You are winning at life if no one has ever written a memoir about you. This is the takeaway after seeing what Michael Mewshaw does to Pat Conroy in The Lost Prince. By turns mesmerizing and exploitative, it might require a psychologist to unpack it.
The book starts off innocuously when the two men meet as expats in Rome. Both are married with children, living enviable lives as literati. We are clued in that the idyll won’t last. For the first third, though, the book is a sumptuous Roman feast. Mewshaw and Conroy are brothers in arms, sharing a peculiar intimacy rooted in their insecurities.
The story makes an abrupt shift when the families relocate back to the States. Conroy’s life goes into a tailspin after a divorce alienates him from his younger daughter. He stops speaking to the author, revealing only after a five-year silence that he didn’t feel properly supported by him.
If you are confused by this, so was the author. He claims that he was blindsided by Conroy’s take on things. And, then, as if to defensively get the reader on his side, he reveals a petty, ugly side to Pat Conroy in the form of abusive emails sent to his daughter. In short, Pat Conroy was no Tom Wingo.
At this point I would like to summon the spirit of Dr. Lowenstein to explain all of this. While claiming innocence on the disloyalty charge that led to their estrangement, the author horribly maligns his friend’s reputation by revealing private correspondence. It is not clear why he casts himself as the arbiter of this ugly family dispute, but it is hard to see him as a true friend after what he unveils. The lack of self-awareness is astonishing.
Books Smitten 