Read The Trip to Echo Spring Online
Authors: Olivia Laing
The Trip to Echo Spring (34 page)
The sky was glazed with cloud like curds and whey. I saw his headstone immediately. I recognised it from photographs: black marble, with the poem âLate Fragment' carved on it. I hadn't realised it was a double grave, though. The other headstone was for Tess Gallagher. Both had the same legend:
Poet, Short Story Writer, Essayist,
though the rest of hers was blank. Between them was a hoop of slightly bedraggled artificial flowers and another slab engraved with the text of âGravy', with Carver's signature beneath both poems.
Under a bench I found the black metal box I'd heard about. I opened it and pulled out a Ziploc bag. Inside was a spiral-bound notebook. I squatted down on the grass and started reading. The sun was streaming through the trees in dusty shafts, stirrable as honey. It was a visitors' book, each entry written in a different hand. Gallagher
used it the most, but there were also many letters from strangers and old friends. Some wanted to say how much Carver's writing meant to them, and others talked about addiction in tones that sounded as if they were speaking to a priest or an AA sponsor, someone non-judgemental and sympathetic.
âSpending is an escape just like alcohole,' one read. âWe are all trying to fill that empty hole.' Another: âI started drinking . . . hard. If I can keep my head above water hopefully I won't drown. I turned 23 yesterday.' Tess had scribbled a reply to that one. âRay would say, have faith, grasp at straws and
go to AA.'
I was crying by then. Faith. In the end, recovery depends on faith, of one kind or another. Carver once said that he didn't believe in God, âbut I have to believe in miracles and the possibility of resurrection. No question about that. Every day that I wake up, I'm glad to wake up.' It's this faith that became explicit in his late stories â âCathedral', âErrand', âIntimacy' â though there are traces of it in things he wrote much earlier too.
It struck me then that by driving out to a writer's grave, all these anonymous, suffering strangers were putting their faith in stories, in the capacity of literature to somehow salve a sense of soreness, to make one feel less flinchingly alone. I thought of myself as a child, of how I became a reader because tracts of my life were unendurable. In 1969, six years before he got sober, John Cheever was asked by the
Paris Review
if he felt godlike at the typewriter. Perhaps you could read his answer as a delusion â the word Berryman scratched all through the proofs of his own interview. Perhaps it wasn't, though. Perhaps it could be taken at face value.
No, I've never felt godlike. No, the sense is of one's total usefulness. We all have a power of control, it's part of our lives: we have it in love, in work that we love doing. It's a sense of ecstasy, as simple as that. The sense is that âthis is my usefulness, and I can do it all the way through.' It always leaves you feeling great. In short, you've made sense of your life.
I thought of them all then. I thought of Fitzgerald as a boy, standing very upright in his white duck pants, singing âFar Away in Colon Town' and thinking he might die of shame. I thought of Berryman driving to Tampa for his father's funeral (âhow did I
act
in the car'), and Cheever dressed in a blue serge suit too small for him, stuck in âthe galling loneliness of my adolescence'. I thought of Williams when he was still called Tom, walking full-tilt through the streets of St. Louis to try and calm his racing heart. I thought of Hemingway at the age of nine, writing to his father, in his earliest surviving letter: âI got six clams in the river and some weat six feet tall.'
I thought of the things they'd written; the sense they'd made of their mangled lives. And sitting there in the grass at the top of the cliff, I realised why I loved the story about R and the severed fish. We're all of us like that boy sometimes. I mean we all carry something inside us that can be rejected; that can look silver in the light. You can deny it, or try and throw it in the garbage, by all means. You can despise it so much you drink yourself halfway to death. At the end of the day, though, the only thing to do is to take a hold of yourself, to gather up the broken parts. That's when recovery begins. That's when the second life â the good one â starts.
AUTHORS' DATES
| F. Scott Fitzgerald | 24 September 1896 â 21 December 1940 |
| Â | |
| Ernest Hemingway | 21 July 1899 â 2 July 1961 |
| Â | |
| Tennessee Williams | 26 March 1911 â 25 February 1983 |
| Â | |
| John Cheever | 27 May 1912 â 18 June 1982 |
| Â | |
| John Berryman | 25 October 1914 â 7 January 1972 |
| Â | |
| Raymond Carver | 25 May 1938 â 2 August 1988 |
THE TWELVE STEPS OF ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS
1.
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol â that our lives had become unmanageable.
2.
Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
3.
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
4.
Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
5.
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
6.
Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
7.
Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
8.
Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
9.
Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
T
O WRITE A BOOK OF
this kind is to depend inevitably on the research of generations of scholars. Each of the six writers I've discussed in
The Trip to Echo Spring
has been the subject of at least one biography, and often many more. While all these works helped to direct and shape my thinking, I owe a particular debt of gratitude to John Haffenden, Carol Sklenicka and Blake Bailey, the biographers, respectively, of John Berryman, Raymond Carver and John Cheever.
In the case of Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Williams, much of what one might consider private material (letters, journals and other ephemera) has been published. For Berryman, Carver and to some extent Cheever, much of this material is not yet in print
(Cheever's published journal and letters represent only the tip of a very large iceberg). As such, I'm indebted to Haffenden, Sklenicka and Bailey, not only for their remarkable and insightful biographies, but for making what were often vital letters and diary entries available when visits to far-flung American archives were impossible.
Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Cheever were notably poor spellers. I have preserved their idiosyncrasies in quotations, though I may as well admit that I struggled with the spelling of âidiosyncrasies' myself.
EPIGRAPHS
| vii | â When alcoholics do drink . . .': David P. Moore and James W. Jefferson, eds., Handbook of Medical Psychiatry (Elsevier, 2004), p. 85. |
| vii | âEasy, easy, Mr. Bones . . .': John Berryman, âDream Song 36', The Dream Songs (Faber, 1969), p. 40. |
CHAPTER
1
: ECHO SPRING
1
â
By the time I got inside the store
. . .': Raymond Carver, âThe Art of Fiction No. 76',
Paris Review.
3
âIt was one of those midsummer
. . .': John Cheever, âThe Swimmer',
The
Stories of John Cheever
(Cape, 1979), pp. 603â11.
7
â
Four of the six Americans
. . .': Lewis Hyde,
Alcohol and poetry: John Berryman and the booze talking
(Dallas Institute, 1986), p. 1.
7
â
impaired control over drinking
. . .': Robert M. Morse, Daniel K. Flavin, âThe Definition of Alcoholism',
The Journal of the American Medical Association,
Vol. 268, No. 8, August 1992, pp. 1012â14.
8
â
The cause of alcoholism is unknown
. . .': Robert Berkow, ed.,
The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy, Sixteenth Edition
(Merck Reseach Laboratories, 1992), p. 1552.
8
â
However, such generalizations should not obscure
. . .': Robert S. Porter, ed.,
The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy
(Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), online.
8
â
Inspiration contained a death threat
. . .': Saul Bellow, introduction to John Berryman's
Recovery
(Faber, 1973), p. xii.
10
â
There have been thousands of sexually
. . .': Jay McInerney, introduction to
The Letters of John Cheever,
ed. Benjamin Cheever (Cape, 1989), p. xiii.
13
â
I love them
. . .': Raymond Carver, âWhere Water Comes Together With Other Water',
All of Us:The Collected Poems
(Harvill Press, 2003), p. 64.
14
â
These stories seem
. . .': John Cheever, preface to
The Stories of John Cheever
, p. vii.
CHAPTER
2
: THE COFFIN TRICK
16
â
the most important American
. . .':
New York Times,
26 February 1983.
17
â
No growth, no change
. . .':Walter Kerr,
New York Times,
27 March 1980.
17
â
We are still receiving his messages
. . .':
Life,
13 June 1965.
17
â
Gallant is the word
. . .': Elia Kazan, in Donald Spoto,
The Kindness of Strangers: The Life of Tennessee Williams
(The Bodley Head, 1985), p. 358.
18
â
O'Neill had a terrible
. . .':Tennessee Williams,âThe Art of Theater No. 5',
Paris Review.
19
â
It rained last night
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Memoirs
(Penguin, 2007), p. 127.
21
â
We have just concluded
. . .': Tennessee Williams,
The Selected Letters of Tennessee Williams, Volume I, 1920â1945
(New Directions, 2000), pp. 11â16.
22
â
a hairsbreadth of going quite mad
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Memoirs,
p. 20.
23
â
Life at home was terrible, just terrible
. . .': Dakin Williams, in Donald Spoto,
The Kindness of Strangers,
p. 18.
23
â
was a terrifying
man':Tennessee Williams,âThe Art of Theater No. 5',
Paris Review
.
24
â
I was in those days an excellent dancer
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Memoirs,
pp. 20â22.
26
â
The house is palatial and not at all shabby
. . .':
The Letters of John Cheever,
p. 311.
27
â
The click . . .This click that I get
. . .': Tennessee Williams,
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Other Plays
(Penguin, 1976), p. 66.
27
â
The next engagement
. . .': John Cheever, in Blake Bailey,
Cheever: A Life
(Picador, 2009), p. 51.
27
â
you felt as if
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Memoirs,
p. 142.
28
â
A maladaptive
. . .': American Psychiatric Association,
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition (DSM-IV-TR)
(American Psychiatric Publishing, 2000), p. 197.
29
â
the striking and inescapable
. . .':
American Journal of Psychiatry
92, 1935, pp. 89â108.
30
â
It is well established
. . .': Mary Ann Enoch, âThe role of early life stress as a predictor for alcohol and drug dependence',
Psychopharmacology,
Vol. 214, 2011, pp. 17â31.
35
â
Together, we can do what none of us could
. . .': AA World Services.
40
â
New York is terrifying
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Letters, Volume I,
p. 22.
41
â
constant suspense
. . .': Tennessee Williams, ibid., p. 270.
41
â
I was still very shy
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Memoirs,
p. 52.
41
â
I have started off .
. .': Tennessee Williams,
Letters, Volume I,
p. 265.
43
â
a structure whose name
. . .': Tennessee Williams,
The Glass Menagerie,
in
A
Streetcar Named Desire and Other Plays
(Penguin, 1962), p. 233.
43
â
I knew it was whisky
. . .': ibid., p. 255.
44
â
I went much further
. . .': ibid., p. 313.
45
â
Before the success of Menagerie
. . .':Tennessee Williams,âThe Art of Theater No. 5',
Paris Review.
46
â
Frankie and I kept looking at one another
. . .':Tennessee Williams,
Memoirs,
pp. 155â6.
48
â
Guess what the bill is?':
John Cheever, in Leslie Aldridge, âHaving a Drink with Cheever',
New York Magazine,
28 April 1969.
48
â
Oh Lord, no
. . .': Mary Cheever, interviewed by Blake Bailey,
Cheever: A
Life,
p. 162.
48
â
as decadent, I think
. . .': John Cheever,
The Journals
(Cape, 1990), pp. 12â13.
50
â
I was offered two kinds of drinks
. . .': John Cheever, in Malcolm Cowley, âThe Novelist's Life as Drama',
Sewanee Review,
Vol. 91, No. 1, 1983.
52
â
The darkness would come into the soft air
. . .': âThe Day the Pig Fell into the Well',
The Stories of John Cheever,
pp. 224â34.
52
â
The sea
. . .': John Cheever, âGoodbye, My Brother', ibid., p. 9.
52
â
There were a hundred clouds in the west
. . .': âThe Summer Farmer', ibid., p. 85.
54
â
They sat together with their children . . .
': âThe Pot of Gold', ibid., p. 107.
54
â
The rent is not paid
. . .': John Cheever,
Journals,
p. 14.
55
â
It is a tonic to my self-respect
. . .': ibid., p. 21.
55
â
It was my decision, early in life, to insinuate myself . . .':
ibid., p. 16.
55
â
every comely man, every bank clerk
. . .': ibid., p. 219.
56
â
I found myself driving
. . .': John Cheever, in Blake Bailey,
Cheever: A Life,
p. 113.
57
â
Mary was waiting
. . .': ibid., p. 122.
59
â
holding in his generous mouth
. . .': John Cheever, âThe Country Husband',
Stories
, p. 346.
CHAPTER
3
: FISHING IN THE DARK
62
â
Here surely is the place
. . .': Tennessee Williams,
Notebooks
, ed. Margaret Bradham Thornton (Yale University Press, 2006), p. 131.
63
â
sleep problems
. . .' : Kirk Brower, âAlcohol's Effects on Sleep in Alcoholics',
Alcohol Research and Health, Vol.
25, No. 2, 2001, pp. 110â25.
63
â
Zelda painting, me drinking':
F. Scott Fitzgerald,
F. Scott Fitzgerald's Ledger:
A Facsimile
(NCR/Microcard Editions, 1972), p. 179.
65
â
We had a great trip together
. . .' Ernest Hemingway,
Selected Letters,
ed. Carlos Baker (Granada, 1981), pp. 162â3.
65
â
sneers, superiorities
. . .': F. Scott Fitzgerald,
A Life in Letters
(Touchstone, 1995), pp. 142â3.
66
â
Our life is all gone to hell
. . .': Ernest Hemingway,
Selected Letters
, p. 217.
67
âI
myself did not want to sleep
. . .': Ernest Hemingway, âNow I Lay Me',
The
Complete Short Stories
(Scribner, 1987), pp. 276â80.
70
â
THE FIRE
. . .':
F. Scott Fitzgerald's Ledger,
p. 187.
72
â
Last of real self-confidence
. . .': ibid., Appendix I.
72
âI
have drunk too much
. . .': F. Scott Fitzgerald,
The Letters of
F
Scott Fitzgerald
(The Bodley Head, 1963), p. 254.
73
â
I'm on the wagon
. . .': F. Scott Fitzgerald, in Tony Buttita,
After the Good Gay Times
(Viking, 1974), p. 4.
77
â
get stinking drunk and do every possible
. . .': Ernest Hemingway,
Selected
Letters
, p. 425.
78
â
Non sleeping is a hell of a damned thing too
. . .': ibid., pp. 428â9.
79
â
When some years ago
. . .': F. Scott Fitzgerald, âSleeping and Waking',
On Booze
(New Directions, 2011 [1934]) pp. 55â62.
80
â
had a great deal of malicious humor
. . .': Tennessee Williams, âThe Art of Theater No. 5',
Paris Review
.
80
â
Denial is ubiquitous in alcoholism
. . .': David P. Moore and James W.Jefferson, eds.,
Handbook of Medical Psychiatry,
p. 85.
81
â
Instead of willingly
. . .': Sigmund Freud, in Janet Malcolm,
Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession
(Vintage, 1982), p. 20.
82
âby
arising at the dinner
. . .': H.L. Mencken,
The Diary of H.L. Mencken
(Vintage, 1991), p. 63.
84
â
of cavalry officers
. . .': Andrew Turnbull,
Scott Fitzgerald
(The Bodley Head, 1963), p. 231.
85
â
Drink heightens feeling
. . .': ibid., p. 233.
85
â
Drink is an escape
. . .': ibid., p. 238.
86
â
Also alcohol, that we use as the Giant Killer
. . .': Ernest Hemingway,
Selected Letters,
p. 690.
88
âI
have drunk since I was fifteen
. . .': ibid., p. 420.
89
â
natural distilled liqueurs
. . .': Ernest Hemingway,
A Moveable Feast
(Cape, 1964), p. 133.
90
â
a light, pleasant white wine
. . .': ibid., p. 151.
91
â
It was hard to accept him as a drunkard
. . .': ibid., p. 145.
91
â
Anything he drank seemed to stimulate
. . .': ibid., p. 151.
92
â
drink hells any amount of whiskey
. . .': Ernest Hemingway,
Selected Letters,
p. 169.
92
â
There is evidence of genetic or biochemical
. . .': Robert S. Porter, ed.,
The
Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy.
92
âI
can drink Yevtushenke
. . .':John Cheever, John Cheever Collection of Papers, 1942â1982, Henry W.and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature, New York Public Library (hereafter Berg Collection).
