Big Magic – Elizabeth Gilbert

Hidden Treasure

Once upon a time, there was a man named Jack Gilbert, who was not
related to me—unfortunately for me.
Jack Gilbert was a great poet, but if you’ve never heard of him, don’t
worry about it. It’s not your fault. He never much cared about being known.
But I knew about him, and I loved him dearly from a respectful distance, so
let me tell you about him.

Jack Gilbert was born in Pittsburgh in 1925 and grew up in the midst of
that city’s smoke, noise, and industry. He worked in factories and steel mills
as a young man, but was called from an early age to write poetry. He
answered the call without hesitation. He became a poet the way other men
become monks: as a devotional practice, as an act of love, and as a lifelong
commitment to the search for grace and transcendence. I think this is
probably a very good way to become a poet. Or to become anything, really,
that calls to your heart and brings you to life.

Jack could’ve been famous, but he wasn’t into it. He had the talent and
the charisma for fame, but he never had the interest. His first collection,
published in 1962, won the prestigious Yale Younger Poets prize and was
nominated for the Pulitzer. What’s more, he won over audiences as well as
critics, which is not an easy feat for a poet in the modern world. There was
something about him that drew people in and kept them captivated. He was
handsome, passionate, sexy, brilliant on stage. He was a magnet for women
and an idol for men. He was photographed for Vogue, looking gorgeous and
romantic. People were crazy about him. He could’ve been a rock star.
Instead, he disappeared.

He didn’t want to be distracted by too much
commotion. Later in life he reported that he had found his fame boring—
not because it was immoral or corrupting, but simply because it was exactly
the same thing every day. He was looking for something richer, more
textured, more varied. So he dropped out. He went to live in Europe and
stayed there for twenty years. He lived for a while in Italy, a while in
Denmark, but mostly he lived in a shepherd’s hut on a mountaintop in
Greece. There, he contemplated the eternal mysteries, watched the light