ALR Summer Book Club: Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (both the original and final manuscripts)

Although Raymond Carver may compare to the “indie band that has become so popular and influential that it’s no longer cool” (see last week’s post), he still merits two weeks in the American Literary Review Blog spotlight. And why not? This indie band is popular because of talent. Carver did not lip-sync his way into undergraduate textbooks. He knows something about writing—something the rest of us should pay attention to. And so we are. Last week, we looked at Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? This week’s focus is What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (the final book and the manuscript version).

The same kinds of techniques that impressed Zach continue to impress me in this week’s reading. Carver uses minimalism and open-endings to draw in readers. As some of his titles demonstrate, his writing isn’t always the most straight-forward or concise. But it’s accurate and means exactly what Carver wants it to mean (let’s not get into literary theory . . . ). The reader knows exactly what Carver’s talking about and why (until it comes to some of the endings, of course). Carver presents only the necessary facts and does not spend much time describing the woman behind the check-out counter or the green shrub that grows next to the front door. He does nothing of the sort.

Instead, he makes statements such as “in this manner, the issue was decided” (303) from “Popular Mechanics.” This single line tells the reader that a baby dies by landing on a lit stove—a very unpleasant matter that does not require images of burning skin or terrorized screams. The reader can imagine pain and gruesome details well-enough without additional help. Everyone experiences pain, and everyone has the ability to cause pain or to make a mistake. These pains and mistakes become the topic for much of Carver’s writings. He chooses to hone in on the pivotal moments in peoples’ lives—the moments that start a new course. And, most of the time, these changes are not seen as positive from the characters’ points-of-view.

For instance, the story “Gazebo” centers on a husband’s affair that leads to the disintegration of his marriage. The narrator says that he and his wife “fouled” their lives and “were getting ready for a shake-up” (238) even though the husband claims to be the only person in error (along with the maid). The husband cheats, and the two begin to disregard all of their responsibilities and try to make the affair right or disappear. But this is not possible. The man’s actions begin an unstoppable course.

In “Sacks,” a father speaks to his son about how he goes for such a long time without “breaking any rules,” but suddenly cheats on his wife. Even he can’t explain the cause. In neither of these (and in most of) Carver’s stories, the narrators regret the “bad” decisions made. Carver does not celebrate these “rebellious” actions, but shows how all people are capable of acting out of character and that—sometimes—the consequences of said-mistakes change everything in a life. Carver defines those unavoidable human moments of life. Not all pain comes from mistakes, though, and shows up whether we “deserve” it or not. Topics of Carver’s stories also include childhood cancer, growing apart, and old age.

No matter the topic, though, Carver only includes details that matter (as stated earlier). Just as with Tobias Wolff, Carver’s stories challenge me to include only pertinent details (a kind of tricky thing to do). As Mr. Vande Zande pointed out last week, all of Carver’s minimalism and partiality to everyday heartbreaks solidify at the end of his stories. In the “Tell the Women We’re Going,” Carver describes the relationship of lifelong friends (Bill and Jerry) and the aspects of life they’ve shared (and that’s pretty much everything). But something changes at the end. The two men hit on two girls (their ages aren’t given) and the narrator believes that this is a kind of innocent event (as innocent as adultery can be).

Carver shocks the reader in the very last paragraph of the story: “He never knew what Jerry wanted. But it started and ended with a rock. Jerry used the same rock on both girls, first on the girl called Sharon and then on the one that was supposed to be Bill’s” (264). Bill and Jerry did not share this event and Bill is left trying to figure out how it all happened. And so is the reader. The events are clear, but their meaning is not—just as in real life. Meaning in life—and in stories—cannot be forced.

The open-ended stories that Carver uses to gently lead his reader to meaning tend to be stronger in the final version of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love? The final version of the manuscript includes a one more story and a different mix of the others. What strikes me most about the changes Carver made to the stories does involve details given and the endings (one the same in some instances). In “Why Don’t You Dance?,” the final version includes this description of the homeowner:

“The man came down the sidewalk with a sack from the market. He had sandwiches, beer, whiskey. He saw the car in the driveway and the girl on the bed. The saw the television set going and the boy on the couch” (225).

This version includes much less detail about the man than the original:

“Max came down the sidewalk with a sack from the market. He had sanwiches, beer, and whiskey. He had continued to drink through the afternoon and had reached a place where now the drinking seemed to begin to sober him. But there were gaps. He had stopped at the bar next to the market, had listened to a song on the jukebox, and somehow it had gotten dark before he recalled the things in his yard” (753).

Carver deleted much of the detail from the first draft of the story. This gives the reader much more independence to find out who Max is and why the furniture is in the yard. The original description makes Max out to be a desperate lonely man “drinking away his sorrows.” While this is still true in the second version, Carver leaves this information out, adding a bit more mystery to the story for the reader—causing the link between both the girl’s and Max’s desperation to be less apparent.

The original version of “Tell the Women We’re Going” includes much more detail—more unclear detail—than does the final version. Earlier, we looked at the concluding paragraph of the final version of this story. Carver quite bluntly inserts a scene where Jerry undoubtedly injures (or kills) two girls with a rock. The original version, though, is much more unclear:

“But Jerry was standing now in front of him, slung loosely in his clothes as though the bones had gone out of him. Bill felt the awful closeness of their two bodies, less than an arm’s length between. Then the head came down on Bill’s shoulder. He raised his hand, and as if the distance now separating them deserved at least this, he began to pat, to stroke the other while his own tears broke” (844).

To me, there seems to be some pronoun confusion here (maybe on purpose)? I am not sure whose bodies are close together . . . Bill’s and Jerry’s and Jerry’s and the girl’s? I am betting the second, but this is merely a guess. This ending also leaves much room for confusion regarding whom all is dead (both the girls or “just” one?) and who is patting whose head? Sometimes I am a dense reader, but I did not feel confused whenever I read the final draft of the story. Instead, I knew who killed who and the ramifications this cost—or what this signified in—Bill and Jerry’s relationship. Carver toned-down the details in order to clarify his main point so that the reader can connect the dots in the proper way. This is one kind of lesson writer’s should take away from Carver.

For the sake of length, I’ll leave it here. Do make sure to read the Selected Essays section of the collection. The essays shed light on Carver’s background and also his writing process. His essays alone deserve two or three blog spotlights.