John Lennon and Me

John Lennon and Me

John Lennon was assassinated near where I used to live. I used to live at West End Avenue and 73^rd Street in Manhattan. The Dakota is on 72^nd Street and Central Park West. I would walk by it all the time and always thought of him. The memorial to him is right there. I always felt that America had done that to him not just an isolated lunatic. And there is another close connection: when I won the English prize at my school (I came top) I chose two books by John Lennon as my reward, A Spaniard in the Works and In His Own Write. I well remember the look on the English teacher’s face as he handed me the books at the prize-giving ceremony (“You cheeky bugger”). I had won the prize in the English language and I chose two books by a pop star—written in gibberish! All true, but I loved those books; they are hilarious and very clever. Of course, Lennon was part of my life from 13 on: I know all his music and have read a lot about him. I never met the man and set eyes on him only once, at an airport in the distance. I sing a lot of John Lennon songs and think about him almost every day (I just learned to sing “Mother”).

But there is a deeper, though tenuous, connection, which I find hard to put into words: his death and my destruction. He was murdered by a madman in a mob, and before that had death threats for his comment about the Beatles and Jesus Christ. American hysteria, American violence. I had my career and reputation destroyed by a similar mob. Believe me, I felt the violence, the lust to destroy. I can’t name individuals, though every crowd is made of them. The reality of the evil was somehow ignored by its practitioners (I am thinking of ex-colleagues and so-called friends). Of course, John was physically killed and I wasn’t. But you fool yourself if you don’t see an analogy. I think the other Beatles are lucky not to have been killed by some other American lunatic (there are plenty of them). Somehow adulation turns to homicide, success breeds annihilation. There are many forms of murder and America is good at all of them.

We are lucky that we still have his music and spirit (and books)—killing him couldn’t destroy that. I still have my books and other writings. You tried to destroy that too, with your self-righteous attempts at academic cancelation, but it is harder to destroy than a life. If only John had survived that bullet. We could have had an interesting conversation.