A Walk on the Wild Side

Introduction RICHARD FLANAGAN

Nelson Algren’s life is terrifying in its proof that talent, love and a determination to speak truth to power can destroy a writer as surely as mediocrity and compromise. A Walk on the Wild Side, the last of Algren’s novels to be published in his lifetime, is in consequence a most moving achievement. It was an act of courage by a man no longer sure of his country, no longer certain of either his own worth or his relevance, convinced only that he had lost the woman who was the great love of his life.

A Walk on the Wild Side is in some ways a desperate attempt by a writer to reassure himself that he can still write, a writer such as F. Scott Fitzgerald described himself as being in The Crack Up – a work at first something of a touchstone for Nelson Algren and later a chronicle of a disintegration foretold – who feels that he has become less through his writing, and worse, that he has nothing left to write. It is, then, a novel written against fate, by a writer who even at the height of his success in 1950 foresaw his own forlorn destiny as inextricably tied to his vocation as writer.

‘Thinking of Melville,’ he wrote, ‘thinking of Poe, thinking of Mark Twain and Vachel Lindsay, thinking of Jack London and Tom Wolfe, one begins to feel there is almost no way of becoming a creative writer in America without being a loser.’

There are no second acts in American literature, Fitzgerald famously remarked, and so it was with Nelson Algren. A Walk on the Wild Side is the final scene in one of the more brilliant first acts in twentieth-century American writing.

Nelson Algren’s irreparably American life tends to read like a novel by Nelson Algren. Compounding the impossible wrath of the gods was the impossible nature of the man born Nelson Algren Abraham in Detroit, 1909, the grandson of Nels Ahlgren, a Swedish adventurer possessed of the unrelenting strength of others’ opinions. Nels Ahlgren converted to Judaism and became a self-appointed rabbi with the name of Isaac Ben Abraham, who emigrated first to the USA then, in 1870, to Jerusalem, where ‘he chastised Jews for their lack of orthodoxy’.

The family made it back to the USA where Nels Ahlgren deserted his family and became a mercenary missionary, preaching the faith of any group or sect willing to pay for his services. With characteristic perversity and some insight, Algren in his later life claimed to heavily identify with his grandfather.

‘A man who won’t demean himself for a dollar is a phoney to my way of thinking,’ the late-middle-age Algren wrote in a letter, an opinion consistent with the young Algren’s conviction, taken from Whitman, that he belonged with the ‘convicts and prostitutes’, believing that in humiliation and degradation was to be found truth. The truth mattered to Algren, but it didn’t help.

‘Like all writers,’ wrote his friend John Clellon Holmes, ‘he believed that truth would carry everything before it, and like all writers he was baffled to discover that nothing could be further from the truth.’

Algren’s family moved to Chicago when he was three, and he grew up in poverty on the South Side. Chicago was his first great passion, and the city was booming, aspiring to the title of First City of the Republic. By the mid-century it would all be over and Chicago would be in spectacular decline: ‘What stopped it is a mystery,’ wrote A. J. Liebling in the New Yorker in 1952, ‘like what happened to Angkor Wat.’

‘Loving Chicago,’ Algren later said, ‘is like loving a woman with a broken nose.’ But at the beginning it was for Algren the city of Shoeless Joe Jackson and the White Sox scandal, of the One Big Union and Eugene Debs and impoverished neighbourhoods bounded by Eastern European nationality, of the greatest slaughterhouses in the continent and some of its most celebrated writers – Upton Sinclair, Theodore Dreiser, Sherwood Anderson and Carl Sandburg, of what he called the ‘slander-coloured evening hour’ and ‘pavement-hued faces’. It was this city in its early twentieth-century struggles and urban romance that shaped Algren’s vision of the USA.

Graduating as a journalist at the height of the Depression in 1931, Algren headed south seeking work, and in 1932 landed in New Orleans, a city more Caribbean than North American, where girls ‘were so hard pressed’ they would let a man sleep with them if they bought them a pork sandwich.

Later, in an abandoned Texas petrol station Algren wrote his first story, which would later lead to a book advance. He was subsequently imprisoned for stealing a typewriter.

He returned to Chicago and in 1935 his first novel was published, a gritty tale of a Texan drifter that sold only 750 copies. Originally called Native Son, the title was changed by the publishers to the appalling Somebody in Boots, Algren’s friend Richard Wright having the sense later to borrow the original title for what would become his most famous novel.

Algren’s second novel, Never Come Morning (1942), was better received, and returning from the war in which he had served as stretcher-bearer, Algren’s star further rose with a collection of short stories, The Neon Wilderness (1947).

Algren’s work was attracting attention for its unusual marriage of a sumptuous prose style and a dry humour, with subjects normally rendered in the dreariest of realistic and naturalistic tones: the lives of those at the bottom. Algren’s world, in one of the many memorable phrases he brought into common usage (including ‘walk on the wild side’, ‘monkey on the back’ and ‘I knew I’d never make it to twenty-one anyway’) is ‘a neon wilderness’, and his novels can read like a natural history of American underlife.

Street corners, beerhalls, slum bedrooms, brothels and racetracks, police line-ups and prison cells become exotic habitats when described by Algren, and his stories play out to dramatic effect beneath arc lamps and twenty-watt bulbs (it’s always too late in an Algren novel), in places ‘filling with noises and rumours of noises’, the rattle of freight cars, the hiss of downstairs laundry presses, the sound of far-off screams.

In 1949 came his first masterpiece, The Man with the Golden Arm. The story of a Chicago junkie trying to go straight was an immediate triumph. By 1950 Nelson Algren seemed destined for only ever-greater things. Never Come Morning was on its way to being a million seller. In March 1950 The Man with the Golden Arm was awarded the first ever National Book Award, a hugely publicised event at that brief moment, now so long gone it is hard to imagine, when American novels seemed to be central to American culture and life. Algren was given the award under a blaze of lights by Eleanor Roosevelt.

‘OK, kid,’ Hemingway privately noted in his copy of Man with the Golden Arm, ‘you beat Dostoevsky’, while publicly hailing Algren as the best American writer after Faulkner (‘He said, after Faulkner,’ Algren commented later, ‘I was very hurt.’). For a moment the man who celebrated loss had success as only America can bestow.

And then there was his love affair with one of the most famous European writers of the time: Simone de Beauvoir, who joked in a letter to Algren in 1949 while writing what became The Second Sex that she would call her new book Never Come Woman – ‘Is that not clear?’ – a play on Algren’s Never Come Morning.

De Beauvoir had met and fallen in love with Algren in Chicago in 1947. The affair continued off and on for several years. While de Beauvoir had a complex relationship with Jean-Paul Sartre, and Algren was a womaniser who had been unhappily married to Amanda Kontowicz for ten years, it does seem to have been on both writers’ part a grand passion. In October 1947, following de Gaulle’s election victory, Simone de Beauvoir wrote to the man she called ‘her husband’:

‘I do not want to care for politics anymore. God let me live just some more years to love you and be loved by you.’

She goes on to write at letter end:

‘Dearest, beloved one, this letter seems so poor, reading it again. I should have put in it all my love and heart and body, all the autumn in Paris, the yellow trees, the peaceful sky, the feverish people. And just words. Dry words. But I hope you’ll know how to read it; maybe you are smart enough to find in it all I wanted to put. Maybe you’ll even find me. I’ll wait for you, Nelson. I’ll wait until you come to me.’

But politics and history were undoing her ‘beloved Chicago man’ and their love affair. Gathering were the dark clouds of the Cold War. Against the determined conformism of the 1950s, the possibility of a nuclear winter, Red scares, growing blacklists and the emergence of McCarthyism, Algren’s destiny irrevocably altered. The times were no longer his.

In a septic climate of rising fear, Algren used his celebrity to speak out – for the Hollywood Ten, for the Rosenbergs and against McCarthyism. In books such as Chicago: City on the Make (1951) his writing continued to talk of the dark underbelly of the USA, in a voice ever richer and darker. In January 1951 Algren, along with Arthur Miller and fifteen others, placed a letter as an ad in the New York Times calling on people to speak up for freedom.

Half a century later the persecution of Algren that ensued is all the more terrifying for its insidious nature. As the FBI assembled a 500-page dossier on Algren that could establish him guilty of nothing, as other writers went silent, Life magazine, a major force in American popular culture of the era, cancelled without explanation a major photo essay on Algren. In March 1953 Algren’s application for a passport to travel to France was denied by the State Department ‘in light of his former connection to the Communist Party’. Algren, according to his friend Dave Peltz, now ‘lived in terror… he would appear before the [House Un-American Activities] Committee’.

In September 1953 Algren’s publisher Doubleday refused to publish a short non-fiction book he had written that in part attacked McCarthyism, an extraordinary act given that Algren was one of the best known and most popular writers in the USA at the time. The book was not to be published till nearly a quarter of a century later, as Nonconformity – one of the strangest and most strangely compelling meditations on writing by a twentieth-century writer. In a clipped, laconic prose with ironic jabs delivered in deftly told anecdotes, Nonconformity maps out a duty, an aesthetic, a politics that for Algren is also an inexorable destiny; to swim against the current, to give everything, and know it will destroy you as a writer.

It is an indictment of the American project from a position inescapably American in its humour, references and language. It is both the final manifestation of the lost voices of a different America – the America of Whitman and Twain and Fitzgerald – and speaks to the future in its attempt to remind its readers of an indigenous tradition of American radicalism founded in the experience of the lost and dispossessed.

Animating this book of fear and desire is Algren’s love for Simone de Beauvoir, and some have seen it as an attempt to prove to her that there was a basis, political, artistic and intellectual, for a radical writer in the USA.

At another level this is a writer weighing up the immense spiritual costs of writing: how one may write great works and in the end be less as a human being for the effort. This is the Algren who would shortly be writing A Walk on the Wild Side: lost, heartbroken, trying to hold on to the last thing he has, while watching it slipping through his very fingers as he types the next word: his belief that writing might still matter in a country as lost as the USA, and that he still has something left to write for his country, a patriot who knows he is now viewed as a traitor.

At about the same time as Nonconformity was rejected, Algren began a novel called Entrapment, the story of which was based on the life of a heroin addict with whom he had had an affair, but the emotional strength of which would seem to derive from his love for de Beauvoir. But he couldn’t get the novel moving.

His torment was only beginning. His marriage to Amanda seemed increasingly a matter to him of pity and not love, and, a compulsive gambler who seems invariably to have lost, he was losing large sums in poker games. His writing stalled and censored, his love affair with de Beauvoir transformed into an impossible anguish, despairing of his country, Algren wrote to de Beauvoir at the end of 1953 that he was depressed, and ‘felt himself trapped by both money and marriage’. He felt he had become in every way, as he now signed his letters, ‘the American prisoner’.

In 1955 came the experience of having The Man with the Golden Arm made into a film by Otto Preminger, an experience that left him feeling exploited and further depressed. ‘I went out there [Hollywood] for a thousand a week,’ he was later to say, ‘and I worked Monday, and I got fired Wednesday. The guy that hired me was out of town Tuesday.’ He never went to see the movie, which he later described as ‘my war with America as represented by Kim Novak’.

While living through all this Algren began A Walk on the Wild Side. Later in his life Algren would consider it his best novel, ‘an American fantasy written to an American beat as true as Huckleberry Finn’. But at the beginning it was simply a way of making some easy money quickly, which he intended to use to escape his marriage and go to Paris.

In late 1953 he struck a deal with Doubleday to rewrite Somebody in Boots as a paperback, a hundred-dollar-a-week deal. Algren envisaged a ‘good, cheap, corny’ readers’ book. He hoped to use the money from the book for the ever more unlikely purpose of getting to Paris.

‘No, it won’t win any national book award,’ Algren wrote in a letter, ‘I’m aiming solely at the pocketbook traffic.’

But as he worked the novel transformed: the original tragic tale of Cass McKay becomes the tragi-comedy of Dove Linkhorn who drifts into New Orleans in 1931 and finds work as a stud in a peep-show. He worked in some of his old short stories, and drew on some of his experiences as a young drifter working scams in New Orleans.

Algren returned to New Orleans in the summer of 1954 but, finding it of little help, he went home to Chicago where the novel – now called Finnerty’s Ball – began to take shape, as Algren played ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ over and over, spending his spare time in the Chicago underworld or visiting Iris van Etten, a black madam on the South Side, in whose establishment Algren picked up stories for the novel’s brothel scenes.

Whereas The Man with the Golden Arm was built, he said, sentence by sentence, the new novel, Algren told an interviewer at the time, was ‘plotted a great deal more than any other… I’m trying to write a reader’s book, more than my own book… Mechanically and, I think, technically, it’s done more carefully, and probably reads better than previous books.’

He finished the new novel, now called A Walk on the Wild Side, in November 1955 but Doubleday rejected the manuscript and demanded he repay his advance of $8000.

Having filed for divorce a few months earlier he was unable to return to his home, where Amanda Kontowicz was living. Desperately reworking the book as he went, he later recalled how he ‘had to write a book in flight – Montana, Saranac Lake, Baltimore, Havana, East St Louis’. He tried, he wrote, ‘not to regret so much time taken from the book I’d begun’, and with the money from the reprint rights he dreamed of getting ‘back to my lonely life, and the book I’d begun before’.

Algren’s own ambivalence about the new novel mirrored the growing ambivalence he felt about everything around and about him: his personal life, his prospects, his country.

‘What country is there for a white man who isn’t white?’ Algren once asked. Maybe it was the Big Easy he created in A Walk on the Wild Side.

The novel begins with Dove Linkhorn, drifter, fleeing his Texan hometown after raping the Mexican woman who has deflowered him, evading a recruiting sergeant who wants to enlist him to fight Sandino in Nicaragua, and after some adventures coming ‘at last to the town that always seems to be rocking’, a fairytale place of speakeasies and flophouses full of ‘old-time sterno drinkers and bindlestiff nomads [who] made the flophouse forenoon murky with their hardtime breath’.

Dove Linkhorn is a good soldier Švejk-like idiot with a dash of Tom Jones, an illiterate who goes to the segregated town’s black toilets and drinks from the blacks-only water fountains; who at one point gets attacked by a collie whose owner apologises: ‘I never knowed Queenie to go after a white man before’, and who declares when, seeking a job as scabbing seaman, he is asked if he belongs to a union, ‘Mister, I’m a Christian boy and don’t truckle to Yankee notions.’

In New Orleans Dove Linkhorn finds work variously running scams, making condoms and in a peepshow where he deflowers women pretending to be virgins, finally ending up in jail.

As if to mock the USA’s yearnings, Algren attributes them in A Walk on the Wild Side to pimps, panders, whores and conmen. In a society where people die of usefulness, Algren’s inverted Big Easy is a place where people ‘died of uselessness one by one, yet lived on behind veritable prairie fires of wishes, hoping for something to happen that had never happened before: the siren screaming toward the crashing smash-up, the gasp of the man with the knife in his side, the suicide leap for no reason at all’. The true perversity of Algren’s society is not sexual, but ethical: unlike the USA, where work is a virtue, here it is understood ‘that nothing could lower human dignity faster than manual labour’.

Algren mocks the heroic, and his New Orleans is constantly upside-down and comic. There is the white naval commander who is a self-confessed ‘black mammie freak’ and pays to be beaten by old black women. After thrashing him and taking a month’s pay for her services, a black madam lowers herself onto a divan, sighs, and then asks for the evening newspaper so she can see ‘what the white folks are up to’.

The novel is at its most alive describing the ensemble casts of its brothels and jailhouse. For A Walk on the Wild Side is in the end not a novel about its hero, Dove Linkhorn, nor a naturalistic rendering, precisely drawn, of Depression-era New Orleans poverty. There is little sense of the physicality of New Orleans, its heat, its stench, its polyglot nature. For all Algren’s belief in detail, his retelling of his own New Orleans experiences, this is no more realistic a world than that of Rabelais. But with it, Algren created a uniquely American vision that questioned the essence of America, embodying a vision of truth that seems strikingly contemporary in its resonance. The book in consequence is not what it sets out to be, and its structure is sometimes looser than its language.

What remain are such telling scenes as the one in which Dove Linkhorn visits a cave-like restaurant, where he watches a pyramid of snapping turtles blindly climbing on top of each other, only to be beheaded by a black man, naked to the waist, who grabs the next topmost turtle for decapitation, a symbol for the USA’s pointless, destructive yearnings.

‘When we get more houses than we can live in, more cars than we can ride in, more food than we can eat ourselves, the only way of getting richer is by cutting off those who don’t have enough,’ writes Algren, describing his true subject best.

Dove Linkhorn, Kitty Twist, Legless Schmidt, Oliver Finnerty, Reba, Hallie and a large collection of those Algren calls ‘the broken men and breaking ones; wingies, dingies, zanies and lop-sided kukes; cokies and queers and threadbare whores’ are all in search of the USA, only for the reader to discover in the end that these ‘lonesome monsters’ are the USA.

A Walk on the Wild Side was finally published by Farrar, Straus and Cudahy in May 1956. The hit of Broadway at the time was a new Cinderella story called My Fair Lady. The times could hardly have been less propitious.

The reviews of A Walk on the Wild Side have become legendary in their savagery; at times they seem as politically charged in their circumlocutions as any Soviet review of the era, of writers deemed unacceptable by the State. There were some who defended the novel, but they were drowned out by the novel’s detractors.

Time magazine declared that Algren’s ‘sympathy for the depraved and degraded’ had ‘carried him to the edge of nonsense… Algren has dressed his sense of compassion in the rags of vulgarity’. In the New Yorker Norman Podhoretz attacked what he called Algren’s ‘boozy sentimentality’ and claimed that Algren was saying ‘we live in a society whose bums and tramps are better men than the preachers and the politicians and the otherwise respectable’.

Leslie Fiedler similarly claimed that there was no room in Algren’s world for ‘workers or teachers or clerks’ and went on to describe Algren as ‘isolated from the life of his time. He was made, unfortunately, once and for all in the early 1930s, in the literary cult of “experience” of those times. He has not thought a new thought or felt a new feeling since… our literature has moved on and left him almost a museum piece – the Last of the Proletarian Writers’.

The political crime was unmistakable, as the verdict and punishment were inescapable. Book sales fell away. Though he continued to write and publish, Nelson Algren was finished. His novels went out of print, he was neglected, his reputation diminished to the extent that for a time he was largely forgotten. It is hard to think of a major American writer of similar stature who has had so little impact on subsequent American writing.

Algren sensed the change – how could he not? – and the way in which critics were increasingly not on the side of the artist, but of the status quo. In 1960 he wrote of the new owners of literature arriving ‘directly from their respective campuses armed with blueprints to which the novel and the short story would have to conform… [forming] a loose federation, between the literary quarterlies, publishers’ offices and book review columns, presenting a view of American letters untouched by American life’. The New Criticism – with its emphasis on the search for imagery, symbols and metaphors, and its contempt for history and politics in shaping art – was for Algren a tragic misunderstanding of the role of literature; for ‘it left unheeded the truth that the proper study of mankind is man’.

In some way the criticisms of 1956 have mutated but remain: the charge that Algren was an overwrought word drunk boozed up on an outdated sentimentality stuck; that he was a relic from the 1930s; that the world had changed and Algren had not.

It is too simple to say that Algren was punished for his politics. His politics, left-leaning though they were, were not his real crime. Algren understood far better than those who blackballed him the nature of his offence.

His aesthetics were not what the new empire wanted: what was emerging, what was wanted, was a new classicism: a pared-back modernist prose. Nor was his subject – the dispossessed – any longer of interest or concern.

‘I think Faulkner is too tragic about life,’ Simone de Beauvoir wrote to Nelson Algren. ‘Life is tragic, and it is not. In your books one can feel very well this strange two-sided truth.’ But in a nation whose culture seemed ever more hostile to irony, tragi-comic art had less and less place.

Not the least of Nelson Algren’s charms to those of us not American is the way he is at once both entirely of the USA in all its extraordinary vibrancy, and yet able to tally and report accurately and honestly the immense human cost of that vibrancy: a USA no longer a new and great dream of exploding possibility, but a nightmare of receding hopes.

‘The pimps,’ he wrote of 1930s New Orleans in A Walk on the Wild Side, ‘didn’t seem to catch on that the country was progressing downward to new rates of normality’, describing mid-twentieth-century perfectly.

And Algren achieved all this in a lush language at once immediate and vernacular, but steeped in the tradition of his culture’s greatest writers: the poetry of his sentences harked back to Whitman; his wry humour and vernacular power to Twain; his novelistic largeness to Melville; his pained humanity to Fitzgerald.

But everything in Algren is transformed into a particularly American agony, comic and tragic, and he created an idea of a spiritually compromised USA so potent that for some decades no one wished to know of it.

Frequently categorised, with the passage of years no category seems sufficient to label the rich, fecund world of Algren’s greatest works. He was a naturalist who wrote unnaturalistic prose; an absurdist whose work reeked of reality; a realist whose best effects are often comic, a determined stylist who in the end believed passion mattered more than style; a passionate writer who fully understood that the measure of great writing was in its capacity to escape the writer’s intentions, politics and passions.

Those who ascribed to him a programme, an ideology, failed to understand Algren’s humility in the face of the power of art to tell truths often unknown to the artist and even unpalatable to them. He believed good writing came out of compulsions unknown to the writer.

‘A writer who knows what he is doing,’ he once said, ‘isn’t doing very much.’

Algren’s characters fail even at failure, they manage to mismanage crime, vice, sin; nothing is so worthless that it cannot be lost. Algren’s mean streets are revealed by the passing of time to be both as real and as allegorical as Kafka’s courtrooms and castles. It is a hell, and it is the ultimate test of our humanity.

It would be too simple to see Algren simply as a victim of the Cold War. His literature threw down a question to the fundamental nature of the USA.

‘So accustomed have we become to the testimony of the photo-weeklies, backed by witnesses from radio and TV,’ Algren wrote, ‘establishing us permanently as the happiest, healthiest, sanest, wealthiest, most inventive, tolerant and fun-loving folk yet to grace the earth of man, that we tend to forget that these are bought-and-paid-for witnesses and all their testimony perjured.’

The American dream, the American century, the American way, the American empire: Algren didn’t buy any of it. The USA, Algren declared in an interview in 1963 was ‘an imperialist son-of-a-bitch’, and Algren did not conceive the role of the writer to sing of its triumphs.

‘The hard necessity of bringing the judge on the bench down into the dock’, Algren wrote, ‘has been the peculiar responsibility of the writer in all ages of man.’

Like Chekhov, Algren believed a writer’s role was to side with the guilty.

‘American literature is the woman in the courtroom who, finding herself undefended on a charge, asked, “Isn’t anyone on my side?”… More recently, I think American literature is also the fifteen-year-old who, after he had stabbed somebody, said, “Put me in the electric chair – my mother can watch me burn.”’

And so Algren wrote with courage and love against the grain of the American empire he clearly recognised coming into being around him, as doomed as a bard of slaves would have been in first-century Rome.

‘The American middle class’s faith in personal comfort as an end in itself is in essence a denial of life,’ Algren wrote in Nonconformity. ‘And it has been imposed upon American writers and playwrights strongly enough to cut them off from their deeper sources.’

According to his friend Kurt Vonnegut, ‘no matter how famous he became, he remained a poor man living among the poor, and usually alone.’ But there was about this something that went beyond identification, or Algren’s belief in people. For Algren it seems that it also enabled a form of spiritual transcendence that he found necessary in order to write.

‘Innocence is not just the lack of something,’ Algren once said. ‘Innocence is an achieved thing. You can’t be unworldly without first being worldly… to be an innocent in the best sense is to have that kind of unworldliness that comes out of worldliness, to be able to see how people waste their whole lives just to have security.’

The American Dream was one of materialism, its hope was that even if you had lost everything yesterday you might regain your fortune today. Algren’s dream is one of humanity; of how you might live a fully human life when you have lost everything and nothing can be regained: through humour, through small victories, through love of others.

In the wake of the commercial and critical failure of A Walk on the Wild Side Algren’s life took an increasingly tragic turn.

The same month as it appeared, a literary sensation from Europe received its first US publication. The Mandarins, Simone de Beauvoir’s new novel was dedicated to Algren, and in part described a passionate affair between its heroine and an American writer called Lewis Brogan, clearly modelled on Algren. Yet what to de Beauvoir was an affirmation of their love, was to Algren – who had quarried the lives of his own friends for his own writings – a personal betrayal, and Algren now attacked de Beauvoir in the press. Yet privately he still hoped to escape to Paris and to de Beauvoir.

On 26 June 1956 this dream was cruelly ended when his passport was once more denied. On 1 July 1956 he rang de Beauvoir and apologised, though he was again to attack her publicly. On 12 July 1956 she wrote to Algren how ‘in The Mandarins, the love story is very different from the true truth; I just tried to convey something of it. Nobody understands that when the man and woman love each other for ever, they are still in love and maybe this love will never die.’

Now a deeply depressed man, Algren returned to what had been his own home in Gary and asked Amanda Kontowicz to take him in. There he spent most of his days sitting in his room, unable to work, often weeping. In August he suffered a breakdown that led to his being hospitalised.

‘Amanda called me,’ Dave Peltz recalled in a radio interview many years later, ‘and she said, “he’s ready, he wants, he’s going to allow himself to be put into hospital care”, and I came over to the house… he was half-dressed, he wouldn’t put on a shirt, and then he put on his shirt, then he wouldn’t put on his jacket, then he put on the jacket, he wouldn’t put his shoes on, then he put his shoes on and finally, after an hour, I said “I have to go”. He got dressed and he sat in the car.

‘We drove all the way north to this psychiatric hospital, got out, went into the lobby and he was supposed to sign in, he wouldn’t sign in… He would make an “S”. He took a “N”, he made an “S”, he would make an “A” over here, and then come back and put an “E” in between the “N” and the “L” and after an interminable two hours he filled in his name, and the minute he did that, it was like in a B-movie.

‘Two guys in white coats came out and they just literally picked him up and hauled him right through a big solid core door, and, as they’re doing that, he’s hollering “Dave! Dave!” and they took him through the hallway and I could hear him hollering “Dave!” and I’ll tell you it’s still in my ears, that scream, that “Dave!”.’

At the end of 1956 Simone de Beauvoir received a letter from her beloved Chicago man saying a light had gone out in him.

He had abandoned Entrapment – the novel which he had stolen time from to finish A Walk on the Wild Side. Of its unfinished manuscript a later editor of Algren’s, William Targ, said, ‘In it he seemed to reach the deep-down essence of the blackest lower depths: drugs, pimping, prostitution, at their most grim level… It would have been an extraordinary achievement… it could have been his major opus.’

According to Sylvie Le Bon de Beauvoir, Simone’s daughter, who has possession of these Algren letters, Algren confessed he had ‘hit rock bottom, having lost himself in draining battles against his marriage, his publishers, his agents, his lawyers and his poverty. He felt he had lost his driving force, the spark fuelling his writing and his entire being. He realised he was losing Simone de Beauvoir forever, and in this dire mood was not afraid to admit that he missed her terribly. The best days of his life were spent with her. Why had he let her drift so far away?’

On 31 December 1956 he took a short-cut across a frozen lagoon, the ice broke, and Algren would have died in its freezing waters had he not been rescued by workmen. Close friends speculated that Algren had tried to kill himself.

Of the remaining twenty-five years of Algren’s life there is little to tell. Though he wrote more books, including one posthumously published novel, the great creative period of his life was over. Like the police captain, Record Head Bednar, in The Man with the Golden Arm, obsessed with the sense that he should write his own name on the list of the guilty, Nelson Algren had ended up inscribing his own name on the guilty list, the black list, then the reviled and finally the lost and forgotten list.

‘The past is a bucket of ashes,’ he told friends. He took to calling himself a journalist, rather than a novelist.

Algren laughed in the face of the gods and made merry, but his fate is no less tragic for his own particular enduring courage.

In later years Nelson Algren gave the impression that there was nothing he wanted more out of life than to see a fight, or go to the track, or play poker.

‘This was pose, of course,’ Kurt Vonnegut has written, ‘and perceived as such by one and all.’

But it was pose with a price, and pose with a point. The poverty, the gambling, the losing continued, the novel-writing did not; he posed until, one suspects, the pose became too fixed to escape.

‘For years he was exhausted,’ Dave Peltz has said, ‘trying to get over what he had done with his life, what he had done with this great opportunity that he had, and many people described him as America’s foremost writer… He felt he blew it, something happened in his life [and] that he blew it… towards the end when he was not writing and not writing, all he thought about was fame and fortune, like someone who went to the crap table and lost it all. I think gambling was the metaphor for his life, for pissing away his life… he stayed disciplined in the early days before he achieved success and somehow after success was when he lost hold, and I can’t account for it. Unless… he needed to be consistent with being a loser, needed to be consistent with having a pocket full of money and going to a crap table and losing it.’

Nelson Algren died in 1981, Simone de Beauvoir in 1986. She was buried with the ring Algren had given her.

Algren’s epitaph for Fitzgerald could apply equally to himself:

‘Unsaving of spirit and heart and brain, he served the lives of which he wrote rather than allowing himself to be served by them.

‘And so he died like a scapegoat, died like a victim, his work unfinished, his hopes in ruin.’

The USA was at the time of Algren’s childhood a symbol of an ideal that could still seem revolutionary and democratic. For Whitman, a seminal influence on Algren, American democracy was a new event; for Algren it is one more lost cause in a life devoted to lost causes, the greatest of which was writing, the act of which demanded you spend of your soul until there is nothing left but the prospect of death.

The fiftieth anniversary of the publication of A Walk on the Wild Side takes on an odd resonance given the recent tragic events in what was the Big Easy, not only because the town is the setting for the novel, but because Algren’s principal concern – the USA’s contempt for so many of its own people – is, perhaps for the first time since the 1930s, threatening to become a major political issue. In rebuilding the levies of New Orleans, Americans could do worse than reread A Walk on the Wild Side.

And not only they.

‘Vast populations, towering cities, erroneous and clamorous publicity, have conspired to make unknown great men one of America’s traditions,’ Borges wrote. ‘Edgar Allan Poe was one of these; so was Melville.’ And so too Nelson Algren.