlife characters.
True. He was very good friends with Camus, for example. Liebling had assembled a book of French resistance writing, The Republic of Silence, and when Camus made his first trip to New York, Liebling took him to Sammy’s Bowery Follies. The guy was so happy he wasn’t being dragged to one more academic enclave!
In the preface to “The Jollity Building,” Liebling recounts that famous anecdote about the French-Canadian man with the window in his stomach, which allowed the “prying fellow of a doctor… to study the man’s inner workings.” To an extent, that strikes me as a kind of artistic credo.
Of course. He never looked down his nose at lowlifes. He never made moral judgments on people who were technically breaking the law but not hurting anybody. He always reminded me of George Bernard Shaw’s line, “I’ve had a great education, except for school.” Because he listened, he wanted to know. Who are these people? Why do they talk that way? What is this little fragment of society about? What are its hierarchies?
Was that mostly a matter of temperament?