never be the same. (The setting of a work of literature has to do with geography, but of course that terrain can also be imagined: in dystopian literature, the dream is the nightmare.)
But that other notion—the idea that writers live under their “own sky.” They
do
. In writing fiction convincingly, what they have to do is point to a specifically literary sky, a sky under which anything is possible, and move their characters through a landscape that’s right for them, even though their scribes may live elsewhere, or prefer other territory. We could literalize Ms. Porter’s metaphorical sky: when writers are absolutely integrated into their own landscape, and have chosen to place their characters there, they have a clear advantage (Cormac McCarthy, Annie Proulx, Jim Harrison), but for the many writers who grew up anywhere, and belong nowhere, the sky can’t easily be invoked with conviction. I think that’s why it’s not often referred to—or is referred to with self-consciousness. The fiction writer tends to look as high as a tree, or even a mountain, but often the sky seems too much. Poets consider their sky a lot more than fictionwriters. I wonder if the inherent constraints of a poem give the poet an impulse to look at something vast, while the many pages available to the fiction writer nevertheless suggest that the writer focus on detail.
Mrs. Nixon may have had her own sky, one she felt at home under, when she was a child, or remembered wistfully as she spent years under city skies, looking up through smog and obliterating lights. Walking under such gray skies, hiding behind a head scarf pulled over her forehead to provide anonymity as time went on, going out at night so as not to be seen, she might have felt the openness above her both as a vanished world and as a reproach. Her world really did begin to vanish in her lifetime, though her choices in life would have taken her far from that farmland in any case. She believed in facades, as well: she was the one who wanted the White House illuminated at night, its lights bright in celebration. Though she never wanted a life in politics, once she had it, there was no reason the ultimate symbol of what had been attained shouldn’t burn bright.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, in “The Crack-up,” writes: “Fifty years ago we Americans substituted melodrama for tragedy, violence for dignity under suffering. That became a quality that only women were supposed to exhibit in life or fiction.” This was written in the 1930s. The notion of a woman’s “dignity” has been somewhat rethought as repressive, though the number of political wives who have had to apologize for speaking out continues to grow. I don’t think Mrs. Nixon would be surprised by the continued assumption that first ladies are to be seen and not heard. Remember Hillary Clinton furiously backpedaling after dismissing as unimportant the idea of baking cookies, and Michelle Obama excoriated for implying that she hadn’t been unilaterally proud of her country every second of her life? Women are coached on how this is done—how they cansay two seemingly contradictory things at the same time, and be true to no one, including themselves—in order to come clean and make amends on
The View
.
The view, indeed: depending on who you are, where you stand, and whether you’ve got the chutzpah to stare down the sky.
Mrs. Nixon Considers Automatic Writing
T he idea is that you pick up a pen and just start writing. Can you imagine? If you saw a thread dangling from your hem, would you pull it and keep unwinding and unwinding until the skirt became a miniskirt, and then nothing but a waistband? If you did, what would you have except something you’d destroyed and couldn’t wear?
The Letter
R ichard Farnsworth smiled good-bye to the secretary and strolled out of the office, a piece of stationery tucked in his briefcase. John Hayes, his boss, tended to be suspicious of his employees, especially if he thought
But that other notion—the idea that writers live under their “own sky.” They
do
. In writing fiction convincingly, what they have to do is point to a specifically literary sky, a sky under which anything is possible, and move their characters through a landscape that’s right for them, even though their scribes may live elsewhere, or prefer other territory. We could literalize Ms. Porter’s metaphorical sky: when writers are absolutely integrated into their own landscape, and have chosen to place their characters there, they have a clear advantage (Cormac McCarthy, Annie Proulx, Jim Harrison), but for the many writers who grew up anywhere, and belong nowhere, the sky can’t easily be invoked with conviction. I think that’s why it’s not often referred to—or is referred to with self-consciousness. The fiction writer tends to look as high as a tree, or even a mountain, but often the sky seems too much. Poets consider their sky a lot more than fictionwriters. I wonder if the inherent constraints of a poem give the poet an impulse to look at something vast, while the many pages available to the fiction writer nevertheless suggest that the writer focus on detail.
Mrs. Nixon may have had her own sky, one she felt at home under, when she was a child, or remembered wistfully as she spent years under city skies, looking up through smog and obliterating lights. Walking under such gray skies, hiding behind a head scarf pulled over her forehead to provide anonymity as time went on, going out at night so as not to be seen, she might have felt the openness above her both as a vanished world and as a reproach. Her world really did begin to vanish in her lifetime, though her choices in life would have taken her far from that farmland in any case. She believed in facades, as well: she was the one who wanted the White House illuminated at night, its lights bright in celebration. Though she never wanted a life in politics, once she had it, there was no reason the ultimate symbol of what had been attained shouldn’t burn bright.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, in “The Crack-up,” writes: “Fifty years ago we Americans substituted melodrama for tragedy, violence for dignity under suffering. That became a quality that only women were supposed to exhibit in life or fiction.” This was written in the 1930s. The notion of a woman’s “dignity” has been somewhat rethought as repressive, though the number of political wives who have had to apologize for speaking out continues to grow. I don’t think Mrs. Nixon would be surprised by the continued assumption that first ladies are to be seen and not heard. Remember Hillary Clinton furiously backpedaling after dismissing as unimportant the idea of baking cookies, and Michelle Obama excoriated for implying that she hadn’t been unilaterally proud of her country every second of her life? Women are coached on how this is done—how they cansay two seemingly contradictory things at the same time, and be true to no one, including themselves—in order to come clean and make amends on
The View
.
The view, indeed: depending on who you are, where you stand, and whether you’ve got the chutzpah to stare down the sky.
Mrs. Nixon Considers Automatic Writing
T he idea is that you pick up a pen and just start writing. Can you imagine? If you saw a thread dangling from your hem, would you pull it and keep unwinding and unwinding until the skirt became a miniskirt, and then nothing but a waistband? If you did, what would you have except something you’d destroyed and couldn’t wear?
The Letter
R ichard Farnsworth smiled good-bye to the secretary and strolled out of the office, a piece of stationery tucked in his briefcase. John Hayes, his boss, tended to be suspicious of his employees, especially if he thought
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