The recent passing of James Salter saddened me, especially
since I have been so lazy in getting around to reading his fiction. He spent
his entire adult life writing from his heart and I have taken far too long getting
around to reading it. I’d read only two
of his novels to date.
Light Years is perhaps his most renowned work, and rightly
so. Salter is a writer’s writer. I don’t think I’ve read better writing
anywhere, anytime. I’m not sure it all
adds up a great book, but paragraph after paragraph are simply stunning.
 |
| A master |
You can pick just about any passage, but here’s one chosen at random from near the end of the novel. It’s about the main male character, late in
life, alone on a cruise to Europe:
Viri dined at the second sitting. He had a drink at the bar,
where people entered with cries of greeting to the bartender. In the corridor
were women of fifty, dressed for dinner, their cheeks rouged. Two of them sat
near him. While one talked, the other ate long, triangular bread and butter
pieces, tow bites to each. He read the menu and a poem of Verlaine’s on the
back. The consommé arrived. It was nine-thirty. He was sailing to Europe.
Beneath him as he lifted his spoon, fish were gliding black as ice in a
midnight sea. The keel crossed over them like a comb of thunder.
And Salter writes about sex better than anyone I’ve
read. In this book the writing is not especially explicit (as it is in A Sport and A Pastime) , but he gets to the crucial point, every time. He understands the significance and manages to communicate the
essence. I’ve never read anyone quite
like that.
The story is a straightforward one about the history of a couple, from young
adulthood to old age. Salter maintains a
very objective point of view. We don’t
see much drama first-hand. Instead, we
get a view from elsewhere, observation after the fact, and much
reflection. The result can feel
detached, and that’s the main downside of his writing. We don’t so much feel the experience as the
ripples and consequences of the experience. We are left knowing we have witnessed lives honestly led.
I don’t know how else to say it. The writing is phenomenal. It’s a tour de force. The writing itself almost overwhelms the
book. As when you read poetry, just
savor every moment. You hold in your
hand a finely chiseled piece of art.
Enjoy each moment.
So sad that he is gone.
