Prozac Nation (44 page)

In the meantime, the moody, macabre British new wave bands like the Cure, the Smiths, and Depeche Mode—once considered too depressing for the mainstream—were selling out shows at twenty-thousand seat arenas and finding their largest American followings with suburban mall rats, not the arty intellectuals they were always thought to appeal to. Nine Inch Nails, an industrial noise band from Cleveland, released the appropriately titled album
Pretty Hate Machine
on a small, independent label, and with the help of an absolutely morbid, misanthropic single called “Head Like a Hole,” they ended up with a gold record. Jane's Addiction went platinum while advocating heroin abuse, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were pleasantly surprised when “Under the Bridge,” a song about drug withdrawal and suicide attempts, became a number-one single.

Misery-chic achieved a twisted, perverse apotheosis of sorts when the desire to look as gloomy, downtrodden, and nihilistic as Nirvana fans caused designers like Marc Jacobs of Perry Ellis to dispense with haute couture and put dirty flannel shirts and ripped jeans on the Paris runways. Grunge was hailed as the new fashion statement in
Vogue
and made it to the front page of the “Style” section of the
New York Times.
In April 1994, Linda Wells, the editor in chief of
Allure,
wrote that while surveying the pictures of “bone-thin models wearing gloomy, miserable expressions” or looking “anorexic, clinically depressed, or headed for a mental institution,” she had to conclude that “something happened to fashion and fashion photography in the past year. It was as if we were all in desperate need of Prozac.” Nirvana, whose success had initially been dismissed as a music business anomaly, was actually part of a larger trend.

At the height of Nirvana's popularity, when they managed to both top the charts and smash their instruments on
Saturday Night Live,
I remember thinking that American youth must be really pissed off to have turned something like this into a hit. Jonathan Poneman, one of the owners of Sub Pop Records, an independent Seattle label that first discovered Nirvana, thought the band's success was a sign that the “loser rebellion” was under way. At long last, all of the outcasts, the miserable majority who could never relate to Paula Abdul in the first place, had gone into record stores and demanded to buy music that spoke to them. Trademark Sub Pop T-shirts with the word
LOSER
printed in caps across the chest became collector's items. Eddie Vedder, the lead singer of a multiplatinum act called Pearl Jam, wore his
LOSER
T-shirt for several national TV appearances. Then in 1994, another Geffen act, a young man who simply called himself Beck, surprised his label by turning a catchy rapstyle folk song called “Loser” into a hit single and a slacker anthem. If being a loser could become cool—and if Nirvana could sell ten million copies of
Nevermind,
have a collection of outtakes and B-sides called
Incesticide
go gold, and watch the album's follow-up,
In Utero,
debut at number one—it was clear that the culture of depression must have been thoroughly entrenched in the mainstream.

So I understand why people might see Kurt Cobain's death as symbolic. Because, after all, they would be perfectly correct to see his life and the music he created in that short time as utterly symbolic. Nirvana's popularity either inaugurated or coincided with some definite and striking cultural moments. No one can or ever should even think to take that away from him or his memory. But by the time he was alone in his garage apartment with a shotgun in his hand with the intent of doing himself in, his actions were far beyond any kind of cultural momentum we can associate with the times. Sylvia Plath killed herself in 1963, before there were slackers and before there were even hippies. She killed herself because she was depressed, the same as Ernest Hemingway, Vince Foster, and so many anonymous others. No one shoots himself in the head because he's had a bad fishing season or because the
Wall Street Journal's
editorial page says mean things about him. Depression strikes down deep. The fact that depression seems to be “in the air” right now can be both the cause and result of a level of societal malaise that so many feel. But once someone is a clinical case, once someone is in a hospital bed or in a stretcher headed for the morgue, his story is absolutely and completely his own. Every person who has experienced a severe depression has his own sad, awful tale to tell, his own mess to live through. Sadly, Kurt Cobain will never get that far. Every day, I thank God that I did.

 

July 1986–May 1994

Without Betsy Lerner; this book quite simply would not have been possible. It's not that it might have come together in a different or lesser form—it's that it would not have happened at all. I know: This project began, and assumed various other guises, back in 1986; over the years, many have tried and none has succeeded—a couple even lost their jobs in the process—to extract the manuscript from me. Only Betsy could have done it. As far as I can tell, she is the best book editor on earth. She's also been a great friend, the big sister I never had, and Job's most likely successor in the patience department. She also happens to be the coolest thirtysomething I've ever met.

The luckiest day of my life was the day I met Mort Janklow, who, as far as I'm concerned, is a crown prince, a swell guy, a brilliant agent, and the master of composing the vituperative-but-still-somehow-encouraging letter (I should frame some of his correspondence.) He is the first person who saw what a mess I was making of my whole career and explained that it didn't have to be that way. Mort is a man who is on your side when he says he's on your side. He's got this great way of telling you everything is going to be just fine, even when it so obviously is not, and then, because he says so, somehow it magically is. How does he do it? I can't thank him enough. It has also been my great good fortune to have Lydia Wills as an agent. Lydia amazes me. She can negotiate these great deals (even with people who barely speak English), offer smart editorial insight and good advice, and still find time at the end of the day just to gossip and be a fellow chick who's a lot of fun. She also has great shoes. But most importantly, her patience and enthusiasm, along with a willingness to take my hysterical phone calls at all hours and even to lend me her apartment to write in when nothing else seemed to be working, meant so much to me.

Houghton Mifflin has been a wonderful publisher, so I must thank John Sterling for taking me into the fold; Jayne Yaffe for being a great copy editor, and for having not one but two copies of the
Physicians' Desk Reference;
Robert Grover for being Betsy's assistant, for being a pal, and for having an unusual concept of how fractions work; Ken Carpenter for being a marketing genius and all-around good guy, the only New Yorker I know who has a camouflage-print video camera; Peter Strupp for headaches yet to come; Christina Coffin for allowing this crash to happen; Becky Saikia-Wilson for production under pressure; Melodie Wertelet for designing this book so beautifully; Debbie Engel for her warmth, interest, and enthusiasm; Hilary Liftin for generously and graciously taking me on late in the game; and the many other people at the company whom I have yet to get to know really, but who have been so kind and helpful already. Janklow and Nesbit has also reaffirmed my faith in the agenting process, so besides Mort and Lydia, I must thank Eric Simonoff, Maria Gallagher, Eileen Godlis, Bennett Ashley, and everybody else over there for making that office the best and most efficient ally any author could ask for. Thanks to Amy Guip for making the cover of this book so very incredible, and to Marion Ettlinger (the coolest fortysomething on earth) for making the girl in the author photo look like someone I'd actually want to be.

According to rabbinical teachings, every time God gets so angry that he finds Himself wanting to blow up the world and put an end to us all, there are thirty-three extremely righteous people roaming the planet who give Him reason to give us another chance. I'm certain that Gail and Stanley Robles are two of them. They are also, most certainly, the coolest of all my friends' parents. They allowed me to stay in their home in sunny Florida so I could get my work done in peace, and they did this without even meeting me first. I still can't figure out what inspired their incredible kindness, but I know they really helped make the world seem like a happier, homier place. Their son, Peter Robles, has also been a great friend, and I thank him forever for hooking me up with his parents. I also thank him for many great meals, great conversations and good times, even if I do feel a need to run out of the room whenever he begins a conversation with something like, “The thing about Stravinsky . . .”

In general, if your life is going to be one long emergency, it's a good idea to have good friends. I have been truly blessed in this way. Christine Fasano is a great girl, a loyal friend who has often made me feel comparatively sane—but most importantly, she's been there when I needed her and even when I didn't. She's also had the good sense to earn a living so the rest of us don't have to. Jason Bagdade is an extraordinary roommate, a micromanager to the stars, a provider of
New York Times
crossword puzzles, and my favorite boy on earth. It's a pity we don't want to marry each other, but we just don't. We have disproved the thesis of
When Harry Met Sally—
that men and women simply can't be just friends—over what is starting to seem like eons of living together. My girlfriends over the years have been the glue that kept me together. Sharon Meers, Roberta Feldman, Jody Friedman, Heather Chase, Naomi Schechter, Rachel Brodie: These women are my heroes. There have been other people who've come into my life more recently, many of them have read parts of this book and offered their suggestions, and many have abstained from the process and just been great drinking buddies (and I don't even drink). Here's to the whole sick crew: David Samuels, Elizabeth Acker(wo)man, Mark McGurl, Tom Campbell, Ronnie Drenger, Larissa MacFarquhar, Stefanie Syman, Joe Penachio, Emily Jenkins, and David Lipsky. A special thanks to Betsey Schmidt, who read the manuscript, gave encouragement, and has become a good friend in the process. Andy Lyman, now in the new Europe, which he says is a lot like the old New Jersey, was there when the bank just wasn't. J. C. Weiss was great on copyright detail, better on Wild Turkey duty and a pal to boot.

Nathan Nichols deserved more and better from me. My love and appreciation are with him always, so far beyond anything any paltry words could say.

Bob Gottlieb read a very early draft of this book and offered some very sound advice. He did this on his own time, out of the goodness of his heart, and that really made a difference. I also must thank him for bringing me to
The New Yorker,
and offering me the privilege of having the best job ever. Chip McGrath was hard to get to know at first, but became a very insightful editor, and, I believe, a real friend. Nancy Franklin, a tough broad and a terrific editor, helped improve my writing so very much. Steve Florio, who certainly had many better things to do besides advising overwrought young writers, will always be appreciated for finding the time. Abby McGanney at
Mirabella
and Ralph Novak at
People
have both been true friends and great screening partners over the years. Ed Kosner and Laurie Jones, who at one time were my bosses at
New York,
probably have no idea how much I appreciate the opportunities they gave me. I really do.

There are many people who in a professional and often personal capacity have offered me so much advice and help over the years. Some of them don't even know that I feel the gratitude I do because, sadly, I sometimes have a strange way of showing it. I want these people to know that their care has meant and means a lot: Elaine Pfefferblit, Peter Herbst, Michael Hirschorn, and Jan Miller come particularly to mind.

To Andrea Hedin, M.D., I will be forever grateful. Much appreciation also to Phyllis Zilkha, Ph.D., for therapy that actually works and to Elizabeth Dane, O.M.D., Ph.D. for herbs, acupuncture, and words of wisdom. Jane Goldberg, Ph.D. might be the only landlady on earth to be not just relieved, but truly grateful, to find that her property is still standing at the end of the month, and that the damage done to her antique armoire and the various relics from the Sistine Chapel are nothing that thousands of dollars and a couple of really good restorers in Florence can't repair. But seriously, what good luck it is for me to pay my rent each month (well, more or less) to a psychoanalyst who deals with whatever damage she finds as an indication of some sort of aggression that needs to be worked through in therapy. Jane has also become a good friend, a terrific adviser on boy problems, and a very supportive and generous person who I still can't believe I hooked up with via a classified apartment listing in the
Village Voice.
Someday I will pay her all that's in arrears. Dolsie Somah is the reason that there is occasionally a pathway to my bedroom amid all the mess; she's also, as far as I can tell, the most kind and virtuous person on earth. Thanks to Shirly Ip, Irina, and everyone at the Peter Coppola Salon for being as nice to me as they are to Stephanie Seymour, and for understanding that it is just as hard to write when your roots are growing out as it is to pose for the Victoria's Secret catalogue.

Thanks to John Lambrose for being such an apt household metaphor.

Thanks to Zap, the most excellent cat on earth, for being such good company.

Thanks to Beat Rodeo, Brendan, and everyone at the Ludlow Street Café for making Monday nights the best way to start the week.

Thanks to Amy Stein, Renata Miller, and everyone at the Writers' Room.

Thanks to Stephen Olson and Susan Litwack for being the first people to encourage me to write, and for making high school bearable. Thanks finally to Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Lou Reed, and the other great inventors of words and music that made my adolescence, and my depression, somehow possible to survive.