March 7th, 2006

Dear Mark Twain,

I just finished watching Ken Burns' documentary on you, and by its account, i owe you a deep gratitude for being able to amble about in my favorite craft - that of writing. It says you were the embodiment of the American pioneering spirit that opened the way to a powerful American verse to form. As one person put it (and forgive the banal re-quoting without citation) you swam deeper than anyone into the rich possibilities of the American vernacular, making it seem possible for others to swim at those depths as well. I offer my first of many disclaimers in what is a letter to a figure of literature whose name alone intimidates me so much i don't even mention it in casual conversation; your moniker receives the kind of fear i was told to reserve for God (who unfortunately fits well into the beginning of one of my favorite curse words). This person who placed you in such high regard in his documentary is just one person, one viewpoint, one editorial. I have to remind myself of that before i blindly accept that without Samuel Clemens the Great American Novel would never even be something for which writers strove. That being said, i can't help but be fascinated with the man behind "Tw--n", Mr. Clemens.

You came from the modest Midwest (for the time period, thought of as "the West"), rising up to great heights in the East Coast millionaire complex. The superficial parallels between that and my own origins and journey are not missed - minus the 'millionaire' bit. I proudly report that you didn't start writing novels and enjoying their success until well into your 30's. I soak myself into the Epsom salts of this fact, allowing my toes to poke a little above the surface of the water, thinking i may be allowed to let the bath cool a little before i must jump out. But, just as i resign to let my appendages wrinkle in the tub, i am forced to consider that according to this documentary, you weren't a mere mortal. In fact, according to Mr. Burns, you weren't even human. That's just great.

But wait. The one mistake you should be credited with (again according to Mr. Burns) is the length of your life. You lived too long. You enjoyed such great fame and accord for your writing which all came from a mind of incredible acumen. As a result of your success, you were able to live a life much longer than perhaps most people would, free of strenuous physical labor and squalor. This mind over the years would continue to conjure up schemes and scenarios in order to stimulate your addled attention span. Unfortunately, these conjurings did not match your early literary output, and most put you in a financial downfall that would lead to you living your later years in a struggle to avoid impoverishment. Nothing i'd learned about you in my juvenile years spoke of these later struggles. In fact, i can assure you that your legacy remains on solid footing 100+ years later, yet, something troubles me about the intentions of this documentary to show this aspect of your life. You are already, as i've stated, fictional. Even your name is fiction. What purpose does it serve to try to round out the common view of you by showing your foibles in conjunction with your successes? Ken Burns, a man whose view of himself could easily be labeled as "lofty", is attempting to bring you down singlehandedly.

That is not my goal. You are but one man. As i am. As we all are. Today, I was standing on the platform of a train stop that i rarely frequent and i noticed, in the span of my 10 minute wait, eight, succinct ethnic stereotypes. The fresh-off-the-boat Korean laborer; the beautiful Black homosexual; the fluidly seductive, blond Russian; the tired and indefatigable Orthodox Jew; the strangely jovial, petite Latino; the clean and undeterred, white hipster; the cross-minded East Indian; the pre-fabricated elderly woman. There i was, just one man appending these labels to these complete strangers, not yet prepared to accept the cannibalistic quality of this act. And then i thought of you. Well, i first thought of how small the categorization of my fellow commuters made me feel, and then, finally, i thought of your legacy and your America. You captured the American language into print, a form in which our accent had previously not existed. This has allowed so many of us that have followed you the ability to break our fellow citizens into categories like i did - something we do everyday - but never once consider a single one of those partitions as not a part of America.

I don't know if what i'm attempting in my written word amounts to anything worthwhile. That is not the question i should ponder in a literary world laying inside of your shadow. Instead, the attempt to further the documentation of this vernacular you first published deserves the real and meritous attention.

My deepest gratitude,

DC