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.    

 

   

One Man's Opinion: NEIGHBORS by RAYMOND CARVER

Of all the Carver stories I read years ago, this is the one that remained the most intact in my memory. I'm not sure whether that says more about me (and if it does, it may not be good) or the story. Regardless, I was absorbed and intrigued all over again during this revisit.

Bill's a bookkeeper, Arlene's a secretary. It's what they do. They're not aspiring to much, manage to keep their ship steady and on course. They're somehow plain and unimaginative. It's who they are and it suits them. 

Bill and Arlene live in an apartment next to the Stones. 

'The Stones were always going out for dinner, or entertaining at home, or traveling about the country somewhere in connection with Jim's work.'

That's a comment that most of us can probably relate to. It's the kind of light jealousy that has become more commonplace with the growth of the internet and social media. It used to be a low-level thing, now it's as ever-present and visible as home-drawn tattoo on the back of the hand. Note to self: less time on the socials.

The neighbours are going away for another one of their trips. Bill and Arlene have been entrusted with looking after the apartment and it's their job to keep Kitty and the plants alive. 

On the first day, Bill goes over to perform his duties and becomes curious. Like the narrator in Nobody Said Anything, the acts of exploration and voyeurism are thrilling. He has a drink and takes pills from the bathroom cabinet. The experience leaves him empowered and is so liberating and exciting that when he returns home and seduces his wife, something that may not have happened in years. 

He becomes intoxicated by the visits, pushing the boundaries each time. He's so taken by the freedom of being unshackled that he takes a day off work to stretch life further.  It's not long until he's wearing Jim's suit and checking himself out in Harriet's underwear. Inhabiting their space and their lives is liberating. He likes being a Stone.  

Arlene eventually takes a turn. There's no account of her visit while she's there, yet we know from the white lint clinging to her sweater as she returns that she's been on the bed, the colour high in her cheeks suggesting a more intimate reaction. She's in an aroused state and when her husband kisses her, she kisses him back. 

The window that allows them to see into an alternative life is all too quickly curtained. It's likely that the guilt and shock of what they've done on their travels across the hall will burst their bubble and return them to the hum drum of their previous existence, but wouldn't it be cool if they embraced the new terrain and broke free from their harnesses to enjoy their lives to the full, whatever that might mean for them. 

Another note to self: be brave, be creative and put the best foot forward.  

One Man's Opinion: FAT by RAYMOND CARVER

Towards the end of The Sweet Sickness by Patricia Highsmith, a man with two identities walks into a restaurant and asks for a table for two, proceeding to order for himself and his wife, even though he's alone. He believes his wife is present and, if I remember correctly, engages in some conversation with her. It's an unlikely scenario, though I'm sure it's something that could happen. The issue for me was the any plausibility in the novel had stretched and snapped way before. 

It came to mind when I read Fat. Here's why. 

Fat is one that has me lost in the fog. As much as that is the case, I also feel I'm putting together the pieces of patterns in the collection. 

It's another that has me in awe and made me uncomfortable, which is an impressive achievement given that it's only four pages long. 

This might easily be a companion piece to They're Not Your Husband. It's set in a diner, there's a human size issue at the heart of it, there are waitresses as the central characters and each of them is in a problematic marriage. There's also a quiet desperation and dignity about the victims, which is what I'm going to hold on to as one of my takeaways. 

In this case, the waitress is the narrator. She's explaining to a friend about her Wednesday shift. Sitting in her station is a huge man, 'the fattest man I've ever seen'. Enormous fingers. Makes a puffing sound as he speaks. 

The man is well presented. He's gentle and thoughtful and likes his food. He speaks well and frequently uses the form we when talking about himself. 

It's the we thing that reminded me of Highsmith. I wondered if it were possible that the man believed he was with someone else. That idea was quickly dismissed. My next thought, it might be an equivalent to the use of the pronoun one. That makes more sense. And there are more abstract ideas. Does he reference himself in the plural because of his size? Is he internalising something from outside? Reaching out for acceptance? Is he acknowledging or hoping to create a bond with the waitress? 

I don't have an answer. Perhaps when I've progressed through the book I'll find a clue somewhere else. Maybe you understand it better and can share your ideas in the comments. 

Regardless of this, the customer is charming and the waitress becomes defensive about him when her colleagues poke fun. It's touching. 

When the waitress returns home, she tells her husband about it. His response demonstrates something of a cruel streak. 

They go to bed. He wants sex, she doesn't. There's only one way it's going to play out. During intercourse, she has something that's the opposite of an out-of-body experience, reimagining herself as a huge person and seeing the man on top of her as tiny. In some ways, I think she's identifying with the plight of the customer in the diner, his sense of being an outsider and a figure of fun. I imagine that in seeing her husband as a small man, she's creating a distance between herself and the reality of the situation. It's a bad marriage. The power balance is wrong. Maybe if she can visualise him as tiny, she'll find a way to cope with the problem. 

I hope she made it.  

   

LET IT SNOW: the resurrection

 

Following on for the demise/implosion of Down & Out books and the fallout from that, then wandering through a few promising hoops to find they didn't work out, Let It Snow is out again (link in the comments). Among the hoops, it was suggested I alter the setting (for specific reasons that are now no longer relevant), so it is now Edinburgh crime fiction. I hope that makes it better. Above all, it's great to have it there again. There are two more books in the series to refresh, but that can wait a while, Valentine's Day being the next target.

Edinburgh is freezing. The streets are buried in snow. And the killing has begun.

A routine callout in a Christmas snow storm turns deadly.

The killer vanishes into the night, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints — the only lead in a city where the weather threatens to erase every trace of him.

As the investigation gathers pace, pressure mounts. The snow keeps falling, the clock keeps ticking, and somewhere in the frozen streets, a dangerous killer lurks.

Let It Snow is a gritty, darkly flavoured crime thriller and the first novel in Nigel Bird’s acclaimed Rat Pack series.

One Man's Opinion: THEY'RE NOT YOUR HUSBAND by RAYMOND CARVER

Uncomfortable reading, painful even, with plenty of food for though, ironic given that Doreen is trying not to eat. 

Earl Ober is Doreen's husband. He's between jobs and hanging around at the coffee shop where Doreen works. A couple of men near to him comment on his wife's weight. The impact of this hits Earl hard and he leaves the diner without touching his meal. 

He fixates on the experience. Believes that the comments about his wife reflect upon him. Tells Doreen she could do with losing weight. Lays it on thick. Makes her feel ashamed. Persuades her it's a good idea. 

She begins a diet and after Earl humiliates her following a slip, commits to the project. 

Her friends grow worried. Tell her she's pale. But they're not her husband and he explains that it's only his opinion that should matter (further irony, given that it's only the opinions of others that he cares about). 

Worn out from lack of calorific intake, Doreen struggles through her shifts. As her weight drops, she has to dig into her savings to buy a smaller uniform. 

Earl, still without work, returns to watch her. Spends his time seeking reactions to Doreen's new figure. Orders ice cream so she'll bend over and draw comments from the men at the counter. 

It's appropriate that he's ordered a sundae, ice cream a dish always served cold. 

Carver shines a light into dark and difficult spaces. Earl's a bigot and a beast, a misogynistic scumbag, an objectifying snake. The story hits home precisely because Carver exposes Earl so easily, simply by recounting his thoughts and actions. For me, he's making us look inwards: no matter how generous you are to others, how kind and respectful, I suspect we can all improve our ways of being. 

The photo is by Catherine Opie, btw. Her portraits are still lodged in my mind, the central pillars of respect and acceptance of others (live and let live) is the perfect antidote (or rallying cry) to Earl and the slime balls in the coffee shop.  

Published, I believe, in 1973, it's surprising how much has changed and disappointing how little. 

  

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.