Dream, Prayer, Chart

I’m still getting my bearings in this discussion so I’m going to indulge in just a bit more terminological meandering before I get down to looking at some actual poems.

In Kenneth Burke’s The Philosophy of Literary Form, there is an otherwise unremarkable essay on using Freud as a guide to interpreting poetry, in which Burke deploys three terms, each naming an aspect of a poetic text on which the critic might want to focus. By implication, it’s possible to suggest that different poets might display more interest in one or another of these aspects, or modes.

Burke writes that the critic can look at the dream, the prayer, and the chart aspects of any particular poem. Dream corresponds roughly to the Freudian unconscious presented more or less raw. In my earlier discussion of amateur and professional poets, the amateurs would exhibit a predominance of dream discourse: self-expression. In Burke’s telling, prayer stands for the desire to communicate and brings in technique: rhetoric, rhyme, meter, all the canons of “professionalism” I was talking about earlier. In prayer, then, the poet turns toward the audience. Chart is the term Burke develops the least in this system and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. I had assumed, based on my previous reading of this essay (years ago), that the chart aspect of the poem embodied the reality-testing function, that it aspired to describe states of affairs; but going back to the essay yesterday, it appears that Burke may have something more linguistic in mind: “As to the poem as chart: the Freudian emphasis upon the pun brings it about that something can only be in so far as it is something else. But aside from ambiguities, there is also a statement’s value as being exactly what it is. Perhaps we would best indicate what we mean by speaking of the poem as char if we called it the poet’s contribution to an informal dictionary. Burke goes on to describe what has been variously called by others the poet’s personal “mythmaking,” or perhaps even the poet’s “voice.” It ammounts to the creation of an idiosyncratic constellation of meanings more or less unique to a particular poet–his or her “vision” of the world, if you will.

In writing this up just now I began to wonder whether Burke’s terms can be mapped onto Seth Abramson’s pragmatic, syntactic, and cognitive-symantic types of poetry. On second thought, I’m not sure that the exercise would lead anywhere productive.

Note: Cross-posted to The Plumbline School. Please comment there.

Short Fiction Notes: Recent Reading (II)

“Prime Evening Time” — Ward Just: Character study of an Army Captain home & working in the Pentagon after three tours in Vietnam. He has won bronze & silver stars & the Congressional Medal of Honor. Only a Captain, he’s on track to be a general. There really isn’t any external action in the story; all the action takes place inside the Captains personality. Not his mind, which seems blissfully blank, but his personality. The story presents the captain’s transformation from a soldier reticent to discuss his war experiences — he doesn’t even talk about them with his wife — to being a mouthpiece for the government’s war effort. He is seduced so easily by the television network that interviews him that he doesn’t even notice the seduction. In general, I find that Just is not a very good miniaturist — I find his longer fiction more effective than his shorter pieces. I like the novels best, then the long short stories; the shorter stories never seem to develop their worlds effectively. [From The Congressman Who Loved Flaubert.]

“The Hoaxer” — Walter Kirn: A razor-sharp portrait of a certain kind of American failure. The story is told from the point of view of the hoaxer’s son Travis, who is just entering adolescence when he discovers that his father is in the habit of creating crop circles, Bigfoot sightings, UFO scares & the like, as a hobby. The father, an autodidact (though of limited interests) who never finished his engineering degree, drags his wife & son from one city to another, where he takes low-level computer programming jobs so as to pursue his real passion, creating hoaxes. Told by the son, the story presents a father filled with resentments. [From 12  Short Stories and their Making.]

“Upon the Sweeping Flood” — Joyce Carol Oates: Motivation is a problem at the end of this story. It’s easy enough to imagine why the main character decides to drive into danger instead of away from it, but the murder he commits at the end of the story seems insufficiently motivated. A buttoned down businessman spends the night with a brother and sister surviving an horrific flood that, apparently, washes civilization clean out of him. If the point is that our civilized behavior is but a thin veneer, then the story is banal.

“Sacha’s Dog” — Karen Brennan: A effective story that, while it does not technically take the dog’s point of view, presents the world as a dog might experience it. Which means pretty much unrelenting cruelty & indifference — toward dogs & other humans — on the part of the characters. [From The Story Behind the Story.]

“Maggie Meriwether’s Rich Experience” — Jean Stafford: An early story about a young American woman whose fluent French deserts her as soon as she sets foot on French soil. The story takes place over the ocurse of an afternoon & evening in which she endures a snobbish outing to a country estate, at which she is the only American, followed by a dinner with American friends. [From The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford.] Note: I’ll be reading the whole book in the coming weeks and posting more on Stafford, whose work I find very useful to my own writing.

“The Interior Castle” — Jean Stafford: A study of surviving physical pain. Stafford herself was in an automobile accident that disfigured her face, though the circumstances a different form those of the main character, Pansy, in this story. The entire story takes place as Pansy recovers from a skull fracture and badly broken nose & details the ways in which she goes inside herself, into her “interior castle,” which is how she imagines her injured brain. The story is clinical & the narrator dispassionate, rendering the pain in excruciating detail. [From The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford.]

“The North Shore, 1958” — Ward Just: A long, sprawling, inelegant, but very effective story about a particular slice of American cultural history. I like Ward Just because he finds ways to get, not just politics, but the arts, too, into his stories as motivating presences. In this case, some Edward Hopper paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago. Just’s characters sometimes tend to be types rather than individuals — saved because they are interesting types. [From The Congressman Who Loved Flaubert.]

“A Wife of Nashville” — Peter Taylor: Beautifully stylish story with a structure that parcels out the plot according to the timeline of a family’s hired help. A series of maids define the southern, middle-class Depression-era life of the story’s point of view character. How the spirit is made and destroyed. Makes me want to read more Taylor. [From Narrative Design.]

“Depth Charge” — Craig Bernardini: I found the management of detail and action in this story confusing, though once the reader understands the situation & setting, the final action is powerful. This story suffers from a common problem in contemporary fiction, unclear motivation. Or merely mystifying motivation.  [From Narrative Design.]

“Daisy’s Valentine” — Mary Gaitskill: Well, it’s a story about a bunch of losers in the city & it generates no sympathy for any of them, which is a problem for me. (In my own attempts at fiction, I am probably too sympathetic toward my characters.) The scenes are drawn very clearly & the pieces of the story — especially images — go together in ways that suggest (without hammering on) thematic concerns. [From Narrative Design.]

“Strike Anywhere” — Antonya Nelson: More of a series of scenes implying a story than an actual story. Seems not to take responsibility for formal completion. [From The Story Behind the Story.]

Short Fiction Notes: Recent Reading

“Shelter” (Charles Baxter) — This is the first Baxter story I’ve read, but when I began writing fiction a couple of months ago I was greatly influenced by his how-to book, Subtext, which I am reading straight through for a second time. “Shelter” is in Baxter’s collection A Relative Stranger & it’s an effective story, though it feels just a tad too polished, perhaps only in contrast to the more inelegant Andre Dubus stories I’ve been gulping down recently.

“A Day in the Open” (Jane Bowles) — Reads like Chekhov transported to north Africa. Everything is dramatized. Nothing happens but everything happens; or, things happen but they are presented so neutrally that every event — the important & the unimportant, the dramatic & the prosaic, the significant & the insignificant — all have equal weight. Absolutely no moral judgments are made.

“The Man Who Knew Belle Star” (Richard Bausch) — This is a story about the absence of human feeling. The outlaw’s language is perfectly flat, implacable. The tough guy who picks her up hitchhiking has been in trouble, been in prison, but has not left the human world, which Belle has done, completely. Technically, a slow build, the final violent act taking place beyond the narrated time of the story.

“Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” (Joyce Carol Oates) — Like “The Man Who Knew Belle Star,” this story builds relentlessly through repetition. In both stories, the dangerous character is presented as having a flat affect, a profound disconnect from ordinary assumptions about good & evil. Again, the final violent act occurs after the narrative time of the story concludes.

“In the Zoo” (Jean Stafford) — I vaguely knew that Jean Stafford had been married to Robert Lowell, but hadn’t read any of her stories until this one, which I found in The Granta Book of the American Short Story. This is a bitter but still comic story of two orphan sisters sent to live with a guardian, Mrs. Placer, in a small town in Colorado. The most audacious thing about the story is that they are not clever girls and they do not succeed, really, until their guardian removes the weight of her presence by dying. There is beautiful and harrowing writing about animals in this story. [Good brief  discussion of the story here.]

“Chan Tha” (Tran Thuy Mai) — I read an interview with Mai several weeks ago in the Vietnam News and asked my friend Ly Lan about her. Turns out Lan & Mai know each other, though they haven’t met for years. Lan sent me a couple of stories, “Chan Tha” being much the stronger of the two, I thought. The problem was that it was badly translated. It is common among Vietnamese intellectuals to deny the well-known bit of translation theory that says the final translation of a story or poem ought to be done by a native speaker of the target language. So I retranslated the story over the last couple of days, brining it into idiomatic English. The story takes place during the Cambodian-Vietnamese war (1975-1989) and involves a love story between a Vietnamese soldier and a Cambodian girl. What makes the story work is the detailed and specific use of incident — a braiding of four meetings between the two characters — that is echoed in a braiding of images throughout the story.

“A Poetics for Bullies” (Stanley Elkin) — Elkin sets himself the task of portraying a bully from the inside & except that the first person narrator seems more literate than he ought to be, succeeds in excruciating detail. And the foil, the good boy, the hero, John Williams, is perhaps too good.

Short Fiction Notes: Andre Dubus

If Flannery O’Connor known for her her cruelty toward her characters, Andre Dubus is known for his kindness. Of if not kindness, sympathy. (He is also better at writing women than O’Connor is at writing men, but I’m not really interested in a comparison that, carried any farther, would quickly become tendentious.) I’ve been reading Dubus’s Selected Stories over the last few weeks with real enjoyment. Some of my pleasure is derived from the fact that Dubus’s characters inhabit various working class worlds familiar to me from my childhood and youth. But that, I would tell my students, is a personal association — fine & natural, but not of any general critical use.

So what is it that Dubus’s stories actually do? Many don’t have conventional plots & you can’t even say that the characters are wiser at the end of the story than they were at the beginning. There is often a Chekhovian sense of incompleteness in the action of a Dubus story. The main character of “The Pitcher” simply drives away from the town where he has been playing minor league ball at the end of the season, leaving his wife behind, who has taken up with a married dentist — “straight through to San Antonio,” the radio playing. He’s lost the final game of the season 1 to 0 because his team couldn’t hit behind him. Still, he’s pretty sure he’s going to make it to the majors, unlike his teammates, or his wife for that matter. The pitcher has lost his wife and lost the final game of the season, but he is moving forward, driving straight through.The story reminds me of Chekhov’s “The House with the Mansard” in its optimism in the face of human unhappiness.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve read most of the way through Dubus’s Selected Stories, reading them for what I can learn from them about writing fiction. A Dubus story dramatizes the inner life of a character and that dramatization becomes something that is stable enough for the reader to hold in mind — not a symbol because not generalized, but operating something like a symbol. Here’s a list of the Dubus stories I’ve read so far, with brief comments, mostly intended to jog my own memory.

  • “Miranda Over the Valley” — This story never grabbed me, though it is evocative in its parts — seems amorphous as a whole & in fact that is one of the risks Dubus seems willing to run in his fiction: a looseness that can often be a virtue.
  • “The Winter Father” — This one is deftly plotted & hangs together memorably, but lacks the emotional depth of “Miranda.”
  • “Waiting” — A very short story, almost a prose poem, about a waitress who is widowed young by the Korean war and who comes to understand, to sense, that she is surrounded by a great and meaningless indifference. As do several of Dubus’s characters, she is an ocean swimmer.
  • “Killings” — More a schematic drawing of a story than a story, about the perfect crime. Perfect both morally & technically.
  • “The Pretty Girl” — Almost a novella my least favorite piece in the Selected Stories. My own bias prefers short stories at the shorter end of the range, so that my affect my judgment. This has a great fight scene, but too many of the pieces fail to fall together. Unusual for this writer, all the characters are ugly, even the pretty girl of the title.
  • “Graduation” — Dubus has great sympathy for sluts. This seems like a nearly perfect story to me, but then I love redemption in all its aspects.
  • “The Pitcher” — A story about doing one’s job, grace under pressure. Redemption doesn’t often take the form we think it should.
  • “After the Game” — In the same voice as “The Pitcher,” a brief mediation on how things go wrong even for the gifted & lucky among us.
  • “Cadence” — Cutting it & not cutting it in boot camp turns out to be a matter of character rahter than of physical strength. A parable that warns against thinking too highly of one’s self.
  • “If they Knew Yvonne” — My favorite story in the book. Structurally all over the place, that looseness I mentioned earlier a virtue. Spans more time than most short stories.
  • “The Fat Girl” — Dubus at his compassionate best. The narrative technique here summarizes big stretches of time & only dramatizes occasionally, at the moments of highest intensity. Virtually all the dialogue is indirect.
  • “They Now Live in Texas” — Short, mysterious, three strands: A couple comes home from a party drunk, a friend of theirs who has given up drinking, a horror movie the woman watches after her husband has gone to bed. These elements are braided together without comment.
  • “Leslie in California” — A young working-class couple moves to California; he’s a fisherman who can’t get a boat, she stays at home; he drinks & on three occasions he strikes her, though he is contrite afterward; finally he gets a chance to go out & earn some money — their electricity has been turned off — but the night before he drinks & hits his wife. In the morning she cooks breakfast for him and he goes. He will be gone several days. What will she do? Chekhov says that it is the writer’s duty to present the problem, not solve it.
  • “The Curse” — A bartender blames himself because he fails to prevent a rape that occurs right in front of him, in his own bar. Both he & the girl are overpowered. The beauty of this story emerges in the small relationships between the main character, the bartender, and his family & friends, after the fact.
  • “Sorrowful Mysteries” — Dubus is at his best imagining characters unlike his readers that nevertheless draw readers to them. This reader, anyway. Another of Dubus’s loosely jointed stories, its protagonist at first appears too good to be true, but turns out to be just good.
  • “Delivering” — A small gem from the point of view of a fifteen year old paperboy, another ocean swimmer. He has listened, the night before, while his parents had a final, drunken fight before his mother leaves for good — listened while his younger brother slept. In the morning, they deliver his papers, swim, eat doughnuts, and return home, where they play catch. An act of betrayal balanced by a series of small acts of mercy.

Short Fiction Notes: Flannery O’Connor

I’ve just reread O’Connor’s “And the Lame Shall Enter First” and “Everything that Rises Must Converge,” & it hasn’t been so long since I read “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” It’s not my purpose in these notes to produce an analysis, but to catch a sense of my own reactions to various writers’ work. If Chekhov is cool, O’Connor is over-heated. She is celebrated for her unflinching portrayal of life’s cruelty, but what bothers me is that she seems to take pleasure in cruelty. Though she was a devout Catholic, here stories give little evidence that she believed in redemption. Indeed, in “The Lame Shall Enter First,” she parodies the very idea of redemption, punishing the admittedly reprehensible Sheppard beyond justice. If the idea is to schematize the idea that there is no justice in this world, well, we can read the (pre-Christian) book of Job. But, for a Christian, O’Connor seems much more fascinated by evil than by the possibility of good. I’m not looking for simple and uplifting tales of moral triumph here, but I find O’Connor’s pleasure in her characters’ pain unseemly.

Her enjoyment of cruelty makes O’Connor an acute observer of hypocrisy, though. I recognize Sheppard in various Sunday School teachers and Youth Pastors I encountered growing up & I certainly wish I had had Rufus Johnson’s wit in order to respond to them, if not his criminality. But I found the reversal of expected belief — Sheppard the atheist, Johnson the believer — implausible. It’s necessary, of course, for the moral reversal the author wants to pull at the end, but it strikes me as forced and hyperbolic. Come to think of it, she also pulls an unbelievable reversal at the end of ‘Everything that Rises Must Converge.” Not that the boy can’t be conflicted & contrary, but that his resistance to his mother throughout the story, until the very end, is ultimately so weak. His weakness makes him less interesting than he might be. Again, there is a remorselessness in this work that repels me. However insightful O’Connor’s imagination, it is insight gained at the cost of moral tunnel vision.