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Shortly after my 22nd birthday, I sat in an old armchair in my pie-sliced college apartment and started reading a novel called Myra Breckinridge by someone named Gore Vidal. I'd heard about this book for years. Supposedly, it was outrageous. Time to see for myself.

By the third page, I was a Vidal fan for life.

The transformation was that sudden, that complete.

Prior to Vidal, I'd read a lot of what I call "emotional crap," fiction that wasn't necessarily bad, but which did exercise the heart more than the mind. With Vidal, I saw that not only could fiction be intellectual, it could also - by way of intelligence - render a story more emotional.

That wasn't exactly the case with Myra Breckinridge, a book about a transsexual who seeks to transform the world by taking over Hollywood. That was high comedy and I laughed at almost every line. By the time I finished a day or two later, I was jealous of this style. Then I was sad because I thought I could never write that well. No, my brain would always be stuck in emotional crap. Yet I longed for the promised land of wit and invention. So screw it. I'll try anyway.

It took me many years of practice. Fortunately, I had a lot more books by Vidal to show me the way. He was - and still is - my primary influence. My own novel, Days of Throbbing Gristle, is my own story, but one very much dominated by Vidal. The next one will be too. And the one after that.

This book, Point to Point Navigation: A Memoir, is Vidal's last. In some ways, I've put off reading it because I knew that after I was done, I'd never read a new one by him. So with this memoir, I finally say farewell.

For those not in the know, Gore Vidal lived from 1925 to 2012. His reputation rests, it seems to me, over a twenty-year period from 1964 to 1984, during which he wrote his best novels and essays. Vidal wrote about controversial things and never lost a chance to poke fun at his fellow Americans. Yet his books sold well because he produced them at a time when mainstream America was open to self-criticism.

For example, he began this period with the historical novel, Julian, the Roman emperor who attempted to reverse Christianity. The story suggests that Christianity was not as good for humanity as paganism because monotheism inevitably leads to intolerance. Such a book would never have been a bestseller in 1954, and might not even be one today, but in 1964 the time was just right for Americans to experiment.

With Myra Breckinridge (1968), Vidal rode the wave of the Sexual Revolution and took it to a place even libertines of the day dared not go. I think it was this book that made Vidal a millionaire. And by now, two sides of Vidal the writer emerged: the dangerous historian and outrageous comedian.

Vidal's American historical novels (Burr, Lincoln, etc.) seem rather ordinary today, but back in the early 70's, it was still bad form to suggest that our famous forefathers were anything less than perfect. Vidal doesn't purposely set out to shatter icons. But he doesn't shy away from ugly truths either. You may even be surprised at his conclusions.

The comic novels, meanwhile, have to be read to be believed. Aside from Myra, there's Duluth, which I only read once because such a little book contained so much satire that I'm still recovering twenty-plus years later.

Vidal wrote all his books with a clear and easy style that often elevated to the cool, focusing, as I keep saying, on thoughts, not feelings. Because of this priority, it is Vidal's essays that most people are familiar with. People who know of Vidal acknowledge his fiction, but say his non-fiction was better. I like his essays too, but object to Vidal the novelist being discounted just because he had priorities other than love, love, love.

Think of it in musical terms: People who know of Frank Zappa admit he could make you laugh. But they never put him in the category of "real musician," like U2 or even the Sex Pistols because Zappa's songs didn't appeal to your gut, and your gut is what most people want from their art. So be it.

Sadly, in the last decade of his life, Vidal visibly deteriorated. His verbal weapons were still sharp but he came off as a clueless and bitter old man. Even his protege, Christopher Hitchens, called him out on it. He wrote this last book in this period and to be honest, it's not exactly a well-organized affair. Yet even in this elegantly-written chaos, classic Vidal emerges: funny vignettes mixed with sobering analysis and lots and lots of name-dropping.

Most of all, as a writer, I'm forever indebted to Vidal for a piece of advice, which I'll paraphrase here: Write what you know is excellent advice for people who shouldn't write at all. Write what you think, suspect, imagine.

I miss you, old friend.