Saturday, August 31, 2019

Mystery in a classic - weaving truth with fiction - The Central Intelligence Agency book club

Published in the library trade journal Book Page by Alice Cary

A literary "Cinderella story", for author Lara Prescott. Congratulations! (Nostrovia!)


"A Novelist Inspired by the Cold War, a C.I.A. Typing Pool and ‘Dr. Zhivago’ Lara Prescott — fascinated by the way Boris Pasternak’s novel was used as a propaganda tool — conjured a world of secretaries, spies and mint-green typewriters in her debut, The Secrets We Kept." - A New York Times review by Karen Valby.

BOOK PAGE article - For years Lara Prescott disliked her first name. "Lara" was often mispronounced or or misspelled. 

Today, she’s thankful for her name, because it seems to have led directly to the publication of her debut novel—one she was practically born to write.

Lara Prescott’s first name was inspired by her mother’s love of both Boris Pasternak’s 1957 Russian novel Doctor Zhivago, a love story about Dr. Yuri Zhivago and Lara Antipova, that spans the Russian Revolution and World War II, and the epic film adaptation by David Lean.

Naturally, Prescott always felt a connection to the tale, and now she’s written The Secrets We Kept, a fictional account about how Pasternak wrote his Nobel Prize winner—and how the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) used it as political propaganda, during the Cold War.

“My mother definitely takes credit for my book, after having named me Lara,” Prescott jokes, speaking from her home in Austin, Texas.

Prescott’s deft treatment of this little-known, stranger-than-fiction saga could hardly be more fascinating, and it’s sure to be a blockbuster, having reportedly sold for $2 million at auction. The deal unfolded just as Prescott graduated with an Masters in Fine Arts (MFA)*, from the Michener Center for Writers at the University Texas at Austin, with her manuscript as her thesis.

“It was an almost unbelievable experience that I don’t think sunk in for months and months,” she recalls. “It has been life-changing and will continue to be.”

It’s hardly a stretch to say that Prescott’s first novel was a lifetime in the making. Growing up in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, she enjoyed watching the film Doctor Zhivago with her family and sought it out anytime it played at the local theater. In high school she tackled the novel, although she admits, “It’s not the easiest Russian novel to sink your teeth into.” Nonetheless, she found herself “having a connection to the words and the story,” and she says she sees new meaning every time she rereads it.

The tipping point came in 2014, when her father emailed her a Washington Post article about how the CIA, secretly helped publish and distribute Russian editions of the novel, which was first given out at the 1958, world’s fair in Brussels. (A miniature paperback edition followed, many of which were given out at the 1959 World Youth Festival, in Vienna.) The early CIA was pretty liberal, Prescott explains, with many recruits believing art and literature could be used to show Soviet citizens the freedoms and lack of censorship enjoyed by Americans, in contrast to their own government. As she writes in her fictional account, “The Agency became a bit of a book club with a black budget.”

“It was almost the direct opposite of what the rest of the government was doing at the time—the FBI and the Red Scare and all of those things,” Prescott says. “They were definitely at odds with each other.”

Wanting to know more about the bookish mission, which was classified under code name “AEDINOSAUR,” Prescott began devouring newly released CIA documents. As she read so many of the names and places that had been redacted from these pages, she felt as though the many participants had “been pretty much erased from history except for the men who signed at the bottom of the secret document.” She began to wonder about the people who “typed these reports and memos and knew the secrets of these secret keepers.” She researched the roles women played in the early CIA, most often as typists, secretaries and record keepers, but sometimes spies as well. Suddenly a novel began to emerge.

“The first voice that came to me was the voice of the typists,” Prescott recalls. “It was one of those things that has never happened to me before. I heard the voice in my head in the middle of the night, and I emailed myself a few lines. This was the very first thing I wrote.”

She chronicles the lively office pool through this collective voice—their work, lives, loves and gossip—such as in her seemingly heaven--sent opening: “We typed a hundred words per minute and never missed a syllable. Our identical desks were each equipped with a mint-shelled Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter, a black Western Electric rotary phone, and a stack of yellow steno pads. Our fingers flew across the keys.”

Having worked as a political campaigner in Washington, D.C., Prescott says she felt “a personal connection to these women,” adding, “You have these men in positions of power at the CIA—unchecked power, really—and women who could only reach a certain level. I wanted to explore these power dynamics, which often, unfortunately, still exist.”

Two characters soon rose to the forefront, both of whom narrate chapters of their own. There’s CIA newbie Irina Drozdova, a Russian American, and Sally Forrester, a former OSS agent and spy tasked with training Irina. As Sally notes, being a “keeper of secrets” is a “power that some, myself included, found more intoxicating than any drug, sex, or other means of quickening one’s heartbeat.”

Initially planning to write only about these female spies, Prescott soon realized that this was only half the story. It felt equally essential to chronicle the intricate saga of what was happening in Russia: how Doctor Zhivago was written; how Pasternak’s mistress, Olga Ivinskaya, inspired the character of Lara; how the Russian government forbid the novel’s publication and persecuted Pasternak; and how Ivinskaya was twice sent to the Gulag for her involvement with the literary giant.

“I wanted to give Olga a voice that I think she’s been denied throughout history,” Prescott says, “and make people aware of this woman behind the famous man.”

The project grew into an “obsession,” Prescott says. Her research was extensive, taking her to libraries galore; to Oxford, England, where she spoke with Pasternak’s niece; and to the dacha outside of Moscow where Pasternak wrote his masterpiece. It’s now a museum, and the author is buried in a nearby cemetery. Prescott describes standing at Pasternak’s grave as “a profound experience, one I will never forget.”

In the end, Prescott ties this world-spanning novel together with aplomb. With multiple narrators and two riveting but complicated plot lines set on opposite sides of the globe, The Secrets We Kept abounds with not only intrigue but also plenty of joy, heartbreak and, yes, humor.

“I love books that deal with very serious topics and tragic circumstances but never lose sight of the humor,” Prescott says. “That is part of life. And that gallows humor is really important, especially in Russian culture.”

Ironically, when Prescott began her project, several publishing insiders informed her that readers were no longer particularly interested in Russia. Little could she anticipate how topical her novel would be when the 2016, presidential election helped to bring the Soviet Union back into the headlines. “After researching how the Cold War unfolded and [about] tactics that both the Americans and the Soviets used,” she muses, “I can’t help but think that, of course this has never ended. Why would it have?”

She cautions that she never intended to write a good-guy-versus-bad-guy, East-versus-West story, and further notes, “I continue to be fascinated with how words are used to change the hearts and minds of citizens, whether it be through books, as they did in the Cold War, or in the current climate in which tweets and fake news have the same effect.”

*(From the New York Times....) "Prescott was turned down the first year she applied to graduate schools. “I just thought, I don’t have it,” she says. But the following year she was accepted at the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas. There, early in her tenure, the fellows were treated to a day of mini-pitch sessions with literary agents. After reading a short-story version of what Prescott would eventually expand into her novel, a high-profile agent warned her, 'No one is interested in Russia anymore'. (Maine Writer ~ whaaaaa? OMG)  Prescott left the room flattened, wondering, “Do I keep going?” She dug in for four private drafts, done with sharing work until she was sure of its sturdiness. 
In early 2017, she finally presented the novel to her Michener thesis adviser, the author Elizabeth McCracken, who remembers thinking, 'Oh my God, this book is going to do amazing things in the world'.”

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Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Music in the narrative - Marilyn Maye

This enjoyable recognition to the jazz singer Marilyn Maye, written by Michael Schulman, reminds me of the Christian hymn, "How Can I Keep From Singing?". 

"She can belt, and she can sing ballads with the kind of warmth that makes your heart smile. ....She has a theatrical flair that captivates and enthralls...." Rex Reed.
In Maye's 9th decade, I can hear this beautiful jazz diva performing through the narrative. Published in the August 19, 2019 The New Yorker.

(Tonight Show host)....Johnny Carson’s Favorite Singer
At ninety-one, the cabaret star Marilyn Maye has a packed schedule and a batch of new fans who may have missed the first eight decades of her career.


When the cabaret singer Marilyn Maye turned ninety, in April of last year, she celebrated with a seven-night stint at Feinstein’s / 54 Below, which she titled “90 At Last!” For her ninety-first birthday, she returned with another set of standards, called “I Wish I Were 90 Again!” Maye is a last-of-her-kind crooner who can still mesmerize an audience; she interprets the Great American Songbook with an unfussy warmth that feels transported from a less ironic age. “I’m a little different animal than a lot of performers,” she said the other day. “I sing to you, not for you.”

The secret of her stamina, she said, is vitamins, which her assistant of thirty years lays out for her. “She may be killing me off slowly, because I don’t know what they are,” Maye said with a laugh. Also, she never stops working. She holds the record for most appearances by a singer on Johnny Carson’s “Tonight Show”—seventy-six—and has played the same lake resort in Iowa for sixty-three summers straight. In 2005, after years of living and working in the Midwest, she returned to New York to sing at a Jerry Herman tribute (“I was triumphant, I have to say”), which led to steady, jam-packed gigs at the Metropolitan Room and a new audience that had somehow missed her first eight decades.

Maye now rents an apartment in Manhattan and has performances scheduled through February. “It’s kind of scary to book ahead,” she admitted. Between appearances, she teaches master classes. On a recent afternoon, Maye and a dozen aspiring chanteuses were in a midtown rehearsal room, with a grand piano and a microphone. Learning to sell a jazz standard is a bit like studying Yiddish or letterpress, but singers swear by Maye’s workshops; Jon Batiste, the thirty-two-year-old bandleader of “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert,” is among the musicians who have audited. (Maye: “He’s cute as the dickens.” Batiste: “She’s the real deal, man.”) One woman, a psychoanalyst, was attending the class, she said, because “I live in the world of emotions and people’s self-conscious dynamics, and the voice is the medium through which we often connect our inner and our outer experience.”

Maye sat at a table, hunched over sheet music, wearing thick glasses, a white cardigan, and bright-pink lipstick. A young woman named Emma K. Campbell sang the 1946 ballad “Tenderly,” as Maye made notes with a red pencil. “I want to hear your breath in the line,” she instructed, when Campbell sang the arpeggioed word “breathlessly.”

Next, a blond woman who works in publishing and moonlights as a jazz singer apologized for having a mysterious rash on her arm. “Don’t think about it,” Maye advised. “You got a show to do, you do it.” She tapped a high-heeled foot as the woman sang a swinging rendition of “Cheek to Cheek.” Maye told her to look at someone in the audience when she sang the line “Dance with me.”

Maye’s career started at the age of nine, when she won an amateur singing contest in Topeka; the prize was a thirteen-week radio spot. In her teens, she hosted her own show on KRNT, in Des Moines, called “Marilyn Entertains.” Steve Allen caught her in a club in Kansas City, which led to television spots and, in 1965, a record deal with RCA. “That’s the good part,” Maye recalled. “The bad part is I was late. Had this happened in the forties, I think I would be more of a household name.” But Carson kept booking her through the rock-and-roll revolution. “He would usually pop into the makeup room and say, ‘You going to do “Here’s That Rainy Day”?’ And I would say, ‘Johnny, I’ve done it three times!’ He’d say, ‘Well, that’s all right. Do it again!’ ” Her contemporaries included Ella Fitzgerald, who called Maye her favorite white-girl singer. “Most of our conversations took place in dressing rooms,” Maye recalled. “She’d always ask me if I liked her new wigs.”

At the master class, Maye watched Susie Clausen, a real-estate agent from California who entertains at retirement homes, perform the standard “How About You?,” accompanying herself on saxophone. “Her name is going to be Saxy Susie,” Maye announced. Mid-song, Clausen lost her place and glanced at the accompanist. “Don’t look at the pianist,” Maye said. “It shows insecurity.”

At the end of the class, Maye stood up and shared an ancient saying: If you become a teacher, by your pupils you’ll be taught. The piano started, and Maye launched into the Rodgers and Hammerstein tune “Getting to Know You,” singing in a soothing near-whisper. When she got to the line “Getting to feel free and easy,” she stopped herself. “It isn’t ‘Getting-to-feel-free-and-easy,’ ” she instructed. “No. ‘Getting to feel free’ ”—inhale—“ ‘and easy.’ See, there are two thoughts there: free and easy.” 

(Maine Writer loved reading this article.  I could hear the music and just couldn't keep from singing.....)

Michael Schulman has contributed to The New Yorker since 2006. 

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