One Man's Opinion: THE STUDENT'S WIFE by RAYMOND CARVER

 

If you're in Edinburgh, or even if you're not, there's a Catherine Opie exhibition that's worthy of your attention, running until the end of the month.

There's so much to absorb in the exhibition. Each portrait tells a story, a snapshot of life that has the effect of stimulating the imagination and challenging perspectives. There's a real mix of material, grouped into a number of sections. Among them are a handful of self-portraits that are honest and brave. It's impossible not to admire the courage of the artist here, something that might be applied to the best of all creators. 

In Carver's The Student's Wife, a relationship is stripped bare, shivering naked and exposed like the photos in the gallery. 

A couple lie in bed, the husband reading aloud, the wife drifting to sleep. The wife awakens and is too restless to drift off again. The husband is drowsy and makes half an effort to remain in contact with his wife, but becomes increasingly impatient as she demands his attention. 

She wants to talk. To delve into herself and the world. She wants physical contact and protection. 

The distance between the pair grows as the story goes on. Her desperation is palpable. It's something many of us can recognise from our own experiences, the despair that grows from the knowledge that things are either about to change or to remain the same. These are the times when the world is a void and loneliness is our captor. Everything lacks purpose and it's impossible to imagine finding the strength to continue. 

'She had seen few sunrises in her life and those when she was little. She knew that none of them had been like this. Not in pictures she had seen seen nor in any book she had read had she learned a sunrise was so terrible as this.' 

Perhaps what she has come to realise is that the darkness ahead will outstrip that which she has just survived. 

This is Carver showing creative courage. Revealing his understanding of such depths in the same way Opie has carved into her body and put herself on display, perhaps revealing a truth that will make us step back and think.

A simple structure and a fragment of life that possesses the kick of a mule.

and a ps

The Opie is full of challenge, but there's a huge amount of joy, love and beauty in there to enjoy. Just saying.

One Man's Opinion: WHAT DO YOU DO IN SAN FRANCISCO?

What Henry Robinson did in San Francisco on his visits was to pop down to Fisherman's Wharf and to watch a Giants game. There's nothing wrong in that, only there are many more dimensions to the city that he could have explored. 

Our narrator Henry is a mailman. It's an interesting approach to the storytelling. Henry announces himself from the off, which has the effect of putting some distance between the reader and the events and adding an extra character to consider as he recounts his tale. 

A couple of 'beatniks' have moved into a house on Henry's round. From the off, he's judgemental. The man has a beard, the woman just has something about her he's not keen on, the name on the mailbox hasn't been changed, the children run amok and their trailer hasn't been emptied. His suspicions about them are deepened when the name on the mailbox remains unchanged and the unpacking hasn't been completed as the week closes. Seeing the inside of their chaotic home magnifies his focus, as does the realisation that the man neither works or appears interested in taking a job.

A number of theories about the family swirl around this small town, none of them kind or insightful, merely the negative speculations saved for blow-ins and those living outside of the narrow boundaries of the town's expectations. 

It's interesting that as things progress, the judgements of Henry become less than important as he replaces the family as the object of scrutiny.  

When the dynamics in the house alter, Henry offers advice: 

'She's no good, boy. I could tell that the minute I saw her. Why don't you forget her? Why don't you go to work and forget her? What have you got against work? It was work, day and night, work that gave me oblivion when I was in your shoes and there was a war on where I was...'

It's another glimpse. A snapshot of Henry's frailty. He's been judged now, except it's tough for everybody, isn't it? Always has been. And suddenly an entire cast of unsympathetic characters needs to be cut a little slack.  

  

One Man's Opinion: BICYCLES, MUSCLES, CIGARETTES by RAYMOND CARVER

I mentioned that I put out a new collection of short stories yesterday. It's no big deal, I just wanted them out there. The new pen name says something about the work. It may be that I don't believe in them enough to put them out as myself. Perhaps I've just lost some confidence. 

I also handed in my final draft of a collaboration I've been working on for a long time. Too long. It's only my final draft because I need to move away from it towards fresh creative pastures. My co-writer will polish and improve it, that's for sure and, believe me, it's in the best of hands. 

There are a few projects in line: a children's book and some kind of literary story that's fermenting slowly in the ether. 

Once they're done, I have a feeling I'll be returning to short story writing for a while. They have a craft of their own. Their succinctness is a bonus in terms of plotting and remembering what the hell's going on (an ageing mind like mine isn't suited for keeping a whole universe inside, so it's probably better that I concentrate on single stars or planets for a while). They need to have a point of focus that, when done, is sharp enough to break through the muscles of the heart.  

Which may be why the Carver stories appeal so much at present.

Bicycles, Muscles, Cigarettes is a cracker. The title had me thinking of bikers or gang fights in the fifties. Made me think of Chad Eagleton and his Hoods, Hotrods, and Hellcats.I noticed on Facebook that Chad's writing something new; that has to be a good thing.   

This Carver tale has a beautiful arc, opening with real tension, branching out into intensity and action then settling into an emotional punch that outweighs any of the violence that has gone before. 

Evan Hamilton has stopped smoking. We learn that right from the off. That in itself does a couple of things. It tells us he's on edge and ready to crack in some way, and it's likely going to excuse him from whatever transpires. 

His son hasn't returned for dinner. A knock on the door from a local teenager disrupts the evening's plans. Evan's son, Roger, is over at the teenager's house. There's been an incident. He won't say what, but Evan needs to go over to help iron things out. 

There's a tension at the house. There's also a tension for the reader, awaiting an explanation for the ratcheting up of the drama. 

A bike has been trashed. Someone needs to own up, maybe even cough up cash. The group of boys under suspicion are sticking to their stories. 

Enter another father, an alpha male, bold, arogant, single-minded and used to getting his own way. 

Evan and the other father don't see eye-to-eye. If Evan could have a smoke, maybe things would have turned out differently. 

The conclusion has a new pace altogether. Here we have a tender scene between Evan and Roger as they reflect upon what happens between fathers and sons. It's a passage to makes the eyes water, filled as it is with profound and, possibly, universal reflections. It comes not as a one-line hit, but more like the collapsing of a ceiling after a steady drip from the pipes above. 

This one really hit home. A total pleasure.  

One Man's Opinion: NOBODY SAID ANYTHING by RAYMOND CARVER

I recently completed the writing of a batch of short stories based upon a particular theme. 

Don't worry, it's not a sales pitch. I've put it out under a different name and won't be sharing that here, so it should be almost impossible to locate.

At about the same time as I began writing, I came across the Raymond Carver collection, Where I'm Calling From in a local charity shop. I've read a lot of the material already, though I haven't touched on his work for well over twenty years. It seemed to me that it might be a decent project for me to review each of the stories as I go, and Nobody Said Anything was the first. 

The title itself, as it does so often, is a huge clue relating to the content. 

It opens with the protagonist and his brother trying to listen in on an argument between their parents. When the father leaves, the narrator pulls a sickie, convincing his mother that he isn't well. His brother, George, doesn't get away with it when he tries the same trick, so the narrator is left alone in the house when the rest of his family leave. 

The boy has a few smokes stolen from his mother and explores the home, curious about privacy and sex. Half way through the day, he decides to go fishing, takes a ride with a middle-aged woman in a rush and ends up working alongside a stranger to attempt to catch a big one. 

There are some delicious moments. My favourite section relates to the teenage fantasies of the youngster and his lift, the what-might-have-beens. His desires are strong, his passions high, yet he still retains the naivety of an innocent, meaning his imagination can only go so far.   

I believe the main theme relates to communication. I was more drawn to the power dynamics of the relationships. In each, one person dominates another, even when that relationship has foundations in love. For the men, that power is often expressed using threat, anger or violence; the women are much more nuanced. 

For a short story, I found it layered like a club sandwich. The bread was great, the filling inconsistent. The solitary fishing expedition at the centre lost me a little. Had me drifting elsewhere. Perhaps that's because I don't fish. It may be because I started thinking about my favourite fishing story, A Bit Of Bread And Jam, by Bill Naughton.    

I felt like one of the fish, on reflection- hooked early, caught tight for a while, soon wriggling free and drawn in again to be captured until the end. 

A great start, only I know there is better to come. 

One Man's Opinion: THIS SWEET SICKNESS by PATRICIA HIGHSMITH

 

This Sweet Sickness starts so well that it's a shame it evolves into a slightly dull and plodding affair. 

The first thirty pages or so are intriguing: David is living in a boarding house with an interesting range of characters, including a young woman who is smitten by him and a middle-aged drinker whose marriage is teetering on the brink. 

To add to the shadowy world of David's existence, we soon discover that he is living a double life of sorts, taking every weekend off to visit his mother and changing his name to William. He also occupies the space reserved for him and the love of his life, Annabelle, with whom he's in regular contact. 

David and Annabelle used to be an item, but when David was called away to work, she married another man, a move that David can neither understand or accept; surely it can only be a matter of time before Annabelle comes to her senses and joins him in the house that he has waiting for her. 

A great setup, then, only the path through the story isn't as slick or as engaging as it might be. The cast of characters and their understanding of the situation becomes implausible, David's mental illness and obsession faintly ridiculous. The prose becomes dense, the elongation of the narrative irksome. 

There are lines that stand out and punch you in the face and descriptions that have real power, yet the overall effect was numbing for me and I couldn't wait for the inevitable ending to arrive. 

Harsh.

But fair.  

Most interesting for me, in the end, was the idea of the boarding house as a setting. It had me thinking of some great noir novels and movies that include them to great effect and I'm off to remind myself of stories where they have impressed. If you have any recommendations, drop a comment. 

One Man's Opinion: VANISHING LADIES by ED McBAIN

 

This is an interesting one, with real strengths and several weaknesses. 

Cop Phil Colby and his fiancée leave town to take a vacation. After being pulled up by a local cop and taken to the magistrate to pay a speeding fine, they arrive late at night to find their destination is lacking the glamour they were hoping for. 

The only place to stay is a shady motel run by an unattractive character with few manners. 

Being the old-fashioned type (very old-fashioned), Colby insists that they take separate rooms. It's a decision he's going to regret very quickly. 

Having tucked in his sleeping partner, Colby returns to his room to find a seductress on his bed. She's a sex worker who is persistent about making a few bucks. Colby only avoids an embarrassing situation when he notices blood pouring in from the adjoining room, which is when everything falls apart. 

His fiancée has disappeared, as have any traces of her existence. In the next room, there's blood but no body and when he returns, the blood will also have vanished. The motel owner insists Colby arrived alone, as does the magistrate and policeman who pulled them up earlier. 

Colby's mission is to find his girlfriend and, failing that, to recover his lost marbles. Not that either will be easy, given the web that is woven around him. 

The plot is strong. It's a great idea and would make an excellent movie, on account of the psychological aspects and the apparent inconsistencies with the chain of events. The characters are pure B-movie noir and this would be wonderful shot in black and white. It's even told in an interesting way, two cop voices recounting their experiences as they appear in court to outline their case. 

What doesn't work so well is the writing quality. Those voices don't feel genuine, especially for Cop #2. It's somehow unrealistic given the situation and there's more flower to the decoration than there ought to be. The prose feels rushed, like it was hammered out on the typewriter at blistering speed to meet a deadline or simply to flesh out a very good idea. 

For me, this worked really well as a throwaway traveling companion. It was read in a couple of sittings and was never dull. That's mainly down to the storyline and the pacing. 

Vanishing Ladies is far from McBain's best, but if there are any screenwriters out there looking for a terrific idea, they could do far worse that give this one a go.   

Watch Your Mouth

I've been reading, and mostly enjoying, a police procedural that has a pretty good plot. It also has great characters, a fine setting and decent pacing. 

Fairly early on, I found myself picking up on the use of mouth references, mostly employed to break conversation. 

It started to become irritating and definitely detracted from the read.

I'm not sure why the references bug me so. Perhaps its because these actions aren't visible to me in everyday life and in real conversation. I think it works in films to suggest many things, but when it's written, it completely turns me off. 

Towards the end, I was reading on a train with my pen marking the instances I came across. The journey was just over twenty minutes. 

Here's what I found: 

presses his lips together

T chews his lip

H licks his lips

his lower lip seems to tremble

moisture fills her mouth

clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth

she says, tight-lipped

sucks his teeth

sucks in his cheeks

presses his lips together into a tight, bloodless line

It's easily done, I know. We often write using pet movements and often don't even realise they're there. The writer is forgiven, just about, but the editor of the book is most definitely not. 

Be careful out there.