A few days ago (on Tuesday, June 27th), I lost a friend—Alvin Burstein, who most people called “Al.” By the time I met Al, he was already retired from a long career as a clinical psychologist and educator. I met him in a different capacity when I joined a small, newly begun writing group on the Northshore of Lake Pontchartrain, across the lake from New Orleans. Al and his wife Sandra were early members of that group, which underwent quite a few changes before a hardcore cadre of stalwarts coalesced. Al, who was very much a man of literature, suggested we call our group Louisiana Inklings, after a much more famous group of writers, most notably including C. S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Inklings met for many years, initially at a local library or occasionally a restaurant, and finally at Al and Sandra’s elegant home on the Northshore. (It continued in somewhat truncated form even after Covid hit.)
Al was a fan of sushi as well as literature, and he and I and Sandra met
sometimes outside the group for raw fish, rice, and conversation. Al had
written many academic and scholarly articles in his career (here is a link to
his vita), but at this time in his life he’d stoked his fire for fiction. And
he was a talented and precise wordsmith, but often a playful one, as witnessed
by a story of his that I republished in an anthology I edited of the Inkling
crew’s work—“The Crawfish Boil.”
Al was also astute at the critique work of the group.
Although his often-blunt commentary occasionally left some hard feelings early
on, his intent was never to cut but to clarify. His deeply analytical and
probing mind, having been honed by years working as a clinical psychologist, sliced
through the BS and centered on the heart of the matter—what was the story
trying to say and was it successful at it.
Although Al and my writing styles could scarcely have been
more different, we both appreciated and respected the other’s work. Al
understood what I was trying to accomplish and why my characters were described
as they were, and he often made inciteful comments that helped me clarify my
thoughts. (He was also great at catching typos.)
Al had quite a long life. His energy seldom faltered; his commitment to quality in his own work and in that of others never did. Al was also a Francophile and the picture above, taken by Sandra, shows him at the Academie Francaise in Paris. Perhaps the best sample of his literary style can be found in "The Owl," which was published in 2012. A delightful novella.
Al Burstein was a fine man, a fine writer, and a wonderful friend. I’ll miss him.
