Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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'Big BY MlARSHIALL SWANSON Contributing Editor "There's a piece of James Dickey that is still the drug store hot shot," wrote Richard Maschal, describing the author and poet in the Oct. 8, 1972 Charlotte Observer. Maschal's descriptive and revealing remark came after the writer witnessed Dickey sashaying -- old west style -- into the Green Street Lums for roast beef sand wiches and onion rings. Replete with one of his now famous wide brimmed hats, the 6 4. 205pound Dickey quieted con versation and silenced the tinkle of silverware as he strode to a table and began chatting with a waitress. If there had been a piano player he would have stopped playing. Big Jim Dickey was back in town. Obviously, observed Maschal, the greying, 50-year-old Dickey was enjoying every minute of it. And why not? The author of seven books of poetry, three volumes of literary criticism, creator of the in ternational bestseller "Deliverance," and the winner of so many awards as to make them too numerous to mention, Dickey had every reason to be proud. He'd entered poetry in a round about way some 12 years earlier when he chucked an advertising career to devote his time to writing and teaching. His rise to fame and fortune was based on his own initiative, per serverence and talent which had now enabled him to reap one of the 191Mwnrt/ Jim Dic rewards of success: recognition. But Dickey's lunch-hour per formance and the public's response in Lums to his fame is the only thing he concedes as going naturally with being famous. He doesn't like to be type -cast or categorized, least of all as the typical poet in horn-rim glasses and tweed suits. He's equally at home, he points out, in the role of a respectable guitarist, expert archer, former star athlete, ex-fighter pilot and accomplished novelist. S.. i don't have to be t I raised to think that an we are a nation of hustlh successful and rich. I alcoholic wards and ins graves are so full. The fact that he doesn't fit the image of the stereotyped poet is to Dickey more a judgement on the stereotype than it is on him. Dickey's poetry students at USC concede he is a good teacher, literally riveting attention to the front of the class by his mere presence. His personality is reportedly captivating and whether one personally likes him or not he's still hard to ignore, students report. Perhaps paradoxically, Dickey describes himself as "a bookish, key Is B rather shy -person." Born outside Atlanta on Feb. 2, 1923 to Eugene and Maibelle Dickey, Dickey attended Clemson on a football scholarship in 1942. Like many of his contemporaries, he left school after one year to join the service during the war, eventually becoming a fighter pilot in the Pacific. After his discharge from the Army, Dickey attended Van derbilt, receiving his BA and MA degrees in English. During his he best anymore. We're d it's one of the reasons rs and go-getters and so t's also the reason the ane asylums and suicide senior year he married the former Miss Maxine Syerson. After a fling at an advertising career interrupted by the Korean conflict, Dickey parlayed his part time fascination with poetry into a full time career. In addition to writing verse, he began teaching at colleges and universities around the count.-y while establishing his reputation as a poet and critic. His credits are impressive. Poet-in-Residence at no fewer than four colleges, Poetry Consultant at a saa I* .e ens . ack In T the Library of Congress, recipient of numerous honorary degrees and awards. Dickey's campus reputation as a flatterer of young coeds and a two fisted swashbuekler may be more surface veneer than real per sonality traits. His candid admissions that he is a shy person seem to be more frequent now that the excitement of "Deliverance" has subsided somewhat. While he still travels the country giving poetry readings and oc casionally surfaces in the news as he did Nov. 14 to condemn the Drake, N.D. burning of "Deliverance," he seems to have retreated more to the role of a quiet college professor. Of those who worked with Dickey on the production of the movie, some theorized that he may be a composite of the four characters he created in "Deliverance". Speaking in the November Playboy magazine, Dickey may have inadvertently confirmed that theory by relating an incident that happened between himself and his wife. He told Geoffrey Norman, associate articles editor, of a time when his wife had once told him to relax and be himself before a poetry reading which he admitted had him skittish. "That sounded like good, ad vice," Dickey recalled. "But then I got to thinking about it. 'Just be yourself,' she said. Ah, but which one?" St OWflI own In private and in some public situations, Dickey often comes off as a quiet, concerned individual, seemingly ignoring the "showbiz" personality role that accompanied "Deliverance" fame. Last year after he burned his eyes with plaster while posing for a life mask for a North Carolina artist, he refused to reveal the name of the man. "Look, I don't want this to get around. This fellow is a good man and this incident could hurt his reputation." He was equally sympathetic when he learned that eight men had drowned while trying to ride the Chatooga River as in "Deliverance'". The men, Dickey said, wouldn't have ventured onto the river if it hadn't been for the book. Yet there was nothing he could do, he added. His feeling on the matter, he said, was awful. Why has Dickey seemingly slowed down after the frenetic days of "Deliverance" fever when he was catapulted into the role of national celebrity? Perhaps his comment to Norman early in the Playboy interview answered the question. "... I don't have to be the best anymore. We're raised to think that and it's one of the reasons we are a nation of hustlers and go getters and so successful and rich. It's also the reason the alcoholic wards and insane asylums and suicide graves are so full." See related story page :'. i * "SUS