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bowierowie's review
4.0
The only encounter I had with John Cheever’s writing before reading his journals was with his short story, “The Swimmer”, which I have had to read in different fiction writing classes several times. I am not surprised that the mood of Cheever’s journals corresponds so directly with that particular story. In both, there is an overall feeling of melancholy as the main character, in this case, Cheever in the journals and Neddy Merrill in “The Swimmer”, grope for some understanding of their lives through imagistic and dream-like encounters that are impressionistic and fleeting. Both Cheever and Neddy are somehow more outside of their lives than they are in them and are trying to recover a sense of self through memory, or in Cheever’s case, language. Interestingly, my favorite passages of Cheever’s journals are not necessarily those that are the most linear or comprehensible. Often they are the ones that seemingly do not make any sense.
For example, one my favorite passages is early in the journals from 1952. It was the first passage I read that really struck me and made me dog-ear and star the page. Cheever says: “Awake before dawn, feeling tired and full of resolutions. Do not drink. Do not et cetera, et cetera. The noise of birdsong swelling: flickers, chickadees, cardinals. Then in the midst of this loud noise I thought I heard a parrot. "Prolly want a crackeer," he said. "Prolly want a crackeer." Woke tired and took the 7:44. The river blanketed with a mist. The voices overheard. "Well, then she boiled it and then she broiled it." He raised his face and drew over it a beatific look as if he were tasting last night's dinner again. "Well, we've got one of those electric rotisseries." "Oh, New York's nothing like Chicago; nothing like it." On Twenty-third Street I read a sign: "DON'T LOSE YOUR LOVED ONE BECAUSE OF UGLY FAT." There was a window full of crucifixes made out of plastic. The surface of the city is paradoxical. For a mind cast in paradox it is reassuring to find this surface. Thinking again, in the dentist's chair, that I am like a prisoner who is trying to escape from jail by the wrong route. For all one knows, that door may stand open, although I continue to dig a tunnel with a teaspoon. Oh, I think, if I could only taste a little success. But don't I approach it by deepening the pit in which I stand? Mary in the morning, asleep, looking like the girl I fell in love with. Her round arms lie outside the covers. Her brown hair is loose. The abiding quality of seriousness and pureness” (5).
I love the movement of this passage. There’s a sense of urgency, of being in Cheever’s head as he records these thoughts and images. The circular shape of it also intrigues me. Presumably, it begins in bed with Cheever awakening and ends in bed with his thought of Mary in the morning. I love this ending because it is so strange and unexpected after the fast pace of the bird, train, voices, sign, etc. in the city. It is a beautiful image to end on, and it is also telling that he would think of his wife, calm and beautiful, after the hectic movement of the city and his existential crisis in the dentist’s chair.
Overall, what I’ve appreciated most about reading Lynda Barry and John Cheever’s work in my Writer's Journal class is that they have given me some sense of permission, which I wasn’t even aware that I wasn’t fully giving myself before. Barry’s "What It Is" emphasizes that the reader look back on their childhood and think about what their dreams were before they were told that they were not good enough to create or follow their dreams. She forces us to ask ourselves: What did you love to do and create? Why did you give this up? I think it’s important, as any kind of artist, to continue to ask ourselves these questions, especially when we are stuck, incapacitated from being as prolific as we’d like. In my experience, this incapacitation usually comes from some unconscious fear, which I could probably work out in my journal if I let myself be brave enough to encounter what I may find there while attempting to answer these tough questions.
Cheever’s journals have reminded me to just record, record, record. Don’t be afraid of being messy. Don’t think too much. Capture images that move you everyday through language just for the pleasure of doing it and for the satisfaction of trying to make sense of what you see and why you see it that way. What is it that we selectively perceive and why, and how can this be fueled into our creative endeavors to not only understand ourselves more, but to also provide a comfort to others who may have the same questions as us and be facing the same challenges? All of these questions have inspired me to keep writing and learning from the writers that I admire because they move me and make me feel as though I have been changed for having read them.
For example, one my favorite passages is early in the journals from 1952. It was the first passage I read that really struck me and made me dog-ear and star the page. Cheever says: “Awake before dawn, feeling tired and full of resolutions. Do not drink. Do not et cetera, et cetera. The noise of birdsong swelling: flickers, chickadees, cardinals. Then in the midst of this loud noise I thought I heard a parrot. "Prolly want a crackeer," he said. "Prolly want a crackeer." Woke tired and took the 7:44. The river blanketed with a mist. The voices overheard. "Well, then she boiled it and then she broiled it." He raised his face and drew over it a beatific look as if he were tasting last night's dinner again. "Well, we've got one of those electric rotisseries." "Oh, New York's nothing like Chicago; nothing like it." On Twenty-third Street I read a sign: "DON'T LOSE YOUR LOVED ONE BECAUSE OF UGLY FAT." There was a window full of crucifixes made out of plastic. The surface of the city is paradoxical. For a mind cast in paradox it is reassuring to find this surface. Thinking again, in the dentist's chair, that I am like a prisoner who is trying to escape from jail by the wrong route. For all one knows, that door may stand open, although I continue to dig a tunnel with a teaspoon. Oh, I think, if I could only taste a little success. But don't I approach it by deepening the pit in which I stand? Mary in the morning, asleep, looking like the girl I fell in love with. Her round arms lie outside the covers. Her brown hair is loose. The abiding quality of seriousness and pureness” (5).
I love the movement of this passage. There’s a sense of urgency, of being in Cheever’s head as he records these thoughts and images. The circular shape of it also intrigues me. Presumably, it begins in bed with Cheever awakening and ends in bed with his thought of Mary in the morning. I love this ending because it is so strange and unexpected after the fast pace of the bird, train, voices, sign, etc. in the city. It is a beautiful image to end on, and it is also telling that he would think of his wife, calm and beautiful, after the hectic movement of the city and his existential crisis in the dentist’s chair.
Overall, what I’ve appreciated most about reading Lynda Barry and John Cheever’s work in my Writer's Journal class is that they have given me some sense of permission, which I wasn’t even aware that I wasn’t fully giving myself before. Barry’s "What It Is" emphasizes that the reader look back on their childhood and think about what their dreams were before they were told that they were not good enough to create or follow their dreams. She forces us to ask ourselves: What did you love to do and create? Why did you give this up? I think it’s important, as any kind of artist, to continue to ask ourselves these questions, especially when we are stuck, incapacitated from being as prolific as we’d like. In my experience, this incapacitation usually comes from some unconscious fear, which I could probably work out in my journal if I let myself be brave enough to encounter what I may find there while attempting to answer these tough questions.
Cheever’s journals have reminded me to just record, record, record. Don’t be afraid of being messy. Don’t think too much. Capture images that move you everyday through language just for the pleasure of doing it and for the satisfaction of trying to make sense of what you see and why you see it that way. What is it that we selectively perceive and why, and how can this be fueled into our creative endeavors to not only understand ourselves more, but to also provide a comfort to others who may have the same questions as us and be facing the same challenges? All of these questions have inspired me to keep writing and learning from the writers that I admire because they move me and make me feel as though I have been changed for having read them.
kirillov's review
5.0
Per dirla con Holden, questo è uno di quei libri che ti fa desiderare di essere amico dell'autore per potergli telefonare e parlarci quanto ti va.
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