continued from yesterday--
I remember a beautiful mountain stream, but there were no still waters at Bread Loaf Writers Conference the summer of 1980. If there were, I didn’t see them. But that Sabbath’s very personal worship, right there in the middle of the madness, was a meditation I’ve never forgotten, maybe the only true meditation I’ve ever done, a few verses from Psalm 23, a hybrid mantra in an Adirondack chair.
We’d been friends from the beginning, so I asked him about his unfaithfulness. “I don’t get it,” I said to him. “Why?”
A writer had to experience absolutely everything he could in order to be the best he can, he said. A writer has to know, to know by having lived.
I didn’t laugh, and I still don’t. I was, after all, something of an innocent, even though I’d never considered myself such before. And I wondered, really, if he wasn’t right, in a way. Should he ever want to write about how being unfaithful feels, he had a better shot at authority.
When we boarded a plane to leave Bread Loaf, I happened to line up just behind Deborah Digges as the two of us stood on the stairway to our commuter jet. We hadn’t spoken much in the last week; she’d been otherwise occupied. We hadn’t sat together at the gate either, but when we got on board I happened to be just behind her. I don’t know if she had thought of me the way I did of her, as someone who understood her better, perhaps, than others; but when that line balked for a minute, she looked at me and shook her head. “Jim, I hope this plane crashes,” she said.
She’d been wooed by a celebrity poet, and she’d fallen. On the dance floor, the two of them looked like smarmy high school lovers, which would have seemed embarrassing if it hadn’t happened to so many others. But right then, as we boarded, I knew her pain, even though I knew nothing about her relationship to the husband she’d seemingly forgotten.
If I said anything to her at all at that moment, it’s gone from my memory. We found our seats. I didn’t sit beside her.
1 comment:
I recently listened to T.C. Boyle critique John Updike's decision to rework some of his earlier stories--fix them up, modernize them, so that a big anthology of them could be published with more appeal to the public. Boyle said stories are stuck in time, place and context. He would never go back and change any of them. He referenced "Greasy Lake" and a quote from Bruce Springstein that introduces the story. "You gotta know Bruce and where that quotation comes from...you can't change that," Boyle said in a roundabout way.
But THIS essay, Jim, works. You have your story about Gardner and the trip to Bread Loafers in "35 + Counting," but I really like how you've taken it, lengthened it, told more about the story. What a great read. And what a line from that poet--hoping the plane would crash. Sheesh, what an experience for a new writer with a lot of energy but a different worldview than most of the other conferees.
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