Biographer T.J. Stiles

I've been neglectful of late, when it comes to updating this blog. I do have a defense: I've been on the road, both for business and pleasure. In fact, this last Monday I returned home to San Francisco after two weeks away, a trip that began with the Pulitzer ceremony at Columbia University in New York.

As I've mentioned before, the Pulitzer and National Book Award really have filled me with a renewed sense of humility. I'm in daunting company. And, as I often say, I don't kid myself that I was the only possible choice—far from it. But it's also really a wonderful thing, especially because it's a kind of ratification of my highest hopes for this book: that it would be a work of literature, in some way, as well as scholarship.

The irony, of course, is that the Commodore loathed writing. It has been suggested to me that he was dyslexic, which is quite possible, if impossible to properly diagnose over this span of time. He read well enough, and could write (though he spelled phonetically). Still, he didn't like to write, as he admitted in one letter. He pitched letters that he received into the fire after he read them, and left no collection of papers behind.

Lucky for me that he left a far larger paper trail behind than previous historians and biographers had suspected. Though it didn't seem so lucky when I was five years into the project, with still no end in sight...

Thursday, May 27, 2010, is the 216th birthday of Commodore Vanderbilt. With a National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize on my shelf, I can only wish him a happy birthday.

Not that he was an easy man to like. Vanderbilt fought his way from near the very bottom to the absolute top (in fact, you could say he invented a new top), and he was nothing if not fierce. He embodied profound conundrums for the American republic, as he both created enormous wealth for his fellow countrymen and pioneered a severely polarized society, amassing power never before seen in private hands.

Yet let's give him due credit: He was truly self-made, earned his pride in himself, and, if ruthless, was also honest, and promoted the interests of the stockholders of his corporations as did no other chief executive of his day (or perhaps ours). As a biographer, it's my duty to follow a balanced approach to my subject, rather than preach a message, using my subject as a mere vehicle for preconceived views. Vanderbilt has suffered far too much of the latter over the decades.

I have another reason to wish the Commodore well. I suspect that his ghost tried to put a stop to my biography early on. In October 2003, when I had been at work on The First Tycoon for a year already, I was a passenger on the Staten Island Ferry boat Andrew Barberi when it crashed.

Let me stress, though, that I don't mean to make light of that event. Eleven people tragically died, amid horror that I was unaware of as I rode on the upper deck, where none were harmed.

They don't allow you to dedicate Pulitzer Prizes, the way you do books. So let me just say, on the 216th anniversary of the Commodore's birth, that I'm honoring the people who didn't make it across New York harbor on that windy day in 2003.

Thanks to the Pulitzer Prize, the paperback of The First Tycoon: The Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt will be published early—on April 20, in fact. As of this writing, that's only five days away.

For those of you who want to acquire a copy of the gorgeous hardcover, time is running out. It will be unobtainable before long. (Excuse me for calling my own book "gorgeous," but I had nothing to do with the design and production quality. Well done, Knopf.)

For those of you holding onto your money, waiting for the paperback, your long wait is about to end, almost exactly one year after hardcover publication.

Where should you buy? I encourage you to seek out your local independent bookseller. Reserve a copy! Why not Amazon or Barnes & Noble or Borders, you ask? I am not against any of these retailers. I think the world of books needs them all. But if I'm not anti-Amazon or anti-chain, I am definitely pro-independent. The independent neighborhood bookseller is where readers can interact with well-informed staff, get intelligent recommendations, and discover new and unknown writers. Independents are where writers actually meet readers in face-to-face appearances.

I say this not so much for my sake, since the prizes I've been honored with guarantee that readers can find my books, wherever they shop. Rather, I'm speaking for the legions of writers who deserve an audience, and are waiting to break out. And when they do break out, it's usually through independent bookstores—an essential part of the culture of the written word.

So if you order from Amazon or Barnes & Noble or Borders, you won't get a complaint from me. Buying books is good, no matter where. But if you support your local independent bookstore, then consider this a pat on the back. Well done.

Oh, and thanks again to Mr. Pulitzer. Your forethought, sir, has had a big effect on my life.

Today—Monday, April 12—my book The First Tycoon was named the winner of the Pulitzer Prize in biography.

To say that I am honored is to indulge in extreme understatement. Frankly, I'm a very lucky man. The First Tycoon previously won the National Book Award for nonfiction, which boggled my mind. I hardly expected it to win the Pulitzer Prize as well. This is not false modesty. Some of our greatest writers have never won either prize, let alone both in one year.

This is not to slight the selection process, either. Winnowing a field down to just one book can be absurdly difficult, even arbitrary at a certain point. Last year saw an array of truly outstanding biographies, from Cheever and Woodrow Wilson (both finalists for the Pulitzer) to Koestler. Both the National Book Critics Circle and the Los Angeles Book Prize jury left my book off their short lists—and there were no mobs in the streets, chanting protests. A writer is never owed a prize, and should never expect one when the field is so crowded with excellence.

What I take from this honor is not a sense that my book is the best one out there. Rather, I feel as if the jury is saying that I succeeded in meeting my ambitions for my book. I've been included in a small group who have won both the NBA and the Pulitzer for the same book. This select bunch includes two writers who have, in many ways, served as models for me: Richard Rhodes and Robert Caro. I admire how they combine literary and scholarly virtues in their work. Their research and analysis is first-rate, but they also craft beautifully written narratives with compelling stories and three-dimensional characters. Frankly, I don't think I write at their level, but I am inspired by their example. Winning the Pulitzer tells me that this kind of writing is still highly valued. And for that I'm grateful—as a writer and a reader.