YEARS OF BASS

The Blacktop Champion of Ickey Honey

Robert T. Sorrells

Born September 15, 1932

University of Iowa, M.F.A., 1965.

Back in the South.

The twist in this story is first hinted at about ½ way through the reading. Knowing what is coming makes for a nice ending. I have no real interest in tennis, (part of my trouble with Infinite Jest) and if it were not for this project, I would have probably just read a couple of pages and skipped to the next story. Interestingly enough, the second reading of this story allowed me to tolerate it a bit more. There were some nice descriptions of scene and character that made a few paragraphs memorable.

I suppose that counts for something.

The spectators drinking beer and passing out from the heat/alcohol mixture on the tennis court bleachers stand out. I found it all too easy to almost taste the beer consumed by characters as they sat in the hot southern sun watching the tennis match.

The August heat in the South and how it ravaged the blacktop...I can defiantly relate to participating in athletic events during summer temperatures.

Research on the author provided several nice quotes from Sorrells.

“My father was a newspaperman, so reading the paper each morning is part of my life.”

"I guess my fiction is about the warts and wild hairs that seem to grow so naturally on the souls of the human critter. Some of my stuff seems to be about people who want--and sometimes desperately need--to love other people, but because they are awkward and don't know how, they end up hurting them (and themselves) instead. And I guess I write about memory, about people who don't want to turn loose of people--or give up on them, either. I guess I write about people who try to live their lives with some dignity and some joy. But they do stumble, they just do keep looking off somewhere else and tripping. My people are very precious to me, but they are a pretty badly bruised, stub-toed, skinned-nosed lot."

Score 7 out of 10

In the Miro District : Peter Taylor

Peter Taylor AKA - Peter Matthew Hillsman Taylor

January 8, 1917 – November 2, 1994

Finally, Solotaroff brings us back to America! In America...but in a Southern State!

Those intellectual New York types...Tennessee and Europe, some sort of far away exotic land. –Right-?

Must an author create a story that is a completely foreign land for the reader to be fully engrossed in it? Is it a cheap trick to pull us in with the unknown? Surely, many readers of BASS in the late 70’s knew of the South, knew of Europe.

Taylor does a wonderful job of bringing the South to the page. It was a long slow read. Beautiful, rich descriptions, southern atmosphere dripping from each page. At times though, I found that certain emphasis on repeating certain points was a bit much.

“A bit much” ...then again the South is just that sometimes.

The story-

A battle between the generations. It’s the easy theme in this short story ( not that short...it is a New Yorker piece).

Testing limits, coming of age, understanding, failure to understand, conflict, tradition, ignorance, hypocrisy, love, morality, strength and weakness.

Finally, and what should be taken as the most important theme, shock and struggle, the transformation of a person that once was something we never knew into something that we knew was always there.

We have all been in the position where we are hiding a girl in the wardrobe. I loved this scene. The discovery of that girl and the transformation of the individual doing the hiding, as well as the change which takes place in the person who makes the discovery.

Sometimes, hiding that girl is the right thing to do. It protects loved ones. And then, when you feel the time is right, you invite them into the room to open the wardrobe and make the discovery themselves...for both of you.

With my own father in the state that he is in and what he is turning into, I often wonder if there will be a point where I don’t recognize him. He doesn’t have the ability to control the girl in the wardrobe.

I am finding that one of the most interesting aspects of writing in this journal is the research that I am doing on the authors of each of these stories. Because I am starting in ’78, some of the authors that I am learning of are either just beginning their career as a writer or have a bit of a background. It’s wonderful.

Props again to Solotaroff for including Taylor in this volume.

Peter Taylor considered on of the finest American Short Story writers. Pulitzer prize winner for fiction in 1987. Long relationship with the New Yorker. In 1979, he received the Gold Medal for the short story genre given by the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. Nine of his short stories were published in BASS. I can’t wait to discover the others.

Score 8 out of 10

The Schreuderspitze : Mark Helprin

Such a wonderful story. Stories such as this are what make the BASS so great. I remember reading this the first time several months ago and finding it captivating, but after the second reading, so much more. Loss, love, introspection, heartache, longing, memories, and rebirth. Perfect ingredients leading to a wonderful dish.

Solotaroff takes us to Europe once again. I need to let this obsession with Solotaroff go. I have given this guy way too much influence over my thoughts.

There are so many aspects of this story that I can connect with.

First, and the most powerful, being the death of Wallich’s family(wife and son).

I tend to think a lot about the death of my loved ones. I think hard and long on how I would deal with my wife’s sudden death. It brings me near, if not to tears, sometimes when I play out various scenarios.

I don’t know why I do this...have these thoughts. I just don’t know what I’d do without her. I have often thought about how I would live my life if she was suddenly taken from me. How would I behave? Would I retreat? Explode? Go insane?

Running away to the mountains such as the Wallich did, is something that I could easily see myself doing. My family would make every effort to keep me close, but I think that I would need this time alone. Helprin taps into a strong emotional vein and I am drawn into the story.

Second, life in a small village at the base of the mountain. Man, I’ve been there. I know how it feels to have the entire village know what you ate for dinner. I know.

Finally, the intense physical preparation that is made for Wallich’s climb up the Schreuderspitze. The past 2 years, I have spent pushing my body harder further and faster. I’ve felt the muscle soreness, the pain in my lungs. I feel that I am at the peak of my physical condition. I only plan to go further.

Beautiful quote:

“The small things, the gentle things, the good things he loved, and the flow of love itself were dead for him and would always be, unless he could liberate them in a crucible of high drama.”

Dealing with death. I am afraid...I know I will have to face it and I respect it.

In closing, I think that I have settled down into reading and writing for these reports. I am not trying to burn through the years. I’m taking the stories as they come.

Score...10 out of 10. Mr. Helprin, you produced a wonderful story. Thank you.

Verona: A Young Woman Speaks : Harold Brodkey

Harold Brodkey

1930-1996

Yet another piece presented that takes place in a country other than America.

This was a rather small selection. Filled with detail and the observations of a 7 or 8 year old girl.

I enjoyed this story, and I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it had to do with the authors ability to give me the chance to experience life as this little girl for a few minutes.

She is remarkably observant but those observations are realized by her at a late age.

Honestly, I am having trouble with this review.

I can’t seem to get much out. I also want to take the time to reassure myself, and you, whoever you are reading this that like any other piece of artwork, these writings about the stories I read are just my interpretations of the piece of art I am experiencing. I could be way off on what the author is attempting to relate. Sometimes I may not read correctly, and other times I may read too much into a story, paragraph or sentence. I think though that this is the beauty of the story. It can be read as something that is to be taken very lightly or one can look deeper into the story for meaning.

Score : 7 out of 10.

Intermission posting

I really enjoy my work.

Other books that I am reading which prevent me from making more regular postings.

War and Peace - Yup that one.

Infinite Jest - Think I've given up on that one.

Shroom - Just reading the chapters about Terence Mckenna.

A Good Loser : Elizabeth Cullinan

I found that I remembered more about this story than the previous two after my reread. I enjoyed it. I am also

picking up on a theme here by Solotaroff. This is the third story the collection and the third to take place in a country other than America. Not quite sure if it really has any underlying meaning but it is strange nonetheless.

I’ve been to Ireland once, and the “visit” could hardly be called that. I was there long enough to scramble off an Aeroflot flight and grab a quick Guinness at an airport bar. The bar seemed to be situated at the end of the concourse for the very purpose of dispensing beer to passengers in a manner that would allow the passengers to scramble back onto their flight in a few seconds. It was my first Guinness, and I wouldn’t know if it tasted any different in Ireland vs. the US. As a matter of fact, I think I was drunk at the time - or my sense of taste and smell had been obliterated by all the smokers on the flight.

I can’t nail down exactly what it was that appealed to me about this story, but I think that it was just “written well”. It flowed nicely, good tension in the spots that needed it, and the characters were appealing enough.

I related to the fronts put up by the characters and the acting that took place between the threesome. The courtesies and niceties exchanged all under the knowledge that each knew what was really being said. Happens too often in life and it’s too bad so many people fail to see this.

Best line in the story is the last.

–For, with all the resources it has to command, happiness remains a shaky fortress. Sorrow is the stronghold.

So true.

Score: 7 out of 10.

The Translation : Joyce Carol Oates

It’s great that the second story I read in this project came from Joyce Carol Oates. Oates and her writing are what solidified my love for the short story. Of course, Glimmer Train came first, started the fire, but JCO can be credited with dousing the fire with plenty of gasoline. I have been fortunate enough to read countless stories by Oates from various collections and in numerous magazines. It seems that no matter the literary magazine/journal I come across, I seem to look for a piece by her. I like the thought that there should always be an artistic anchor one hitches himself/herself to.

This story is another from the 1978 collection that I read several months ago and reread today. As I mentioned in the previous post, I first read this during a visit to my car dealership last year. I found today’s reread much more to my liking. I suppose that I am quite susceptible to environmental conditions while I read.

JCO does a fine job with “The Translation”, and it is of course worthy of this collection in BASS. Good selection by Solotaroff. Then again, I wonder what sort of pressures he felt to include her. She had made quite a name for herself by the time of this selection, and if she was left out...

This story hit me with another interesting draw. I was expecting the typical JCO plot, theme and rich details...but she was surprising in her “normalcy”. At least that is what I thought 7/8^ths of the way into the story. I think she does a nice job of causing the reader to question the relationships in the story; Oliver with himself, as well as his relationship with his translator and the object of Oliver’s desire, Alisa.

The setting of the story is also special to me. I too smelled the Linden (lime) trees on a spring day. I too saw the poured concrete buildings. I also felt some of the same pressures and awkward social situations Oliver found himself in. I cast curses on my native country, vowing never to return. I spoke ill of my country to shine a brighter light, or a more hopeful light on my host country.

There is a scene that Oates describes in the story that takes place in a crowded café. I can honestly say that I was in the same position as Oliver on more than one occasion. I felt the pains of not knowing a language that was being spoken around me.

People entering and exiting my life under suspicious circumstances while I lived in Romania. Constant feelings of being under surveillance. Money lent never to be repaid.