One Man's Opinion: WUNDERKIND by CARSON McCULLERS

 

Last night, BBC2 ran an Amy Winehouse special commemorating twenty years of Back To Black. For the hour that was Amy Winehouse At The BBC I was captivated. She was such a talent with an incredible voice, yet what always stands out to me as she cuts deep into my insides is the rawness of emotion generated from her interpretations. Every twitch and intonation is delivered from the heart in one of the finer examples of an artist exposing themselves fully through their work. Love, passion, pain and pleasure ooze from her in ways that exposes her human frailties while elevating her into an ethereal realm most of us can barely imagine. That delight in living through song and music is clear, setting her up as a real star. A wunderkind. 

McCullers has also created something beautiful and painful in this short work. 

Frances is a talent. She has played the piano for years and should be destined for greatness. Her teacher, Mr Bilderbach, has a rich heritage in music and sets high standards for his pupils. Alongside his wife, a professional singer who had to give up her career because of her throat and now bakes to perfection, they nurture Frances as if she's their own. The trio have a settled routine. In spite of the pressure and intensity of the lessons, the adults treat her warmly and with great affection. 

Not long before we meet, Frances has performed with another would-be star, a young violinist who has moved on to bigger and better things. Though it was a showcase for both musicians, reviews for Frances drew criticism, something that has weighed her down since.

As we watch the lesson and learn of her struggles, we realise that something has changed. Frances has lost the elements that shine in Amy Winehouse- the passion and love for the tunes she plays and the way she expresses herself in performance have disappeared.

All that effort and all that hope and it's all come to nought. It's a moment that must arrive for so many striving to rise to the top in their field; the sensitivity in creating the atmosphere for this particular collapse is utterly tender and somehow killing with kindness. The cosy becomes claustrophobic. The potential a burden. The musical notes rocks to beat herself up with. 

It's hard to know where exactly the demise is rooted. Is it blossoming from the insecurities of the mid-teen years? Has the depth of expectation shot itself in the heart? Did she ever possess the talent required? 

Wunderkind is a special story about a special character who doesn't need to be able to play the piano in order to seem extraordinary. 

   

One Man's Opinion: THE BALLAD OF THE SAD CAFE by CARSON McCULLERS

'No value has been put on human life; it it given to us free and is taken without being paid for.' 

I took a break from the Carver simply because I was going away for a week, and Where I'm Calling From weighs a ton. The McCullers, on the other hand, is a slim volume comprised of seven stories. Perfect, then, and no lightweight. 

The Ballad Of The Sad Café takes up most of the space in this collection. It's a novella that I wasn't sure about at first. There are too many adjectives in strings for my liking and it took a good while to set the scene. By the end, however, I was rattling through it, soaking up the changes as the ending approached, which is an impressive conversion. 

It's set in a small southern town in the US. At the opening, there's very little to do there. Most go to work and return home to rest up so that they can turn up for work at the factory again. There's some hanging around, drinking and gossiping, but it's a sorry place before and after the events that are recounted. 

Miss Amelia is our central character. She owns a large building in the centre of town, treats the sick for nothing with home remedies (after trialling each of the medications and potions on herself first) and brews the best corn whiskey in the state. She's a tough old bird, physically strong and durable and is held in awe by local residents. 

To her name, she has a failed marriage to one Marvin Macy. He was a cruel and heartless beast until the time he fell for Miss Amelia. After a hard upbringing, he decided to improve himself in order to win the hand of the one he loved. He learned manners and etiquette and eventually married. 

Amelia treated her husband in curious ways, leading to his leaving their home after barely a week of wedlock. Off the rails once more, consumed by the leaking emotions of his broken heart, he ended up in prison.

It's all feeling miserable by the time this has been relayed. And here, just at the point where the novella has become dull enough to give up on, arrives a new character. He's in a state of disrepair, a mysterious man of short stature with a significant hump and body that's all out of proportion. He tells Amelia they are related, though the link is distant, and she takes him under her wing immediately. It's as if he's cast a spell on her. He gets the best bed, the best treatment and the best hospitality that can be offered in these parts. It appears that Amelia has fallen in love. 

This new relationship is unsettling. There's something about the uneven and unfair balance of power. Cousin Lymon takes advantage of every situation, yet he has charm and humour when required and is the catalyst to the setting up of a new restaurant in town. Everyone takes a turn to visit. It's the centre of all things. Fine food is eaten, there's happiness, discussion and stimulation galore. 

Until Marvin Macy returns. 

A new dynamic takes over. This one is full of bitterness and tension. Loyalties shift and it's clear that one day things will erupt. The only thing in doubt is the outcome. 

It's an unusual tale permeated with sinister moments and unusual events. None of the characters is uniform, each having significant quirks and contradictions. The energy and turbulence generated by events is powerful and menacing. It's like setting off on a day's walk in the hills when there's light rain and a chill wind, but the lure of a positive forecast tempts you out anyway; and then the brief sunny spell turns into a tempest and you're soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone and wondering if you'll ever make it home again. 

The Ballad Of The Sad Café began as an exercise of effort and uncertainty and became a moving piece that I'd recommend. Rather different and ultimately captivating.  

I've read on into the book since then. The variety is impressive. 

How glad am I that this fitted snuggly into my rucksack?

One Man's Opinion: ARE THESE ACTUAL MILES? by RAYMOND CARVER

Are These Actual Miles? loops back to Collectors, with its sales and fear of red demands. 

Leo and Toni have hit rock bottom. Their kids are staying with their grandparents and they're due to go to court to confirm bankruptcy; if they sell their pride and joy, a classy convertible bought when they had surplus cash, they'll avoid having the car being taken away and will be able to pocket the cash. 

Toni is taking responsibility for the sale, using her skills from flogging encyclopaedias door-to-door. She may also have other advantages, given the way she's dressing up and paying attention to her make-up. There's an unspoken understanding that she may have to offer more than the car as part of the sale, and the idea is tearing Leo up inside. 

As she leaves, Toni is very understanding. She's patient with her husband. Explains that the bankruptcy is no biggie. She'll be back later, after possibly having to go to dinner to wrap up the deal. All will be well. 

Leo takes a drink. And another. 

'Considers whether he should go to the basement, stand on the utility sink, and hang himself with his belt.'

Instead, he watches TV, taking in a movie about a blind detective. 

As his anxieties and emotions expand, Toni calls. Nothing of what she says is reassuring. When she finally returns, she's plastered and dishevelled. Gone is the patience she had for her husband before leaving. Instead she's furious, no doubt from having to sell herself to help get rid of the car and for having to put up with the humiliation and stress of their lives. 

Leo rages. He balls his fists. Grabs her wrists. Looks for a heavy object. This may be a habit, another incident of domestic abuse. It may also be a first created by the devastation of being broke and having to watch his wife belittle herself to keep them afloat. Either way, the desperation is clear and the suggestion of violence hard to stomach. 

The car salesmen returns to drop Toni's purse on the step. Leo goes to confront him. Whatever Leo has in mind, he backs down, feeling small in front of someone who knows his situation. 

'Are these the actual miles?' the salesman asks. 

For the car, the low mileage is a bonus. For the relationship, the distance has taken its toll, measured in part, by the hundreds of stretchmarks that Leo strokes as he joins his wife in bed while recalling the day they bought the convertible, a time when the future seemed bright and rosy.  

A wonderful piece on fragmentation and of a relationship crumbling that gets the collection right back on track. 

One Man's Opinion: WHY, HONEY? by RAYMOND CARVER

A mother recounts stories of her son's dishonesty and sinister nature in a letter. It's not a pretty tale. His lies grow in size and his violent and aggressive streak become more apparent as he gets older. 

She confronts him in the hope that she can help him to understand her position or to shake out some empathy or compassion from somewhere. It doesn't end well and she locks herself in her room to keep herself safe from a power that is threatened and suggested rather than physically manifested. 

The next morning, he's packed his things and gone. She sees him at his graduation and has watched his rise in politics in the press, but has had no contact since the night of the confrontation. As his power has grown, so has her fear of him. It means she's in hiding, paranoid and scared.

I'm perplexed as to the purpose of the letter. She isn't sure who she's writing to, and in her state I find it difficult to accept that she would write it at all. Is it simply that she wants to find out how the person located her? To me, it makes little sense. 

Why, Honey? is the first in this collection that didn't make me feel anything. I can relate to it in terms of being a dishonest teenager myself and as the father of three amazing kids who have all had their secrets, but my reaction was cold. I don't care much for the structure or the characters, so I'm moving swiftly on Are These Actual Miles? to restore my faith. 

One Man's Opinion: COLLECTORS by RAYMOND CARVER

Collectors is a lean and strong story that I really enjoyed. It's packed with atmosphere and a level of discomfort and I love the whole salesman thing. My only issue on completion is that I'm not sure I understand it. 

Mr Slater is out of work and out of ideas. The story opens with him waiting for the mailman. It's difficult to imagine the intensity of that feeling in a time before the internet and smartphones, but not that long ago connection to the outside world if you didn't leave your house was limited to the landline and the arrival of post once or twice a day. I remember well the sensations of waiting, be they generated by excitement, hope or anxiety. 

Slater doesn't even has a phone. He's hoping to hear news about a job and, by the looks of things, he really needs one. Money is tight. Ambition has gone. Waiting for news is a painful process, especially when there may be others trying to get in touch- debt collectors and the like. 

When there's a knock at the door, Slater hides. He knows it's not the mail on account of the sound of the footsteps, indicating that his waiting is habitual. 

On the porch stands a force of nature. Aubrey Bell announces that a Mrs Slater has won a prize and insists upon being let in.  

There's no Mrs Slater, Mr Slater says, and he doesn't have a penny to his name, but that doesn't stop Bell. 

The door opens, revealing a giant of a man in waterproofs. 

Bell takes over from this point. He leads the action and conversation, speaking like a well-mannered gentleman, and is in total control. Slater is passive and weak, allowing the incomer to dominate. All he can do is offer the guy a coffee. 

Bell explains that the prize is vacuuming and cleaning of the carpets and mattresses in the house. He proceeds to carry out the clean, drawing up bits of human detritus and filling filter after filter. Next, it's the carpet. He goes about his job chatting all the while. There are mentions of Rilke and of Voltaire's death mask, with reference to castles. An Englishman's home is his castle. It can be a place of great creativity. It can also be a prison of sorts. There has to be a point and I'm afraid it's passing me by. 

A letter finally drops through the mailbox. Bell blocks the way so that Slater can't get it. As Bell packs up the vacuum, he picks up the letter, folds it and drops it in his pocket. 

It's for Mr Slater, he says (and there are no speech marks in this one), checking the sender's address, and he'll sort it. Slater allows him to do this, declining a blunt offer to buy the cleaner. And it's all wrapped up. 

The title, Collectors, is plural. In the context of what happens, it doesn't make much sense. At first glance, no one is collecting. Does it relate more to the fear of the collectors who might arrive? Or perhaps Slater is a collector of sorts, of misery, dead skin, final demands and cobwebs? And is Bell collecting the residue for Slater- the old hopeless ways and the outside threat of the letter that arrived? For the entire story, there's a fear that Bell will exploit the homeowner using the magic ways of the sales pitch, yet he does the opposite. He's like Santa Claus dressed in a dripping coat and galoshes.

It's a good thing that I can enjoy creative work whether I think I understand it or not. Getting the artist's point is clearly going to enhance the experience; simply soaking up the pleasure of the words or colours the emotional responses is enough for me. Which is a good thing, otherwise I'd be left out in the cold more often than not. 

Any pointers on the story? Drop a comment.     

One Man's Opinion: PUT YOURSELF IN MY SHOES by RAYMOND CARVER

"How was your day today?

Myers shrugged. 

"What'd you do?" she said. 

"Nothing," he said. "I vacuumed." 

By this point in the collection, I'm realising just how neatly Where I'm Calling From is put together. Themes and minor details drip from one story to the next, so as much as the reader is moving forwards, they're also being drawn back. It's something I'm really appreciating and enjoying. 

Put Yourself In My Shoes has echoes from the invasive behaviour of Neighbors and the two couples and the shoe wearing from What's In Alaska?

Much as this carries strands from other pieces, Put Yourself In My Shoes takes a new direction. It appears to offer some reflection on the life of a writer and the nature of the processes involved for Carver. 

Myers is a writer between ideas. He's done nothing of any significance during the day, vacuuming being the highlight. His wife is at work, a publishers of some kind, celebrating the Christmas break. She informs him of the suicide of another writer who has blown his own brains out. She invites Myers along to the party, but turns the offer down; perhaps he's ashamed by his lack of achievement and output since leaving the firm, he may resent the industry, it could be the inhabitants of the business he can't stomach. 

Instead of attending, he meets his wife in a bar he doesn't care for. As they leave, she suggests they drop in on their old landlords, possibly to iron out an issue surrounding the Myerses having a pet during their stay, breaking the spirit of the lease. It's the same cat whose hairs Myers has been hoovering from between the cushions. 

First thing that happens as they arrive at their old house, Myers is attacked by a dog. The ex-landlords, Hilda and Edgar Morgan, are apologetic and insist on the Myers and Paula going in and having a hot drink. 

Edgar feeds Myers with a piece of gossip that he feels is worthy of capturing. He urges Myers to imagine himself in the shoes of the characters involved. Tells him it should be written. 

With Myers keen to leave, Edgar insists Hilda gets her turn. She has a story, too. Another worthy of putting onto paper. It's a good story, all right, but Myers has no interest. 

Edgar grows impatient. He's cross about something. The tension mounts in small increments until it becomes intimidating. His wife begins to cry. It's not clear why, though it's likely she knows the direction in which they are heading. 

Across the street, carol singers entertain those from neighbouring houses. There's plenty of joy out there. None of it will reach our side of the road. It could be the mean dog that keeps the singers away. It might just as easily be the cold aggression of Mr Morgan. 

The final story offered brings Edgar's anger to a head. It's told in a mathematical way and concerns the letting of the house. How a couple take a year abroad and let their home to strangers who step over the lines of propriety by bringing their cat, invading taped boxes, taking glimpses into personal belongings and stealing some of the treasures when they depart.  

Myers gets himself out of the situation before a fight can break out. And he leaves with a smile on his face. There's a story to be written, but it's none of those presented to him. Instead, it's the Edgars who are central, with all their baggage, tensions and unhappiness. They're about to be invaded once again from a different angle. It suggests that Myers is unable to force material or simply copy life, he needs inspiration to strike and where and when that might be is unfathomable. He doesn't need the beginning, middle and end all wrapped up like one of the Christmas gifts, he just needs an opening. 

A few asides. 

I was reminded with that quote at the top of the page of Young Adam. I'm remembering the film rather than the book and don't have time to seek out the novel on my shelves to check. There's a scene where Adam's lover returns home from a day's work. She's earning the money while he is supposed to be writing his earth-shattering story. She asks him what he did all day. "I made custard," he replies. And he's not happy and he isn't pleasant. 

I should be writing today. What have I done? Waited for the plumber. Read some more Carver. Tried to work out what the hell it's about. Like Myers, I'm between stories. I don't feel despicable, but the absence of purpose bites hard and has sharp teeth. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

One Man's Opinion: WHAT'S IN ALASKA by RAYMOND CARVER

What's in Alaska?

There must be so many answers to the question. For Jack and Mary, it's likely to be more of the same, at least for a while. 

Jack buys a new pair of shoes on the way home from work, aiming only to find a something comfortable. As well as being comfy, they're beige, possibly suggesting he's happy with his lot while also being stuck in a rut. 

Mary may not be quite so content. She points out that the shoe colour isn't exciting. Mentions that she's likely to be offered a job in Alaska and that she's arranged an evening out with another couple so they can get stoned. 

The conversation at the 'party' are fantastic, a real snapshot of the chaos of ideas after a smoke, some things working in perfect harmony, others simply of a dissonance as the group struggle to hold onto things outside of their own internal universe.  

More hints suggest Mary isn't as happy with life as she might be. A dig at her husband. Some flirting with their male host. A slip of the tongue. 

Other aspects suggest that Jack's life is unlikely to alter much if it is left up to him:

'I was just thinking about Alaska, and I remembered them finding a prehistoric man in a block of ice. Something reminded me.'

Jack might as well be frozen in time. He may even be resigned to that fate or unable to see any alternatives. Unfortunately for him, there may be outside influences that unsettle his current situation; his shoes, after all, don't even make it through the evening.

The cat and the mouse, I'm swerving that. It's heavy-handed. Out of place. The things I believe they're likely to represent were already present.

Jack's life is unlikely to stay the same, no matter how hard he tries to cling to his routines. Inertia won't bring him anything good. Dope smoking and apathy will only preserve him in ice as the world moves on about him. If he doesn't find inspiration or can't bring himself to make an effort, he'll forever be a victim. 

Break away, Jack. Kick hard. Go buy another pair of shoes- multi-coloured, frivolous and impractical- and pick up a crash helmet while you're at it, just in case.