A lifetime ago I attended the University of Virginia and took a creative writing class from James Alan McPherson. He was a profoundly intelligent as he was drastically shy. He did not seem comfortable at all in acting as teacher, and though the class went perfectly well I don't recall a lot of laughter; from anyone. His most recent book at that point was Elbow Room; it was a few years old by then and he seemed to have stopped writing altogether, despite the acclaim the book had received (along with a Pulitzer Prize). He was soon to be award a MacArthur Fellowship; apparently the hope was that the prize would inspire him to get back to writing fiction. No such luck. He went several years more before publishing another book, and at that point he was writing nonfiction. And at that point too he had long since left the University of Virginia. In fact, I think he left the year after I took his class. Rumor had it that he was fatigued with the Old South FFV culture that dominated at UVA; he even hated the famously neo-classical architecture of the place.
Being a dumb undergraduate, it didn't occur to me then that I should read what my teachers had written, so I didn't go near Elbow Room the semester I took McPherson's class. Some years later, though, having graduated and entered the working world, I found Elbow Room as a remainder in a DC area bookstore. I bought it--at that point very curious to read this famous book by my former teacher with the compellingly odd mannerisms and deep silences--but I promptly left it in the movie theatre I headed to next. When I went back for it the next day it was nowhere to be found. Something seemed to be keeping me from reading this book! Oh well, I said, I definitely will get to it soon enough, as soon as I get ahold of another copy.
But I didn't. Finally, reading a reference to the book recently in an essay by Charles Baxter--many many years after I lost it in that movie theatre--I decided about a month ago that the time had come to right my longstanding. I ordered the book off Amazon and have since read it with pleasure. It's exactly what one should expect from a smart, gifted, and profoundly silent man like McPherson. All the stories are amazingly subtle, and a few, especially the latter ones, are pure adventures for the head. "A Sense of the Story," for instance, depicts a judge reading a court transcript to prepare for a decision he must render in a murder case. The bulk of the story is the transcript itself, from which the reader is expected to draw his own conclusions. (Kind of the way the audience must in Ayn Rand's play The Night of January 16th.) For the judge, apparently, the answer is obvious, but the reader should not and does not trust the judge's judgment. The story seems to be pointing the reader to buried truths in the testimony, and it's a challenge to draw them out. The title story, meanwhile, is a crafty and challenging metafiction that features a first person narrator writer-character given to opaque philosophical speculation about racial identites in America as well as an "editor" who makes comments on the narrator's story throughout, questioning the narrator's claims and pushing him to more clarity. How is never certain is whether the editor is truly an editor or merely the writer character criticizing himself.
Most of the remaining stories are narrated in more conventional style; many are memorable; a few are classics; and most feature a similar sort of character as the narrator or lead protagonist: a deeply intelligent black man who can be rather clumsy in his perceptions of other people, who can, in fact, be his own worst enemy. This is to say that McPherson and his stories are often smarter than the narrators who tell them. Some of my favorites are "I Am an American"--the most comic story in the book--depicting the ridiculous attempts by an American visitor to England to help two Chinese whose hotel room may or may not have been robbed. (The "robbery" may have been a faulty conclusion drawn by the profoundly judgmental American). "Loaf of Bread" depicts a war between an embattled grocery store owner and the local black population that believes--rightly--that he charges them unfairly for his goods. The story does not end the way you would expect. Then there's the subtle criticism unleased upon the protagonist in "Widows and Orphans." In this story, a Chicago-based professor visiting LA attends an award banquet organized and mc'd by the professor's ex-girlfiend, who also happens to be his former student. To make matters even more awkward, the professor, upon seeing his former girlfirend, is struck by how more poised and beautiful she now seems, while trying at the same time to negotiate the gentle criticisms lobbed at him by the ex-girlfriend's mother, who is also in attendance, radiantly proud of her daughter, the woman he let get away. And there's "Why I Like Country Music," perhaps the most obvious story in the book, a charming tale of first love rendered by a very McPherson-like, socially awkward, even retrograde, narrator.
Some of the stories are more subtle than others, but they are all quite subtle. Very quiet in their effect. This exact quality is what makes McPherson a master storyteller; but it also means the stories might not sink in for readers looking for immediately obvious meanings, and for more simple entertainment. I think they are beautifully told and demonstrate a decidedly insider viewpoint on African-American culture, useful for non-African-Americans to be exposed to. McPherson is a profoundly human writer, who lampoons no one, at least not severely, and seems to be able to read all the many refinements of character within a single individual. This is to say that he writes of complex people. It's no suprise, however, that he has migrated to nonfiction. While the stories of Elbow Room are most certainly stories, not essays, it's not hard for a reader to feel that behind the collection is the history of African-Americans in the United States. McPherson, through his stories, can't help but comment--sometimes wryly, sometimes tragically--on that history. Which is amazing given that there are actually very few white characters in the book. Even so, the variant histories of black and whites in this country is always there; one can't ever get away from it, no matter what color you are, but especially if you are black.