Jett Diamond

The Bohemian Symbolist

            Take a trip: East 10^th Street in New York, 1973. In a cheap $16-a-week rented room, one may find 24 year old Richard Hell feverishly hammering out words on a typewriter. Hair cut by razors and clothing torn to shreds, he remains surrounded by the masses of paper that would soon become his first novella, The Voidoid, a surreal trip through the life of a New York City vampire and a glimpse into the poet’s own world. Today, Hell lives in East Village, New York and has successfully established himself throughout the realms of New York City art. Dressed now in rough blazers and somewhat unfashionable button-down shirts, Hell admittedly spends most of his time writing, refusing to coast on past efforts. In the 1970s, his music crafted the punk movement, creating the self-proclaimed “blank generation” and launching his name within the world of independent art; he would go on to established himself as a successful poet, novelist, actor, script writer, and even critic of both music and film. As of 2004, New York University has even recognized Hell’s significance, paying him the lump sum of $50,000 to purchase all of his writings. Yet in spite of his revolutionary music shocking appearance, Hell has proven himself as a person through both lifestyle and literature to truly embody the ethics of experimental freedom so essential to both the Symbolist poets of old, and the bohemian artists of new.

            Ask Hell what was going through his mind when crafting the insanity of The Voidoid and he’ll tell you he was “just going on nerve, unloading [his] head onto the page, trying to stay interested.”  The near stream-of-conscious nature of the book is one that would bleed over into the poetry he wrote at the time. Publishing under the nom de plume of Theresa Stern, a Puerto Rican hooker “created” by Hell and fellow musician Tom Verlaine, Hell found his way into the world of underground poetry. The two chose to don drag and superimpose their faces, giving “birth” to Stern, and would continue on under the assumed name to publish a book of poetry, Wanna Go Out?, consisting of musings over both chimpanzees and sexual frustration. From even such early literary ventures, Hell chose to make two things quite clear: he had no intentions to partake in censorship or take any approach resembling “conventional.”

            It was through this rejection of convention that Hell found himself in a place of underground prestige. When the mid-70s saw Hell growing “frustrated with the writing,” he turned to music as an outlet, looking for a wider impact, which is exactly what he got. After several semi-successful stints in bands key to New York City music, Hell formed his own band, the Voidoids, and helped to shape the face of one of music’s most controversial genres: punk. He often chose to ignore traditional phrasings and techniques within his music, instead portraying ragged emotion. On stage his drug-addled body and tattered clothes captivated audiences who saw more than just a bassist. Instead they watched with fascination as Hell yelped and howled between angular chords and jazz-like pulses. Yet while his music is what he is most well-known for, it is far from the end of his artistic exploration. Hell continued writing during these musical ventures, and his literature has since taken on a life of its own, swirling through dirt and drugs, romanticizing the disturbed. His poetry can in fact be seen as quite similar to his songs, built upon the foundations of dissonance and fragmentation. Where his stanzas are laced frantic with dashes and surreal images, his music is cut by discordant guitars and tortured delivery. Both music and poetry reveal the sporadic and anarchic nature of Richard Hell, presenting him as abrasive, messy, and articulate all within a single breath. To further intertwine his two arts, Hell has noted his continual influence from the “twisted French aestheticism of the late nineteenth century, like Rimbaud,” a sentiment which few “rock stars” can truly express, or even articulate. Such a statement works to exemplify that even Hell’s influences extend beyond those of the traditional musician, into the world of intellectual bohemia.

             Yet in spite of such a statement, what is perhaps most striking within Hell’s work is that there remains seemingly little pretention—no boundary between Hell and his audience, be they readers or listeners. “What makes his work so unique is that through the grit and vulgarity, he taps into the id of his audience,” observes Aubrey Ludwig, a teacher of poetry and prose long acquainted with Hell’s work. Such a statement holds true: much like his music, which ignored the barriers created by the concept of the rock star, his writing is presented as tangible, which in turn makes Hell himself somewhat concrete; he is no higher being, simply a poet with no fear of his audience. It’s a technique Hell has felt appropriate for his work, as he notes he has “always liked texts that directly addressed the reader.” By doing such, Hell forsakes the route of separation so often invoked by artists, instead choosing to connect with his audience on the most primal and natural of levels.

            Within his literature, such primal connections, gritty images, and surreal portraits are not without a foundation. In fact, even the debauchery-laden lifestyle he carved out in 1970s New York could be traced back in history. Unapologetically, Hell conveys his love of the French Symbolist movement, whether through his novel Godlike, narrated by a character based heavily upon poet Paul Verlaine, or through his Rimbaud-inspired hair and translations. As Hell makes clear, “part of [his] whole persona was to be shameless…[he doesn’t] hide very much,” which once again frees Hell from the artistic burden of disguising  his influences. Marvin Taylor, director of the N.Y.U. library, notes that one “can see him clearly making a connection between his work and the French symbolist poets.” Yet such is where Hell draws the line, refusing to simply rehash the ideas passed on to him from the poets of the past. “By nature, Hell would have not simply cut and pasted the ideas of Rimbaud, but used the model of poetic rebellion as a template for his own contrarian ideas,” notes French literature major and independent poet Catherine Kinniburgh. So while it is true that Hell’s “contrarian ideas” are based upon several previously established principles, to dismiss ideals as simple regurgitation would be to ignore and sell short the principles behind his approach towards art.

            That approach is one that has evolved considerably over the years, continually gaining Hell a sort of notoriety. The most intrinsic idea behind it is the sense of “shamelessness” that he brings to the table—he is honest, coarse, occasionally beautiful, and even disturbing, but never apologetic. Whether it be in terms of his influences or his final product, Hell holds back nothing, thus characterizing himself as an artist obsessed with raw reality. His words can be tender and mesmerizing before the sickening snap back into reality where he is in fact describing a scene of incest between a nephew and aunt. While Hell’s newer works, most prominently his 2006 novel Godlike, are much more focused and linear than the nearly tangential cerebral musings of The Voidoid, they retain the original sentiments found in The Voidoid of Hell’s semi-controlled chaotic thought patterns.

            Through these thought patterns, occasional insights into the poet’s life become apparent. While it is self-evident to say that any writer will inevitably draw from their own life, tracing Hell’s evolution through his own work proves to be somewhat different from that of any other author. In The Voidoid, Hell chooses to juxtapose the “narrator’s childhood…with his adulthood” by presenting first a narration from Alabama before switching to the vampire’s life in New York. Hell himself led a similar life, running away from home (Kentucky) to live in New York as a poet. Hell’s 1996 novel, Go Now, features a heroin addict struggling with journalism and rock ‘n’ roll. Think Richard Hell, circa 1977: the punk musician, the occasional rock journalist. His most recent literary venture, Godlike, presents Hell’s readers with a narrator similar to Hell himself: a middle-aged poet reflecting back upon his days in the 1970s New York poetry scene. It is with Godlike that Hell reveals the most about himself. While the plot of the book holds little resemblance to his own life (instead being based upon the romance shared between Symbolist poets Rimbaud and Verlaine), the mindset of the narrator, Paul Vaughn, is truly telling. Vaughn reflects upon his past mistakes and his losses within the novel not with regret, but with a sense of acceptance and understanding; he remains unapologetic, but is conscious of his flaws. However, despite such similarities, Hell cautions readers that “it’s not really relevant to the reader’s experience of the books…and it would also be a mistake to draw conclusions about [his] life from the books” (Hell, interview), and such stands to be true. To appreciate the work of a poet, it is not necessary to search for the poet. Yet Hell has successfully created such an aura of sometimes tangible sometimes anonymous mystique for himself that the brief glimpses into his life which he interjects through his narrators prove to be captivating.

            That Richard Hell is still alive is an anomaly in and of itself; while the days of torn t-shirts and spiked hair are gone, replaced instead with blazers and reading glasses, the abrasion and honesty so characteristic of Hell remains. He’s survived the musical movement that didn’t want to survive—he’s run away from home, from his past, beat a heroin addiction, and rafted down the Mississippi River. Yet within the highly Rimbaudian lifestyle he’s crafted, Hell has proven himself time and time again to be far more than a clone of poets since departed. Instead he has crafted his life through a body of work that remains influential and unapologetic, defying both convention and expectations.

1. The Voidoid is perhaps one of the most startling and interesting literary debuts I’ve encountered. What prompted you to take such a seemingly unstructured approach so early in your career?

I was just going on nerve, unloading my head onto the page, trying to stay interested. As I said in the afterword to the book, I was also inspired by Maldoror.

2. When I read the book, I felt there were two separate sections, which seemed to blend together almost instantly. There was the opening narrative of Alabama before transitioning into the story of Lips. Is there any relevance behind the idea that this mirrored your move / escape to New York?

More like the narrator’s childhood juxtaposed with his adulthood (or at least independence if not exactly “adulthood”, I’d reckon.

3. Certain passages within the novella use very short sentences, choppy even, commanding the reader’s actions with the use of “you.” Would you agree that there’s validity behind using fictitious prose or poetry to manipulate?

It’s just a technique I felt was consistent with the “attitude” of the book. It’s kind of arrogant and domineering, but also funny (endearing) (since it’s obviously only a book, only writing, so isn’t actually cruel or dictatorial--it needs the reader’s permission to be effective) I believe. I’d always liked texts that directly addressed the reader.

4. In promoting Go Now, you’ve stated that if you had wanted you write an autobiography, you would have. Such a statement stands, but would you say that your writing can still be interoperated as almost symbolic of your life? Theresa Stern appears in the Voidoid, and certain aspects of Lips’ life (as well as that of Billy from Go Now and both Paul and “T” from Godlike) can seemingly be traced back to you.

Sure, but it’s not really relevant to the reader’s experience of the books, or at least it doesn’t need to be to respond fully to the books. And it would also be a mistake to draw conclusions about my life from the books--much of the material in the books is completely fabricated (not drawn from my own life) and other parts that have some roots in my real life are quite distorted or rearranged in relation to the experiences that they draw on.

5. Can you tell me more about the concept of Theresa Stern? I’ve always loved the poetry “she” wrote.

Time’s up! Sorry.

6. In the Voidoid you write: “A book is best not read but remembered.” Could you elaborate upon that idea?