ingejanse's review against another edition
4.0
Ik las collected stories altijd voordat ik in slaap viel. Dan werken mijn hersenen niet meer zo lekker en associëren ze wat vrijer dan normaal. Da's ideaal met dit boek, want de verhalen zitten echt barstensvol verspringende verhaallijnen, een constante aanwas van nieuwe namen en onlogische overgangen. Het resultaat: ik ging constant half dissocieren, waarbij verhaal en werkelijkheid door elkaar liepen. Soort gratis lsd, dus da's goud.
De verhalen zelf zijn, geloof ik, hit and miss. Het laatste verhaal is om te janken zo mooi, anderen waren chaos. Salters taalgebruik is van gruwelijke schoonheid. Elk woord lijkt een complete werkelijkheid onder zich te hebben liggen. Dat compenseert alleraardigst voor al die chaotische verhalen.
De verhalen zelf zijn, geloof ik, hit and miss. Het laatste verhaal is om te janken zo mooi, anderen waren chaos. Salters taalgebruik is van gruwelijke schoonheid. Elk woord lijkt een complete werkelijkheid onder zich te hebben liggen. Dat compenseert alleraardigst voor al die chaotische verhalen.
jdp85's review against another edition
3.0
There's a lot to digest here. 22 stories in just over 300 pages felt like a lot, if not a bit overwhelming, anyway. Some I found brilliant, others mediocre, but all were at the very least thought-provoking. Unfortunately, it's hard for me as an unmarried, annoyingly optimistic 29-year-old to relate to the nonagenarian Salter's recurring themes in these pages. Most readers will have known love and loss, but infidelity, divorce, aging, pervasive bitterness, and poorly veiled misogyny were the overarching impressions I took from these stories. Having said that, I thoroughly enjoyed 'Comet', 'Bangkok', 'Palm Court', and 'Last Night'. The latter, in fact, had in its scant 13 pages one of the most unexpected twists I've ever encountered in literature.
Here are a few of my favorite excerpts:
"'Ezra Pound. Do you know about Ezra Pound?' 'No.' 'He was a traitor. He broadcast for the enemy during the war. They should have shot him.' 'What happened to him?' 'They gave him a poetry prize.'"
"They ate dinner in silence. Her husband did not look at her. Her face annoyed him, he did not know why. She could be good-looking but there were times when she was not. Her face was like a series of photographs, some of which ought to have been thrown away. Tonight it was like that."
"He could hear the couple talking. The woman, blond and smooth-browed, was in a glittering silver top. They were going out for the evening, into the stream of lights, boulevards, restaurants brimming with talk. He had only a glimpse of them setting forth, the light on her hair, the cab door held open for her, and for a moment forgot that he had everything."
"She was a woman who lived a certain life. She knew how to give dinner parties, take care of dogs, enter restaurants. She had her way of answering invitations, of dressing, of being herself. Incomparable habits, you might call them. She was a woman who had read books, played golf, gone to weddings, whose legs were good, who had weathered storms, a fine woman whom no one now wanted."
"He stood up. He had done everything wrong, he realized, in the wrong order. He had scuttled his life. 'Anyway, there's one thing I can say truthfully. I'd do it all over again if I had the chance.'"
"Her face was visible in the glass like a woman's on a train, indifferent, alone. Her beauty was directed toward no one. She seemed not to see him, she was lost in her thoughts. Then, coldly, without a word, her eyes met his. They did not waver. In that moment he realized she was worth everything."
"Death was coming for Harry Mies. He would lie emptied, his cheeks rouged, the fine, old man's ears unhearing. There was no telling the things he knew. He was alone in the far fields of his life. The rain fell on him, he did not move."
"Nan Christie had decided to get married. She brought it up one evening. 'I just don't think so,' he finally said. 'You love me, don't you?' 'This isn't a good time to ask.' They lay silently. She was staring at something across the room. She was making him feel uncomfortable. 'It wouldn't work. It's the attraction of opposites,' he said. 'We're not opposites.' 'I don't mean just you and me. Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they're ready to leave.'"
"He realized then, as she sat there, a woman in his apartment at night, a woman he knew he loved, that she was really giving him one last chance. He knew he should take it. 'Ah, Noreen,' he said. After that night, she vanished. Not suddenly, but it did not take long. She married Bobby. It was as simple as a death, but it lasted longer. It seemed it would never go away. She lingered in his thoughts. Did he exist in hers? he often wondered. Did she still feel, even if only a little, the way he felt? The years seemed to have no effect on it. She was in New Jersey somewhere, in some place he could not picture. Probably there was a family. Did she ever think of him? Ah, Noreen."
"'What are you reading?' she asked. 'Gogol.' 'Gogol...' He closed his eyes and began to recite, 'In the carriage sat a gentleman, not handsome but not bad-looking, not too stout and not too thin, not old, but not so very young...' 'What a memory you have.' 'Listen, what novel is this? For a long time I used to go to bed early...' 'That's too easy, she said. She was sitting on the couch, her legs drawn up beneath her, the book near her hand."
"He was later to tell her that words were no accident, their arrangement and choice was like another voice speaking, a voice which revealed everything. Vocabulary was like fingerprints, he said, like handwriting, like the body which revealed the invisible soul, which expressed it. His face was dark, his features deep. He was part of another, a mysterious race. She was aware of how different her own face was, with its wide mouth, its grey eyes, slow, curious, clear as a stream. She was aware also that the dress she wore, the depth of the chairs, the dimensions of this room now afloat in evening, all of these were part of an immersion into the flow of a great life. Her heart was beating slowly but hard. She had never felt so sure of herself, so bewildered by the ease with which it was all happening."
"She was afraid of what she was doing. What was next? She knew about California but she had surrendered herself. 'What's going to happen?' she asked him. 'What do you mean?' 'Tell the truth. What is it you want?' 'You know what's going to happen.' 'What does that mean?' she said in despair. He took her in his arms. 'Don't,' she said. 'Don't, please.' She turned away. They had been married for three months when, after a series of arguments as a Thanksgiving dinner with friends, she opened a bedroom window and jumped to her death from the eighteenth floor. She had said nothing. She left no note."
Here are a few of my favorite excerpts:
"'Ezra Pound. Do you know about Ezra Pound?' 'No.' 'He was a traitor. He broadcast for the enemy during the war. They should have shot him.' 'What happened to him?' 'They gave him a poetry prize.'"
"They ate dinner in silence. Her husband did not look at her. Her face annoyed him, he did not know why. She could be good-looking but there were times when she was not. Her face was like a series of photographs, some of which ought to have been thrown away. Tonight it was like that."
"He could hear the couple talking. The woman, blond and smooth-browed, was in a glittering silver top. They were going out for the evening, into the stream of lights, boulevards, restaurants brimming with talk. He had only a glimpse of them setting forth, the light on her hair, the cab door held open for her, and for a moment forgot that he had everything."
"She was a woman who lived a certain life. She knew how to give dinner parties, take care of dogs, enter restaurants. She had her way of answering invitations, of dressing, of being herself. Incomparable habits, you might call them. She was a woman who had read books, played golf, gone to weddings, whose legs were good, who had weathered storms, a fine woman whom no one now wanted."
"He stood up. He had done everything wrong, he realized, in the wrong order. He had scuttled his life. 'Anyway, there's one thing I can say truthfully. I'd do it all over again if I had the chance.'"
"Her face was visible in the glass like a woman's on a train, indifferent, alone. Her beauty was directed toward no one. She seemed not to see him, she was lost in her thoughts. Then, coldly, without a word, her eyes met his. They did not waver. In that moment he realized she was worth everything."
"Death was coming for Harry Mies. He would lie emptied, his cheeks rouged, the fine, old man's ears unhearing. There was no telling the things he knew. He was alone in the far fields of his life. The rain fell on him, he did not move."
"Nan Christie had decided to get married. She brought it up one evening. 'I just don't think so,' he finally said. 'You love me, don't you?' 'This isn't a good time to ask.' They lay silently. She was staring at something across the room. She was making him feel uncomfortable. 'It wouldn't work. It's the attraction of opposites,' he said. 'We're not opposites.' 'I don't mean just you and me. Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they're ready to leave.'"
"He realized then, as she sat there, a woman in his apartment at night, a woman he knew he loved, that she was really giving him one last chance. He knew he should take it. 'Ah, Noreen,' he said. After that night, she vanished. Not suddenly, but it did not take long. She married Bobby. It was as simple as a death, but it lasted longer. It seemed it would never go away. She lingered in his thoughts. Did he exist in hers? he often wondered. Did she still feel, even if only a little, the way he felt? The years seemed to have no effect on it. She was in New Jersey somewhere, in some place he could not picture. Probably there was a family. Did she ever think of him? Ah, Noreen."
"'What are you reading?' she asked. 'Gogol.' 'Gogol...' He closed his eyes and began to recite, 'In the carriage sat a gentleman, not handsome but not bad-looking, not too stout and not too thin, not old, but not so very young...' 'What a memory you have.' 'Listen, what novel is this? For a long time I used to go to bed early...' 'That's too easy, she said. She was sitting on the couch, her legs drawn up beneath her, the book near her hand."
"He was later to tell her that words were no accident, their arrangement and choice was like another voice speaking, a voice which revealed everything. Vocabulary was like fingerprints, he said, like handwriting, like the body which revealed the invisible soul, which expressed it. His face was dark, his features deep. He was part of another, a mysterious race. She was aware of how different her own face was, with its wide mouth, its grey eyes, slow, curious, clear as a stream. She was aware also that the dress she wore, the depth of the chairs, the dimensions of this room now afloat in evening, all of these were part of an immersion into the flow of a great life. Her heart was beating slowly but hard. She had never felt so sure of herself, so bewildered by the ease with which it was all happening."
"She was afraid of what she was doing. What was next? She knew about California but she had surrendered herself. 'What's going to happen?' she asked him. 'What do you mean?' 'Tell the truth. What is it you want?' 'You know what's going to happen.' 'What does that mean?' she said in despair. He took her in his arms. 'Don't,' she said. 'Don't, please.' She turned away. They had been married for three months when, after a series of arguments as a Thanksgiving dinner with friends, she opened a bedroom window and jumped to her death from the eighteenth floor. She had said nothing. She left no note."
scarpuccia's review against another edition
4.0
The first few stories in this collection are absolutely ravishing. Sexual politics play a big part. No one stays happily married for long in James Salter's world. Men always have a roving eye and are usually willing to act on their appetite for something new, something younger. Women too are sometimes predatory. More often though they are sentimental and victims of the male craving to update to a more tight-skinned model. In a nutshell, he's not politically correct as a writer. There were times when his depictions of women made me uncomfortable. But it's not so much the subject matter of Salter's stories that makes him such a compelling writer as the beauty and wisdom of his writing. He's a fantastic stylist. And with one seemingly effortless stroke of his pen he can make you see the familiar with new depths of meaning.
There are duds in this collection, as usual in short story collections strategically inserted towards the end. So, as was the case with Lauren Groff's Florida, I began to forget how brilliant the opening stories were as I reached the home stretch. However, I've just begun Sport and Pastime and it's so brilliant that he has become one of my favourite writers.
There are duds in this collection, as usual in short story collections strategically inserted towards the end. So, as was the case with Lauren Groff's Florida, I began to forget how brilliant the opening stories were as I reached the home stretch. However, I've just begun Sport and Pastime and it's so brilliant that he has become one of my favourite writers.
rogerb's review
5.0
Salter is a remarkable discovery - I had never heard of him but he is an astonishing good writer. I deliberately took time over reading his collection of stories so that they did not all just merge with the night.
He has a very careful and interesting style - all the sleeve notes are true. A master of the oblique sentence at paragraph end, and examination of some extraordinarily difficult scenes.
I hope his novels are as good: sustaining that kind of interest and tension would be a triumph.
He has a very careful and interesting style - all the sleeve notes are true. A master of the oblique sentence at paragraph end, and examination of some extraordinarily difficult scenes.
I hope his novels are as good: sustaining that kind of interest and tension would be a triumph.
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