“Resentment is the ‘number one’ offender.” That’s in a book somewhere. Resentments are a form of schadenfreude, one of its many flavors.

The term schadenfreude literally means damage-joy. When one enjoys the news that a rival is encountering trouble, one is experiencing a sense of schadenfreude. Most of us have experienced this feeling at some point in our lives, but most of us also have been jerks at some point in our lives, and the two sometimes come at the same time.

There is no real-world term for its opposite, so some people have begun to use a made-up word, freudenschade, to describe the distress one feels when a friend or rival is doing well or has had a success.

And then there are some people, I am thinking of Gore Vidal here, who appear to take pleasure at others’ distress at one’s success. Vidal confessed to feelings of schadenfreude over other writers’ freudenschade. (That is as hard to type as it is to say.)

One friend recently told me about feeling jealous when she heard that I was publishing this blog right here. “Why does he get to do that?” the friend said that she was asking others about my writing and self-publishing. Now, this friend also has had the time to spend on a similar project if she wants to, but was not. Is not. “Jealous” was the word that was used. Of what?

This project does not deserve anyone’s schadenfreude, and I do not have any feelings freudenschade over it.

But I get it, I do. Most of the time, for most if not all of my friends, success has come as a response to hard work. I have friends who are enjoying careers in the performing arts, and once upon a time, whenever I saw the face of a friend or acquaintance I knew on the television or movie screen, I was guaranteed a difficult week of moping. Correction: Anyone in my vicinity was guaranteed a difficult week of me moping. I did not spend a happy week or so of feeling and expressing pride in my friends’ achievements. As I wrote, sometimes I have been a jerk.

Back to Vidal. Truman Capote was one of his top three hated individuals. Vidal’s mother was number one and Robert Kennedy was probably second, because Kennedy hated him first, seemingly without cause (or with cause: JFK appeared to enjoy Vidal’s company more than his brother’s), and without end. But Capote …

Truman Capote was American literature’s lost boy, at least for his generation. He was not the first nor will he be the last lost boy, but not many lost souls stick around for as long as he did. His entire published output in life is small, six books, none of them long, one of which is a novella, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” and another is “In Cold Blood,” which is based on a true story. “In Cold Blood” was published in 1966, and it was not followed by anything until 1980 when he published a collection of fragments. He died in 1984, aged 59, and his literary executors then discovered that the novel he had been promising the world for years, for which he had been accepting and depositing advances with a clock-like regularity, was nothing more than some more minor characters sketches and fragments and journal entries and verbal doodles, which they published anyway. It did his reputation more damage than he ever did.

Drugs and alcohol and a need for immediate feedback, which writing long articles and books does not often provide, produced the sorry sight of a man, unpublished for the last two decades of his life, appearing on TV talk shows in different states of inebriation. He had earned a deserved reputation as a promising young writer in his early 20s, which brought him acclaim and invitations to parties and TV talk show panels. The discovery that he preferred live applause and live laughter for a well-told story, and that loved drinking more than writing, was his undoing. Incapable of sitting with himself, which is a condition that many addicts may recognize in themselves, he would sit next to Johnny Carson and slur his way through anecdotes that never sounded entirely truthful and, even better, never were true. The fun would follow in the form of lawsuits.

Vidal and Capote were about the same age (Capote was born in 1924 and Vidal in 1925), had their first novels published at a great young age (Vidal 21, Capote 24), and had a rivalry thrust upon them by the media. Both enjoyed celebrity, but Vidal appeared to enjoy sitting with himself and producing work as much or even more. He seemed to view media appearances and celebrity as a reward for doing the actual, and lonely, work.

Both knew failure and setbacks. There is a famous quote attributed to Capote, “Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor.” Being a boy-wonder who fought to remain in the public’s consciousness as still a boy, still a wonder, even into his 50s, Capote’s “success” was of a certain kind, as a person with a famous reputation who felt success(ful) only when a live audience would applaud him as a “writer,” even though he was not writing at all, not in front of them, and not when he went home after. Who knows what flavor that condiment brought him?

Vidal was born to a prominent but not wealthy family. He remained unimpressed by fame or prestige, even while being a name-dropper extraordinaire. Capote, on the other hand, made up stories to make himself appear intimate with the famous and prestigious, he name-dropped people whom he did not really know into his personal tales; Vidal crafted ways to distance himself from the important, usually by revealing unpleasant truths, and named names, in his work. Capote was born and raised in poverty. In one of his less kind quotes about his almost-rival, Vidal declared, “Truman Capote has tried, with some success, to get into a world that I have tried, with some success, to get out of.”

However, some near-kindness for Capote, some empathy—which is the only cure for resentments, after all—came out of Vidal long after Capote’s death. I suppose it is easy to spare some for a ghost. In his memoir “Palimpsest,” Vidal re-quotes himself (why take a pass on the opportunity?) and says that he said the above line (about getting in and out of the world of prestige), “unctuously.” He goes on,

Truman was surprisingly innocent. He mistook the rich who liked publicity for the ruling class, and he made himself far too much at home among them, only to find that he was to them no more than an amusing pet who could be dispensed with, as he was when he published lurid gossip abut them. Although of little interest or value in themselves, these self-invented figures are nothing if not tough, and quite as heartless as the real thing, as [he learned].

It is a moment of real sympathy, almost empathy, but of course it is quickly forgotten in Vidal’s book; in the few sentences in which Capote’s name appears elsewhere, the words “lie” or “liar” can always be found nearby. Resentments, the moments of schadenfreude, they are the salt of life, plain and delicious and tempting.

* * * *
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  1. wscottling · November 25, 2015

    All words were made up words at one time. Language is created of made up words. It didn’t spring from our lips fully formed. I do like your history lessons though.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Martha Kennedy · November 25, 2015

    This was wonderful reading! I have a lot of affection for both of these men for very different reasons. Vidal’s incisive perception of the reality behind the sham of Washington life and politics is very refreshing, especially now. His post-mortem take on JFK is on target, I think. I think his fiction is overwritten — at least the historical novels are overwritten. I enjoyed his (sensational?) early novels very much. I believe Capote was the better writer — a true style master — and that Vidal knew it and knew he wasn’t. Vidal had things to say; Capote was a master as saying things well, maybe even perfectly, though, IMO, until In Cold Blood, he had little to say. I think they both capitalized on their rivalry. I’d rather read Capote and have dinner with Vidal.

    I’ve been dealing with this resentment thing a lot since I moved to this little town. The local window painter hates the windows I painted over the summer so much that she 1) joined the co-op, 2) immediately began lobbying to take them down, 3) started — on her own with no “permission” — to scrape my work off the windows. I don’t care; other people are incensed. It’s created a hornet’s nest. Another “fellow artist” (I no longer believe “fellow artist” is anything more than an oxymoron) also hates me and my work, and she demonstrated this by 1) moving my paintings to a dark corner of the store, 2) imitating my work. My response to them both is, “Thank you for letting me know I am so wonderfully good that I have the power to turn you into an asshole,” and I got out of their way.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Mark Aldrich · November 27, 2015

      I needed to read this exactly when you sent it a couple days ago. Both examples made me laugh with my own experiences, some of which I was staring down at the moment you hit send.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Martha Kennedy · November 27, 2015

        I did Capote an injustice — A Christmas Memory is one of the most perfect short stories/novellas ever written. In that story, he definitely had something to say. Anyway, Capote helped me with my writing; Gore Vidal never showed up!

        Liked by 1 person

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