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In World War Two, I was first mate of an army freight-supply ship in the Aleutians. At nineteen, on the long night watches in port at Dutch Harbor, I began a novel set on a ship in the Aleutians—where else? At twenty I was transferred to Birmingham General Hospital in Van Nuys, California: hypothermia—from exposure to the icy Bering Sea—had led to what was misdiagnosed as rheumatoid arthritis. I was offered a lifelong pension if I stayed in the army for another two years (the war had just ended). I said no to the pension if I could be let go right away. Characteristically, on principle, the army held on to me another year and so I became a mess officer at Camp Gordon Johnson on the Gulf of Mexico. After my wisdom teeth were pulled (an eccentric army “cure” for what was finally diagnosed as osteoarthrosis) I was freed. Today I have an artificial knee and no pension. The novel Williwaw was published in 1946 to amiable reviews in The New York Times and elsewhere. A second novel did less well; a third, The City and the Pillar, earned me a letter of congratulations from Dr. Kinsey, himself about to be world famous for his report on the sex life of the human male. But the daily reviewer for the Times, a Mr. Prescott, told Nick Wreden, my editor at E. P. Dutton, that not only would he not review my story of a love affair between two “normal” male athletes, but because of the great horror that I had perpetrated in book-chat land he (the most powerful reviewer of the day writing regularly in the daily Times) would never again read much less review a book of mine. That was how seven novels of mine went unreviewed in the daily Times. Since Time and Newsweek usually followed the Times’s lead, I was neatly erased as a novelist in Freedom’s Land. A professor who lectures on my work tells me that academics to this day refuse to believe that the Times could ever have done such a thing. Such is simple faith. Happily, England continued to take notice of the books. But, in order to make a living, I turned to one Harold Franklin, an agent at the William Morris office. Since he was more virtuous rabbi than showbiz hustler, he patiently introduced me to live television drama in 1954, where I flourished until branching out into films for Hollywood (as the last contract writer hired by MGM) and from there I moved on to the Broadway stage with Visit to a Small Planet and The Best Man. I had also found that I enjoyed essay writing, particularly in a recently established publication called The New York Review of Books. Finally, by 1964, I was back to novel writing, obliging the aged Mr. Prescott to break his vow and come out of retirement to attack Julian, with no discernible effect: his day was done while I had a number of days newly begun. In 1960 I staged a political play on Broadway at the same time I was also the Democrat-Liberal candidate for Congress in New York’s 29th District, polling the most votes for a Democrat since 1910 when Franklin D. Roosevelt won a seat in the state senate because so many of the local Republican voters thought that he was his distant cousin Theodore and so voted for him. But once “tricked” they never voted for him again. Since I had practically no money to buy radio time (there was no TV station in the district) for a congressional race, I went on the various national talk shows of which there were at least a dozen. Several insisted that my opponent, the incumbent Republican, be given equal time. Although he’d served several terms as representative to Congress, he had wisely remained unknown to his constituents, secure in the knowledge that the McKinley vote was forever his. He did not go on television, and won. In 1964 I was again offered the nomination but as I was again a novelist I passed the nomination on to Joe Resnick of Kingston who did win. During 1960, I appeared with Jack Paar, Carson, Steve Allen, Merv Griffin: in fact, anywhere that I could get through to the large audience. In the process, I may, also, inadvertently, have changed American publishing. Julian, my return to the novel, was not exactly a crackling sexy airport novel: this reflective narrative was about the origins of Christianity and the Emperor Julian’s failed attempt to establish religious tolerance in the place of that Christian absolutism installed by his kinsman, Constantine. I had written a book plainly ill suited for raffish bestsellerdom.

In those days publishers were almost as mystified as they are now when it came to the delicate subject of how to lure people into reading books in the age of movies and that upstart, television. Quite by accident, I presented them with a solution. Since I was still thinking about politics in those days, I had continued to go on television whenever possible to talk about the state of the union, which appealed to Carson and a few—very few—other TV hosts. One of the others was Hugh Downs, the low-key star of the Today show. In that unhurried time, he and I would sit at a table, The New York Times between us, and we’d chat—very low key—about the news of the day with breaks for commercials, weather, solid news. When Little, Brown, the publisher of Julian, asked me if I’d go to Houston to Brown’s bookstore to promote the book I said it seemed pointless to me but I would, if they insisted. They gave me a date. I tried to cancel because it conflicted with an appearance on the Today show with Hugh Downs. “Why not,” asked my editor, “do both? Say something about the book on the show.” I explained that we mostly talked politics. “So make an exception,” I was told. I did. I talked very briefly about the book while Downs held it up like the Grail. Then I left the studio for the airport and flew to Houston where Ted Brown of the eponymous bookstore said, “Not only did that TV show sell out every copy that we had in stock, but it looks like every copy in Houston is gone, too, all in one morning.” Julian promptly became the number-one bestseller on the New York Herald Tribune list (The New York Times—ever consistent—listed it farther down their list but then, some years later, they miraculously kept my Lincoln at number two for a couple of years when it was number one in Publishers Weekly). Anyway, the rest is publishing history as publishers drove their writers onto television programs, more happy than not to get so much airtime illuminated free of charge. In time, of course, Gresham’s not Grisham’s law obtained and people got tired of novelists telling how, although their powers of invention were truly extraordinary, absolutely everything in their fiction was absolutely True and had really happened to them exactly as described. Capote even claimed to have invented a non-fiction (sic) novel about an actual murder case.

So—what made Carson himself laugh? Words, not surprisingly. He used them carefully and listened carefully to the way others used them. The moment we realized that we were, somehow, on each other’s wavelength was when I was doing my deep hollow-voiced radio-announcer Nixonian voice. I quoted from Nixon’s book Six Crises: “President Eisenhower was a far more sly and devious man than people suspected and I mean those words in their very best sense.” On air, I got a look of genuine astonishment from John. Then he nearly slid out of his chair. Over the years, when one or the other of us would characterize someone as “sly” and “devious,” the other would add in an oily voice, “I assume you mean those words in their very best sense.”

Last winter I ran into Janet De Cordova, now a widow. She had tried to get John to come to a memorial service for Freddie and he’d said, “I’ll think about it.” He did. He rang her back and said, “No, I can’t do it.” When reminded of their long friendship and so on, he was to the point: “I can’t do it because everyone thinks I’m still Johnny Carson but I’m not anymore. I wouldn’t even know how to fake it. So, I won’t be there but I know what a lousy businessman Freddie was and I’ll bet his affairs are in a mess so I’m sending you something useful.” He sent her a large check and she was pleased. But how odd it must be not to be the self you have spent a lifetime perfecting. To vanish like Prospero into thin air, leaving behind pale understudies but no replacement.

As I was writing these last thoughts on Carson, a friend sent me an old clipping which John would have enjoyed. I start to imagine we are back on his show. I remark how the administration is praising the recent election in Iraq where, perhaps, 72 percent voted. I sit in the swivel chair to his right, an old bit of newspaper clipping in one hand.

“I hear, Gore, you’ve got the latest news from the election in Iraq. It was certainly a real triumph for freedom and democracy, wouldn’t you say?” To myself I mutter, “In the very best sense of those words.” Aloud I say, “Well, actually, it’s from The New York Times of September 3, 1967.”

“A dicey year for freedom, wasn’t it?”

I read the headline: “U.S. encouraged by Vietnam vote: Officials cite 83 percent turnout despite Vietcong terror…A successful election has long been seen as the keystone to President Johnson’s policy of encouraging the growth of constitutional processes in South Vietnam.” Suddenly, we are sitting on the balcony in Ravello.

CARSON

What’s that phrase you use all the time for the country?

VIDAL

The United States of Amnesia.

CARSON

I’ll open with that, then you read off the “latest” Iraq election news with the quote from 1967.

VIDAL

But where do we do this?

CARSON

Oh, we’ll find a show.

VIDAL

There isn’t one. Remember? You’re dead.

CARSON (evasively)

No, no. I’m just living down at the beach, I think it’s called in seclusion.

The screen is now crowded with Leno et al. telling jokes until mortar fire drowns them out, and we have faded to black. Anyway, a few of us once heard the chimes at midnight and were the better for it.