Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
I remember reading to Ray one of Nietzsche’s aphorisms, which I would use as an epigraph for
With Shuddering Fall
: “ ‘Whatever is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.’ ”
Ray asked me to repeat this.
“ ‘Whatever is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.’ ”
Jesuit-trained, the shrewdest of editors, Ray said: “ ‘Always’—I would circle ‘always,’ with a question mark.”
And then there was the morning when I called Ray—from a pay phone at a nearby gas station—(we were too poor, in our Sweet Gum Lane apartment, to afford a phone)—to tell him the good news, in fact the unbelievably good news:
By the North Gate
had been accepted for publication by a New York publisher known for its “left-leaning” books—a succession of novels by James T. Farrell, for instance, as well as Saul Bellow’s first novel
Dangling Man.
It had been something of a shock to receive a letter—in an envelope—and not a returned manuscript, in a manila package; more than a shock, to read the first line of the letter—
We are happy to inform you . . .
instead of the more common
We are sorry to inform you . . .
Yet more extraordinary, I would be receiving an advance of $500—to us at that time, the equivalent of at least $5,000.
Writing can be a descent into one’s deepest, most hidden and “profound” self, or selves; trying to be published, for a young writer, is not unlike fishing, casting out lines into an utterly murky mysterious stream in the hope of being “accepted”—the more fishing lines you cast out, the more desperation; yet also the more likely that something—something positive!—might happen one day. And so it was, with me.
In the turbulent and pitiless publishing waters of our era, what would be the fate of such a collection of “philosophically”-oriented short stories written by an unknown young woman titled
By the North Gate
, with a return address of Sweet Gum Lane, Beaumont, Texas?
What would be the fate of most “unsolicited” manuscripts sent to a New York publishing house?
Of course, the small independent family-owned Vanguard Press has long since vanished, its considerable backlist acquired by Random House.
That morning, calling Ray at college, my euphoria at such good news was dampened by a sudden rush of physical symptoms—my vision was blotched, my breath was shallow and my heartbeat erratic—my fingers and toes had gone icy-cold—bizarrely, my tongue was
numb
!—“I have good news but also bad news to tell you,” I told Ray, my teeth chattering, “—the good news is, my story manuscript has been accepted by Vanguard Press and the bad news is—I think that I am having a s-stroke . . .”
Ray asked me to describe my symptoms. Ray said, “You’re just happy, and excited. Congratulations!”
Joyce Carol Oates sincerely regrets that she is unable to read, still less comment upon, the many manuscripts, galleys, and books she receives, often of very high quality, which number into the thousands in the course of a year. She sincerely regrets being unable to enter into correspondences with individuals whom, in other circumstances, she would be delighted to know.
Joyce Carol Oates sincerely regrets that she cannot give blurbs, except in exceptional circumstances, for she is overwhelmed with requests.
Joyce Carol Oates sincerely regrets that, her life having unraveled like an old sock, she is unable to aid you in knitting up your own. Sincerely, she regrets!
With the acuity of sharks sensing blood in the water, vulnerable prey thrashing about heedlessly, in the weeks and months following Ray’s death many strangers—alas, not only just strangers—write to me with requests that begin with the inevitable/identical/heart-stopping words
I know that you must be terribly busy but . . .
Now that the volume of sympathy letters and cards has abated—and I have not had a “sympathy gift basket” from Harry & David for weeks—it seems that this other sort of mail, that might be called
supplicatory
, if not
precatory
, is increasing at an alarming rate.
I know that
,
deranged with grief
,
no doubt suicidal and in any case exhausted and not in your right mind
,
you might be prevailed upon to do a favor for me whom you scarcely know—but hurry! The deadline for dust jacket copy blurbs is next Monday.
The unexpected side of widowhood is a lack of patience—a rise in irritability—(as irritability is the first rung on the stepladder of hysteria)—and so I am inclined not only not to reply to most
supplicatory
letters but to dispose of them outside, at the green recycling barrel.
“Leave me alone! Why can’t you leave me alone!”
Sometimes I am fooled—“fooled” is the apt term—by a letter that purports to be sympathetic
So sorry to have heard about the death of your husband
but is soon revealed to be a request for one or another favor; several times, these requests have come from individuals whom Ray had published in
Ontario Review
. The most persistent is a New York artist who has asked me to write about his work for an upcoming exhibit catalogue and when I explained—initially, apologetically—that I was so exhausted, so overwhelmed with responsibilities in the wake of Ray’s death, and far behind on my own work, that I simply could not do this, he wrote back to say
But the deadline wouldn’t be until November.
How like predator sharks these seem to me! How I resent them! Not just their aggressive callousness but their naiveté in imagining that any publication of theirs, any achievement, will make the slightest difference in their lives, or in the lives of others.
Sometimes I am so upset, I pace through the house striking my fists together lightly, or not-so-lightly. I try very hard to imagine how Ray would react, if he were here to advise me.
Honey
,
you’re just excited. Don’t take these people too seriously.
“But—how can I not take them seriously? All this—these people—are taking up most of my life now.”
Of course not. You’re exaggerating. Don’t upset yourself needlessly.
“But—what can I do with all these letters? All these—manuscripts, galleys? I hardly have time to do finances—‘death-duties’—you left me so suddenly. How can I live my life, without you?”
Now there is silence. I have spoken heedlessly, hurtfully. In life, I would not have spoken in such a way to my stricken husband.
You will have to. You have no choice.
This will be my new mantra. I hope that it will drown out another recent mantra that has gotten into my head like a moth trapped in a cobweb—a late remark of James Joyce—(is it from Joyce’s massive tombstone
Finnegans Wake
?)
—“How small it’s all!”
. . . will have to. Have no choice.
And so, what I think I will do—what I
will do
—is see my Pennington doctor, and acquire from him a prescription for anti-depressants.
Where there is blood in the water, yet there may be a thrashing, desperate-to-survive creature. I will be that creature, I will not give up.
You will have to. You have no choice.
So near to death—yet still “alive”—the widow’s great surprise is that she finds herself in a vast company of what might be called the
walking wounded.
Of course, Ray and I knew that certain of our friends were taking anti-depressants. These were not secrets but were spoken of openly, conversationally—one or two had even written about their use of anti-depressants which had been both beneficial and not-so-beneficial, on the Internet. (One, a close poet-friend, experienced considerable initial benefits from an anti-depressant called Paxil, but, after a few years, when the drug began to lose its efficacy, terrifying side effects.) But now, in my nocturnal e-mail correspondence especially, I am learning that an unexpectedly high percentage of people I know are in fact “on” anti-depressants.
What a shock! Some of the most accomplished, confident-seeming, healthy-minded and overall
cheerful
individuals of my acquaintance are not only taking anti-depressants but claim that they “could not live without” them; in fact, they are so experienced in psychotropic medications, from years of experimentation, that they provide detailed information for me, lists of medications, benefits and side effects. One of my most accomplished and
cheery
woman friends confides in me that she has become an expert in this area and will tell me exactly what to say to my doctor, so that he will prescribe not only the ideal anti-depressant but a secondary medication to be taken with the anti-depressant. And everyone cautions me—the medication won’t begin to have an effect for as long as two weeks, and even then, its effect might be erratic for a while.
Suffer
,
Joyce! Ray was worth it.
How ashamed I am, to be so weak! For this is the great discovery of my posthumous life—
I am not strong enough to continue a life to no purpose except getting through the day followed by getting through the night. I am not strong enough to believe that so minimal a life is worth the effort to protract it.
Among the several anti-depressants friends have recommended is “Cymbalta”—a melodic name to suggest a distant planet not yet contaminated by the neuroses of
Homo sapiens
. And so in mid-April at about the time that it has become abundantly clear that a new season is imminent, and the freezing-numbing cold season of Ray’s death is rapidly vanishing, I begin, with much hesitation, and some hope, a regimen of one 30-milligram tablet a day.
Added to which, in the night, an improvised assortment of supposed sleep-aids—mostly non-prescription like Benadryl.
Added to which, through the day, a conscious effort to
take on a new non-morbid attitude for instance
:
I have been in a car crash
,
and I am recovering . . .
Joyce Carol Oates author of . . .
Rising from my seat—ascending a stage—this eerie muffled sense of language being spoken at a distance—as in a vacuum in which there is no sound only just vibrations to be deciphered by some mechanism in the brain—and blinding light, stage-light, obliterating the audience so that this might be—where?—how strange to be applauded, I know there is no mockery in this applause, as there has been no mockery in the lavishly generous things that have been said of me by the woman who has introduced me; this is not the domain of the ugly lizard-thing sneering
Here is a woman utterly alone. Here is a woman utterly unloved. Here is a woman of no more worth than a pail of garbage. Why are you applauding such a woman
,
are you mad?
Somehow it has come to be April—nearly two months since Ray died.
I feel that I should apologize to Ray. I feel stricken with guilt, that I am still here, and still more or less the person I’d been before he died—while his life has ended. All that was
his
, irrevocably lost.
There is something shallow, vulgar—trivial—about this sort of survival, I am thinking.
If you understand what I am saying, then you understand.
If not, not.
You
, who are healthy-minded.
You
, imagining yourself safe on a floating island amid a Sargasso Sea of sorrow.
I am not resentful on my own behalf—I am thinking that yes, this is what I deserve. But I am resentful on Ray’s behalf.
At so oblique an angle to reason, let alone rationality, the widow speaks a language others can’t understand. Like the aptly named black widow spider, the (human) widow is best avoided.
Gently I am being nudged awake—out of my Cymbalta-zombie state by the expectations of an audience here in Camden, New Jersey—on the Rutgers campus like a floating island amid the utterly depressing war-torn slum of this most economically depressed/crime-ridden of American cities.
I am thinking of how, not far from this podium, in the small wood frame house he’d bought for himself, restored now as an arts center, Walt Whitman lived out the final years of what had been a life of surpassing exuberance—you might say, the most exuberant of poet-lives. Our greatest chronicler of the American soul in its expansive, outward mode, as his contemporary Emily Dickinson was the greatest chronicler of the American soul in its withdrawing, inward mode. Oh Walt Whitman—could we only believe you, as we admire you, and yearn to draw you inside us as our best, bravest, most optimistic self:
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death . . .
All goes onward and outward . . . and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
—“Song of Myself”
Earlier this evening, amid a buzz of voices, convivial laughter, a buffet dinner in a Rutgers-Camden dining hall with fellow participants at the festival, I experienced a moment of some distress—a precarious moment when the Cymbalta-daze seemed not to be adequate—finding myself rooted to the spot staring at slabs of blood-leaking meat on trays adorned with wilted lettuce leaves—and staring at the hearty convivial
cheery
individuals—as it happened, men—who were spearing this meat onto their plates, with no more hesitation at its bloody nature than a lion would feel tearing out the throat of its living prey; but there was a sister-mourner at the dinner, a poet/memoirist/translator with whom I could speak intimately and frankly; this woman in the cruel twilit state of being
not-yet-a-widow
—whose husband has been afflicted with early-onset Alzheimer’s.
Rachel has written about this ordeal. It is not a secret, I am not violating her confidence. Amid the hearty carnivores in the dining hall we cling to each other like sisters. Terrible as losing a husband is, there is perhaps a worse predicament in losing the person he was; living with him on a daily basis as he deteriorates; feeling that you have no choice finally, as Rachel felt, but to arrange for him to be hospitalized, in the face of protests from his relatives and friends who have no idea what you are experiencing . . . Rachel is very thin, her skin is very pale, she too is one of the
walking wounded
. I would like to comfort her: “You’ve had a trauma. You must take care of yourself.”
She’d known Ray, as an editor; I’d never met her husband but had heard of his exemplary career, particularly as a lecturer, at Columbia.
Unvoiced between us is the question—which of us has been less lucky.
To lose your husband suddenly, or—to lose your husband by slow excruciating degrees.
To lose your husband amid a flood of sympathy, or—to lose your husband amid accusations and recriminations.
I wonder—has Rachel glimpsed the basilisk, in the corner of her eye? In the corner of her soul? Has Rachel heard the basilisk perversely gifted with language, its cruel jeering voice?
I dare not ask. I am afraid of what Rachel might say.
Nor do I ask her, as I might, if she’s taking medication for her anxiety/depression/insomnia.
How sympathetic I feel, for Rachel! Or so I think. For in my Cymbalta-zombie-state I am never sure if I am actually “feeling” much of anything or rather just simulating what a normal person might feel in these circumstances; as I have become adept at impersonating
Joyce Carol Oates
as some sort of post-Whitman beacon-of-light of exuberance and optimism.
Joyce Carol Oates
,
author of . . .
But maybe this is a mistake. This evening, in this place.
Maybe this time, I will really break down. Maybe even the Cymbalta-haze will fail me.
For this is—this was—Ray’s favorite restaurant in New York City. For we’d come here numerous times, in sunny weather; once or twice with friends, but usually alone. One or another of my birthdays we’d celebrated here, lunch in the Boathouse Restaurant in Central Park, at a table overlooking a pond upon which swans and other waterfowl paddled about companionably; and in the dark water, if you looked closely, you could see turtles just beneath the surface, surprisingly large turtles of a size and archaic appearance to suggest creatures of a primeval era.
The occasion is a fund-raiser for the Autistic Children’s Association. I may have been invited to be the featured speaker because I have a younger, autistic sister but perhaps mostly because I am a close friend of a close friend of the organizers, and I am available.
To heighten the air of the
quasi-real
, I am reading a poem I’d written years ago and probably have not read aloud to any audience in the past twenty years—“Autistic Child”: a short poem dedicated to my autistic sister Lynn who has been institutionalized in Amherst, New York, since the early 1960s . . . When the audience asks me about the poem, and about my sister, I tell them frankly that, in the 1950s when Lynn was diagnosed as autistic, it was a time when little was known about autism but much was speculated: a Freud-saturated era in which mothers of autistic children, like mothers of homosexuals, were “blamed” for their children’s aberrations.
There’s a stricken silence when I say this. For
blame
is the most natural of responses, when one’s life has shattered.
Blame
whoever is closest, and vulnerable—a mother.
This cold wet windy evening! It seems unbelievable that this rain-lashed place is the same Boathouse Restaurant that Ray and I so liked.
It’s a pitilessly cold wet windy evening—April 27, 2008. I am thinking of a happier, sunnier time—Ray and me holding hands, at our table overlooking the pond.
Should we rent a rowboat?
Maybe—some other time.
I am thinking of our own, smaller pond in the woods behind our house at 9 Honey Brook Drive which Ray stocked with turtles from a “wild-life pond-supplier” in Wisconsin. These turtles delighted us by basking luxuriantly in the sunshine on a fallen log Ray had dragged into the pond at an angle, for that purpose; eagerly I would look for the turtles to display themselves so that I could call to Ray
Come look! Your turtles.
Ray stocked the pond with tadpoles, too—very successfully. (When you approach the pond, in warm weather, dozens of frogs leap into the water croaking in alarm.) He had conspicuously less success stocking the pond with small, beautifully colored koi, that, within weeks, were devoured by a rapacious spindly-legged great blue heron descending upon their tranquil setting like a heraldic/demonic creature in a Bosch landscape.
One by one the beautiful koi were devoured by the predator bird until they were all gone—and the bird flew away.
Remember the koi?
Remember the great blue heron?
Remember how shocked we were? How naive?
Remember how you [Ray] ran down to the pond to chase the heron away
,
shouting and waving your arms? How the heron flew into the trees a few yards away
,
unalarmed
,
waiting?
So sad! Our beautiful fish!
After the fund-raiser, I am told that the evening was a “great success.” I am told that it “meant a great deal” for the parents and families of autistic children to hear me speak so openly about my sister and my parents and to answer any question they asked me. And I am thinking of a line of Anne Sexton which the suicide-obsessed poet had adopted as a kind of mantra—
Live or die but don’t spoil the world for others.
***
And now this morning, I am staring into the courtyard.
Dimly I am registering
There is something very wrong here.
Where, pre-Cymbalta, I would have been anxious and upset now I am dull-anesthetized registering
Ray’s tulips have been decapitated
as if the statement were uttered by a computer voice, at a distance.
It’s as if someone entered the courtyard with a scythe and cut off the tops of Ray’s tulips—you would not be able to identify these raw stunted green plants as tulips any longer.
A long time is required for me to absorb this. Not that I am excited or upset—I am not—but in even my Cymbalta-daze state I understand that something terribly sad has happened here, and it is irrevocable.
Deer entered the courtyard in the night. Deer nudged the gate open—no doubt, I’d failed to shut it tightly—and devoured Ray’s beautiful tulips in a matter of seconds chewing and swallowing as negligently and as mechanically as if they were devouring weeds.
I would cry, except I have no tears left.
For the first time thinking—“It’s just as well, Ray isn’t here to see this. He would be so upset.”
Just as well. Ray isn’t here.
This bad-headache morning I am at the front door calling for our elder tiger cat—“Reynard?
Reynard
!”
In the night, Reynard seems to have vanished.
Except that I seem to have no “emotions”—in the Cymbalta-daze I can barely remember what “emotions” are—I would be stricken with anxiety, and guilt.
“Reynard? Where are you? Breakfast. . . .”
My voice trails off in mid-air. How foolish and plaintive the word
breakfast.
Once a sleek young cat with a burnished-orange coat, a winning way of nudging his head against our ankles and cuddling close and purring when we sat together on the sofa, Reynard had been Ray’s favorite; Ray had been the one to choose him from a litter of kittens at a shelter and bring him home to surprise me.
This might have been twelve years ago. How quickly those years have passed!
Reynard hadn’t recovered from the loss of Ray—a presence he could not have named or defined but whose absence he keenly missed.
In past weeks he’d begun to age visibly. So rapidly all remnants of kittenhood faded from him. His head seemed over-large on his body, his legs had grown spindly. Overnight it seemed he’d lost weight—his ribs showed through his fur, and his spine.
His spine! Petting Reynard, I felt the vertebrae, with a shudder.
The last time the vet had checked Reynard, in the fall, she’d said that Reynard was an “older” cat but “bearing up well”—it isn’t likely that she would say this now.
From time to time lately he has seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Last night I carried him to the living room sofa—to Ray’s end of the sofa—thinking that he might sink into a deep cat-slumber and expire peacefully in my arms—but he did not.
For a while Reynard lay panting as I tried to comfort him but then he began to struggle to be freed, feebly at first, then more actively, until at last his sharp claws began to scratch me, I had to release him.
It was annoying to me, as it was upsetting, to see how eagerly Reynard wanted to escape from me. At the rear terrace door agitating to be let outdoors though it was a cold night, and raining. And so I slid open the terrace door and Reynard bounded out with surprising swiftness, for an elderly cat, and in the night several times I went to call him, at the rear door, and at the front door; but he never returned; nor was he lying on the front stoop in the morning in his usual position, patiently waiting to be let indoors to be fed.
In the night, groggy in my Cymbalta-daze that never quite translates into actual sleep, I seemed to think that Reynard was lying at the foot of my bed, pressing against my leg.
“Reynard? Where are you . . .”
When I search for Reynard outside, I am horrified to discover him lying just a few yards away from the rear door through which he’d bounded the night before, stretched out against the side of the house in such a position that I could not see him from inside.