HE HAD HEARD those stories all his life.
And ever since he was very small, Gay Talese had not wanted to listen.
He did not want to hear Joseph Talese, his immigrant father, tell of life in the family home of Maida, in Southern Italy. He did not want to know about Domenico, the autocratic grandfather whose scoldings had left such a mark on the young Joseph. He did not want to know about St. Francis of Paola, the 15th century monk and patron saint of the region, whose miracles were talked about by townspeople as if they had happened yesterday. He did not want to hear any more talk about the hordes of invaders who had swept through the region since the time of the Roman Empire.
Because most of all, Gay Talese, a young ethnic growing up in the WASP-ish town of Ocean City, N.J., in the 1930s and '40s, had wanted to be an American. He wanted comics and baseball games on the radio, not Puccini and Verdi and tales of a land that sounded so distant, so strange.
Gay Talese went on to become a reporter for the New York Times, a writer of highly praised and imitated magazine profiles for Esquire and then a best-selling author. But in 1982, he was approaching 50; he could not bear not to know these things. And so, he went back to his father and said he was writing a book about what it means to be an Italian-American.
"I knew all about him coming to Ocean City, N.J., in 1922," Mr. Talese, 60, says now. "I had heard those stories. I grew up with them. But I wasn't listening to them. I was bored with them -- totally bored with them.
"But I told him, 'Now I want to listen. Now I have a purpose,' " he goes on, settling back in his Inner Harbor hotel room on a drizzly, dreary day in Baltimore. ' "Remember those stories you told me about your grandfather Domenico? Remember he told you, 'Those who love you make you cry'? I want to know everything all over again.' "
Gay Talese sat down with his father for 60 interview sessions. He went back to Maida countless times, even taking an apartment in Rome to make the visits easier. In his usual painstaking way of doing research, he read hundreds of books. And then, finally, after 10 years of sweat and uncertainty, Gay Talese had his book.
It's called "Unto the Sons," and has just been published by Alfred A. Knopf. Already dubbed an Italian "Roots" by some reviewers, it's the fascinating and often painful recounting of the Talese family's immigrant experience, and of Southern Italians in general.
Like his previous books -- "Honor Thy Father," "The Kingdom and the Power" and "Thy Neighbor's Wife" -- "Unto the Sons" is an ambitious work. At 635 pages, it's staggering in scope, and crammed with details not only about the Taleses, but also the history of Maida, the role of Southern Italy in European history, and the great migration of Italians to America in the 19th century and the assimilation of their descendants in the next.
And, like his previous books, "Unto the Sons" has gotten both extravagant praise and critical knocks. The Boston Globe called it "a compelling, dazzlingly detailed narrative." But Christopher Lehman-Haupt, in the New York Times, was cutting: "Worst of all, Talese suffers from the Switzerland Syndrome. You ask him what time it is, and he tells you the history of Switzerland."
Indeed, in conversation, Mr. Talese cannot respond to a question with a one-sentence answer, and more than once on this morning he looks up sheepishly and says, "Oh boy, I'm losing my train of thought." But he is an extremely engaging conversationalist; he is forever crafting his story, bit by bit, adding little details and shaping the narrative -- much as one would construct a home without a blueprint, but by building brick by brick. Only when he is finished and steps back can he see what he has made.
Asked how he finds it back on a book-promotion tour after a 10-year absence, Mr. Talese proceeds with a charming 10-minute digression on working at the New York Times from 1955 to 1965, when he began to make himself a name as an original writer of non-fiction.
"It was, I think, the best time of my life," he says reflectively. "That 10-year period was for me just the high point, the happiest not only in terms of professional satisfactions but sheer happiness. I loved the city room, the camaraderie with reporters who were all around the same age -- mid-20s to the mid-30s. It was about being young and being active, and being cynical and being idealistic and being everywhere."
"He was wonderful to work with as a reporter because he took such care with his writing," says Neil Sheehan, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author ("A Bright Shining Lie") and fellow ex-Timesman. "What Gay did each time was attempt to make his story a little gem in itself. He'd be at the typewriter until the last minute, polishing his story."