In Chicago’s long and rich literary history, few, if any, writers have worked as hard at their craft as Harry Mark Petrakis.
He is the author of dozens of books, one of which, “A Dream of Kings,” became a bestseller and a 1969 film starring Anthony Quinn. Its work firmly rooted in its own Greek-American community and his experiences, he has also written hundreds of short stories, non-fiction books and three beautiful memoirs. He was always writing, and he never stopped writing, contributing frank and nostalgic recollections to the opinion pages of the Sun-Times in recent years.
The last of these appeared in October, and when he died last week at his home in Dune Acres, near Chesterton, Indiana, he was 97 years old. His son was with him when the end came. “He had had heart problems in his later years, but death came gently,” said John Petrakis, a longtime Chicago-based film critic and professor of screenwriting at the School of the Art. Institute. “Even until the end, he was working on a short story and wanted to talk about it, share his ideas.”
Harry Mark Petrakis was born June 5, 1923, in St. Louis, a first-generation Greek-American. He soon lived in Chicago with five siblings, their mother Stella and their father, Mark, who was a Greek Orthodox priest. They lived on the south side.
The family, Harry tells it, operated on limited financial means, and when he was 11, he contracted tuberculosis. He remained housebound and bedridden for the next two years, during which he read hundreds of books but lost any taste he may have had for the classroom.
Enrolled at Englewood High School, he dropped out during his sophomore year and devoted much of his time to gambling, primarily ponies, but almost any bet would do.
“He always referred to this period as ‘misspent youth,’” John said.
He married Diana Perparos, whom he had known since high school, in 1945, against his mother’s wishes. They had three boys and Harry worked like hell to make ends meet. Some of his “careers” included selling real estate, ironing clothes for a cleaner, working in a pharmacy fountain…the list goes on. With the help of family money, but not enough to change the name on the sign, he ran a canteen at 13th Street and Indiana Avenue. It was called Art’s Lunch.
At night, he wrote by typing stories. After a decade of refusals, he finally sold one, “Pericles on 31st Street,” to the Atlantic magazine. He celebrated by dancing around the apartment with his family, waving the $400 check in the air.
It was 1956 and he was 33 years old. Against the advice of his writer friends, he was so independent that he decided to embark on a freelance life. He did so and later often recounted how he made only a few thousand dollars during his first years of full-time writing.
But the words flowed freely. His “Dream of Kings” gave him a small cushion, but he always took on work other than writing to supplement his income. He taught, lectured, performed at writers’ conferences. His writings have garnered praise—Kurt Vonnegut wrote: “I have often thought of what a wonderful basketball team could be formed from Petrakis’ characters. Each of them is at least fourteen feet tall” – but that hasn’t translated into high sales figures.
“It’s always been a struggle,” Harry once said.
But he always behaved proudly. He and my father were friends, and I often sat at long dinners listening to them talk about the joys and problems of the writing life, which for Harry also included severe midlife depression.
In 1987, on the occasion of the publication of his “Collected Stories,” a book signing evening was held in a Greektown restaurant. Then Petrakis said to me, in his wonderfully sonorous voice: “As I get older, I find that I am a much better craftsman but that I have also lost a little energy. I can no longer write in emotional and lyrical outbursts.
But he continued, receiving praise and awards. In October 2014, the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame honored him with a lifetime achievement award ahead of the publication of his third memoir, “Song of My Life.”
It was a joyous event, a festive tribute with many of Harry’s friends and admirers.
One of them was John Blades, a former Tribune publisher, who told me by email: “I always thought of Harry as the third man in a gang of three in Chicago, behind James T. Farrell and Nelson Algren, all of whom covered similar territory. , delving deeply and empathetically into what became known as the city’s underclass – the gamblers and the workers, the delinquents and the alcoholics, the small-time gamblers and the dreamers, the abandoned husbands and wandering vagabonds. As a stylist, Petrakis was superior to Farrell’s pedestrian, almost shorthand prose in his “Studs Lonigan” trilogy. But Petrakis’s vigorous men and women, defined by bursts of tragi-comic energy and mythic dimensions in “The Dream of Kings” and other novels, were no match for the flights of urban poetry of Petrakis. ‘Algren and his feeling of anguish for the oppressed.
Blades also fondly remembered the frequent Sunday gatherings the Petrakises held at their home, with friends from the literary community. Blades wrote: “Unlike so many other writers, Harry was an accomplished public artist as well as a solitary writer. My wife, Barbara, and I witnessed a number of these performances at the Petrakis House, located on a promontory in the Dunes. Dinners ended with Harry’s athletic reading of one of his works, often a chapter from “The Bell Hour,” the unusual historical novel he called “War and Peace.”
“Harry was unusual among writers in that he was neither modest nor uncertain about the lasting value of his collected prose. And he was one of the few whose lack of modesty could not only be forgiven but appreciated, in large part because of his obvious sincerity and belief in his talent. He presided over these meetings like a Greek patriarch, after a feast of lamb and artichokes, under the expert hand of his wife.
Diana died on Christmas Day 2018 after 73 years of marriage. His son John had often collaborated with his father, writing some previously unpublished screenplays. “It was a lot of fun working with him. He had such a creative way with language,” John said. “Not only did I love my father. I admired him.
In addition to John, Petrakis is survived by his son Mark, a former actor, writer and director, now a website developer in the San Francisco area; his son Dean, who lives in Los Angeles and works in the IT industry; four grandchildren and one great-grandchild.
Services were private and a memorial service is being planned. In the meantime, as is often the case these days, Harry Mark Petrakis and his writings can still be found at www.harrymarkpetrakis.com.
rkogan@chicagotribune.com