John Le Carré on Stephen Spender; then Robert Weir and meanderings on Fame

John Le Carré The Pigeon Tunnel I find much less endearing than Frederick Forsyth's The Outsider but sometimes downright charming. There's a page on Stephen Spender in 1991. "At eighty-two, he cut a fine figure: white-haired, leonine, vigorous, full of wit," and holding forth on the evanescence of fame. Spender told of a drive across the US when he filled up at an isolated gas station in Nevada. The owner took only credit cards, so as not to have cash on hand. The garage owner scrutinized Spender's credit card. Finally, he said, "Only Stephen Spender I ever head of is a poet," he objected, "And he's dead." Now, the idea that the garage owner had heard of Stephen Spender the poet is a powerful enough conceit, no matter that he gets the facts wrong. About that time, 1991, at the Whitney, I think, Spender was wheelingly about then confronted me to ask where an elevator was. I was, I should say, in a Bill Blass suit and as tall as Spender, though younger, and looked as good as I ever did. I looked good enough to be a little wicked and as I showed him the elevator I cried out, "Oh, what a noble brow. You must be a poet." I hoped against hope that he would tell of being accosted in the United States by someone who had thought he must be a poet, just by looking at his noble brow.

But then there is the Bob Weir story which I am thinking about because of the death of John Perry Barlow. It is about Weir's decision to telephone the man who was, it turned out, in fact his natural father, and whom he got to know well:

The detective gave Weir his father's phone number, but Weir did nothing with it for some time. Then he took a deep breath and dialed the number. He figured that he had about fifteen seconds before his father might hang up if he didn't come to the point, so he rehearsed several ways of introducing himself. "My name is Robert Weir," he eventually said, "and I live in Marin County, and I have some information that might be of interest to you. But first I have to ask you a few questions. Did you ever have anything to do with a woman named" – and he gave the name of his mother – "who lived in Tucson nearly fifty years ago?" His father said yes and then grew very quiet. "I don't know how many children you have," Weir went on, "but you might have one more than you thought you did." When his father finally heard the news, he said, "Give me a second here." Then he said, "The only Robert Weir I know of plays guitar with the Grateful Dead," and Weir said, "Well, that would be me."

Was there ever a better line than "The only Robert Weir I know of plays guitar with the Greatful Dead"?