One day while working as an editor for a business trade association, I got an article called “For Whom the Bell Tolls” about shareholder activism by a man named Jon Masters. What a clever title, I thought, appreciating the allusion to Ernest Hemingway’s famed novel cleverly juxtaposed with a dry technical subject. Little did I know that at that very same time the author would be wrestling with the issues of life and career he describes so compellingly in these memoires.
Of all literary genres, the memoir may be the most important, because it is a first-hand account of the process we call living. Of all genres, it is the easiest to write (because it is about oneself) yet the hardest to write well (for that same reason): there is always the risk that what matters to the author may not matter to others, especially in an extremely personal and often inexpressibly complex realm of family dynamics. Jon Masters ran that risk and came out a winner.
Masters’ autobiography is an American tour de force that weaves together several story lines using lucid language born of sincerity. On the family side, we meet a variety of vivid individuals, from the warm and caring yet insecure tyrant who was his father, to the sometimes brutally honest intellectual beauty who would became his tender and steadfast wife. On the career side we read of the author’s experience in the military, politics, law, theatre, and consulting, with many interesting (and sometimes historically significant) twists and turns that should interest anyone in the work world. But the most compelling story line is the author’s own journey to move from the outer shell of success he had built as “Jon Masters” by keeping his Jewish identity hidden out of the fears of (and for) his father, to an inner soul capable of confronting and ultimately embracing his past and building a truly happy life based on enduring values of truth and love.
The book’s unique mix of humor and drama could only come from someone who had lived a double life and survived as an integrated, honest person alive to tell the tale. There is no boasting or posing here, despite the author’s self-description as “brash” and “cocky.” This is a real Mensch talking, you can tell. Structured for suspense (we don’t learn the Secret until well into the narrative) the book is a true page turner. I began reading the book late in Labor Day weekend and could not put down until I finished it at 3 AM on back-to-work Tuesday. At the same time, there’s plenty of visual detail, emotional depth, and (sometimes dark) humor in the vignettes. The following two passages (quoted verbatim but without paragraph breaks) may give a good feel for the author’s appealing style.
A memory of his mother:
How I looked was important to my mother. In dressing me, she was not only oblivious to the realities of how children play, she was also oblivious to what was going on in the world. In 1940 or 1941, when Austrians and Germans were terrorizing Jews, she proudly dressed me in a green and grey Tyrolean outfit. My mother had a great eye for color and design, and she boasted ‘I never paid retail.’ … Did she love me? I never knew. One experience in particular still puzzles me. One night when I was about 7 or 8, my mother came to my room to say goodnight before leaving with my father for an evening of dinner and dancing. She looked terrific. “You look so pretty in that purple hat,” I told her. She never wore that hat again. What is it that makes that memory so vivid? I knew how important appearances and good clothes were to my mother. I wanted her to know I admired her. I wanted to bond with her. It didn’t happen. Was it my fault or hers? I tried to hug her but I had to settle for a good night kiss – one that would not disturb her makeup. Maybe she took offense that I had not complimented her on other occasions.
A memory of his father:
One sunny Sunday I planned to play ball with some friends in Central Park. I had a science exam the next day and, as I was leaving the apartment, my father asked me, “Do you know the material?” “Yes,” I said. “Let’s see,” he responded, taking my yellow science textbook into the den. Sitting in this chair with his back to the window and the gleaming son so I could not see his face, he started asking me questions. My answers were not good enough. Goodbye ballgame as my father starting going over the material with me. The next day my father asked how I did on the exam. I said proudly, “I got a 99, the best mark in the class.” My father’s reaction: “What happened to the other point?” And he wasn’t kidding. As far as he was concerned, I had not done my job. Could I ever satisfy him?”
As these passages show, the book is no hit-and-run adventure: yes, he reports on foibles (“Don’t put blinders on” is one of several distinct life lessons he offers at the end of the book) but at the same time he praises strengths: his parents were doing the best they could. He credits his father for teaching him to “Persevere,” another life lesson summarized at the end.
His father made him keep skiing one day despite an accident. “I had torn all the ligaments in my right knee…Was I angry at him? Upset at what he had caused? I simply accepted him as he was. My father didn’t listen. He had all the answers. It certainly was not the way I wanted to deal with my kids. On the other hand, I learned to get up and keep going – a valuable lesson for life.” Those who have read Ernest Hemingway will see the resemblance.
The “Bell” article proved prophetic. It urged directors to become more responsive to owners in the new century. I am so glad to see that the author, still rightly thriving as a governance consultant, he has turned his talents as a writer to the most important subject of all – life.
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