And so we started talking. He wanted to know all about me, of which there wasn't that much to tell. All along, I kept wondering what this out-of-place fellow was doing at this celebrity fete.
He wasn't a famous old actor, obviously. I quickly paged through all the old-time pros who were still alive and presumably in attendance; Abbott, Rodgers, Logan, Balanchine, Robbins, Atkinson. This guy was none of the above. Besides, he looked out of place and uncomfortable, like he clearly felt he didn't belong. Maybe he was some celebrity's father or grandfather? But no; his family wouldn't leave him eating alone like that. And besides, he didn't look like he was anyone's father. If he was someone, wouldn't he be surrounded by other celebrities and hangers-on?
As we sat there sawing into our food — our plates indicated that we had the same culinary taste, at Least — he responded to one of my questions that he felt out of place but must have been invited (aha!, he's one of the 132 honorees!) because of a play he'd written back during the Depression.
That was enough to get me on the scent. It turned out that this interesting and friendly but run-down and ailing 75-year old — alone and ignored, despite his fame and three Pulitzer Prizes — was Thornton Wilder, sitting there eating roast beef with me.
Penelope Niven does a masterful job of answering that question, over 800 or so pages, in Thornton Wilder: A Life [Harper]. Niven has a major advantage over prior biographers; Wilder's surviving sister Isabel kept a close hold on her brother's papers, work, and letters until her death in 1995. The story Niven tells is of a brilliant but intensely private soul.
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