FEW AMERICAN WRITERS tumbled as dramatically from critical acclaim as did William Saroyan. There were many reasons, not the least of which was his personality. Because, as Saroyan's son Aram has argued, the writer came to personify "what might be called the mythic potential of his particular social-historical moment," Saroyan's self-centered, sometimes abrasive character became perhaps more important than his writing in the eyes of some. William Saroyan was, during the first half of his career, as much a public figure as an artist, and the confusion of those two roles made it easy to ignore his literary accomplishments once his notoriety faded. In fact, the artist's psychological contradictions are finally much less important than the quality of his art and, from his first published volume (The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze and Other Stories, 1934) until his last (Obituaries, 1979)-both of which were cited as among their years'best books-Saroyan was an authentic, singular American genius. He was also, as Bob Sector has pointed out, "his own biggest fan."
Another factor in the Fresno native's fall from critical grace was the adversarial relationship he had developed with critics. He wrote in 1940:. . . I acknowledge the partial truth and validity of every charge brought against my work, against myself personally, and against my methods of making my work public. What is lacking in their criticism is the fullness and humanity of understanding which operates in myself, in my work, and in my regard for others. . . .Consequently, it is difficult for them to make sense in themselves that which is complicated and unusual for them. What should enlarge them because of its understanding, drives them more completely behind the fort of their own limitations.” Little wonder he was a prime candidate for literary ostracism.
Today, with the author's personality no longer a factor, Saroyan's work is enjoying critical reevaluation. His work, not his ego or pugnaciousness or reclusiveness, is at issue, and it stands up very well indeed. As David Kherdian recently observed:
His writing had a quality of innocence and eagerness and wonder about a moment-any moment of living-that made us feel more alive ourselves-more alive, that is, than we actually were, but for this very reason it made us yearn and stretch and seek a way to grow.