Exchange Value - Charles Johnson

Charles Johnson April 23, 1948 –

Unfortunately, with this story, I find myself using for the first time in this reading project the word “contrived” and it hurts to do so.

Annnnnddddd wouldn’t you know it:

"As an undergraduate at Southern Illinois University, Johnson studied with novelist and literary theorist John Gardner, whose conception of "moral fiction"-demanding from the author a near-fanatical commitment to technique, imagination, and ethics-deeply impressed Johnson."

It’s unfortunate. I’m the last to be considered to offer any serious judgment on writing but, I just felt this story should have offered more.

I can’t help but feel, that it was included in this collection for one reason only – John Gardner is once again using this anthology to push his disciples forward in the literary world of the 1980s.

And you know, I can’t really see Ravenel offering any sort of resistance to what he has done.

Knowing the personality of Gardner, it seems that he would have steamrolled any suggestion by Ravenel that he was stuffing this edition by including his “crew”. Gardner’s admission that he rushed in his selection can only lead me to the conclusion that he took an easy way out in some of the the selections.

So – here is a bit about the relationship between Johnson and Gardner – This is taken from the “African American Review” – full citation at the end of the post.

From early in their relationship:

“At his home, I plopped three of the six unpublished novels I'd written in two years down on the meadhall-sized table in his dining room. Far from seeming like an ogre, Gardner, wearing wrinkled bluejeans that day and a white shirt that curved around his slight paunch, came across as kind. There was nothing phony or pretentious about him; he was the very portrait of self-confidence, but also self-mocking, and deeply involved in the work of the chattering students crammed into his house.”

And as their friendship developed:

“The distance between teacher and student collapsed; he began treating me like a younger brother. He took possession of my literary development and, I believe, saved me five or six years of groping on my own. In our conferences and conversations Gardner began pushing me gently, then sometimes roughly to imagine harder and with greater precision, to write with fairness for every character in my book, and to hold in contempt any sentence I composed that fell below the level of the best sentence I'd ever written.”

As a mentor:

“But Gardner was a whole university education - a "school" - in himself. Some of his commentaries to me, written in longhand, run seven or eight pages.”

And again as a friend:

“I made it a point early on in our friendship never to ask him for anything. And since I never asked, Gardner - to my astonishment - gave and gave and gave.”

The development and inclusion of “Gardner People”:

“Once he opened up, Gardner was a teacher who could fill you to overflowing with confidence and his bottomless love for fine storytelling regardless of the culture or race that produced it. That first year of our friendship he introduced me to his friends - a network of scholars and artists I now refer to as "Gardner people" he brought together across North America (and Japan), and who still stay in touch, bonded by the belief - which grows each year - that this farm boy from upstate New York was, in his theory and practice, just maybe ten years ahead of his time. "

On his sudden death:

“And then he was dead, killed in a motorcycle accident on September 14, 1982, on a lonely, curving stretch of road in Pennsylvania. Dead two weeks before the publication of my second novel. I felt, as so many "Gardner people" did, that our spirited conversations, our arguments over every aspect of life and literary culture, had been cut short in mid-sentence. Him we expected to go on forever, growing old but never less vigorous, holding forth on our sins against civilized life and holding up art as a Way to redemption. We will never see his like. again. And twelve years after his departure, during the quiet early morning hours when I work - as I first did until daybreak on Faith - I know beyond all doubt that I'm still writing feverishly to get a rise out of John Champlin Gardner.”

Johnson, Charles. "John Gardner as mentor." African American Review 30.4 (1996)

I suppose that Johnson’s skill and talent deserve the recognition of Gardner and the extra push that his reputation provided.

Johnson was and is hugely successful, and he attributes his early success to the relationship he had with Gardner. And the lessons that Gardner taught Johnson proved beneficial.

What I feel is a sort of “cheapness” to have this story included here.

Finally, all Gardner was trying to do was help. Johnson stated that Gardner just gave, and gave – and he did again by including this story.

Once again, what I am seeing develop into a lesson for me as provided by this story and the others that Gardner has included, is that sometimes it helps to have friends and teachers that are willing to take that extra step on your behalf.

Too many times – in my life, I’ve sought to isolate myself from assistance.

To distance myself from help – to almost forbid myself from asking for it. I need to learn to take advantage of the resources that are at my disposal – perhaps someday, I’ll have a John Gardner type person that will step into my life, I just hope that he/she hasn’t already passed me by.

Coach – Mary Robison

Mary Robison January 14, 1949

I found it interesting that as I read about Robison, I discovered that she had a severe case of writers block during the 1990s.

I’m not a writer – well, I guess I am in a sort of way – but it’s not my profession, and I have trouble with my writing from time to time.

One good thing about this project is that it almost forces me to get something down on “paper”. I do have a handwritten journal –I’ve been struggling through several physical journals that could be grouped together and read as one document, for about 7 years now. I find time to write in it about once a week.

I’ll have short bursts of writing that can last a few days and then...nothing, pretty much the pattern that I have here on this blog.

There are so many things going on in my life right now. Some of which I wish to commit to paper and others that I’m not comfortable with sharing just yet. I have a marathon on Sunday, and my morning reading and writing time has been taken over by my training for that. I’ll take an extended break after the race (about a week) and I’ll be able to finish off this volume and hopefully finish my posting.

Currently, my step-father is pretty sick and my head has been distracted with everything surrounding his illness. Well, illness and the fact that he is just really old and things aren’t going too well for him right now. My mother is having difficulties adjusting to her new life with him, and we (the rest of the family) are attempting to help her along this journey.

That’s about all I wish to share as far as my excuses go for my inability to focus on this project.

It’s funny, because as soon as I opened this document and started to get words down on the screen, things started to flow.

So, “Coach”.

I enjoyed this story. Robison’s skill as a writer has spanned the years since she wrote this and Gardner recognized her talent early.

There were so many ways to look at the different situations that arose in this story that it’s a bit difficult to decide on just one to see as a lesson.

I suppose the one lesson that I would take away is the one that reinforces my nature of being cautious.

I have developed over the years the habit of not taking someone’s word for anything. I have to see physical proof or hear something directly form someone (rather than secondhand) in order to believe it.

I don’t think that I developed this through being turned down or being denied a position that I was seeking, I just think that I am cautious by nature. Perhaps I have seen others burned before and vowed to myself that I would suffer their pain.

Does this hinder me in my pursuits in life?

I don’t think so.

I think that I have a pretty good measure of what I think is realistic and I know when to jump and when to hold back.

Right now, in my life, I’m half-way through a jump...I’m suspended in midair - I can see where I’m going to land, and it looks wonderful.

Shelter the Pilgrim - Fred Licht

Fred Licht - June 9, 1928

I can still remember his name –

Brian.

It still chokes me up. I can see the incident repeat itself over and over again.

I don’t remember the exact age that I was – or the grade but, my best guess was the 4^th grade.

I attended one of the crappiest public schools in Norfolk during the early 1980s. Grades 3-6.

Third grade wasn’t that bad – I had a decent teacher Mrs. Clark(e). I was very happy with the class, and even had a little girlfriend – Jenny London. It was a good year.

Forth grade was where the problems began. Fifth grade was a disaster and 6^th grade was the icing on top of the shit cake.

The school was a physical mess. Dark halls, paint (lead), chipping off the radiators – broken wooden chairs and desks – just a general nightmare.

I attended this school, JEB Stuart (yes named after the Civil War Confederate General) with a group of students that entered public school with me in kindergarten, and graduated high school with in 1990. We were black, white, yellow and green kids.

I was a little guy back then (well... still am) and being such, the bigger kids didn’t see me as a threat – so I was spared the beatings that others received. Beating me down wouldn’t move them up in the social ladder in any way.

Everyone pretty much left me alone. I was different, but not that different.

Now that I have sufficiently wasted your time with nonsensical memories of my inadequate education -

Back to the incident I started this post off with –

His name was Brian, and he was VERY different.

In the 1980s, there was an educational movement to place children with physical disabilities into a normal classroom setting.

He resembled – as best as I can describe – a baby bird –

He drooled, he walked with a limp, had brown hair, held his hands up next to his chest in two clutched fists, like a praying mantis – like he was constantly ready to strike out at the world.

He wore brown corduroys and a red and white striped shirt - that day – and there was a constant stream of snot hanging from his nose and plenty of crusty dried snot around his mouth - most days.

He spoke...but we couldn’t understand what he said – or we didn’t want to – most of his speech was accompanied by a spray of saliva and snot.

That day, I was lined up with half of my class on one side of the hallway.

It was after lunch.

Brian was with the other half of the class directly across from me.

Because of his disability, he aroused curiosity in some of us, and when he was around, we usually would hold him in a stare – as you would expect most children to do.

There was some sunlight coming through the window of a door just behind me and shining on the wall just to the left of Brian- he was slightly outside of the spotlight in a dim hallway.

The other children were all chattering with each other so I have no idea what Brian said to the boy beside him as I held him in my obvious stare.

The boy struck Brian directly in the center of his chest with a quick hard fist and laughed and Brian collapsed.

Right in his heart – if Brian’s heart didn’t stop, mine did. Brian crumbled to his knees, and fell over - the boy laughed and stood over him...I just froze.

Brian inhaled – I was sure I heard it. He glanced up with his twisted face, snot, saliva dripping from a painful - smile – and looked right at me.

I wanted to rush over to him and place my hand on his heart – to protect him, to take away the pain.

It was the cruelest thing I had ever witnessed up to that point in my life – and ranks at the top of the cruelest things I have ever seen.

As I write this the lump in my throat has grown, and yes, I’m holding back tears.

Why did that boy hit Brian?

I’ll never know.

I do know that I went home that night and cried as my mother held me. I explained to her what I witnessed, and she did her best to explain to me the cruelty of others. It was senseless- she said – but something that humans do to one another.

What happened to Brian?

Is he a 38 year old man now? Does he have a family? Is he even alive?

I know it is so cliché, but the fact that a story like “Shelter the Pilgrim”, can bring the memory of Brian back means that yes, someplace he is still alive. Brian will always be alive for me – to remind me of a bitter truth – of the cruelty that we all can inflict on each other.

The courtship of widow Sobeck - Joanna Higgins

Joanna Higgins- February 20, 1945

In an interview with Contemporary Authors – Higgins describes how she rediscovered writing, and in the excerpt below, her relationship with John Gardner.

A few months later, I learned that John Gardner, the writer, critic, and medieval scholar, was teaching writing at the State University of New York at Binghamton, where I'd done my doctoral work. My husband and I had been renting out our hillside farmhouse near there and were lonesome for those windy hills, the woods, the 'seasons.' I gave up a tenure-track teaching position, and we came back to start over again. When I overcame my fears enough to send a story to John Gardner and to ask to sit in on one of his fiction workshops, he--unfailingly, unstintingly generous with all young writers--consented. I studied informally with him for the next three years, eventually helping with the literary magazine, MSS, he'd started up again. John Gardner died in a motorcycle accident on September 14, 1982, on a warm, brilliant fall afternoon. The horror of that day nearly broke us--his students and friends. The only thing that helped at all, then, was knowing that we had to keep writing, to prove that his faith in us had not been misplaced.”

So we see once again Gardner using his position as the editor to push forward one of his students/friends.

I would think back in 1982, that the greater reading public would not have a clue that the two were friends – but to those in “the know”, I wonder what they made of the selection of this story.

I read this story before I knew of the relationship, and honestly, it didn’t do much for me. It was pleasant enough, but as a story to educate...well, perhaps I will have to wait a bit longer for the lesson to appear.

Dancing Ducks and Talking Anus – James Ferry

James Ferry – ???

It was observed by reviewers of this collection that John Gardner picked authors for this collection that were not necessarily “known”.

Well- second story in, and I have a nobody!

I can’t find ANYTHING about James Ferry.

In the bio section located at the rear of the book, Ferry’s bio indicates that this was his first published story.

I have to wonder if it was his only published story.

In the intro, Gardner claims that he almost set this story aside into the “not chosen” pile based on the title alone. Then after the first sentence, again, he felt a stronger inclination to toss it away.

The first sentence reads:

“I suppose you’ve heard that Renée douched herself with sulfuric acid.”

Gardner pushed into the story a bit further and discovered a beautiful piece of art. I’m glad he decided to include it.

What did I get out of this story?

Well- it’s difficult.

-It caused me to think about love and the lengths we’ll go for it. It caused me to think about how it alters our perception of the world – both for the positive and the negative.

-Our positions in various stages of our lives – and the various lives we all lead throughout our time on earth.

-Just as it is thought that our taste buds change every seven or eight years, I feel that we make changes in life – of course, sometimes not of our own will.

Travel, changes in cultures, births, deaths, marriages, divorces, career paths, addictions – so many factors that can cause our little ship in this violent ocean to be swept under.

With everything I’ve been through in my life, I’m lucky – I’ve never felt the need to douche with sulfuric acid-so to speak.

Now, a mental douching from time to time can be healthy – perhaps not with something as strong as sulfuric acid – but close.

Ingest thoughts and ideas, music and visions that shake you up. Reset your mind from time to time.

These stories do that for me - The words, sentences and stories that pass through my brain – traveling across all the lightening fast connectors – forming new ideas and actually growing my brain – swelling it, I envision a bit fat pulsating mind.

-good stuff in here – really good stuff.

Cathedral – Raymond Carver

Raymond Carver - May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988

I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat myself here – one of the most important gifts that I am receiving from this project is the introduction to some of America’s best writers. Writers who were once “just names” in the table of contents now seem like close friends. I spend time after each story doing a bit of research on the author, and I feel that this enhances and opens new doors to their stories.

Researching Carver for “Cathedral” is one of those times where I have found a new favorite. Gardner did a fine job of placing him first in this collection, and and in doing so, his selection was even approved of by Updike – “Cathedral” was chosen for inclusion in “The Best American Short Stories of the Century” by Updike.

Gardner uses his position as the editor of BASS 1982 and places Carver in the prime position for readers. One must wonder if the personal relationship between the two had any influence on the choice.

I’m not doubting or disputing that Carver was a master of the Short Story and the fact that ‘Cathedral” was so widely recognized as a wonderful story buttresses the choice...but, man Gardner...put the guy in second or third – don’t be so transparent.

Here are a few paragraphs from interviews or bios. concerning the relationship between Gardner and Carver.

Carver became interested in writing in California, where he had moved with his family - his wife's parents had a home in Paradise. Carver attended a creative-writing course, and was taught by John Gardner. Later he said that all his writing life "he had felt Gardner looking over his shoulder when he wrote, approving or disapproving of certain words, phrases and strategies." (Carver's former student Jay McInerney in The New York Times, August 6, 1989)

Carver wrote thankfully of Gardner "giving me the key to his office so I would have a place to write on weekends," or explaining "the difference between saying something like, for example, 'wing of a meadow lark' and 'meadow lark's wing,'" or "drumming at me the importance of using -- I don't know how else to say it -- common language, the language of normal discourse, the language we speak to each other in."

Carver was the son of a craftsman, and his writerly development followed the stages of a craftsman’s training. After moving his family from Yakima to Paradise, California, in 1958, he enrolled at Chico State College. There, he began an apprenticeship under the soon-to-be-famous John Gardner, the first "real writer" he had ever met. "He offered me the key to his office," Carver recalled in his preface to Gardner’s On Becoming a Novelist (1983). "I see that gift now as a turning point." In addition, Gardner gave his student "close, line-by-line criticism" and taught him a set of values that was "not negotiable." Among these values were convictions that Carver held until his death. Like Gardner, whose On Moral Fiction (1978) decried the "nihilism" of postmodern formalism, Carver maintained that great literature is life-connected, life-affirming, and life-changing. "In the best fiction," he wrote "the central character, the hero or heroine, is also the ‘moved’ character, the one to whom something happens in the story that makes a difference. Something happens that changes the way that character looks at himself and hence the world." Through the 1960s and 1970s he steered wide of the metafictional "funhouse" erected by Barth, Barthelme and Company, concentrating instead on what he called "those basics of old-fashioned storytelling: plot, character, and action." Like Gardner and Chekhov, Carver declared himself a humanist. "Art is not self-expression," he insisted, "it’s communication."

When John Gardner died at forty-nine in a 1982 motorcycle accident, Carver termed the loss to literature "beyond figuring."

And finally, the story “Cathedral” and others collected in a collection bearing the same name were thought by Carver to be:

“a watershed in his career, in its shift towards a more optimistic and confidently poetic style.”

- What did I get out of this story?

Well, it really is a wonderful story. A good ‘ol fashioned story.

It reminded me of the need to welcome new experiences – new ideas – to be open to opinions of others. Not to shy away from what is unknown or what could be frightening to me. Take it all in as a learning experience.

You never know what someone could teach you. And once again, apply that newly developed knowledge into learning a bit about yourself – question where those former beliefs came from, where the attitude developed that caused to be afraid, or hesitant - to be open to what frightened you.