1장
Behind the Blue Eyes: The Extraordinary Life of an Ordinary Man
When Paul Newman began this memoir in 1986, a media dispute erupted over his height-the New York Times claimed 5'11", while the Post insisted he was barely 5'8". Newman, actually 5'10", relished the opportunity to challenge Page Six, raising their charity challenge a hundredfold. This small anecdote perfectly encapsulates the man behind the legendary blue eyes-someone who found humor in absurdity, turned public attention toward charitable causes, and maintained a wry perspective on fame. What's remarkable about this intensely private man creating such a raw, self-dissecting memoir was his dual purpose: gifting his children the truth and correcting a public record distorted by decades of tabloid mythology. The result is not the fairy tale of two Hollywood stars in an uncomplicated fifty-year marriage, but rather a relatable story of two blended families navigating drama, betrayal, and the collateral damage of a complex relationship. As Newman himself put it, "I'm creating this record to set things straight, destroy legends, and document my time on this planet with accuracy."
2장
The Divided Self: Newman's Inner Struggle
My life has been defined by a fundamental division-between the decorative boy who ran away with all the rewards and the true self, the orphan, who kept running to catch up. This split began in childhood, where I became merely an ornament for my mother's house. Had I been an ugly child, she wouldn't have given me the time of day. If I'd had a physical defect, any comfort would have served her needs, not mine. I became so offended by this artificiality that my core self said, "Take it, it's yours! I'm saving what's left of me."
Growing up in affluent Shaker Heights, Ohio in the 1920s and '30s, I lived in a spacious three-story home on Brighton Road. My father Arthur and his uncle Joe ran Newman-Stern sporting goods downtown. On the surface, we were the picture of upper-middle-class success, but our house was filled with tension. The living room was cold and formal-my mother's "Bloomingdale's Modern" style with black carpets and a white dog that left fur everywhere. We ate meals in silence at a formal dining table until mother moved us to the kitchen while father ate alone. The house contained "the sounds of constant warfare"-sometimes quiet like "knives in human flesh," other times explosive with my mother yelling and breaking things over my father's head.
My father had wanted to be a writer and became the youngest reporter at the Cleveland Press before Uncle Joe convinced him to join the family business. He became trapped-"imprisoned by the store, imprisoned by his dick"-in a life that never pleased him. I recently discovered he was an alcoholic, not just dying of cancer as I'd thought. His routine involved downing double bourbons at Fred Harvey's bar after work, then sneaking more at home.
My mother Teresa was a beautiful Slovak immigrant who claimed her father was a professor (he was actually a bricklayer). She met my father while working as a theater ticket taker, converted from Catholicism to Christian Science, and got pregnant with my brother before they married. The Newman family looked down on her as a "hussy" and "gold digger." She was intensely private, suspicious, and consumed by passionate emotions that had little to do with their objects. She smothered with affection, like overfeeding her dogs chocolate until "they melted like ice-cream cones."
My relationship with my father was painfully distant. Once when I was twelve, we took a walk together but could find nothing meaningful to say beyond commenting on trees and fire hydrants. When I broke my ankle playing baseball, he dismissed my pain as childish complaining. There was constant disappointment-he seemed to feel I could never do anything right, and I struggled academically, possibly due to some learning disability that made reading and memorization difficult.
My childhood left emotional scars. My mother would suddenly attack me savagely with a hairbrush then immediately smother me with love, leaving me confused about who she really was. My aunt Lucille later observed that both my parents were "sick people...who had no peace, ever, and were drowning."
3장
The Outsider: Adolescence and Identity
I remember grammar school and junior high more vividly than high school. I felt accepted and involved then. I was a daredevil cyclist, following rapid-transit tracks to streetcar stops where we'd buy ice cream. I excelled at yo-yo contests and played hockey in winter on flooded vacant lots.
Then adolescence hit, and something in me closed down. I became painfully shy and felt like an outcast, always on the outside looking in. Though fast, I was too small for football-at fourteen, I weighed under a hundred pounds. Girls saw me as a joke, a "happy buffoon." I was a lightweight in every sense.
I began noticing how some people were natural originals-instinctive athletes or lovers-while others had to study and labor at these things. I wasn't naturally anything-not a lover, athlete, student, or leader. I measured myself by what I wasn't, feeling something lacking that I couldn't bridge or understand.
It surprises me now when people who knew me then describe me as a swaggering romantic loner too confident to bother with their company. The truth was I was too painfully shy to pursue friendships with people I wanted to know, afraid they'd recognize me as a fraud.
Being half-Jewish created another sense of otherness. Nothing in my childhood made me proud or knowledgeable about my Jewish heritage-I only knew it closed certain avenues to me. I deflected pain with humor, doing Yiddish voices like Schlepperman from Jack Benny's radio show for laughs. At fifteen, I was blackballed from a high school fraternity because of my Jewish background, despite my disbelief that such discrimination could exist.
I'm ashamed that on my Kenyon College application after the Navy, I claimed to be Christian Scientist rather than writing "Half Catholic, Half Jewish." Later, when my acting career gained momentum, I refused suggestions to change my name to something WASPier like "Buck Something-or-Other." When producer Sam Spiegel asked me to get rid of "Paul Newman," I replied, "What do you want me to change it to? S. P. Ewman?"
My recurring nightmare has haunted me since childhood-an impressionistic soundscape that begins benignly with clouds, then builds to an undefinable roaring that grows impossibly closer and louder. Though never specifically identifiable, this terrifying combination of wind, sea and sound has persisted throughout my life, ominous and overwhelming.
4장
War and Transformation: The Naval Years
When Pearl Harbor was bombed on December 7, 1941, my father returned home white-faced with the news. I had absolutely no concept of what it meant-I didn't know where Pearl Harbor was or what constituted a war. I was living inside my head, creating an imaginary world where I was a seven-foot-tall White Knight doing important things.
Though I tell people I was rejected from Navy pilot training because of color-blindness, the truth is more complex. I couldn't grasp the mathematical concepts pilots needed-physics, trigonometry, chemistry were beyond me. After graduating high school in June 1942 at seventeen, I enrolled at Ohio University partly to avoid being drafted immediately. I applied for pilot training, but after my eighteenth birthday, I failed the physical when they discovered my color-blindness.
Despite this setback, I was sent to deck officers' training at Yale, where I lucked into luxurious quarters with a fireplace. My academic performance was poor, however, and I was soon demoted to enlisted men's boot camp in Newport, Rhode Island. Strangely, during another physical at Newport, I suddenly wasn't color-blind anymore. This allowed me to apply for Naval Air Corps training as an aviation radioman.
In Hawaii, my friend Danny Dance and I awaited assignment to an aircraft carrier. Most days were spent playing cards, drinking beer, and reading philosophy books to impress people. I received mountains of mail-my father wrote almost daily with unemotional updates about the family business. My responses were complete fabrications; I can't think of a single truthful thing I wrote except perhaps "I stood watch last night."
My most harrowing wartime experience came during a Navy experiment testing submarine rescue methods for downed pilots. Danny and I volunteered to be abandoned in one-man rafts in the Pacific, awaiting submarine retrieval. We used contraceptives to keep our cigarettes and cookies dry, and released green dye markers to make ourselves visible. After hours of waiting in increasingly cold and choppy seas, our rescue submarine finally arrived but struggled to snag our tether line, eventually dragging us underwater for two miles before surfacing directly beneath us.
We narrowly escaped disaster when illness prevented us from joining our assigned squadron on the USS Bunker Hill. Months later, that carrier was hit by two kamikaze attacks off Okinawa, killing nearly 400 sailors-including ten of fifteen crew members from our original squadron.
Looking back, the war had surprisingly little impact on me. There was no sense of amazement or survival, little sense of danger or maturity gained. "It was like going through a shower, that's all." Perhaps the most notable physical change from my service years was growing from barely 5'5" to at least five inches taller.
5장
Finding Direction: College and Theater
My first major mistake after the war was enrolling at all-male Kenyon College. I thought removing women from the equation would help me focus on education, but the opposite happened-their absence became an obsession. Every waking hour was spent plotting how to meet local girls from Gambier, Ohio.
The disciplinary trouble that would change my plans stemmed from a fight at the Bluebird Club in Mount Vernon, where tensions between college boys and local "townies" regularly erupted. After being arrested, I was placed on probation and kicked off the football team.
With newfound free time, I went to the speech department to audition for a play. Theater made sense for me since I struggled with traditional academics. My theatrical roots actually began in grammar school when I played a court jester in a Robin Hood production. At Kenyon, my instructor Jim Michael cast me frequently, giving me confidence, though I never felt my performances were spectacular-just workmanlike. I was simply a kid with an attractive exterior, energy and personality, doing the best I could at something I was moderately good at.
My first starring role was as fast-talking editor Hildy Johnson in "The Front Page," which was well-received. I performed diverse roles from Captain Shotover in Shaw's "Heartbreak House" to Shakespeare's Petruchio in "The Taming of the Shrew." In "Antigone," I played the First Guard and suffered uncontrollable giggles every time I had to deliver the line "The sergeant found the shovel." The cast was furious, and we worked until 3 a.m. before I could say it with a straight face.
Despite my theatrical activities, my greatest college triumph was entrepreneurial: Newman's Laundry. Noticing a vacant storefront on Gambier's Main Street, I approached the Licking Laundry Company in Newark with a proposal. They'd handle the actual washing while I collected and distributed laundry, taking 25% of profits. My innovation was offering free beer to students who brought in their clothes. The first weekend alone generated $300 worth of laundry, with many customers leaving happily intoxicated. By graduation, I'd eliminated all student laundry competition and even sold the business.
In February 1949, a devastating fire swept through Kenyon's dormitories. Nine students died. Days later, we decided to proceed with our scheduled performance of "Charley's Aunt"-the first laughter heard at Kenyon since the fire.
For my senior year, I created a satirical revue show about a prospective student touring Kenyon. I wrote the lyrics and book, directed, and even convinced football players to dance in tutus. What mattered to me was finishing what I'd committed to-"I don't know any other way to attack things."
6장
Love and Loss: Early Marriage and Hollywood
I graduated from Kenyon at two o'clock on Monday, June 13, 1949, and by four o'clock that same afternoon I was on the train to Chicago, headed for Williams Bay, Wisconsin. At Belfry Players summer theater, I met a beautiful Wisconsin drama student named Jackie Witte. Having a friend in theater who shared everything from building sets to having a beer afterward was an almost unspeakable ecstasy. She was the first woman I could truly talk to.
I married Jackie just months after meeting her. Looking back, I wonder how I could have been so irresponsible-taking the first girl with whom I had a speaking relationship, marrying her, and impregnating her right away. We never discussed using contraceptives or having children. Things just happened because they happened. There was a sense of fatality about it, as though it was all predestined. Our son Scott was likely conceived on our wedding night after driving exhausted through a snowstorm to our hotel.
Though Jackie and I were both promised jobs at Woodstock's winter theater company, when we arrived the manager hired only me as an actor for $45 a week while Jackie earned just $10 in the box office. We rehearsed plays in six days, but the theater went bankrupt. It was my father's illness that finally brought us back to Cleveland.
Jackie, my brother Arthur, and I moved into my parents' house while my father was dying and Jackie was pregnant. My mother hated Jackie-both because she was my wife and my mother lived with terrible jealousy, and because Jackie's father was a butcher and my mother expected me to "marry better." After dinner each evening, we'd escape the house as quickly as possible and return as late as we could.
As my father was failing, he still worried about his appearance. One of my great regrets about his early death at fifty-six is that we never really connected. His response to my later success would have filled him with wonder and relish. He would have honored me and recognized me as an individual, not just a reflection. Whereas my mother saw me merely as vindication of her own family, her smartness, her genes.
After my father died, I wasn't happy at Newman-Stern Co., making about seventy-five dollars a week with no sense of direction. By September 1950 when Scott was born, Jackie and I had moved to a tiny new house in Bedford, a Cleveland suburb. The house was bare-no furnishings, appliances, or landscaping. I installed everything myself.
Scott's arrival is my strongest memory from this period. I felt a physical connection with him-holding, bouncing him, working his legs, taking him in his perambulator. But the connection was more brotherly than paternal; I somehow didn't think of myself as a father.
I now feel a great sense of omission-things unfinished or never started. What should have been a strong father-son attachment was failing, a marriage was coming apart, and I didn't even realize it. I didn't understand my own feelings enough to examine them.
7장
Breaking Through: Yale and New York
What I remember most about Yale Drama School was the immersive work. Starting at nine in the morning and continuing with rehearsals until eleven at night, doing multiple plays simultaneously plus Saturday morning one-acts for Yale playwrights. Despite the intensity, there was no pressure-just hard work and fun among compatible people who created a real sense of community.
I majored in directing as a subterfuge, believing it carried more dignity than acting. It was my parachute, though I had no real plan. Yale's approach to theater was very academic-we even had to learn fencing.
I found my family a three-room third-floor apartment on New Haven's Chapel Street, above a furrier's shop and a condemned second floor. Scott got the bedroom while Jackie and I took the screened porch that the landlord had glassed in to charge for another room. We hosted constant parties in our tiny place, cooking special dishes like my famous open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches with garlic butter, bacon and mozzarella that drew crowds. Sunday picnics by the Merritt Parkway with Scott and other families became our ritual. Those New Haven days were probably the best times for Jackie and me.
At Yale, I played Karl Beethoven, the composer's conniving nephew who sold his uncle's music to buy clothes. Getting a leading role as a first-year student was unusual and highly competitive. A talent agent from Liebling-Wood Agency saw me in Beethoven and invited me to Manhattan. I began making day trips to the city, reading Actor's Cues for casting calls at CBS and NBC, though I never landed any jobs.
Desperate for money, I took a modeling job for a detective magazine-posing with a woman in a brassiere for $150 cash. I somehow passed the audition for the prestigious Actors Studio, joining legends like Geraldine Page, Kim Stanley, Ben Gazzara and occasionally Marlon Brando. I felt like an impostor-the conventional Shaker Heights kid in a seersucker suit among genuine bohemians.
During Picnic, director Josh Logan recast me from the one-line character Bomber to play Alan, the rich boy, after seeing I was better than the original actor. Between Picnic in 1953 and filming The Long, Hot Summer four years later, I transformed from having "no sex threat" to becoming something people recognized as sexual. This transformation came through Joanne Woodward, who "gave birth to a sexual creature"-teaching me, encouraging me, delighting in experimentation. My ethical self was overwhelmed by powerful appetites as years of fantasies and rejection disappeared with her. We left "a trail of lust all over the place" in hotels, motels, parks, beaches and rental cars. Meanwhile, my marriage to Jackie was shrouded in "a gauze, a veil"-we were building on a foundation that wasn't firm, but neither had the courage to stop.
8장
The Silver Screen: Hollywood Triumphs and Struggles
When Picnic's run ended, Hollywood came calling. My agent warned, "People knock on your door, and one day there's no more knocking." I accepted a role in The Silver Chalice, which I later called "the worst movie produced in the fifties." The film was a big-budget biblical toga epic about a silversmith creating the Holy Grail. I hated everything about it-the part, the production, and my decision to take it. Though I'd gone from making $400 weekly on Broadway to $1,750 at Warner Bros., I knew I was in trouble.
The Silver Chalice became my metaphor for Hollywood's hollowness and superficiality. Appropriately, my first film fell flat, and I immediately negotiated to return to Broadway. Thus began my struggle with an image I couldn't escape-my appearance was both blessing and curse, a "trust fund" that got me in the door but wasn't enough to survive on.
I began rehearsals for Broadway's The Desperate Hours, playing an escaped convict who takes Karl Malden's family hostage. When it became a hit, Jackie and I rented a house in Sea Girt, New Jersey-a dilapidated Charles Addams-style place surrounded by upscale homes. I'd drive there nightly after performances to swim in the midnight breakers, feeling comforted by the tumultuous waters despite nearly drowning as a child.
My career continued advancing despite my personal turmoil. I was cast in The Battler, a live TV drama based on Hemingway, with James Dean as the lead boxer. When Dean died in his Porsche crash two weeks before broadcast, I took over his role. The show won significant attention, including from director Bob Wise, who was preparing Somebody Up There Likes Me-originally meant for Dean.
I was cast as Rocky Graziano in the biopic after Dean's death. Director Robert Wise and I traveled to New York to study the real Graziano, observing his gait, speech patterns, and visiting his Lower East Side haunts. During filming, the boxing scenes were physically demanding, especially with the real Tony Zale playing himself. When Zale couldn't pull his punches, I cracked a bone in my hand, halting production.
By 1958, when Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was released, I'd grown incredibly frustrated with Hollywood's studio system. My Warner Bros. contract gave them tremendous power over my career and compensation. They were loaning me out to other studios, making hundreds of thousands while I earned just $2,000 weekly. Despite promises they'd never force me into unwanted roles, they lied. I finally called Jack Warner directly: "This is Paul Newman. Go fuck yourself." Lew Wasserman, my agent, negotiated my freedom-I'd buy out my contract for half a million dollars. Though terrified of becoming "an indentured servant for twenty years," I took the gamble and repaid Warner within a few years.
The success of The Long, Hot Summer helped me land the role of Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof opposite Elizabeth Taylor. When tragedy struck-Elizabeth's husband Mike Todd died in a plane crash-I awkwardly tried comforting her with cliches until she snapped, "Oh, shut up. Get the fuck out of here!" My inadequacy in that moment has haunted me. The film became a box office hit and earned me my first Oscar nomination.
9장
Racing, Drinking, and Finding Purpose
In 1969, I appeared in Winning with Joanne Woodward and Robert Wagner, igniting a lifelong passion for auto racing. I became an accomplished driver who won my final race at Lime Rock Park in September 2007. The IRS has audited me every year since 1972, questioning whether racing was a vocation or avocation.
I met Fitzy in 1972 at Road Atlanta. He became one of my dearest friends and was the winningest driver in SCCA history. He died on the third lap after backing into a wall during a race in 1987. Despite my crew wanting to pull our car, I insisted on finishing the race for Fitzy, but couldn't even start my car.
Fitzy represented all that's best about racing-fierce attack, camaraderie, and breaking through my fastidious reserve. Racing isn't just about engines and speed; it takes me outside the fictional experience of film into something real and primitive. Unlike great drivers like Mario Andretti who never have bad days, my best races often came after spinning out early when there was nothing left to lose-my mind freed, muscles loose, just not giving a shit.
In the early 1970s, I pushed drinking to its limits before realizing I needed to stop. Alcohol seemed to focus my mind and unlock creativity-at least for the first few drinks. Like Jackson Pollock, who could communicate brilliantly after four beers but shut down after seven, I found booze opened windows to things I couldn't otherwise access. For someone as controlled as I am, the luxury of being out of control was simply pleasurable, though I marvel that I survived some dangerous situations.
During the filming of Sometimes a Great Notion in Oregon in 1971, I nearly killed myself. One night Joanne found me on the floor with a bleeding head after falling out of bed. She came closest then to saying "I can't stand this anymore." After that film, I gave up hard liquor. I used to think being drunk was the only peace I ever found. Now I find that peace in racing cars-the comfort of knowing I've done something well.
Scott shared stories about getting drunk with me. We'd cruise in my racing car, getting very intoxicated, and go joyriding. Once we crashed through our garage into a refrigerator. Scott viewed these drunken adventures as a special kind of bonding-sharing an "alcoholic netherworld experience" where we could be outrageous together. He considered this shared debauchery a meaningful connection with his father.
For six or seven years before Scott died in 1978, I'd been getting constant calls about crises-crashes, disappearances, psychiatric emergencies. It began to feel inevitable, like a locomotive that couldn't be stopped. When the final call came while I was directing at Kenyon College, I almost didn't believe it. I stayed at Kenyon for days, avoiding recognition of what had happened, continuing rehearsals before finally returning to Los Angeles. I've gotten on my knees many times asking Scott's forgiveness for providing "the impetus for his own destruction." Scott was very much like me-"he didn't get it, either. He didn't know how much danger he was in, and by the time he got it, it was too late."
10장
Legacy: Philanthropy and Final Reflections
I'm in the pool hall at the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp when a little girl with pigtails approaches using a walker. When a counselor needs to go downstairs, I pick the child up, feeling the rivets of her plastic legs against my arms. After setting her down, I ask if she's okay. "Yeah, I'm fine," she says simply, before going off to play.
I've always questioned my charitable impulses, wondering how genuinely altruistic they are. The only defense I can offer is that I actually do them, which is better than not doing them at all. My theory is that having the luck of living in a democracy, being of the majority race, and enjoying education and rights carries an unspoken obligation to help those with less.
The success of Newman's Own seems ridiculous-a salad dressing started frivolously now makes $19 million yearly with $3.5 million in profits. Giving it to charity wasn't remarkable; it would have been tacky to do anything else. The venture began as a lark with A.E. Hotchner, pouring homemade dressing into wine bottles for local shops. My compulsion to prove wrong those who said it wouldn't work led me to put my name and picture on labels-something I never thought I'd do.
The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp came from an idea I stumbled upon with the means to accomplish it. Bruce Falconer's death from cancer at 52 was part of the inspiration-if his early death was tragic, what about children with cancer who don't even get his short shot at life? I just jumped in, questioning my motives but not what needed to be done.
Providence seemed to guide us, even when we committed $14 million but only had $7 million. Then a Saudi boy with a blood disease who had connections to the royal family played ping-pong with me in Connecticut. Soon I was flying back from DC with a $5 million check from the king of Saudi Arabia. Who can explain that? Suddenly I, an atheist, found myself "stuck right in the middle of God."
I believe you start life with a certain number and kind of friends. As you become older and more successful, you gain more friends for the wrong reasons. I'm split between the ornament (my public persona) and the orphan (my core self), desperately trying to reconnect these parts. I wonder if merging them will reveal compassion or emptiness. I've always felt detached, observing my own life rather than living it. Acting provided sanctuary where I could express emotions without penalty, saying "that's just the character." People see a different light than what I think I'm emanating-I'm a set of serious contradictions. I'm angry about aging and won't do it gracefully. Though not religious, I'm convinced this life is just a dress rehearsal before someone yells "Cut!" and we start again.
In his later years, Newman evolved tremendously, becoming more present and focused on giving back. After ten Oscar nominations, he finally won for "The Color of Money" plus numerous humanitarian awards. His philanthropic efforts were extraordinary-founding the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp for seriously ill children, which expanded into the SeriousFun Children's Network of thirty camps worldwide. At 80, he co-founded Safe Water Network to address global water issues. Newman lived by his philosophy: "When you are lucky enough to have a good life, then you should give back" and "In life we need to be a little like the farmer who puts back into the soil more than he takes out." His family remembers him as the glue that held them together, still hearing his advice, jokes, and encouragement years after his passing.
