Clear, precise, graceful...(Atlas') biographical style makes the book read with the pleasure of a good novel.--Leonard Michaels, The New York Times Book Review
James Robert Atlas was a writer, especially of biographies, as well as a publisher. He was the president of Atlas & Company, and founding editor of the Penguin Lives Series. He was born in 1949 outside Chicago, and attended Harvard University, studying under Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop with the intention to become a poet. He later attended Oxford University and studied under Richard Ellmann as a prestigious Rhodes Scholar. Here, he decided that he wanted to become a biographer.
The definitive statement on perhaps the greatest single squandered talent in 20th century American poetry. Atlas excels in the early and middle sections of the book, immersing the reader in Schwartz's meteoric rise with tremendous detail and an unsparing eye, chiming in along the way with observations on Schwartz's works that can serve as a starting point for conversation, if nothing else. Personally, I found Atlas' evaluation of Schwartz's work predictably effusive on the early years while glossing over Schwartz's later work and life. As his mental and physical health declined, there is no question that this descent left his vaunted powers of language blurred or else in tatters. However, there are roses growing out of the ashes and Atlas acknowledges some of them: "Starlight Like Intuition Pierced The Twelve", "All Night, All Night", "Seurat's Sunday Afternoon Along the Seine", among others.
Eulogized by John Berryman in a series of searing Dream Songs, immortalized as Von Humboldt Fleisher in Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift, Schwartz will likely never see such treatment again. Like Thomas Chatterton, Schwartz is consigned to history now, remembered by fewer and fewer with each passing year. However, we have this biography, which does him a measure of justice, and it is a fine record of a life lived to the fullest.
My quibbles are that as a literary biography it engages surprisingly little with Schwartz's writing and that it advances the myth of Schwartz as so tormented that he never wrote another good line after the age of 30, which I don't altogether agree with. That said, it's a thorough, highly readable biography, setting Schwartz in the context of his time and unsparing in its assessment of his troubles.
NOT SURE WHAT to make of my loving to read about Delmore Schwartz but never much liking to read Schwartz's poetry. His critical essays have some snap to them ("The Duchess' Red Shoes" takes a healthy bite out of Lionel Trilling) and I think the story "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities" is an American classic. He thought of himself as a poet, though, and I can't think of a single poem of his I wholly admire. He had a rare talent for titles: "In the Naked Bed, in Plato's Cave," "The Heavy Bear that Goes with Me," "Starlight Like Intuition Pierced the Twelve." Poems that lived up to those titles I would cherish, but the poems Schwartz actually wrote for those titles never get out of second gear.
When people are writing about him, though, he lights up the page. William Barrett's The Truants, for example--I have kept that tiresome book on my shelves for decades just because of its passages on Schwartz. Or Eileen Simpson's Poets in Their Youth, a brilliant book, especially for its portrait of Schwartz. Or Humboldt's Gift, the only Bellow novel I would ever be tempted to re-read.
Atlas's biography appeared in 1977. I was a bit reluctant to pick it up, not sure I was up for a book-length treatment not by Bellow, but it's very good. Focused more on the astonishing liftoff of Schwartz's career with In Dreams Begin Responsibilities (1938) than on the sputtering descent of the 1950s and 1960s, Atlas's biography conveys the wit, energy, and chutzpah that made Schwartz such an unforgettable figure. Its prose is graceful, its pace swift, its judgments sound. Good book.
T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, and Wallace Stevens all thought Schwartz was the real deal. He was the next generation of Modernism, but then it all came apart. The dissolution of his career probably had a lot to do with his own precarious mental health. These days, he would have drawerfuls of prescription meds. In the 1940s and 1950s, though, he had to manage as best he could with sleeping pills, dexedrine, and alcohol, which went very badly.
Somehow, though, I think the real problem was not him, not Schwartz's particular history and demons, as much as it was that there couldn't be a second generation of High Modernism. Its classics were not imitable; they did not serve well as models. Lowell and Berryman did their best work once they gave up trying to be High Modernists. Frank O'Hara and Jack Spicer decided they weren't going to try. Schwartz tied himself to the mast...and went down with the ship.
I finished James Atlas' biography of Delmore Schwartz which was published in 1977. Delmore Schwartz is a largely forgotten name now, but he was an important name in poetry and American letters in the late 1930s and 1940s. One of his admirers was John Berryman:
One of his Dream Songs affords a glimpse of him in 1942.
You said ‘My head’s on fire’ meaning inspired O meeting on the walk down to Warren House so long ago we were almost anonymous waiting for fame to descend with a scarlet mantle & tell us who we were (p. 269).
Or consider this description in Saul Bellow’s Pulitzer and Nobel prize winning novel Humboldt's Gift:
[In Dreams Begin Responsibilities] published by [Delmore Schwartz] in the Thirties was an immediate hit. [Schwartz] was just what everyone had been waiting for. Out in the Midwest I had certainly been waiting eagerly, I can tell you that. An avant-garde writer, the first of a new generation, he was handsome, fair, large, serious, witty, he was learned. The guy had it all. All the papers reviewed his book. His picture appeared in Time without insult and in Newsweek with praise. I read Harlequin Ballads enthusiastically. I was a student at the University of Wisconsin and thought about nothing but literature day and night. Humboldt revealed to me new ways of doing things. I was ecstatic. I envied his luck, his talent, and his fame (p. 1).
Unfortunately, mental health issues, as well as trouble finding and keeping a job took a toll. His difficulties were compounded by minor drug use, alcohol, smoking, and affairs with WAY TOO MANY coeds. By the end of his life, Schwartz had lost touch with his friends in the literary community and his legacy is now one more of early promise that never quite materialized. Nevertheless, I found the book fascinating.
Kindle and Audible audiobook. 532 pgs. 26 July 2025.
The absolute best biography I have ever read. I have always loved Delmore’s work, so I may be partial, but James Atlas really highlighted both the worst and greatest aspects of this author’s life, showing why he belonged right up there with the greats like his idol T.S Eliot and Robert Lowell. What an interesting man! I’ve read it twice now and cannot wait to read it again 😁
this is a useful and informative biography but i gave up on it half way through. turns out i just didn't care enough about the subject to bother. i guess you could blame the biographer for not making delmore schwartz's life exciting enough, but really it's not that sort of a book. if you have an interest in a fair and thorough biography of delmore schwartz this is a great -- and probably the only -- choice.
I'm sorry. I can't help it. I'm always drawn to the stories of poets gone mad. I'm not sure why this happens so frequently but spilling words on the page is a bit like bleeding. I'm glad someone is willing to walk around with a pen stabbed in their heart. With Delmore I'm drawn to the poems and the poet. In this biography you learn a lot about both. It was a little dry to begin with but ended with my rapt attention.
James Atlas presents a life based on his gathering and devouring Delmore Schwartz's archives. Atlas secured a contract with Farrar, Straus & Giroux to write the biography of the tormented poetry, fiction, and non-fiction writer. This is the result and it generally does justice, such as possible, to the memory of one of the great American poets.
Falling flat. Very. I cannot imagine why this was nominated for a NBA. Delmore Schwartz seems to have had a completely unattractive personality. Had to stop reading.