Loving our artists to tears − 18 June, 2008
Wednesday is café day since I’m still on medical leave. I’ve been going to the café with a book of Raymond Carver short stories. I finished “Where I’m Calling From” and had intended to begin “Shortcuts”, the collection of short stories upon which the movie of the same name was based. The first few pages of this thin volume were an introduction by Robert Altman, the filmmaker who created the movie.
I had been unsure about whether Carver was still alive. Altman’s introduction informed me that he has passed on. When I read the words “Carver’s widow”, tears filled my eyes. I did not want this great artist to be dead. For him to be dead meant that he would never write again. It felt like kind of a tragedy. But Carver died in 1988, which is rather a while ago at this point. Given that Carver was born in 1939, it is clear that we lost him far too soon.
I know that in the past I have wept for artists who have passed away. But the last time I remember crying my eyes out was when I had just purchased and listened to Lambert, Hendrix, and Ross’ “Twisted”, a “best of” compilation. I read the liner notes only to learn that one of the vocalists had been dead for many years. He had actually died in the same year that I was born. Again, the thought that this trio of artists would never again make music together felt like a tragedy.
In an era when funding for the arts is the first to go, it is clear that people can forget the importance of art. Admittedly, short stories and music may not suffer from these funding cuts. Yet I am sure that there are people whose lives are worsened by the loss of art.
Some of what Altman said about Carver’s stories in his introduction to “Shortcuts” caused me to stop and think, staring into space. If I may quote, with all due respect to Altman ‘s copyright on the material:
“I look at all of Carver’s work as just one story, for his stories are all occurrences, all about things that just happen to people and cause their lives to take a turn. Maybe the bottom falls out. Maybe they have a near-miss with disaster. Maybe they just have to go on, knowing things they don’t really want to know about one another. They’re more about what you don’t know rather than what you do know, and the reader fills in the gaps, while recognizing the undercurrents.”
I found this insight to be interesting, and will tuck it away until the time when I can return to story writing myself. However, what I found more startling and enlightening was the following (and again, I quote from Altman’s introduction):
“The actors also realized that the particulars these Carver people are talking about aren’t the main thing. The elements seemed flexible. They could be talking about anything. Which is not to say the language isn’t important, but its subject doesn’t have to be X, Y or Z. It could be Q or P or H.
“It’s a matter of who these people are that determines how they respond to what they’re saying. It’s not what they’re saying that causes the scene to happen, but the fact that these characters are playing the scene. So whether they were talking about how to make a peanut butter sandwich or how to murder their neighbor, the content isn’t as significant as what these characters feel and do in this situation, as they develop.”
These words remind me what a masterful writer Carver was. As a beginning writer, I would be honored if one day I could write with skill that came even close to Carver’s. My guess is that that will never happen, but one can still strive to be as great as the Masters.
I recommend Carver’s stories to any aspiring writer, as “must reads”. I recommend his stories to fans of literature as well. Even if you are not a fan of short stories, you may find that Carver will amaze and touch you.
