`Dutch' Feat -- Reagan Biographer Edmund Morris Fought Through Writer's Block By Inserting Himself Into His Subject's Life

Just about the worst thing that can happen to an author is to spend a decade gathering information on a subject, then suffer through two years of writer's block, unable to make sense of his subject.

Edmund Morris found his way out of this deep, dark hole of depression by re-creating himself as a fictional character who encounters, observes and comments on his subject: Ronald Reagan, one of this country's most beloved, reviled and intriguing politicians. Morris' fictive character followed Reagan from childhood to the disclosure in 1994 that the former president suffers from Alzheimer's disease.

"Like all biographers, after the basic research was completed I simply had to figure out a way to do it," Morris said yesterday during a stop in Seattle on his nationwide book tour.

"But in 1990 and '91, I reached a point of complete sterility, because he resisted orthodox treatment. Reagan could not be analyzed. One of the biggest problems was he never analyzed himself . . . He had absolutely no curiosity about himself, and no apparent vanity."

What eventually came forth from Morris' computer was "Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan" (Random House, $35). His publisher gave him a $3 million advance - certainly enough to make ends meet, even through a protracted bout with writer's block. To date, the publisher has been well-rewarded. Last week "Dutch" went to No. 2 on The New York Times' best-seller list for hardback nonfiction.

Fueling interest has been the violently negative reaction Morris' book has received. Former Reagan aides appeared on talk shows to criticize the book - even before they read it. Former President Bush, Reagan's vice president, has challenged its accuracy and called Morris' depiction of Reagan as "an apparent airhead" cruel.

Critics contend it is a well-researched work of pure fiction. They've called it a missed opportunity, an abuse of Reagan's generosity, bizarre, irresponsible and self-absorbed, and nearly impossible to read, criticisms that may resonate with the reader if you don't understand French, are anal about the distinction between fact and fiction and are a purist when it comes to history.

Morris even has been analyzed by columnist Charles Krauthammer, who once practiced psychiatry: "Here is a man who had taken his advance, accepted the access, sunk a decade of his life in the project, then, failing to fathom his subject, reaches some kind of intellectual/psychological crisis. A normal person would have given up. Morris tries to save himself with a leap off the deep end. A towering egoism solves the problem with a frightful merging: Morris' mind will invade Reagan's life, the way Reagan's life had invaded Morris' mind."

If any of this bothers Morris, it is not readily apparent. At 59, he appears relaxed and gracious, claims to be happier than he's ever been, and professes to enjoy this book tour. "I think the realization is beginning to accrue that Reagan comes out of this book greater than people realize and expected. They just have to get used to the strangeness at first. He's a very strange man. He was very intelligent but transcendentally strange. Nobody understands him."

He takes comfort in the fact that three of Reagan's children have endorsed the book. Last Saturday night, over dinner in Seattle, Ronald Reagan Jr. told Morris that "Dutch" provided him with insight into his father he had never had before.

And even though various members of Reagan's staff claim to detest the book, they have invited Morris to address the 4,000 people expected to attend the annual Reagan reunion on Nov. 17 in Washington, D.C. - though it's not clear to Morris whether they want to pummel him with questions or their fists.

"The reaction of card-carrying Reagan Republicans I could have predicted years ago," says Morris. "In politics, loyalty is all.

"Therefore, if a book comes out which reveals that the great man could be astonishingly banal and sometimes absolutely wrongheaded in private, it's like everything they've ever stood for and believed is being threatened. Political people are not good at comprehending the complexity of human character."

Early in Reagan's first term, his aides set out in search of an in-house historian to chronicle the president's accomplishments and write his biography. Fresh off a Pulitzer Prize-winning biography of Theodore Roosevelt and working on a sequel, Morris at first declined. But on Feb. 14, 1983, he was invited to a dinner party with Reagan that was arranged by then-Oregon Sen. Mark Hatfield. For the first time, he saw Reagan's personal charisma and vision. Fearful that he would miss out on the chance to chronicle an important moment in American history, Morris accepted. Beginning in 1985, he had unprecedented access to a sitting (if occasionally out-of-it) president. Morris was allowed to sit in on a national security briefing of Reagan in preparation for his meeting with Soviet Premier Mikhail Gorbachev. He writes that the president, in his journal that night, worries, "My God, I hope I'm not overtrained."

Morris' book provides some wonderful glimpses into various chapters of Reagan's life. If you can get past the fictional encounters between Reagan and Morris, the book paints a vivid portrait of what it was like to grow up with an alcoholic father in a series of dreary Midwestern towns. Morris' account of the 1981 assassination attempt on Reagan, the humor he showed before and after surgery to remove a bullet lodged near his heart, is compelling, as is Morris' insight into the relationship between the president and Gorbachev.

At times, Morris can set a scene as well as anyone. Describing Reagan on the night he was sworn in as president, he writes: "A man just about to turn seventy, one inch taller than six feet, weighing about a hundred and eighty-five pounds stripped, broad as a surfboard and almost as hard, superbly balanced, glowing with health and handsome enough for a second career in the movies. Hair so dense and fine as to amount to a Marvel Comics helmet, slicked with Brylcreem and water to a blue-black sheen . . . breath sweet, fingernails naturally shiny, unribbed, lucent as seashells . . . Absolutely no makeup - just a clear and sanguineous complexion that blushes the moment he sips alcohol, or fears a woman has overheard one of his ribald jokes."

Morris fancies himself a literary writer rather than a political one, yet comes to the conclusion that, warts and all, Reagan was a "splendid president" - the greatest president since Truman - and someone who fundamentally changed the world.

Morris says that all actors need spectators, and that on the rare occasions when Ronald Reagan didn't have a part to play, he became "nothing." When Reagan walked off the world stage in 1989, he left aides, too, wondering who he was and what role they had played in the production. Late in "Dutch," just before the Reagans board the plane that would take them back to California, Morris recalls a conversation with Gen. Colin Powell, who had just given Reagan a last, ceremonial national security briefing. Powell said: "This was the conclusion of a big dramatic production. Here we were, his senior staffers, all of us who directed him and scripted him and made him up and gave him his cues. And here were the cameramen, the sound guys, the light holders and the grips. And there, all alone against the backdrop of the Oval Office, was Ronald Reagan shooting his last take."

Robert T. Nelson's phone message number is 206-464-2996. His e-mail address is rnelson@seattletimes.com.