The haunted 50s

In his new book about being middle-aged, James Atlas explores subjects writers rarely tackle: Limitation and loss.

By David Bowman

Apr 17, 2005 | How many of you feel oppressed by members of the so-called baby boom -- that explosion of American birth that began when the young GIs returned home triumphant from the twin theaters of war in Asia and Europe? The first things that generation did -- not necessarily in this order -- were invent suburbia, get wives and begin procreating like crazy. This activity flourished throughout the dark ages of the Cold War, peaking with 4,300,000 births in 1957.

I believe we can authoritatively state that the baby boom itself began during June of 1946, the month when "The Pocket Book of Baby and Child Care," by Benjamin Spock, first went on sale for 35 cents. This date dictates that the oldest official member of the baby boom is 59 years old. The youngest is in his or her early 40s. Only now has one of these boomers dared to chart the course of modern middle age -- the novelist/biographer/critic/publisher James Atlas. His semi-memoir is titled "My Life in the Middle Ages." The cover does not show a robust man swatting a tennis racket, or a wavy-gray-haired fellow nuzzling a blonde half his age, tossing away his bottle of Viagra over his shoulder. No, the cover shows a heavy-set man with a gray, receding hairline lying down on a brick street.

Atlas chose the cover image for his book. The man has a sense of humor about his condition. The raw material of Atlas' chapters, however, began as soulless exercises edited by Tina Brown, back in the days when she was the modern Marie Antoinette/mantresse running the New Yorker. She encouraged Atlas to bellyache about the lack of privilege the privileged middle-aged citizens of New York believed they were suffering. (Let them eat brioche!)

Thankfully, a few years after Brown left the New Yorker to start the now-defunct Talk, Atlas rethought and rewrote the essays, discovering a genuine humanistic angle for the genre he was inventing -- the middle-aged coming-of-age story. In his book's introduction, Atlas recalls his father's 50th birthday party: "[My father] announced to his assembled friends that he was now on the downward slope of the bell curve. At fifty you could just make out the far horizon and what lay beyond it -- 'Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark.'"

Apparently, Dylan Thomas' proclamation, "Do not go gentle into that good night ... Rage, rage against the dying of the light," is easier recited than followed. What the younger Atlas discovered was, "The greatest challenge of middle age -- and as I write these words, I'm on the threshold of late middle age, which imposes a biological deadline far more terrifying than the demands of any editor -- is to accept one's limitations. It's not easy. In my experience, it's the hardest thing of all."

The author's blunt chapter titles concisely sum up the contents of the book: "Mom and Dad," "Time," "Home," "Money," "Failure," "Shrinks," "The Body," "Books," "God," "Twenty-fifth Anniversary." The chapters are poignant. Also, Atlas can laugh at himself. But there is no light at the end of the tunnel. The last chapter is titled "Death." I suppose it's a hopeful sign that "Death" is followed by "Acknowledgements."

I met with Atlas in his Manhattan skyscraper office with a view of a thousand orange shower curtains flapping down in Central Park. Whatever "limitations" the 55-year-old Atlas -- who presides over his own imprint, Atlas Books, at HarperCollins -- may have, they are not physical ones. He is trim and dapper and looks to be in his mid-40s. Christ! He still has all his hair. I knew that Atlas had experienced both literary triumphs and bile in his career, yet, when I talked to him, he refused to really bad-mouth anyone. By the interview's end, I did, however, discern a hidden Truman Capote vibe in Atlas. And by that I'm thinking of the famous photograph of Capote filing his fingernails with a stiletto. There was a quiet edge of danger about Atlas. This man does not appear to be someone who plans to be going gentle into any damn good night anytime soon.

Are you prepared to be the spokesman for your middle-aged generation?

No. I'm comfortable being a spokesman for myself. I did not wish to write a memoir as such. I didn't want to write a book that was revelatory in that way. My book has resonance beyond me. I wanted to write in a way that allowed me to write about my generation.

So how old do I look?

I don't know. Significantly younger than I am. Say, late 30s.

I'm 47. So I'm middle-aged?

Sorry. But you are, yeah. You're middle-aged, definitely.

Does anyone fear you?

Fear me? You've got to be kidding.

My father told me that the mark of success when you're middle-aged is to be powerful enough that a number of people fear you professionally.

I suppose people used to fear me when I was a smart-alecky book critic for the New York Times. Who would fear me now? I can see what you're getting at, but I can't stand the idea of frightening the people who work for me because I've had plenty of jobs where I've been bullied. It's a very unpleasant experience. I have potential power as a father, but I don't exercise it. As an editor I have potential power to insist on certain changes, but because I'm also a writer, I don't want to do that.

Next Page: "My friend John Irving once said something great, 'If you don't have enemies, you haven't lived.' So I've lived a full life"

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