The American Century: Literature since 1945 703serious than death.” That remark, coined by Harry Crews, could act as an epigraph
to the work of many of the dirty realists. For that matter, it could act as an epigraph
to the work of the first and finest of them, Raymond Carver (1938–1988). During
his lifetime, Carver published several collections of short stories, among them Will
You Be Quiet, Please? (1976), What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (1981),
Cathedral (1984), and Where I’m Calling From (1988). Terse and toughly graceful,
these stories sometimes recall the work of Hemingway in the way the writer uses
omission, the spaces between the words to catch evanescent, elusive feelings. They
also resemble the early short stories of Hemingway in particular, in their quiet
stoicism, their allegiance to the concrete, their cleaving to the stark surfaces and
simple rituals of everyday life. What is remarkable about Carver’s stories is the way
they can combine weariness with wonder, an acknowledgment of the sheer grind
and cruelty of life, especially for the poor, with the occasional moment of relief,
revelation, the awareness of possibility. So, in a story called “A Small, Good Thing,” a
small boy is killed in a road accident just before his birthday. The cake ordered for
the birthday celebration is, naturally enough, not picked up by the parents. The
baker, not knowing the reason, is outraged, and starts making a series of abusive
phone calls. Confronted by the angry, heartbroken parents at his bakery, all he can
say is, “I’m just a baker,” “I’m sorry. Forgive me, if you can.” And a little more: he can
offer them some freshly baked rolls. “Eating is a small, good thing in a time like this,”
he tells the mother and father of the dead boy. It is not much, next to nothing in a
dark world, but it is not nothing. The three sit together in the clean, well-lighted
place of the bakery, eating and talking. And the parents, the story concludes, “did not
think of leaving.”
Realism slips into stylistic minimalism in the work of Carver and the dirty realists.
In A Fan’s Notes (1968) by Frederick Exley (1929–1992), a book reflecting the
disturbances of a life of divorce, alcoholism, and recurrent mental illness, it slithers
into autobiography. In Last Exit to Brooklyn (1964) by Hubert Selby, Jr. (1928–2004),
a vivid, sometimes obscene account of the violence and corruption of contemporary
urban life, it slides into Gothic documentary. It has often been the style of choice for
writers specializing in a particular milieu, trying to capture the way not all but
certain particular Americans live now. So, J. F. Powers (1917–1999) has used it to
record the Catholic parish world (Morte D’Urban (1962)), Alison Lurie, Randall
Jarrell (Pictures from an Institution (1954)), and Howard Nemerov (The Homecoming
Game (1957)) have all deployed it to describe life on the university campus. And
James Gould Cozzens (1903–1978) employed it to explore the worlds of the military
(Guard of Honor (1948) and law (By Love Possessed (1957)). It also remains an
invaluable form or style for examining political or cultural conflict. Peter Matthiessen
(1927–), for instance, has used it in At Play in the Fields of the Lord (1965) to chart
the invasion of more primitive, natural environments by the destructive forces of
supposedly civilized cultures. And Paul Theroux (1941–) has found it useful in his
portraits in fiction (Saint Jack (1973), Mosquito Coast (1982)) and nonfiction
(The Great Railway Bazaar (1975), Sailing Through China (1984)) of the often
abrasive encounters between old worlds and new. Outside of certain genre reading,GGray_c05.indd 703ray_c 05 .indd 703 8 8/1/2011 7:31:40 PM/ 1 / 2011 7 : 31 : 40 PM