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That forging of close relationships has long been a theme of literature—and
a sustainer of literary careers. Milton's Lycidas is a lyrical
lament to the memory of "a learned Friend" from university
days at Cambridge, "unfortunately drown'd" when his ship
sank off the coast of Wales in 1637. Milton is a standard part
of the teaching repertoire for author Reynolds Price '55, James
B. Duke Professor of English. "I've had a need for various
kinds of friends throughout my literary career, which really dates
back to my senior year in college," he says. "One of
the real needs that a literary artist has is some sort of supportive
network. It doesn't have to be a network—it can be one person,
or it can be two people. The worst single thing about being a writer,
except for the possibility that your work never gets published,
or that it doesn't get published in the way that you want it to,
is the loneliness.
"Beyond the very successful writers that I've taught, like
Anne Tyler ['61] and Jo Humphreys ['67, Hon. '94], I've probably
taught between ten and twenty other people who were very, very
talented when it came to the writing of literary narrative. And
these people would leave college and go off to either work on their
own or do an M.F.A. But basically, sooner or later, they quit.
And the ultimate reason they quit is that they couldn't take the
loneliness of the job."
Price's first major literary friendship was with Eudora Welty,
twenty-four years his senior, who came to Duke in his last semester
as an undergraduate. Welty had been invited to campus by legendary
creative-writing teacher William Blackburn; Price arranged to meet
her late-night train at the Durham station and drive her to her
downtown hotel. Welty read Price's short story, which was inspired
by his experience as a boy at an Episcopal camp in the mountains
of North Carolina; he had started writing it as a freshman and
polished it for Blackburn's class. She called it "thoroughly
professional," Price recalls—high praise from someone he
had long considered a "sterling writer."
Welty then offered to send it to her literary agent, who eventually
became Price's agent as well. That supportive gesture from Welty,
he says, was "the opening trigger of our friendship," which
endured until her death in 2001.
Price also had a friendship with British poet and essayist Stephen
Spender—a creative relationship cemented by the publication of
a Price short story in Encounter, a London-based magazine of culture
and politics, in the spring of 1958. Spender was the magazine's
co-editor. Before that, Price says, he had never been published
in a magazine grander than The Archive, Duke's student-produced
literary magazine.
"A lot of those friends who support me in my writing are other
writers; I would say the majority of them are other writers. They
know what the situation is, how much loneliness is involved," he
says. They know the rules of the literary-friendship game: "Don't
start criticizing too soon in the process. Wait till he's finished
with the chapter, because if you start now, you might freeze him
up completely, and then he won't be able to proceed."
For Price, friends have been vital in awarding him—as he put it
in the title of one of his books—a whole new life. Without his
friends, he might not have gotten through the period from 1984
through 1987, when he was "shut up in this house theoretically
dying of spinal cancer," he says. "Those saintly souls—I
don't mean 'saintly' in any religious sense, but people who are
enormously unselfish and generous hearted—gave me the kind of
attention that got me through it. Knowing that I could pick up
the phone and call people at any hour of the day or night—and
sometimes I did call people at three o'clock in the morning—was
indispensable. I really think that I well might have died without
it. It was a form of nutrition; it was just like getting the right
amount of calcium or nitrogen in my diet."
If it's tougher and tougher to sustain a steady diet of confidants,
organized social networks—the new bowling leagues—can help address
the need. One example is the New York-based Transition Network.
Its first executive is Betsy Werley '76, formerly a corporate lawyer
and project manager for JPMorgan Chase. The thinking behind the
network is that unlike any previous generation, today's "boomer" women
are actively reinventing their careers, their relationships, and
their lives. Among other things, the organization tries to forge
a community of peers offering camaraderie and support.
"One of the things that I observe is that when women come
to the organization and walk into a room full of other women their
own age, there's a tremendous excitement, sense of relief, and
bonding that starts very quickly," Werley says. "I think
most women are open to building new relationships. They've had
flexible personalities for family and work and other responsibilities.
So in building friendships, they are flexible about letting new
people into their lives." That's a carryover, she says, from
women entering the workforce and realizing that "we had better
support each other" in order to advance professionally.
"We put a great emphasis on women talking to other women,
sharing what's going on in their lives, and accepting other people's
thoughts on what they might do about it," says Werley. "I
think smart people are looking to develop new friendships and to
enrich their lives in that way."
But for a lot of smart people, that's not coming easily. As the
recent Duke study puts it, "The American population has lost
discussion partners from both kin and outside the family. The largest
losses, however, have come from the ties that bind us to community
and neighborhood. The general image is one of an already densely
connected, close, homogeneous set of ties slowly closing in on
itself, becoming smaller, more tightly interconnected, more focused
on the very strong bonds of the nuclear family," meaning that
more and more social interactions are centering narrowly on spouses,
partners, and parents.
And beyond those ever-tightening networks, people are trying to
forge ties in ways that may be rewarding in just the most superficial
sense—not just through cyber-networks like Facebook but also through
virtual landscapes like Second Life. Second Life is a "metaverse" or
metaphysical universe, with a population, at last count, of more
than 1.3 million. According to Second Life's statement of purpose, "From
the moment you enter the World you'll discover a vast digital continent,
teeming with people, entertainment, experiences, and opportunity." You
may purchase "a perfect parcel of land," even a private
island, and sign on to groups ranging from neighborhood associations
to fans of science-fiction movies. You, of course, will be in the
form of an avatar, or digital alter-ego. If you choose, you can
walk underwater or fly around.
Just an hour or so after joining, "you'll notice that several
residents approach you and introduce themselves," the website
promises. "Within this vibrant society of people, it's easy
to find people with similar interests.... Once you meet people
you like, you find it's easy to communicate and stay in touch."
In the context of this universe, communicating and staying in touch
have decidedly nontraditional meanings. You can link with your
online associates to hang out at a nightclub, take in a fashion
show, attend an art opening, or play games. It could be the start
of a virtual friendship. The gift of virtual chicken soup delivered
by a friendly avatar, though, won't go down like the real thing.
Download a .pdf version of the study at http://www.asanet.org/galleries/default-file/June06ASRFeature.pdf
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