Not Only On Moral Fiction

As has been reported here, reading John Gardner's Mickelsson's Ghosts led to my return to writing novels and from there, through effort and luck I was able to publish one, and then two, but Gardner was never my favorite writer. Based upon my reading of that one long acclaimed novel, he was fundamentally sound and usually interesting, but the book was not on the same level as Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March, or John Barth's The Sot-Weed Factor. I once read an interview where Gardner placed himself in a big three, which possibly included Pynchon and Norman Mailer, I can't remember exactly, but this wasn't evident to me from reading Mickelsson's Ghosts. The novel trended toward realism, but for American realism, I prefer Richard Yates's Revolutionary Road, John Updike's Rabbit is Rich, Fred Exley's A Fan's Notes (I think of it as such), and several others. Gardner did have wider range than all of these writers though, working as a scholar and teacher even as he produced in many different genres although to the best of my knowledge none were what we would call "genre fiction."

Everyone knows that Gardner was the first to mentor Raymond Carver, but before reading this new piece in The Paris Review, I was unaware that he also taught greats like Charles Johnson and Toni Morrison. And the final motorcycle ride off the road makes it seem as if he was a far badder dude than writers like Bellow and Morrison who aged gracefully in the comfort and security that we imagine prestigious tenure lines ensure. I suppose that would have been Gardner's destiny too if he had lived. But he died at 49, only a year older than I am now. The Paris Review article mentions that he has remained "on the syllabus," although I've only read On Moral Fiction for a class. In twenty years of teaching literature classes, the majority of which were for Gardner's period (American, after 1945), I've never assigned any of his fiction, and I think I've only seen Grendel and On Moral Fiction assigned by others. (It's possible that Bellow, Barth, John Updike, and a few others have done even more of a disappearing act. I'm not sure.) The only time I've ever discussed Gardner, I'm almost certain, was in the context of his lending a hand to a young Raymond Carver, janitor, who needed quiet office space. Gardner was there for many other writers.

The Dead Milkmen live at Clark Park in 2017

An old friend posted news that The Dead Milkmen played live in Clark this past weekend, and from there I found a performance from 1993. I know well the name of the band, but I was never part of the scene or one who could name or sing their songs. But I've always been a fan of Clark Park as well as contemplating the passage of time, so I enjoyed considering my own various memories of my childhood's neighborhood park whose surreal likeness is the central real estate of my unpublished novel Spark Park (or Cartoon Bubble from a City Underwater).

According to a Wikipedia entry for The Dead Milkmen: ". . .the band's moniker came from a character named 'Milkman Dead' in Toni Morrison's book Song of Solomon." I've twice been assigned Beloved, and I've taught Sula four times, but I've never read Song of Solomon. At this point, I doubt I will as there are so many other writers who deserve attention.

Penguin Great Books of the 20th Century

I've been reading Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March and have stumbled upon another way to assign myself a D

In this case, it concerns the Penguin Great Books of the 20th Century edition I have, a gold and tannish six by nine with quality paper for pages--you've probably seen these around

Anyway, in the beginning they list the twenty books in the series, and as it turns out, I've read thirteen of them--so that's good for a 65, and you can see where this is headed

Well, which ones you ask? The ones by Delillo, Kafka, Pynchon, Kerouac, Golding, Conrad, Morrison, Proust, Steinbeck, Joyce, Marquez, Ford (as in Ford Maddox), and Cather

And who have I failed to read a particular novel of? Wharton, Bellow (as said, am reading, and perhaps ironic that aside from Delillo or possibly Kafka, I've read more of his work than any other writer on the list), Coetzee, Greene (as in Graham), Rushdie, and Lawrence

If you think "Big Book," you can guess the exact title pretty easily for most of these although the Joyce selection is Portrait of the Artist, not what you were thinking, and, yes, this works in my favor

Overall though, to me, this list seems decidedly more "central to the canon" than some of the other lists I've seen floating around the web, and for the most part, the book chosen is absolutely the right one for each author

Or so says this humble D student, relieved to have passed a literature test

PS--My periods have led several other poignant pieces of punctuation on a work stoppage, and I can't have this held against me!

Arghh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (says the man reduced to the exclamation point)

PPS--I feel a need to confess that I was assigned William Golding's Lord of the Flies three times from grades 8 to 12, got it as a birthday present, and also had it assigned once in college and am almost sure I've read that [redacted] five times! Or, one less than the total number of Bellow's novels I've read (but to an extent, I cheated by dallying about the shorter ones here)

PPPS--Palmetto bug spotted--a huge [redacted]--no doubt from Kafka, his way of reminding me he never would have been a blogger! Or at least not one who overused his exclamation points!!!

PPPPS--[redacted] you, Kafka! At least I've read a title by all but three on the list (Greene, Coetzee, and Kesey)--possibly that means I'm counting a short story by D H Lawrence, yes, okay, I see what you mean, but I wanted to point out that I've read Alan Paton's Too Late the Phalarope, and if I expire tonight I wouldn't mind that this would be the last novel I ever mentioned

PPPPPS--Please God, don't turn me off now, when I was just getting warmed up! Pretty please!!!

PPPPPPS--Oy I really feel I've jinxed myself now

salinger

After my last class last Friday, a student approached the desk. Rather than discuss a paper topic or grade, he wanted to discuss Salinger's death. I hadn't mentioned it in class, so this alone made me happy.

Over the weekend and through today, I had a chance to read various obituaries--from The Washington Post and New York Times and other papers. Like you perhaps, I particularly enjoyed the Times article on the less reclusive life that "Jerry" enjoyed in Corning, New Hampshire, including the fact that the town folk enjoyed helping J.D. avoid the tourists by giving bad directions.

I got to thinking about when and if I'd ever assigned Catcher in the Rye, and from what I recall the only time I did was in an American Literature survey course I taught for a satelleite campus of a university with central headquarters in Illinois. The classroom was in the basement of a hospital near Broad and Girard in North Philadelphia, and the students were 6 middle-aged nurses looking to complete a bachelors degree.

How or why Instructor Kudera chose Salinger for this crowd is unclear, but to a person, these women found the narrator to be a spoiled rich kid who complained too much. They couldn't believe anyone would dare whine so much as our dear, dissident Holden. If I'm not mistaken, my enthusiasm carried me an hour into the 3-hour night class before I recognized they disliked our hero. From there, I grew cautious, switched David Bradley's The Chaneysville Incident to Toni Morrison's Sula and was relieved when the semester came to an end.

(The Bradley would have also been a first assigning for me, but it's long and dense and who knows what my overworked African American adult students would have thought about the bitter black male protagonist living with a white woman he seems to treat so poorly at times?)

So there you have it. Holden Caulfield has a special place in the heart of millions--not only English teachers and majors and writers but all kinds of kids who may or may not be "readers" and of course, famously, even a serial killer or assassin here and there. But to exhausted women pursuing the full four-year degree after half an adult life spent cleaning up blood and urine, Holden was a spoiled brat.

God bless you and your literature, Salinger, and of course, may you rest in peace.

Carry on.