Those of you who have dropped by over the years know I am fascinated by discerning Vincent Starrett’s process. He once wrote (in a letter I can’t find right now) “I have many little folders” of newspaper clippings. I don’t have one of those folders, but I did find the next best thing.

Small images clipped from magazines are also scattered among the reviews stuffed in the book.

If you take a look at the illustration at the top of the page, you’ll see a recently acquired book as I unwrapped it. It is Starrett’s copy of Dylan Thomas in America, published in November 1955 by Little, Brown & Company. There’s nothing much to distinguish this copy, which has a torn and worn dust jacket and is otherwise clean and tight inside. Starrett’s signature is here, and I think it’s truly his, based on other evidence identified below.

But writing your name on the fly leaf isn’t the only way to make a book “yours.” Look a little closer at the photo and you’ll see browned papers sticking out at the edge. These were the ends of several newspaper clippings and other assorted documents, stuffed into the front cover of the book. It’s clear that instead of using a file folder, Starrett tucked the clippings into the book as a way of keeping them in one place. Together, they tell a story.

A memo from the publisher

A photo showing Thomas with his mother. It was clipped and added to the pile of reviews.

A little background: Starting in 1943, Starrett was part of the books team at the Chicago Tribune. His column, “Book’s Alive,” ran most Sundays in a magazine section of the paper devoted to books, authors and related arts.

So far as I can tell, Starrett was not a full-time employee of the newspaper. He probably was paid on as a regular columnist or contributor. Nonetheless, he would have had the opportunity to scoop up review copies of new books—one of the great perks of his job. It’s also a cost effective way to build a modern library.

In his letters, Starrett talks of making weekly trips to the Tribune office, where he likely would have picked up his paycheck and then hunted through the freebies. As a senior columnist, Starrett would have gotten his pick of pristine books available for reviewing.

Most of the books would come from the publisher with a press release and a publication card, like the one you see here. The standard card in red ink on yellow stock from Little, Brown asked that the review be published after the book was available in stores.

Since the language on the printed card was always the same, a black stamp has been added to show the publication date and price of the book.

The publisher also asks for “tear sheets,” literally pages torn from the newspaper that would be mailed back to the publisher by a clerk. Publishers kept these reviews and would use them in promoting the book. An especially good review could provide a “blurb” that would show up in advertisements.

The press release

Next is a piece of the publisher’s press release. The release is essentially a review of the book written by the publisher. The hope is that a reviewer will be influenced by reading the publisher’s very positive comments. Nothing would please a publisher more than to see large chunks of the press release reprinted with a few changes in the newspaper. That didn’t happen often, but a lazy or rushed reviewer might pick out a sentence here or there to help flesh out his piece.

Publicity wasn’t a problem for this book. Controversy about it had been brewing for months before its publication. A Welsh writer known as much for his out-of-control behavior as his poetry, Thomas had taken on on a series of drunken U.S. tours starting in 1950. In addition to overseeing production of his play, “Under Milk Wood,” he did several readings of his work on each trip, mostly at colleges in the New York area, Thomas’ readings became a tour de force series of alcohol- and nicotine-fueled exuberance. Audiences came to hear him read his poetry, and listen to his sometimes raucous anecdotes. He scandalized some with his behavior; others came hoping to see him do something unexpected, like use harsh language not normally heard from behind a lectern. They might also have heard about his periodic blackouts.

An undated clipping Starrett kept in Binnin’s book.

Thomas’ lifestyle caught up with him and he died while in the U.S. on his fourth tour in November 1953. His death made the front page of newspapers around world. John Malcolm Binnin decided to recount what he heard and saw during these American tours while he acted as Thomas’ friend, lecture planner, advisor, personal manager and sometimes successful minder.

Thomas’ wife, Caitlin, was not pleased with Binnin’s plan and the book has a remarkable preface from her. She is critical of Binnin. and claims she would be the only one who could write a faithful account of her husband.

We’ll hear more from Caitlin in a while.

The reviews

Binnin’s book drew a lot of attention from reviewers and fellow poets, as reviews like this extensive piece from the Sunday, Nov. 20, 1955 New York Herald Review illustrates.

Not surprisingly, The Saturday Review for Nov. 19, 1955, used the book’s publication for a “package” of commentary. Spread across four pages, the stories are a brutally frank account of Thomas’ final years with contributions by three people: Louis Untermeyer, who reviewed Brinnin’s book; Henry Hewes, who offered a quick profile of Binnin; and Edith Hamilton, who took an honest look at the poet’s life and his words. Those words included his writings, but also his conversations with others, like his wife.

“His wife, Caitlin, who was, it now seems warrantably, afraid of the effects of his free and uncontrollable roistering among well-wishers and sycophants who were eager to be his drinking companions, said that Thomas wanted to go to the States ‘only for flattery, idleness, and infidelity.’ Thomas countered that the right words were ‘appreciation, dramatic work, and friends.’ ”

It’s clear that Thomas stayed on Starrett’s mind.

As the months and years went by, he stuffed other clippings into the book, like this review of Binnin’s bio from The Atlantic for January 1956. Here’s a sample:

“Some will feel that to chronicle Thomas’s alcoholic dégringolade was a betrayal of the loyalty due to a hugely gifted friend. Others will applaud Mr. Brinnin’s decision to set down what he knows of the record before the facts become hopelessly blurred by gossi pand mythmaking.”

Starrett also saved this Nov. 15, 1958, Saturday Review look at several LP’s with recordings of Thomas reading his poetry and a performance of his last work, “Under Milk Wood.” In the days before YouTube made such recordings ubiquitous, LPs were the only way to reach back in time and hear readings and performances.

Caitlin’s response

Finally, there are clippings about the book, Leftover Life to Kill by Thomas’ wife, Caitlin. Starrett saved this promotional piece from the publisher’s catalogue for 1957. Once again, Little, Brown was the publisher and promoted her book as “a literary bombshell.”

The last clipping is a review of Caitlin’s book, once again from the Saturday Review.

Summing up

What were Starrett’s intentions with all the clippings? With all this activity, I expected to see Thomas show up in Starrett’s column in some prominent way. So far, I’ve not found it. Perhaps it lies in the Chicago Tribune files and I’ve just failed to pull it up.

But after going through the correspondence and other files in the University of Minnesota’s library, I’m convinced what we see here is an example of Starrett’s research technique. He would clip out stories about topics that interested him—Robert Louis Stevenson’s pirate song in Treasure Island, for example, or letters to the editor about the history of the Sherlock Holmes stories—tuck the clippings away and when the moment was right, pull out the file and string the clips together into a feature story.

Oh, to have the ability to travel back in time and wander through those clipping files.