Wow. I have been reading these and not commenting because every time I try, I type something that seems so banal in the face of everyone’s thoughtful, erudite insights. This post, however, has spurred something that has been with me since I began to make up stories and write them down. I think Sparrow and other stories like it celebrate what it is to be human. And that it is a beautiful thing to show up as a human in this body, at this place and time, against all odds and survive everything that happens. The best stories, and what I try to bring to my stories, even the failed ones, maybe especially the failed ones, is a sense that we “poor forked things” are by our very nature, heroic and blessed in an ineffable way. When George writes that the voice was not his that woke him with Sparrow’s story, even as a mostly Buddhist, I feel that that voice comes from a Someone who wants us to really understand that we are loved and ARE love. For me as an artist, trying to transcribe that simple fact, even if I’m writing a horror story about a maniacally twisted elementary schooler, there will always be a moment of truth about connection and community and the spirit that runs through our poor little hearts no matter what poor choices spring from them. The oddest thing about that moment is that I don’t even have to try and it shows up. My muse is generous! So the theme of so many GS stories, for me, is this precious connection that’s horizontal and irrevocably cellular and the place it comes from, vertical, extra cellular, uber dimensional and so, so hopeful. Thank you for this post and your lovely story, Sparrow. It helped me articulate a reason for being an artist when I’ve been in a bit of a generative slump and not in the mood for revision, either. And these comments from others need more thought and attention —- love this place, and all of you!! ❤️
Here is this from Nick Cave: "Art should not lecture or talk down to us or reprimand us. There is little left of the sacred in the modern world, but great art still offers us an opportunity to experience the hallowed, the mysterious and the reverential. For me, art of true significance chaffs against the prescribed modes of the day on its way to the transcendental. We are humbled by its power, as it reflects back to us something about the enigma of our own nature. We stand before it, quieted and awed, touched by the eternal."
That's beautiful, thank you for sharing it Mary. Another Nick Cave Quote, this one from over on The Marginalian (formerly Brain Pickings):
"Worry less about what you make — that will mostly look after itself, and is to some extent beyond your control, and perhaps even none of your business — and devote yourself to nourishing this animating spirit. Bring all your enthusiasm to bear on the development of that good and essential force. This is done by a commitment to the creative act itself. Each time you tend to that ingenious spark it grows stronger, and sets afire the ordinary gifts of the imagination. The more dedication you show to the process, the better the work, and the greater your gift to the world. Apply yourself fully to the task, let go of the outcome, and your true voice will appear. You’ll see. It can be no other way."
I love Nick Cave so much. His "Red Hand Files" is full of hope and beauty. (https://www.theredhandfiles.com) Thank you for this quote of his: "Apply yourself fully to the task, let go of the outcome, and your true voice will appear." This is my aim every day.
That’s so wild to me people here know Nick Cave this way over the musical tsunami of his catalog to me from the time I was a very immature Byron- Shelley pothead of a poet to finding him and Cohen and Brecht and Morrison and immersing -- I have read him from time to time -- interviews. Etc, but have always cherished him so much I have tried to keep my experience of him and his lyrics and musical iterations pure without anything else to pollute my experience. Seems like that’s a super-romantic ideal I may need to let go based on this discussion.
I loved his music when I was younger too. Hadn't listened in a long time though and then a friend recommended The Red Hand Files and it's been fun to rediscover him in a different way.
These are both wonderful quotes. Mary you would probably enjoy the interview book that came out last year Faith, Hope and Carnage. I listened to the audio version and often found myself pulling over to replay and joy something down. His wisdom on creativity, grief and life are much deeper than the perception of the surfaces of his persona. And it’s wonderfully poignant to find it brought into this particular post. As usual I’m way behind, leading my life of making ends meet running a business and trying to learn about writing in mid-life, in a few stolen moments. I try to make it a practice but my obligations keep smothering the fires.
From that book , one of the many I had to rewind, also want my own copy some day to actually read, although the narration by the originals was pretty great.
On creative work
“I think you have to have faith in your own intuitive process. That is really all you can do. I would say this to all people who are trying to become writers, musicians or artists of any kind. Learn as much as you can about your craft, of course. But ultimately trust your own instinctive impulses. Have faith in yourself, so you can stand beside whatever it is that you’ve done and fight for it. Because if you can invest it with that faith. Then it has its own truth and it’s own honesty and its own resilient vulnerability and hence its own value.”
So funny. Some wise people I know say “ what other people think of you isn’t your business,” and it’s true. Helpful and true for me anyway. Then I don’t have to worry as much. People are usually thinking mostly of themselves anyway. I know I am, no matter how much I’d like to think otherwise. 😊
Beautiful, Mary. I LOVE Nick Cave. The best thing about this place is my reverential awe for all of the responses and the camaraderie that approaches "hallowed, mysterious, reverential" --everyone lowering our eyes to the printed word and raising them again to meet each others' eyes with renewed purpose. Whoo.
Nick Cave has some of the best quotes, especially regarding art. The New Yorker had an article about him with an interview back in March. If you have not read it:
Yes, it's a great interview. There's also his recent book: Faith, Hope and Carnage. It's funny--I barely know his music. Just familiar with a handful of songs. But I'm one of his biggest fans.
I've never been able to get past his name - Nick Cave - two syllables, Nick and Cave, but I written this down on a slip of paper Faith, Hope, Carnage by Nick Cave. Thanks!
This thread of conversation and those which have lead us up to it give me the heady feeling that I imagine / know someone who has unexpectedly found themselves ascended to being in sight of a mountain or hilltop summit experiences.
I'm no Everest ascendant, save for reading - back in the day - National Geographic and other published accounts of the exploits of Edmund Hilary and Sherpa Tensing and those who tried before them and have since have emulated them but I do feel we've got to the heights of this thread by being able to move out from a well founded Base Camp and stride / climb up the mountain via a series of stage camps. I gave up reading about Everest when it became a Tourist Experience.
My preference was always for country / hill walking. Back nearly 50 years ago, in 1975 I think, a friend and I - were youth hostelling in the English Lake District - inadvertently found ourselves having ascended Hellvelyn and found Striding Edge ahead of us. We crossed it, carefully (its a ridge path that falls away precipitously into the valleys on either side) and in due course descended to Patterdale Common where we encountered a quintessentially English summer Saturday afternoon scene. First we heard the thwack, then the thwonk of willow on leather (the bat being willow and the hard ball being cased in leather) and then the cries of "Howzatt!" went up. And a minute later we saw the dismissed batsman walking ruefully to the pavilion and the next man in marching purposefully out to the crease.
Ah those were, well, days and good days and very good days indeed. She, my friend, and I didn't have the price of an Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 map but the day was fine and treading out horizontal or stepping our way, not climbing vertical, up steep rocky uplands felt entirely comfortable in the landscape. I recognised where we had arrived, downslope from the slop of Hellvelyn with Striding Edge our next stage because, serendipitously as ever, aged 16 I'd sat a public examination in Geography and been tasked with reading, interpreting and answering questions on an OS map extract which featured the Tarn that lies below Hellvelyn and Striding Edge and so, seeing it for real, immediately knew where we were!
By nature and nurture I am a Geographer but these last twenty years or so I have had my walking clipped back perforce of circumstances and have to switch from 'rambling' to 'rombling'.
I got into this comment on the back of the thought that, maybe, having found myself taken to the particularly heady heights of literary conversation in this thread I might soon be finding myself tumbling downhill towards a deep trough of deflation. "Nah!" the voice in my head is saying now, this is Story Club and apart from a pause and a minor dip to catch breath and regroup the prospect is positive... another twist and turn will lead us to the next escalation!
I needed an oxygen tent after this lovely response— you’re such a talented writer — every sense was employed, and summit reached! Thank you for the “romble “!
Sparrow is beautiful. Sparrow is about as near to perfect as a story can be. It's fascinating the way in which the story isn't really about Sparrow and Randy, but about the narrator, and all of the others weighing in on these two humans. (George has detailed all of this in his post, so I won't elaborate.) Is this story hopeful? Absolutely. It gives hope to all of the Sparrows and Randys of the world, as well as to all the judgmental people in the world (i.e. all of us). We can be loved the way we are. And we can let go of preconceived notions/judgments if we just open up a bit. Great, great hope in this story.
But I do want to take issue with the notion that every truthful story is a hopeful one. I just don't agree with that assessment. Yes, as George says, a truthful, honest rendering "affirms.....something." But that "something" may be that evil exists. That "something" may be that terrible things happen. That "something" may be that we continue to kill our planet and look the other way while doing so. These are painful truths--akin to the bleakness of the concentration camp stories George speaks of (i think? I haven't read them). Perhaps George finds hope in the fact that someone lived to tell the tale. That the very fact of pen put to paper describing an atrocity is an act of faith and hope. I don't know. Maybe. I'd like to think so. The happy/sad or hopeful/hopeless dichotomy--I can see why George prefers to think only in terms of honesty and truth. Take hope out of the equation. Personally, i think of stories as having what I suppose could be called a moral stance. A story moves along to its climax when something's got to give--something that is meaningful, no matter how small. How that something "gives" depends on the story's protagonist and their moral makeup, their capacity (or non capacity) for change, their worldview. So i don't think of stories as hopeful or not. Or happy vs. sad. I assume truthfulness (or I won't bother with the story), and then look for the humanity. Up? Down? Yes? No? Courage? Failure? What's it going to be? In Sparrow, the narrator and the narrator's cohorts find their own humanity lurking beneath the surface. Sparrow and Randy allow that humanity to arise. This story is hopeful (which is probably why i love it so much). The story could have ended elsewhere--not with a breakup, but with the happiness of the couple while the narrator, et al, continue to be locked out of their humanity. A turning of the back on beauty. A moment when change is offered but not taken. That would still be a truthful story--it happens all of the time. But it wouldn't be a hopeful one.
I think this anecdote from the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova speaks to what I mean by "hope" in this context. She's waiting outside this prison for news of her son:
"In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror, I spent 17 months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind was a young woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had of course never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there), ‘Can you describe this?’ And I said, ‘I can.’ Then something like a smile passed over what had once been her face. "
I'm reminded of this quote from Derrick Bell (civil rights lawyer and law professor): "The challenge throughout has been to tell what I view as the truth about racism without causing disabling despair. For some of us who bear the burdens of racial subordination, any truth--no matter how dire--is uplifting." (From Faces at the Bottom of the Well.)
Thank you, George. I do understand the universality of her poem (we all experience grief, pain; we all suffer, though thankfully not to the extent of Anna Akhmatova). I understand the way this poet speaks the truth about the terror she lived through, and the way such truth may constitute a certain balm for those who lived through the same or similar hardships, and are thankful she has given witness--in this way, they feel less alone. And seen. (Is balm the same as hope? One is comfort in the moment; the other is a dream for the future.) The woman described here--who has something resembling a smile cross over "what once had been her face"--this woman seems to find momentary comfort in the knowledge that her personal horror will be known to the world through the voice of the poet. I can see why, to you, that may be called "hope." To me, "hope" is an optimistic belief in the future. This poem, bearing witness to unfathomable terror, brings something into the world, but i'm not sure it brings an optimistic belief in the future. Yet i understand that its balm is hopeful--that the notion that bearing witness and sharing that with others who cannot, can be thought of as a kind of hope, a kind of faith in humanity. Oh, dear me, constantly hung up on the literal meaning of words. I am all for truth, bearing witness, speaking the unspeakable, speaking for those who cannot. That someone has the strength to do so--yes, I suppose that gives me hope, too. Hope that others may be strong; hope that others may find comfort in the words, hope that those reading this poem into the future will find hope, as well, in one woman's story/strength/truth. Again, the problem is splitting the idea in two: on the one hand, the words themselves, and on the other, the reaction a reader has to the words. The words/truth/story may not be hopeful, but the feelings that arise after reading may include hope. It's late; i hope this made sense. And I appreciate the discussion.
okay, i read the piece in the new york review. The author believes that Borowski got himself arrested on purpose. Perhaps. But hard to believe. Then again, he was young and in love.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose? It’s crazy and weird but fascinating that he was allegedly more sane and purposeful in Auschwitz than out of it. So much going on with that group of people…
yes, he seemed to find a strange equilibrium there, which is fascinating. His life--we are so lucky, we who wake up every day in our own beds and greet the day.
As someone who views the world through a more uncomfortable lense, I appreciate the view that not all is hopeful. Though I’m jealous of George’s infectious optimism. And Sparrow is a brilliant, moving, wonderful story, one of my top 10 GS stories. It’s fascinating how the perspectives shift from the singular to the collective, and intriguing to hear how it all came about.
I am a tad cynical and pessimistic, yet I usually write stories that show some promise, a hint of hope for the protagonist. Speaking of writing stories, I need to put this phone away.
Hi Tom. When i talk about stories that reveal painful truths--some of them, perhaps, leaving us with a resolution that is not "hopeful"--I'm only talking about stories and the intent of the writers who wrote them. I'm not talking about me (just in case you thought I was). I'm not a cockeyed optimist, and there are days when i feel terrible about the state of our world, but overall, I'm a fairly hopeful person! When someone tries to tell me how bad things are, i remind them of how far we've come. Human beings can be beautiful, as this substack attests to over and over.
Yes. I think I’m also talking about writers and stories, though I’m aware I include myself in this. My stories seldom end with undiluted hope, they tend to have more of a minor key about them. Though I ‘hope’ they find a truth in amongst that. I found myself wondering if my stories are less universally appealing because the do not offer up positive ways forward in life for characters and readers. And I’m not even sure what George means the more I think about it.
To continue - is George saying that if we perpetuate fake truths and tropes, there is a dishonesty in this that is not helpful? It does not encourage the reader to rethink their version of the world, merely reinforces what they know already. If we can name things more clearly that have only been murky and unsaid before - the wolves at the door - then we, the reader, can find a new way forward, armed with a new truth and new knowledge. An example - as a prison visitor, I meet a lot of people who have done bad things, but I seldom meet a bad person. Prison reform is impossible if we consider prisoners to be bad people, but possible if we consider their acts to be bad, we can explore cause, environment etc. There is a way forward for our characters and readers if they have a truth that helps them move on. Though isn't tragedy about characters never acknowledging the truth of their situations/acts/characters...Gosh...I find a bit of clarity then confuse myself again!
Yes, I keep doing the same--clarity followed by confusion. My husband thinks perhaps the word 'hope' is the wrong word to be using here. Some stories, though bleak and (perhaps seemingly) hopeless, may still strike us as inspiring. Or cause our empathic hearts to open. I fear I've become tiresome, harping on this one little word "hope" in these threads. I'd rather think of stories as "moving me" in some way, of opening me up. I've a feeling that is the "hope" George speaks of. That stories will move us, if they are truthful. That both during and in the aftermath of bearing witness with the writer, our communing with them in the ether leads us to realize our shared humanity. And a feeling of shared humanity--I guess that's a hopeful thing! Clarity and confusion reign!
I like that. Opening is a form of love which contains hope. This is such a great thread, arising from a fabulous post! Still in awe of the Timothy Snyder piece on Borowski. Haunted, humbled, hopefully open…
Interesting take, Mary. It seems like some if not all ‘non-hopeful’ stories might still give off a glimmer of hope, if only in the sense that they might plant seeds of change or empathy in a heart or mind. (Thinking of “The Shawl,” among others. But perhaps I am being too optimistic.)
that's certainly one way of looking at it--the post-reading way--the possibility of subsequent change in the heart of the reader. I don't know if I can read The Shawl again. It ruined me when I read it years ago. The horror of it. I suppose an argument can be made that it elicits empathy in a reader and therefore can be thought of as eliciting hope. But the story, as I recall, is terrifying and bleak, and with the saddest of endings. Survival under the worst type of circumstances, if you can call such a thing surviving.
Hi Mary, David, I was not familiar with The Shawl. Based on your comments here I just looked it up and read it online. What an amazing, powerful story. Thank you for bringing it to my attention!
I tend to think all great stories have tremendous power, whether that power comes from evoking hope or from some other angle.
Yes, powerful is right. There is actually another short story ("Rosa") that was written by Ozick a few years later (and also first published in the New Yorker). It's a continuation of Rosa's story--30 years after the events of The Shawl. A person can buy them together in one short book, which is called simply "The Shawl," though it contains both stories.
Hi Vishal, I’m glad you were able to find it online. I should have mentioned the author, Cynthia Ozick. I should read more of her work. I love your comment about great writing having or exuding tremendous power!
I share your skepticism that every truthful story is hopeful. But George did add what I think is an important qualifier: "at this point in my life." Maybe his view of truthfulness as hopeful is a function of an attitude he's adopted, by choice or by circumstance. I can imagine an attitude (which I'm not sure I share) in which one views life as, on balance, A Good Thing™, and therefore any truthfulness gets us closer to that goodness. It's a theory!
I think life, "on balance," is a very good thing! The question of whether truthfulness in fiction, regardless of the actions in that fiction, gets us "closer to goodness"--I don't know. We desire the truth, I know that. And I do understand that telling the truth is a supreme goal--and so writing a truthful book may possibly be construed as a hopeful thing for the human race. We do need witnesses. We do need to know what has happened in this world, the good and the bad. But hope? That's where i get stalled. George mentions a book of short stories by a man who survived Auschwitz and Dachau. He says that the author's "clear gaze, his willingness to say, again and again, "Thus it was," strikes him as "hopeful." But that author killed himself at the age 28. He wrote his truth, but the truth he wrote doesn't seem to have brought him any hope. He was a witness to atrocities, he gifted the world with his words, and then he couldn't live in this world any longer.
Ultimately, George is describing a subjective experience. It "strikes him" as hopeful.
You might ask the opposite question. Do those stories strike you as devoid of hope? Why did he write them at all? I don't think he wrote them to bring himself hope, but because he had some hope in the first place--hope that others would understand what he went through, hope that it wouldn't happen again. That he ultimately killed himself suggests that his hope eventually ran out. Well, that happens too.
I don't know why he wrote his stories, but i'm guessing he felt a strong need to put it all on paper, to document what he'd witnessed. Whether or not he thought it hopeful to do so, I just don't know. He may have felt the opposite. He may have wanted the world to know from a witness just how horrible humans can be, one to another, how sometimes survival means losing your humanity. Perhaps his stories were warnings to us, future readers.(Is that hopeful?) I don't know. I'm guessing he had no hope that it wouldn't happen again. But i really don't know anything.
Hi you two! You’ve sent me down (or maybe up) a fascinating rabbit hole. I had to know more. I just read a long article by Timothy Snyder (professor of history at Yale) called “The World of Tadeusz Borowski’s Auschwitz.” (New York Review of Books, 9/12/21.) (Adapted from the introduction to Here in Our Auschwitz and Other Stories, Yale University Press 2021.) I highly recommend this article. TB grew up in the shadows of the long knives wielded by Hitler and Stalin both. He possessed a form of sanity in bleak circumstances, but when things were not so bleak he was plagued by depression. It seems that he was at his best when imprisoned in Auschwitz, freed from his personal darkness. It doesn’t sound like he ran dry of hope, because he never really had any to start with. He might have been having a bad day. He’d tried to kill himself before. He was driven by love, to a large degree—love might be a form of hope, or might contain hope—or, maybe not. He was a realist, it seems, one who acknowledged that much if not all of what we think of as civilization is built on power, murder, theft, and enslavement. “He…shows us how we can normalize everything, how fascism becomes everyday life—and then shakes us free from the spell.” Many of us do not wish for that kind of clarity, though we need it like oxygen.
True, we don't know why he wrote the stories. We also don't know why he killed himself. This brings me back to my original thought that the attitude we bring to a story affects whether it strikes us as hopeful or not.
Great 👍 comment and affirmation of just the “what” may be— maybe it’s the way Randy is still “a passionate advocate for, and defender of, his mother, a mean old thing who lived a few houses down from the store, a strongly self-certain lightning bolt of constant opining who presented as a fierce pair of black men’s glasses moving around in a tanned, agitated face.” This passage makes me 1/love Randy and love/pity his mom. I think hopefulness in the context of this discussion and in many GS stories consists of an engendered love/pity for his characters and for our sad, sick human race. Maybe?
I definitely see hope in Sparrow. And yes, i agree with you about George's stories--they open our hearts. As i wrote earlier, my harping on the word "hope" is probably growing tiresome. I'd prefer to use other words--hearts opening, empathizing, bearing witness, acknowledging, etc. I'm not sure all of these are akin to feeling optimistic about the future (as "hope" implies), but they are outcomes to be hoped for when reading.....
I don't think you're harping at all. I also never find you tiresome. I appreciate the close attention to the meaning and reverberations of the word for you and others. Kind of cliche of me but it's a "thing with feathers" in that it uplifts and is also useless alone, without "wings" albeit aesthetically pleasing. The wing being the muscle for it and the muscle behind hope being concentrated, compassionate action after one is lifted by it into a compulsion to extend care and help?
Thank you, Patty. Yes, what good are we alone? I remember reading To Have and Have Not when I was probably in the tenth grade, and this one line has stuck with me ever since: "No matter how a man alone ain't got no bloody fucking chance."
I appreciate everyone's thoughts and comments about hope and truth. It's helped me find the words to describe what I think about this. (As so often happens in these discussions.) For me, the act of telling the truth, no matter whether that truth is about something dark or light, is a hopeful thing. When someone has the courage and self-knowledge to share a truth, I find hope in my fellow humans, because only by speaking the truth can we identify a problem, share a feeling, trust one another.
Mary, "When someone has the courage and self-knowledge to share a truth, I find hope in my fellow humans, because only by speaking the truth can we identify a problem, share a feeling, trust one another."
This is lovely, and reminds me of something that Dacher Keltner talks about in his book "Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life". Dasher studied the experience of awe in people from 26 countries around the world, and (surprisingly) he found the following:
" What most commonly led people to feel awe? Nature? Spiritual practice? Listening to music? In fact, it was other people’s courage, kindness, strength, or overcoming—actions of strangers, roommates, teachers, colleagues at work, people in the news, characters on podcasts, and our neighbors and family members. Around the world, we are most likely to feel awe when moved by moral beauty: exceptional virtue, character, and ability, marked by a purity and goodness of intention and action.
Over 95% of the moral beauty that stirred awe worldwide was in actions people took on behalf of others."
If you're interested in more info, here's an article he wrote, which talks about how he defines "moral beauty" (which includes literature!)
Thank you for this, Mary. I agree. Most of my grappling here has been about distinguishing between a truthful story that ends on a hopeful note vs. a story that is truthful but does not end on a hopeful note. The hope in the latter case then comes from the reader, imbuing hope into a story that didn't provide it outright, but instead gave a reader the opportunity to feel hopeful by hearing someone else's truth (bleak as it may be), thereby feeling less alone and more connected. And perhaps, giving someone a new perspective on a problem. So when George wrote here that a truthful story is a hopeful one, I was trying to distinguish between the two. (Also, last week's discussion was about stories that end on a hopeful note.) As with you, the more I read these posts and think about all of it, the more clarity I am finding. Personally, I don't believe I'd write a story that doesn't end without at least a hint of hope in some way. But that's probably because of where I find myself in life. Thank you for your perspective and the clarity in which you articulated it.
Mary g.— I've enjoyed following along as you've contemplated "hope" via a deep dive into the specifics of language and meaning... thank you for taking us all along on a very interesting journey!
Thank you for this, George. I appreciate the connections you are making between a story being “hopeful” and the “relief” we feel when a story is truthful. Often, that sense of relief is tangible— something I feel in my chest or stomach after I’ve finished a great story.
And yes— with denial there is nowhere to go. (It is so depressing.) But with truthfulness as a starting point (even if it’s a painful one), there is room for hope.
Also—I love knowing that “Sparrow” woke you and insisted on being written! "The Book of Mistakes” was also written, upon waking, in the middle of the night. (Or rather, the first half of it was.)
Thank you again, for the detail and thoughtfulness of this response. "Sparrow" is SUCH a beautiful story— one that will stay with me for a long time.
Corinna I sincerely hope you are going to keep pitching up questions for George to field and comeback on... on the back of your dialogue I ordered 'The Book of Mistakes' and 'The Very Persistent Gappers of Frip" and, joy and twice joy, both have just been delivered to my porch on this early evening dusk descending Friday. What a start to the weekend!
Aww, thank you Rob— sounds like a lovely way to start off the weekend! We are a few hours behind you here, on PST, so no dusk yet... but I just got Lane Smith's newest picture book, called STICKLER, as well as a previously unpublished picture book by the late, great husband and wife team, Alice and Martin Provensen (called THE TRUTH ABOUT MAX, which is about their cat Max) which also looks to be a delight!
That's one of the magics of stories... they just keep on coming up over the horizon and once they get to be a blip on our reading radar there's every chance they'll make it onto wherever we like to read and re-read them.
I have really enjoyed The Book of Mistakes and am already thinking about how I might get to draw some other folks - of all ages - into enjoying its specific special magic!
I love how you explain things, George. Truly, you are remarkably clear in your thought processes...and this helps so much! Thank you, too, for the revised story list.
This sounds something like almost dying in order to start truly living: letting loose of all the baggage we carry around that pins us to the wall of frustration.
Dear George, I'm so glad that you addressed the craft/process of "Sparrow" here, as it was my favorite story of the whole collection and I have been meaning to reread it so as to study it -- why it worked so well. So I reread it just now before reading your post, and a couple of things struck me this time: 1) The first paragraph, in its specificity and inherent groundedness, is completely inviting/captivating, drawing me in and building trust in me from the very beginning -- key!; and 2) The story has this lovely, kind of old-school storyness about it: there's this, and then this happens, and then this happens. There's something so deeply satisfying about good old-fashioned linearity. Not to mention the way the arc of it topples expectations -- that takes it over the top. I agree with Mary G. that it's perfect. May we all sleep so as to have such propitious dreams!
In the late 60's I had an English professor named Ken Richardson who talked about things like seeing through a glass darkly, the veil of Maya, and Plato's Allegory of the Cave. He said the artists job is to somehow remove the dark glass, the veil, the shadows to provide a glimpse of what can't be seen directly. This whole thing - George's story and how it came to be and all of the comments here are something like standing in the presence of truth. What a privilege it is to be here.
Privilege is the very word Charlie, I so agree. What's more the privilege is not confined to being able to read what George and Corinna have offered us but rather its the inclusive, accessible to all who care to share privilege of being able to read the thoughts of so many articulate peers not just in comments here and there but in so many wonderful passages of conversational dialogue between peers. Brilliant, so much truth in what is being shared it really does feed what is hopeful in being a human.
I found myself nodding along to this; not just the story (which is powerful), but George's internal process of discovery. There's a grace to letting the story breathe and giving yourself permission to explore it, instead of being urged to follow a cookie-cutter template or lean into a troupe. It takes courage to be hopeful.
I feel like some kind of slow, ponderous tortoise,
I chomp the opening of this Newsletter and find myself having to post comment. I read on a bit and find Corinna writing '... you are not necessarily described as a “hopeful” writer. And yet, I find hope in your writing…' and I find myself having to share the following just sparked, passing thought... without writers writing there can be no hope; no more than without readers to read, reflect on and talk about what writers have written there can be any hope of human progress.
This is definitely one of my favorite stories. Thanks for exploring it. The emphasis is on ordinary flawed people in an extremely common setting almost pitiable but then really not at all. So, that moment of recognition of not at all is magic. Literature.
Wow. I have been reading these and not commenting because every time I try, I type something that seems so banal in the face of everyone’s thoughtful, erudite insights. This post, however, has spurred something that has been with me since I began to make up stories and write them down. I think Sparrow and other stories like it celebrate what it is to be human. And that it is a beautiful thing to show up as a human in this body, at this place and time, against all odds and survive everything that happens. The best stories, and what I try to bring to my stories, even the failed ones, maybe especially the failed ones, is a sense that we “poor forked things” are by our very nature, heroic and blessed in an ineffable way. When George writes that the voice was not his that woke him with Sparrow’s story, even as a mostly Buddhist, I feel that that voice comes from a Someone who wants us to really understand that we are loved and ARE love. For me as an artist, trying to transcribe that simple fact, even if I’m writing a horror story about a maniacally twisted elementary schooler, there will always be a moment of truth about connection and community and the spirit that runs through our poor little hearts no matter what poor choices spring from them. The oddest thing about that moment is that I don’t even have to try and it shows up. My muse is generous! So the theme of so many GS stories, for me, is this precious connection that’s horizontal and irrevocably cellular and the place it comes from, vertical, extra cellular, uber dimensional and so, so hopeful. Thank you for this post and your lovely story, Sparrow. It helped me articulate a reason for being an artist when I’ve been in a bit of a generative slump and not in the mood for revision, either. And these comments from others need more thought and attention —- love this place, and all of you!! ❤️
Here is this from Nick Cave: "Art should not lecture or talk down to us or reprimand us. There is little left of the sacred in the modern world, but great art still offers us an opportunity to experience the hallowed, the mysterious and the reverential. For me, art of true significance chaffs against the prescribed modes of the day on its way to the transcendental. We are humbled by its power, as it reflects back to us something about the enigma of our own nature. We stand before it, quieted and awed, touched by the eternal."
That's beautiful, thank you for sharing it Mary. Another Nick Cave Quote, this one from over on The Marginalian (formerly Brain Pickings):
"Worry less about what you make — that will mostly look after itself, and is to some extent beyond your control, and perhaps even none of your business — and devote yourself to nourishing this animating spirit. Bring all your enthusiasm to bear on the development of that good and essential force. This is done by a commitment to the creative act itself. Each time you tend to that ingenious spark it grows stronger, and sets afire the ordinary gifts of the imagination. The more dedication you show to the process, the better the work, and the greater your gift to the world. Apply yourself fully to the task, let go of the outcome, and your true voice will appear. You’ll see. It can be no other way."
More here: https://www.themarginalian.org/2022/01/20/nick-cave-creativity/
I love Nick Cave so much. His "Red Hand Files" is full of hope and beauty. (https://www.theredhandfiles.com) Thank you for this quote of his: "Apply yourself fully to the task, let go of the outcome, and your true voice will appear." This is my aim every day.
Yes! The Red Hand Files are wonderful!
That’s so wild to me people here know Nick Cave this way over the musical tsunami of his catalog to me from the time I was a very immature Byron- Shelley pothead of a poet to finding him and Cohen and Brecht and Morrison and immersing -- I have read him from time to time -- interviews. Etc, but have always cherished him so much I have tried to keep my experience of him and his lyrics and musical iterations pure without anything else to pollute my experience. Seems like that’s a super-romantic ideal I may need to let go based on this discussion.
I loved his music when I was younger too. Hadn't listened in a long time though and then a friend recommended The Red Hand Files and it's been fun to rediscover him in a different way.
These are both wonderful quotes. Mary you would probably enjoy the interview book that came out last year Faith, Hope and Carnage. I listened to the audio version and often found myself pulling over to replay and joy something down. His wisdom on creativity, grief and life are much deeper than the perception of the surfaces of his persona. And it’s wonderfully poignant to find it brought into this particular post. As usual I’m way behind, leading my life of making ends meet running a business and trying to learn about writing in mid-life, in a few stolen moments. I try to make it a practice but my obligations keep smothering the fires.
Hi Wayne! Yes, I read part of that book from the library and realized I need to own it. So i'm waiting for the paperback to come out.
From that book , one of the many I had to rewind, also want my own copy some day to actually read, although the narration by the originals was pretty great.
On creative work
“I think you have to have faith in your own intuitive process. That is really all you can do. I would say this to all people who are trying to become writers, musicians or artists of any kind. Learn as much as you can about your craft, of course. But ultimately trust your own instinctive impulses. Have faith in yourself, so you can stand beside whatever it is that you’ve done and fight for it. Because if you can invest it with that faith. Then it has its own truth and it’s own honesty and its own resilient vulnerability and hence its own value.”
I love that part "none of your business" it's so fun and snarky and true. Thank you for sharing.
So funny. Some wise people I know say “ what other people think of you isn’t your business,” and it’s true. Helpful and true for me anyway. Then I don’t have to worry as much. People are usually thinking mostly of themselves anyway. I know I am, no matter how much I’d like to think otherwise. 😊
Right?!
Beautiful, Mary. I LOVE Nick Cave. The best thing about this place is my reverential awe for all of the responses and the camaraderie that approaches "hallowed, mysterious, reverential" --everyone lowering our eyes to the printed word and raising them again to meet each others' eyes with renewed purpose. Whoo.
Nick Cave has some of the best quotes, especially regarding art. The New Yorker had an article about him with an interview back in March. If you have not read it:
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-new-yorker-interview/nick-cave-on-the-fragility-of-life
It might be paywalled I saved it when I had a subscription, though, and it still is open to read.
Yes, it's a great interview. There's also his recent book: Faith, Hope and Carnage. It's funny--I barely know his music. Just familiar with a handful of songs. But I'm one of his biggest fans.
I've only read his fiction. I can name one song. I'll have to check out the book.
He's the theme song to Peaky Binders.
oh my god! Thank you!
Thank you!
You're welcome.
I've never been able to get past his name - Nick Cave - two syllables, Nick and Cave, but I written this down on a slip of paper Faith, Hope, Carnage by Nick Cave. Thanks!
Charlie, it may be easier to just find him online at https://www.theredhandfiles.com Then you'll know if you'd be interested in seeking out that book.
I do not think art needs to be defined...it is better lived^^
An exquisite comment Patty. Thank you.
This thread of conversation and those which have lead us up to it give me the heady feeling that I imagine / know someone who has unexpectedly found themselves ascended to being in sight of a mountain or hilltop summit experiences.
I'm no Everest ascendant, save for reading - back in the day - National Geographic and other published accounts of the exploits of Edmund Hilary and Sherpa Tensing and those who tried before them and have since have emulated them but I do feel we've got to the heights of this thread by being able to move out from a well founded Base Camp and stride / climb up the mountain via a series of stage camps. I gave up reading about Everest when it became a Tourist Experience.
My preference was always for country / hill walking. Back nearly 50 years ago, in 1975 I think, a friend and I - were youth hostelling in the English Lake District - inadvertently found ourselves having ascended Hellvelyn and found Striding Edge ahead of us. We crossed it, carefully (its a ridge path that falls away precipitously into the valleys on either side) and in due course descended to Patterdale Common where we encountered a quintessentially English summer Saturday afternoon scene. First we heard the thwack, then the thwonk of willow on leather (the bat being willow and the hard ball being cased in leather) and then the cries of "Howzatt!" went up. And a minute later we saw the dismissed batsman walking ruefully to the pavilion and the next man in marching purposefully out to the crease.
Ah those were, well, days and good days and very good days indeed. She, my friend, and I didn't have the price of an Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 map but the day was fine and treading out horizontal or stepping our way, not climbing vertical, up steep rocky uplands felt entirely comfortable in the landscape. I recognised where we had arrived, downslope from the slop of Hellvelyn with Striding Edge our next stage because, serendipitously as ever, aged 16 I'd sat a public examination in Geography and been tasked with reading, interpreting and answering questions on an OS map extract which featured the Tarn that lies below Hellvelyn and Striding Edge and so, seeing it for real, immediately knew where we were!
By nature and nurture I am a Geographer but these last twenty years or so I have had my walking clipped back perforce of circumstances and have to switch from 'rambling' to 'rombling'.
I got into this comment on the back of the thought that, maybe, having found myself taken to the particularly heady heights of literary conversation in this thread I might soon be finding myself tumbling downhill towards a deep trough of deflation. "Nah!" the voice in my head is saying now, this is Story Club and apart from a pause and a minor dip to catch breath and regroup the prospect is positive... another twist and turn will lead us to the next escalation!
I needed an oxygen tent after this lovely response— you’re such a talented writer — every sense was employed, and summit reached! Thank you for the “romble “!
What a beautiful, "thoughtful, erudite" comment! Glad you posted.
I find it difficult to believe you have ever been banal, Patty!
Oh thanks— give me a sec
Sparrow is beautiful. Sparrow is about as near to perfect as a story can be. It's fascinating the way in which the story isn't really about Sparrow and Randy, but about the narrator, and all of the others weighing in on these two humans. (George has detailed all of this in his post, so I won't elaborate.) Is this story hopeful? Absolutely. It gives hope to all of the Sparrows and Randys of the world, as well as to all the judgmental people in the world (i.e. all of us). We can be loved the way we are. And we can let go of preconceived notions/judgments if we just open up a bit. Great, great hope in this story.
But I do want to take issue with the notion that every truthful story is a hopeful one. I just don't agree with that assessment. Yes, as George says, a truthful, honest rendering "affirms.....something." But that "something" may be that evil exists. That "something" may be that terrible things happen. That "something" may be that we continue to kill our planet and look the other way while doing so. These are painful truths--akin to the bleakness of the concentration camp stories George speaks of (i think? I haven't read them). Perhaps George finds hope in the fact that someone lived to tell the tale. That the very fact of pen put to paper describing an atrocity is an act of faith and hope. I don't know. Maybe. I'd like to think so. The happy/sad or hopeful/hopeless dichotomy--I can see why George prefers to think only in terms of honesty and truth. Take hope out of the equation. Personally, i think of stories as having what I suppose could be called a moral stance. A story moves along to its climax when something's got to give--something that is meaningful, no matter how small. How that something "gives" depends on the story's protagonist and their moral makeup, their capacity (or non capacity) for change, their worldview. So i don't think of stories as hopeful or not. Or happy vs. sad. I assume truthfulness (or I won't bother with the story), and then look for the humanity. Up? Down? Yes? No? Courage? Failure? What's it going to be? In Sparrow, the narrator and the narrator's cohorts find their own humanity lurking beneath the surface. Sparrow and Randy allow that humanity to arise. This story is hopeful (which is probably why i love it so much). The story could have ended elsewhere--not with a breakup, but with the happiness of the couple while the narrator, et al, continue to be locked out of their humanity. A turning of the back on beauty. A moment when change is offered but not taken. That would still be a truthful story--it happens all of the time. But it wouldn't be a hopeful one.
I think this anecdote from the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova speaks to what I mean by "hope" in this context. She's waiting outside this prison for news of her son:
"In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror, I spent 17 months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind was a young woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had of course never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there), ‘Can you describe this?’ And I said, ‘I can.’ Then something like a smile passed over what had once been her face. "
I'm reminded of this quote from Derrick Bell (civil rights lawyer and law professor): "The challenge throughout has been to tell what I view as the truth about racism without causing disabling despair. For some of us who bear the burdens of racial subordination, any truth--no matter how dire--is uplifting." (From Faces at the Bottom of the Well.)
what a great quote. Thank you for posting it.
Yes, thank you for sharing.
Thank you, George. I do understand the universality of her poem (we all experience grief, pain; we all suffer, though thankfully not to the extent of Anna Akhmatova). I understand the way this poet speaks the truth about the terror she lived through, and the way such truth may constitute a certain balm for those who lived through the same or similar hardships, and are thankful she has given witness--in this way, they feel less alone. And seen. (Is balm the same as hope? One is comfort in the moment; the other is a dream for the future.) The woman described here--who has something resembling a smile cross over "what once had been her face"--this woman seems to find momentary comfort in the knowledge that her personal horror will be known to the world through the voice of the poet. I can see why, to you, that may be called "hope." To me, "hope" is an optimistic belief in the future. This poem, bearing witness to unfathomable terror, brings something into the world, but i'm not sure it brings an optimistic belief in the future. Yet i understand that its balm is hopeful--that the notion that bearing witness and sharing that with others who cannot, can be thought of as a kind of hope, a kind of faith in humanity. Oh, dear me, constantly hung up on the literal meaning of words. I am all for truth, bearing witness, speaking the unspeakable, speaking for those who cannot. That someone has the strength to do so--yes, I suppose that gives me hope, too. Hope that others may be strong; hope that others may find comfort in the words, hope that those reading this poem into the future will find hope, as well, in one woman's story/strength/truth. Again, the problem is splitting the idea in two: on the one hand, the words themselves, and on the other, the reaction a reader has to the words. The words/truth/story may not be hopeful, but the feelings that arise after reading may include hope. It's late; i hope this made sense. And I appreciate the discussion.
I am beginning to think that hope is a form of love. Or vice versa. Love without expectations.
I think you need hope to believe in love, well, romantic love. Filial love is a different matter.
Maybe. Mere words may not be enough to describe these kinds of feelings. Music comes closer. But I am looking for the words.
I completely agree with you. Though the English language is vast, some things remain inexplicable.
The ineffable becomes... heart stopping.
This sounds like Borowski going to and staying in Auschwitz to be close to Maria.
He had no choice! He was captured and sent there. And there was no way out.
okay, i read the piece in the new york review. The author believes that Borowski got himself arrested on purpose. Perhaps. But hard to believe. Then again, he was young and in love.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose? It’s crazy and weird but fascinating that he was allegedly more sane and purposeful in Auschwitz than out of it. So much going on with that group of people…
yes, he seemed to find a strange equilibrium there, which is fascinating. His life--we are so lucky, we who wake up every day in our own beds and greet the day.
There’s more to the story…
As someone who views the world through a more uncomfortable lense, I appreciate the view that not all is hopeful. Though I’m jealous of George’s infectious optimism. And Sparrow is a brilliant, moving, wonderful story, one of my top 10 GS stories. It’s fascinating how the perspectives shift from the singular to the collective, and intriguing to hear how it all came about.
I am a tad cynical and pessimistic, yet I usually write stories that show some promise, a hint of hope for the protagonist. Speaking of writing stories, I need to put this phone away.
Hi Tom. When i talk about stories that reveal painful truths--some of them, perhaps, leaving us with a resolution that is not "hopeful"--I'm only talking about stories and the intent of the writers who wrote them. I'm not talking about me (just in case you thought I was). I'm not a cockeyed optimist, and there are days when i feel terrible about the state of our world, but overall, I'm a fairly hopeful person! When someone tries to tell me how bad things are, i remind them of how far we've come. Human beings can be beautiful, as this substack attests to over and over.
Yes. I think I’m also talking about writers and stories, though I’m aware I include myself in this. My stories seldom end with undiluted hope, they tend to have more of a minor key about them. Though I ‘hope’ they find a truth in amongst that. I found myself wondering if my stories are less universally appealing because the do not offer up positive ways forward in life for characters and readers. And I’m not even sure what George means the more I think about it.
To continue - is George saying that if we perpetuate fake truths and tropes, there is a dishonesty in this that is not helpful? It does not encourage the reader to rethink their version of the world, merely reinforces what they know already. If we can name things more clearly that have only been murky and unsaid before - the wolves at the door - then we, the reader, can find a new way forward, armed with a new truth and new knowledge. An example - as a prison visitor, I meet a lot of people who have done bad things, but I seldom meet a bad person. Prison reform is impossible if we consider prisoners to be bad people, but possible if we consider their acts to be bad, we can explore cause, environment etc. There is a way forward for our characters and readers if they have a truth that helps them move on. Though isn't tragedy about characters never acknowledging the truth of their situations/acts/characters...Gosh...I find a bit of clarity then confuse myself again!
Yes, I keep doing the same--clarity followed by confusion. My husband thinks perhaps the word 'hope' is the wrong word to be using here. Some stories, though bleak and (perhaps seemingly) hopeless, may still strike us as inspiring. Or cause our empathic hearts to open. I fear I've become tiresome, harping on this one little word "hope" in these threads. I'd rather think of stories as "moving me" in some way, of opening me up. I've a feeling that is the "hope" George speaks of. That stories will move us, if they are truthful. That both during and in the aftermath of bearing witness with the writer, our communing with them in the ether leads us to realize our shared humanity. And a feeling of shared humanity--I guess that's a hopeful thing! Clarity and confusion reign!
Yes - hope feels too specific - being moved by a truth and finding shared humanity is good.
I like that. Opening is a form of love which contains hope. This is such a great thread, arising from a fabulous post! Still in awe of the Timothy Snyder piece on Borowski. Haunted, humbled, hopefully open…
Let the story speak what the world and us show^^
Interesting take, Mary. It seems like some if not all ‘non-hopeful’ stories might still give off a glimmer of hope, if only in the sense that they might plant seeds of change or empathy in a heart or mind. (Thinking of “The Shawl,” among others. But perhaps I am being too optimistic.)
that's certainly one way of looking at it--the post-reading way--the possibility of subsequent change in the heart of the reader. I don't know if I can read The Shawl again. It ruined me when I read it years ago. The horror of it. I suppose an argument can be made that it elicits empathy in a reader and therefore can be thought of as eliciting hope. But the story, as I recall, is terrifying and bleak, and with the saddest of endings. Survival under the worst type of circumstances, if you can call such a thing surviving.
It is difficult to read, but it shines a light into and onto darkness.
Hi Mary, David, I was not familiar with The Shawl. Based on your comments here I just looked it up and read it online. What an amazing, powerful story. Thank you for bringing it to my attention!
I tend to think all great stories have tremendous power, whether that power comes from evoking hope or from some other angle.
Yes, powerful is right. There is actually another short story ("Rosa") that was written by Ozick a few years later (and also first published in the New Yorker). It's a continuation of Rosa's story--30 years after the events of The Shawl. A person can buy them together in one short book, which is called simply "The Shawl," though it contains both stories.
Hi Vishal, I’m glad you were able to find it online. I should have mentioned the author, Cynthia Ozick. I should read more of her work. I love your comment about great writing having or exuding tremendous power!
I share your skepticism that every truthful story is hopeful. But George did add what I think is an important qualifier: "at this point in my life." Maybe his view of truthfulness as hopeful is a function of an attitude he's adopted, by choice or by circumstance. I can imagine an attitude (which I'm not sure I share) in which one views life as, on balance, A Good Thing™, and therefore any truthfulness gets us closer to that goodness. It's a theory!
I think life, "on balance," is a very good thing! The question of whether truthfulness in fiction, regardless of the actions in that fiction, gets us "closer to goodness"--I don't know. We desire the truth, I know that. And I do understand that telling the truth is a supreme goal--and so writing a truthful book may possibly be construed as a hopeful thing for the human race. We do need witnesses. We do need to know what has happened in this world, the good and the bad. But hope? That's where i get stalled. George mentions a book of short stories by a man who survived Auschwitz and Dachau. He says that the author's "clear gaze, his willingness to say, again and again, "Thus it was," strikes him as "hopeful." But that author killed himself at the age 28. He wrote his truth, but the truth he wrote doesn't seem to have brought him any hope. He was a witness to atrocities, he gifted the world with his words, and then he couldn't live in this world any longer.
Ultimately, George is describing a subjective experience. It "strikes him" as hopeful.
You might ask the opposite question. Do those stories strike you as devoid of hope? Why did he write them at all? I don't think he wrote them to bring himself hope, but because he had some hope in the first place--hope that others would understand what he went through, hope that it wouldn't happen again. That he ultimately killed himself suggests that his hope eventually ran out. Well, that happens too.
I don't know why he wrote his stories, but i'm guessing he felt a strong need to put it all on paper, to document what he'd witnessed. Whether or not he thought it hopeful to do so, I just don't know. He may have felt the opposite. He may have wanted the world to know from a witness just how horrible humans can be, one to another, how sometimes survival means losing your humanity. Perhaps his stories were warnings to us, future readers.(Is that hopeful?) I don't know. I'm guessing he had no hope that it wouldn't happen again. But i really don't know anything.
Hi you two! You’ve sent me down (or maybe up) a fascinating rabbit hole. I had to know more. I just read a long article by Timothy Snyder (professor of history at Yale) called “The World of Tadeusz Borowski’s Auschwitz.” (New York Review of Books, 9/12/21.) (Adapted from the introduction to Here in Our Auschwitz and Other Stories, Yale University Press 2021.) I highly recommend this article. TB grew up in the shadows of the long knives wielded by Hitler and Stalin both. He possessed a form of sanity in bleak circumstances, but when things were not so bleak he was plagued by depression. It seems that he was at his best when imprisoned in Auschwitz, freed from his personal darkness. It doesn’t sound like he ran dry of hope, because he never really had any to start with. He might have been having a bad day. He’d tried to kill himself before. He was driven by love, to a large degree—love might be a form of hope, or might contain hope—or, maybe not. He was a realist, it seems, one who acknowledged that much if not all of what we think of as civilization is built on power, murder, theft, and enslavement. “He…shows us how we can normalize everything, how fascism becomes everyday life—and then shakes us free from the spell.” Many of us do not wish for that kind of clarity, though we need it like oxygen.
Thanks for the tip, David!
True, we don't know why he wrote the stories. We also don't know why he killed himself. This brings me back to my original thought that the attitude we bring to a story affects whether it strikes us as hopeful or not.
Primo Levi always comes to mind on life and death matters^^
I think every reader will have a unique experience with any story^^
There are only degrees of truth....perfection is elusive and so is truth^^
I love your thoughtful comments.
can't tell who this comment is directed to, but I, too, love all of the thoughtful comments around here.
It gets confusing with so many vertical lines and scrolling. It was directed at you, but yes, it could be said for everyone here.
Great 👍 comment and affirmation of just the “what” may be— maybe it’s the way Randy is still “a passionate advocate for, and defender of, his mother, a mean old thing who lived a few houses down from the store, a strongly self-certain lightning bolt of constant opining who presented as a fierce pair of black men’s glasses moving around in a tanned, agitated face.” This passage makes me 1/love Randy and love/pity his mom. I think hopefulness in the context of this discussion and in many GS stories consists of an engendered love/pity for his characters and for our sad, sick human race. Maybe?
I definitely see hope in Sparrow. And yes, i agree with you about George's stories--they open our hearts. As i wrote earlier, my harping on the word "hope" is probably growing tiresome. I'd prefer to use other words--hearts opening, empathizing, bearing witness, acknowledging, etc. I'm not sure all of these are akin to feeling optimistic about the future (as "hope" implies), but they are outcomes to be hoped for when reading.....
I don't think you're harping at all. I also never find you tiresome. I appreciate the close attention to the meaning and reverberations of the word for you and others. Kind of cliche of me but it's a "thing with feathers" in that it uplifts and is also useless alone, without "wings" albeit aesthetically pleasing. The wing being the muscle for it and the muscle behind hope being concentrated, compassionate action after one is lifted by it into a compulsion to extend care and help?
Thank you, Patty. Yes, what good are we alone? I remember reading To Have and Have Not when I was probably in the tenth grade, and this one line has stuck with me ever since: "No matter how a man alone ain't got no bloody fucking chance."
Oof. Heavy for sophomore year!! Lololol
no joke! I was going through my humphrey bogart phase. Saw the movie. Then decided to read the book. Completely different!!!!
I appreciate everyone's thoughts and comments about hope and truth. It's helped me find the words to describe what I think about this. (As so often happens in these discussions.) For me, the act of telling the truth, no matter whether that truth is about something dark or light, is a hopeful thing. When someone has the courage and self-knowledge to share a truth, I find hope in my fellow humans, because only by speaking the truth can we identify a problem, share a feeling, trust one another.
Mary, "When someone has the courage and self-knowledge to share a truth, I find hope in my fellow humans, because only by speaking the truth can we identify a problem, share a feeling, trust one another."
This is lovely, and reminds me of something that Dacher Keltner talks about in his book "Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life". Dasher studied the experience of awe in people from 26 countries around the world, and (surprisingly) he found the following:
" What most commonly led people to feel awe? Nature? Spiritual practice? Listening to music? In fact, it was other people’s courage, kindness, strength, or overcoming—actions of strangers, roommates, teachers, colleagues at work, people in the news, characters on podcasts, and our neighbors and family members. Around the world, we are most likely to feel awe when moved by moral beauty: exceptional virtue, character, and ability, marked by a purity and goodness of intention and action.
Over 95% of the moral beauty that stirred awe worldwide was in actions people took on behalf of others."
If you're interested in more info, here's an article he wrote, which talks about how he defines "moral beauty" (which includes literature!)
https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/whats_the_most_common_source_of_awe#:~:text=Around%20the%20world%2C%20we%20are,took%20on%20behalf%20of%20others.
love this. Thank you!
What a beautiful idea-that we find awe in each other. Thank you for your thoughts and for sharing the article.
Thank you for this, Mary. I agree. Most of my grappling here has been about distinguishing between a truthful story that ends on a hopeful note vs. a story that is truthful but does not end on a hopeful note. The hope in the latter case then comes from the reader, imbuing hope into a story that didn't provide it outright, but instead gave a reader the opportunity to feel hopeful by hearing someone else's truth (bleak as it may be), thereby feeling less alone and more connected. And perhaps, giving someone a new perspective on a problem. So when George wrote here that a truthful story is a hopeful one, I was trying to distinguish between the two. (Also, last week's discussion was about stories that end on a hopeful note.) As with you, the more I read these posts and think about all of it, the more clarity I am finding. Personally, I don't believe I'd write a story that doesn't end without at least a hint of hope in some way. But that's probably because of where I find myself in life. Thank you for your perspective and the clarity in which you articulated it.
“Feeling less alone and more connected” = hopeful. Thanks, Mary.
Mary g.— I've enjoyed following along as you've contemplated "hope" via a deep dive into the specifics of language and meaning... thank you for taking us all along on a very interesting journey!
Thank you for this. I can really get obsessed at times in these threads.... I appreciate your support!
"She's got gaps, i've got gaps. Together, we fill gaps." Rocky Balboa (1976)
Haha
Beautiful!
Thank you for this, George. I appreciate the connections you are making between a story being “hopeful” and the “relief” we feel when a story is truthful. Often, that sense of relief is tangible— something I feel in my chest or stomach after I’ve finished a great story.
And yes— with denial there is nowhere to go. (It is so depressing.) But with truthfulness as a starting point (even if it’s a painful one), there is room for hope.
Also—I love knowing that “Sparrow” woke you and insisted on being written! "The Book of Mistakes” was also written, upon waking, in the middle of the night. (Or rather, the first half of it was.)
Thank you again, for the detail and thoughtfulness of this response. "Sparrow" is SUCH a beautiful story— one that will stay with me for a long time.
Corinna I sincerely hope you are going to keep pitching up questions for George to field and comeback on... on the back of your dialogue I ordered 'The Book of Mistakes' and 'The Very Persistent Gappers of Frip" and, joy and twice joy, both have just been delivered to my porch on this early evening dusk descending Friday. What a start to the weekend!
Aww, thank you Rob— sounds like a lovely way to start off the weekend! We are a few hours behind you here, on PST, so no dusk yet... but I just got Lane Smith's newest picture book, called STICKLER, as well as a previously unpublished picture book by the late, great husband and wife team, Alice and Martin Provensen (called THE TRUTH ABOUT MAX, which is about their cat Max) which also looks to be a delight!
That's one of the magics of stories... they just keep on coming up over the horizon and once they get to be a blip on our reading radar there's every chance they'll make it onto wherever we like to read and re-read them.
I have really enjoyed The Book of Mistakes and am already thinking about how I might get to draw some other folks - of all ages - into enjoying its specific special magic!
You got it. Self-deception only deepens the wound.
I love how you explain things, George. Truly, you are remarkably clear in your thought processes...and this helps so much! Thank you, too, for the revised story list.
This sounds something like almost dying in order to start truly living: letting loose of all the baggage we carry around that pins us to the wall of frustration.
This was like “Being John Malkovich”. A cliche description, no doubt. But damn, I was just inside G. Saunder’s head.
Loved that movie. Strange, funny, wonderful.
Indeed! Also, I too, love coffee so much.
Dear George, I'm so glad that you addressed the craft/process of "Sparrow" here, as it was my favorite story of the whole collection and I have been meaning to reread it so as to study it -- why it worked so well. So I reread it just now before reading your post, and a couple of things struck me this time: 1) The first paragraph, in its specificity and inherent groundedness, is completely inviting/captivating, drawing me in and building trust in me from the very beginning -- key!; and 2) The story has this lovely, kind of old-school storyness about it: there's this, and then this happens, and then this happens. There's something so deeply satisfying about good old-fashioned linearity. Not to mention the way the arc of it topples expectations -- that takes it over the top. I agree with Mary G. that it's perfect. May we all sleep so as to have such propitious dreams!
In the late 60's I had an English professor named Ken Richardson who talked about things like seeing through a glass darkly, the veil of Maya, and Plato's Allegory of the Cave. He said the artists job is to somehow remove the dark glass, the veil, the shadows to provide a glimpse of what can't be seen directly. This whole thing - George's story and how it came to be and all of the comments here are something like standing in the presence of truth. What a privilege it is to be here.
Privilege is the very word Charlie, I so agree. What's more the privilege is not confined to being able to read what George and Corinna have offered us but rather its the inclusive, accessible to all who care to share privilege of being able to read the thoughts of so many articulate peers not just in comments here and there but in so many wonderful passages of conversational dialogue between peers. Brilliant, so much truth in what is being shared it really does feed what is hopeful in being a human.
Yes, thanks, Rob. Being able to so freely enter into a discussion like this and share what we can is indeed hopeful and the essence of being human.
Yes it is about clearly seeing all that you can and then look for more^^
Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral” comes to mind. The narrator starts out somewhere between grumpy and bemused and winds up dazzled, dazed, and blessed.
That is one of my favorite short stories. The ending… I’m going to read it now.
I found myself nodding along to this; not just the story (which is powerful), but George's internal process of discovery. There's a grace to letting the story breathe and giving yourself permission to explore it, instead of being urged to follow a cookie-cutter template or lean into a troupe. It takes courage to be hopeful.
It does indeed take courage 🌷🌷
Courage and willpower—i think that makes sense.
I feel like some kind of slow, ponderous tortoise,
I chomp the opening of this Newsletter and find myself having to post comment. I read on a bit and find Corinna writing '... you are not necessarily described as a “hopeful” writer. And yet, I find hope in your writing…' and I find myself having to share the following just sparked, passing thought... without writers writing there can be no hope; no more than without readers to read, reflect on and talk about what writers have written there can be any hope of human progress.
Slow, for sure, but making progress?
This is definitely one of my favorite stories. Thanks for exploring it. The emphasis is on ordinary flawed people in an extremely common setting almost pitiable but then really not at all. So, that moment of recognition of not at all is magic. Literature.
Many times I like to feel and see it without ever saying it, "I love you!"^^