Denis Johnson’s Train Dreams Is a Perfect Novella

With blunt grace, Denis Johnson navigates the line between realism and the American frontier myth in his perfect novella Train Dreams. In a slim 116 pages, Johnson communicates one man’s life story with a depth and breadth that actually lives up to the book’s blurb’s claim to be an “epic in miniature.”  I read it in one sitting on a Sunday afternoon, occasionally laughing aloud at Johnson’s wry humor, several times moved by the pathos of the narrative, and more than once stunned at the subtle, balanced perfection of Johnson’s prose, which inheres from sentence to paragraph to resonate throughout the structure of the book.

The opening lines hooked me:

In the summer of 1917 Robert Grainier took part in an attempt on the life of a Chinese laborer caught, or anyway accused of, stealing from the company stores of the Spokane International Railway in the Idaho Panhandle.

Three of the railroad gang put the thief under restraint and dragged him up the long bank toward the bridge under construction fifty feet above the Moyea River. A rapid singsong streamed from the Chinaman voluminously. He shipped and twisted like a weasel in a sack, lashing backward with his one free fist at the man lugging him by the neck.

The matter-of-fact violence here complicates everything that follows in many ways, because Grainier it turns out is pretty much that rare thing, a good man, a simple man who tries to make a life in the Idaho Panhandle at the beginning of the 20th century. The rest of the book sees him trying—perhaps not consciously—to somehow amend for the strange near-lynching he abetted.

Grainier works as a day laborer, felling the great forests of the American northwest so that a network of trains can connect the country. Johnson resists the urge to overstate the obvious motifs of expansion and modernity here, instead expressing depictions of America’s industrial growth at a more personal, even psychological level:

Grainier’s experience on the Eleven-Mile Cutoff made him hungry to be around other such massive undertakings, where swarms of men did away with portions of the forest and assembled structures as big as anything going, knitting massive wooden trestles in the air of impassable chasms, always bigger, longer, deeper.

Grainier’s hard work keeps him from his wife and infant daughter, and the separation eventually becomes more severe after a natural calamity, but I won’t dwell on that in this review, because I think the less you know about Train Dreams going in the better. Still, it can’t hurt to share a lovely passage that describes Grainier’s courtship with the woman who would become his wife:

The first kiss plummeted him down a hole and popped him out into a world he thought he could get along in—as if he’d been pulling hard the wrong way and was now turned around headed downstream. They spent the whole afternoon among the daisies kissing. He felt glorious and full of more blood than he was supposed to have in him.

The passage highlights Johnson’s power to move from realism into the metaphysical and back, and it’s this precise navigation of naturalism and the ways that naturalism can tip the human spirit into supernatural experiences that makes Train Dreams such a strong little book. In the strange trajectory of his life, Grainier will be visited by a ghost and a wolf-child, will take flight in a biplane and transport a man shot by a dog, will be tempted by a pageant of pulchritude and discover, most unwittingly, that he is a hermit in the woods. In Johnson’s careful crafting, these events are not material for a grotesque picaresque or a litany of bizarre absurdities, but rather a beautiful, resonant poem-story, a miniature history of America.

Train Dreams is an excellent starting place for those unfamiliar with Johnson’s work, and the book will rest at home on a shelf with Steinbeck’s naturalist evocations or Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy. I have no idea why the folks at FS&G waited almost a decade to publish it (Train Dreams was originally published in a 2002 issue of The Paris Review), but I’m glad they did, and I’m glad the book is out now in trade paperback from Picador, where it should gain a wider audience. Very highly recommended.

Reading — Gerhard Richter

Portrait of Fyodor Dostoevsky — Felix Vallotton

Finnegans Wake (With Bear)

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Boy Reading an Adventure Story — Norman Rockwell

Typed Notes for Train Dreams — Denis Johnson

(Via).

Cover Art for New David Foster Wallace Essay Collection Both Flesh and Not

Not really news, but I somehow missed this: Both Flesh and Not has a cover, apparently, as well as a product description:

Beloved for his epic agony, brilliantly discerning eye, and hilarious and constantly self-questioning tone, David Foster Wallace was heralded by both critics and fans as the voice of a generation. BOTH FLESH AND NOT gathers 15 essays never published in book form, including “Federer Both Flesh and Not,” considered by many to be his nonfiction masterpiece; “The (As it Were) Seminal Importance of Terminator 2,” which deftly dissects James Cameron’s blockbuster; and “Fictional Futures and the Conspicuously Young,” an examination of television’s effect on a new generation of writers.

Both Flesh and Not is due around Thanksgiving this year.

Two Deformed Heads — Wenceslas Hollar

Book Shelves #22, 5.27.2012

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Book shelves series #22, twenty-second Sunday of 2012: Tolkien, Faulkner, McCarthy

As always, sorry for the glare. Shooting this case head on is almost impossible because of the windows on the other side of the room. Anyway.

I’ve read everything by Cormac McCarthy with the exception of his screenplay for The Gardener’s Son, which I found a week or two and picked it up. I don’t own a copy of No Country for Old Men because I haven’t found one that isn’t a movie tie-in.

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This copy of The Lord of the Rings—my first—was a kind gift from some friends we were staying with in Melbourne (the one in Australia, not Florida).

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I’ve read it at least four times; I have other copies of LoTR and have read them too. It’s probably the book I’ve read the most, although I haven’t read it since 2002. This copy is kindly inscribed:

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There’s a slim space on the shelf that currently holds a few books that I’ve been meaning to read:

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“They Hate Me More Than I Hate Them” — Michel Houellebecq on Critics and the Press

INTERVIEWER

What about your critics? Can you just sum up briefly what you hold against the French press?

HOUELLEBECQ

First of all, they hate me more than I hate them. What I do reproach them for isn’t bad reviews. It is that they talk about things having nothing to do with my books—my mother or my tax exile—and that they caricature me so that I’ve become a symbol of so many unpleasant things—cynicism, nihilism, misogyny. People have stopped reading my books because they’ve already got their idea about me. To some degree of course, that’s true for everyone. After two or three novels, a writer can’t expect to be read. The critics have made up their minds.

From his Paris Review interview.

Interrupted Reading — Camille Corot

Talking Heads, Live in Rome 1980 (Full Concert)

Max Roach — Jean-Michel Basquiat

“Jimber-jawed Serge” and Other Names from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Notebooks

A grand duke—“Jimber-jawed Serge.”
Name: Umphadel Piluski
Gangster Salve Spitale—Saliva Spit.
Gooshoofenstein Von Beasinghausen
Meglomania McCarthy
English clubman named Cumbersom
Names Lee Spurgeon, Stoner, Mortimer, Flieshhacker, Henry P. Jacques. Borre.
Bryon Appledeck
Name for movie house “What’s at the Dementia?”
Mr. Schlchgd from Notre Dame in novel.
Beauty boy Johnston
Name Howya Bartlett
Joe Crusoe
Hummer for name
The Marquise de la Close d’Hirondelle
Tookey Ledoux
Harry Fantum
George Gratteciel
Marylyn Miller Swann, Sherlock Holmes Swann
Futility Trust Company
Name of “La Paix” changed to “Thropaca”
Grandfather called Mo’papa

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Notebooks

The Virgin Reading — Vittore Carpaccio

Ed Sanders and a Drunken Jack Kerouac on William F. Buckley’s Firing Line in 1968

RIP — In Honor of My Desktop PC, 2002-2012