As the holiday season progresses to its crescendo on New Year's Eve, I thought it might be interesting to examine the drinking habits of some great American writers. What started out as an amusing research into the favorite author beverages, however, quickly lost its merry tone as I discovered a string of sad tales about our alcoholic literary history. From the dipsomania of Edgar Allan Poe to the abbreviated tales of Jacks Kerouac and London, I found the fun and lightness drain out of my self-assignment.

Mention liquor and writer in the same sentence and one immediately conjures up the beefy face of Ernest Hemingway, Mojito in hand, spinning tales of marlins, matadors, safaris and the Spanish Civil War. Hemingway is also known for his Rabelaisian appetites for Daiquiris, usually ordered by the Nobel Laureate as doubles, or Papa Dobles, at his favorite Cuban watering holes. According to Hemingway biographer A.E. Hotchner quoted here, the original Papa Dobles recipe is a mixture of 2.5 jiggers (3.75 oz.) white rum, lime juice, grapefruit juice, maraschino liqueur and shaved ice. Drink one of these and it will raise your blood alcohol level over the legal limit; drink two and the Sun Also Rises; drink three and you might just bid a Farewell to Arms and control of all other body parts.

The Prohibition Years (1920-1933) are ironically considered the Golden Age of the American Cocktail, when larger cities boasted not-so-underground networks of speakeasies where the booze flowed freely. No other author was so well-marinated in illegal gin as "The Great Gatsby" F. Scott Fitzgerald. He and his wife Zelda roared along with Twenties excess as they swilled Gin Rickeys and danced naked at house parties, until they and the rest of the country sobered up hard after Black Friday. Alcoholism contributed to the pair's diminished mental and physical health and soon after, both died young and sick.

The Martini is the quintessential American cocktail and has resurged in popularity among the bar set in recent years.  One can order the Martini in its purest state (5 parts gin, 1 part vermouth, olive garnish) or remixed in any number of fruity, non-traditional blends, like Appletinis, that would leave fictional super spy James Bond most decidedly shaken, not stirred. Martin maven Dashiell Hammett imprudently self-medicated his chronic tuberculosis with generous amounts of his favorite beverage, heavy on the vermouth.  The author of such detective fiction classics as The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man was Nick to the Nora of his long-time lover Lillian "Toys in the Attic" Hellman, but even she had no influence on the heavy drinking that curtailed his life.

Poor Sherwood Anderson was felled by a Martini Most Murderous at a seafaring cocktail party. The author of Winesburg, Ohio" (emphasis added) mistakenly chowed down on his entire garnish and perished from peritonitis after the toothpick stabbed his innards.

The pantheon of American women writers has not been immune to the ravages of alcoholism. Poets Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath committed suicide after battling mental illness, unadvisedly fueled with bouts of hard drinking. Algonquin Round Table wit Dorothy Parker slurped up a slew of champagne cocktails to assuage life-long loneliness, and her contemporary, Carson McCullers, was known as much for her memorable list of books and plays as for her constant companion, a thermos flask of hot tea and booze she nicknamed "Sonny Boy". McCullers' life was filled with chronic illness and she suffered from lingering effects of rheumatic fever and several strokes during her contracted life, which were most certainly exacerbated by Sonny Boy's intervention.

Modern, more health-conscious America, has created a crop of more abstemious authors who generally leave massive alcohol consumption to the Hollywood crowd, but there are two notable exceptions: Poet Charles "Barfly" Bukowski and Gonzo Journalist Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. It is certainly less fashionable to be a drunk once one leaves adolescence and there is a stronger societal focus on penalties for drunk driving and other crimes.

I'm not a teetotaler and didn't set out to pen a column about the sad streak of alcoholism and self-destruction among the American literary scene. I imagined a lively piece dispensing drink recipes and happier snippets of author folklore, but found this dismaying morass instead. Imagine the magnificence of all these writers' works if they had not battled with alcohol. How many modern masterpieces were left fuzzily half-imagined and unwritten?  How many more plays, poems, novels and short stories would have sprung from these talents during a longer, healthier life span?  I only wish they had been able to put their bottles away and hunker down with a ream of paper and their typewriter.

Posted by: Rachel Jagareski

by Eisha Prather

Mental illness has been one of the favorite topics of YA novelists ever since the genre was created. Well, actually, since some date the emergence of young adult literature with the publication of The Catcher in the Rye in 1951, one could argue that it was the topic that inspired the genre. But I still found it interesting to see how many novels published over the past year or so have depicted depressed teens. I also continue to be surprised at myself for seeking out and reading so many variations on the theme. What can I say? I find mental illness to be a compelling topic in its own right, and it seems like the more studies and research reveal about it, even more is revealed about how much the doctors don't know yet. And in fiction, it can be used to great effect as a metaphor for the greater teen condition.

Here are my impressions of a few recent titles that feature clinically depressed characters.

It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini (Hyperion, 2006).

Craig thought that once he passed the entrance exam to get into Manhattan's Executive Pre-Professional High School, his future success would be ensured. But actually attending such a rigorous school is much harder than he expected. He falls behind in his homework, obsesses over his best friend's girlfriend, and tries to self-medicate himself out of his funk with pot and alcohol. He also tries therapy and antidepressants. But he still can't eat, can't sleep, and can't escape the feedback-loop of anxiety and self-criticism that's in constant play in his mind. When he hits rock bottom, he checks himself into the hospital.

Based on Vizzini's own experiences in a mental hospital in 2004, the strength of this novel is in Craig's voice. He's an utterly believable and likable guy with a sharp, snarky sense of humor, and the reader can't help but root for him as he works his way toward a future he can live with. Providing additional doses of drama and comic relief are a well-drawn supporting cast of fellow inmates - including a love interest, whose complicated hot-and-cold attentions help shift Craig out of his navel-gazing anxiety over the future to the possibility of happiness and friendship in the present. I also loved that his real breakthrough occurred through the discovery of an artistic talent and means of self-expression, rather than a relationship.

Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You by Peter Cameron (Farrar Straus Giroux, 2007).

After an incident during an academic field trip to D.C., James has had to admit that he is "disturbed." He's seeing a therapist, but during the summer before he's supposed to start at Brown he declares that he doesn't actually like being with people his age; all he wants to do is flee NYC, take his tuition savings and buy a house in the Midwest. Through most of the story he struggles with his disdain for almost everyone else on the planet, his obsession with "correct" behavior and use of language, and embarrassment over a botched romantic overture toward an older man, until a possible underlying cause for his profound unhappiness is finally revealed.

Even without the traumatic event that may have affected him, it's hard to blame him for being so misanthropic - there's scarcely an appealing character to be found in this novel. His immediate family members are all self-absorbed, caustic, and clueless; his therapist is cold and distant. Even his grandmother - the one character who truly connects with James - is a little off-putting to the reader, since to a lesser degree she shares his rigidity and "tyrannical" tendencies.

Other novels in this list tend to balance the heavier thematic elements with a dose of humor. Not this one. The tone is muted, the pace is slow; and while there's a fair bit of sarcastic banter, it doesn't do anything to alleviate the tension between James and the rest of the world. Some reviews have compared this work to The Catcher in the Rye, but I think it reads more like The Bell Jar in its relentless negativity. This isn't the most accessible novel for teens, but a select few will find a rare kindred spirit in James, and be grateful for the quietly hopeful ending.

Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac by Gabrielle Zevin (Farrar Straus Giroux, 2007).

Naomi wakes after a tumble down her high school's steps to find that she's lost all memory of the past four years. As she recovers from her injury and tries to piece her life back together, she becomes frustrated by trying to be the girl her jock boyfriend or her quirky best friend remember. Instead she's drawn to the "exquisitely depressed" James (is there something about this name?), who is just as anxious to avoid the mistakes and losses of his past as she is anxious to escape everyone's expectations of her. Their determination to live in the present sustains their bond for a while, until James starts to slip into a frightening state of depression and anxiety.

The mental illness aspect of Memoirs is a subplot, rather than the focus of the novel, but the depiction of James is compelling. Zevin does an admirable job in showing Naomi's reaction to James: at first his tragic past and occasional melancholia add to his apparent depth and mystery; but when his illness returns in full-force, it's anything but sexy. Strong characters and realistic dialogue make this an engaging read.

Get Well Soon by Julie Halpern (Feiwel & Friends, 2007).

Halpern's first YA novel resembles the plot structure of It's Kind of a Funny Story, and like Vizzini's story, is based on her own psych ward experience.

When Anna finds that she can't cope with school due to her frequent panic attacks and suicidal thoughts, her parents have her committed to a Chicago hospital. During her stay on the adolescent ward, Anna is finally able to get some perspective on her self-image and body issues, and - oh yes - falls in love with a fellow patient.

Told as a series of journal-like letters to her best friend on the outside, this novel is a more light-hearted treatment of the subject than the other books mentioned here. Halpern doesn't depict very much of Anna's life before being committed, nor does she delve very deeply into the problems of the other patients. The psych ward staff is portrayed as lazy, insensitive, and oblivious to anything but the enforcement of arbitrary rules; other than giving Anna a space away from the pressures of school to allow the medication to kick in, and introducing her to boys who find her attractive, the hospital stay doesn't appear to do anything to directly influence her recovery. (If this part is also inspired by Halpern's experience, it's a pretty disturbing picture.) The strengths of this novel are in the occasional poignant moments between Anna and her new friends, and the realistically juvenile tone of Anna's voice. Given the relatively light tone and low level of YA lit “edginess” (i.e., sex, drugs and profanity), it’s a better fit for younger teens than a lot of depression-themed titles.

Posted by: Eisha Prather