Talking with Mr. Winchester

It’s not every day you meet one of your literary heroes.  But for me that day was last Wednesday.  And it’s even less likely that you actually correspond with said hero, and discuss with him an idea you have for a project inspired by one of his books—and receive an encouraging reply.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The author of such works as Krakatoa, The Map That Changed the World, The Professor and the Madman, Simon Winchester writes of all things I love: history, geology, travel, etc.  He pursues fascinating stories—and all the tangents that emanate.  Basically, he’s the (authentically) English Bill Bryson.  And if I can’t be the next John McPhee, then the next Simon Winchester would surely suffice. 

At the Upper East Side Barnes & Noble last week, Mr. Winchester shared with his far-too small audience, just four stories pertaining to his latest book, Atlantic: Great Sea Battles, Heroic Discoveries, Titanic Storms, and a Vast Ocean of a Million Stories.  For nonfiction authors, I prefer this approach; the reading/interview format seems only appropriate for fiction writers, with their “creative process” and whatnot.  Essentially, his anecdotes covered the range of stories from a vast book about a vaster ocean: from the origins of his idea to write a biography of an ocean, to the odd rituals of the Viking-descended Faroe Islanders; from the isolated island in the South Atlantic that banned Mr. Winchester from visiting, to a shipwreck and heroic rescue on the Skeleton Coast of Africa.  Entertaining, and often humorous, Mr. Winchester’s stories provided a glimpse into his travels, his discursive and tangential style, and how a book eventually accumulates.

After a few less-than provocative questions, Simon Winchester took a seat for some book signing.  Now, when I saw him at a reading at Washington, D.C.’s Politics and Prose bookstore several years ago, I mentioned to him that while in London I had actually seen the subject of the book, The Map That Changed the World—William Smith’s 1815 geologic map of Great Britain.  It was a good talking point then, but … now I had no in. 

However, besides the copy of Atlantic I bought that night, I also carried with me a copy of Krakatoa—in which Mr. Winchester chronicles the 1883 eruption, geologic origins, and historical impact of this infamous Indonesian volcano.  Within a chapter on an Islamic uprising in Java in the wake of the eruption (and perhaps even initiated by the resulting turmoil), Winchester mentions the story of Eduard Douwes Dekker (no relation; none of my grandmothers were Dutch).  As a colonial official in the Dutch East Indies of the 1850s, Dekker witnessed administrative corruption—in both the personalities involved and in the bureaucratic system itself.  But the actual abuse and mistreatment of the natives compelled him to confront his bosses and, ultimately, to write a novel.  Dekker’s Max Havelaar, with it meta-narrative structure and overt autobiographical nature, portrays what he’d seen in just three months assisting the administration of coffee plantations not far from the island that would explode decades later.  His book was controversial of course, especially as it exposed the cruelties of the colonial system to an ignorant (perhaps willfully) Dutch public.  Needless to say, Dekker did not become popular in Holland, though he did become one of the nation’s best writers.  And eventually, Max Havelaar prompted the Dutch government to reform its colonial polices—initiatives that eventually led to Indonesian independence (which actually took until after World War II), as well as the Fair Trade movement. 

Now, Simon Winchester devotes all of three pages to this story (which is a lot considering the density of information packed into his books).  But I saw the potential for an entire book based on those three pages—an account of Dekker’s life, experience in Java, and influential novel.  And so, I read Max Havelaar, learned more about its author, and even laid out a rough outline.  And then somewhere in there I lost the will to put any effort into the project.  This is not the first time this has happened.  (If I ever mentioned either the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising or anything about RFK to you, these projects, just for the record, are in the same state of incompletion.)  But, how often would I have the opportunity to ask the very person who inspired me for his thoughts on the project?  So, I did.  I mentioned my fascination with Dekker’s story, and he told me that since time and place did not allow for a proper discussion, I should send him an email.   I thanked him, and left with signed books and an email to write.

In that email, I thanked for the signatures and laid out my project proposal—mentioning that my research was only preliminary and my intended audience: cool, young adults  who are into being inspired to action by historical figures and their tales of creativity and self-sacrifice in order to stand up for what is right.  Perhaps that’s a tad specific, but why write for someone else?  And I concluded by seeking out any research leads, or even just recommendations on how a modern historian should approach/consider this era and region.  And with that, I sent off my note to a rather busy man. 

But a man of his word, as it turns out.  He told me he responds to nearly every email that comes to him through his website, and I received a reply a just a couple days later:

It seems an admirable, fascinating - but perhaps not financially terribly rewarding  - idea; and I for one would love to read such a book.

I have a friend in Leiden who is familiar with the subject and might provide some leads; and one has to assume there is a biography in Dutch, so its author, if around, would surely help you too.

But the decision you alone must make is: is it worthwhile? On all levels, that is; not just monetary. You just might find the whole thing so spiritually and intellectually fulfilling as to trump the financial risk.

Do let me know what you decide,

Simon W.

Terribly exciting, right?  The only thing that baffles me is why I haven’t jumped right into this project.  I mean, if Simon Winchester is my audience—then why not just go write it?  I don't know why, but I haven't.  I don't know why.  I don't know.