What do you think?
Rate this book
The Wapshot Chronicle
Meet The Wapshots of St Botolphs. There is Captain Leander Wapshot, venerable sea-dog and would-be suicide; his licentious older son, Moses; and Moses's adoring and errant younger brother Coverly. Tragic and funny, ribald and splendidly picaresque, and partly based on Cheever's adolescence in New England, The Wapshot Chronicle is a family narrative in the finest traditions of Trollope, Dickens and Henry James.
310 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1957
202 people are currently reading
9776 people want to read
About the author
John Cheever
297 books1,068 followersJohn Cheever was an American novelist and short story writer, sometimes called "the Chekhov of the suburbs" or "the Ovid of Ossining." His fiction is mostly set in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the suburbs of Westchester, New York, and old New England villages based on various South Shore towns around Quincy, Massachusetts, where he was born.
His main themes include the duality of human nature: sometimes dramatized as the disparity between a character's decorous social persona and inner corruption, and sometimes as a conflict between two characters (often brothers) who embody the salient aspects of both--light and dark, flesh and spirit. Many of his works also express a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community, as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia.
His main themes include the duality of human nature: sometimes dramatized as the disparity between a character's decorous social persona and inner corruption, and sometimes as a conflict between two characters (often brothers) who embody the salient aspects of both--light and dark, flesh and spirit. Many of his works also express a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community, as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 486 reviews
April 29, 2024
Some family chronicles are long and boring like a slumber induced by the sleeping pills and some are turbulent like a rocket launching. I think you may effortlessly guess to what category The Wapshot Chronicle does belong.
Be pleased to meet some of the heroes.
Some lives are straight and purposeful like a flight of a bullet and some are weird and unpredictable like a patchwork…
Some believe in planning, success and money and to some their living is an obstreperous joyride full of romance and rubbish.
All ordinary families are alike; each strange family is strange in its own way…
The Wapshot boys had been up since four; they were sleepy and sitting in the hot sun they seemed to have outlived the holiday. Moses had burned his hand on a salute. Coverly had lost his eyebrows in another explosion. They lived on a farm two miles below the village and had canoed upriver before dawn when the night air made the water of the river feel tepid as it rose around the canoe paddle and over their hands.
Be pleased to meet some of the heroes.
Some lives are straight and purposeful like a flight of a bullet and some are weird and unpredictable like a patchwork…
Leander would never take his sons aside and speak to them about the facts of life, even although the continuation of Honora’s numerous charities depended upon their virility. If they looked out of the window for a minute they could see the drift of things. It was his feeling that love, death and fornication extracted from the rich green soup of life were no better than half-truths, and his course of instruction was general. He would like them to grasp that the unobserved ceremoniousness of his life was a gesture or sacrament toward the excellence and the continuousness of things.
Some believe in planning, success and money and to some their living is an obstreperous joyride full of romance and rubbish.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘if it’s absolutely necessary for you to make love to me I’ll do it, but I think that you ought to understand that it’s not as crucial as you make it.’
‘You’ve talked yourself out of a fuck,’ he said bleakly.
‘Oh, you’re so hateful and egotistical,’ she said, swinging her head around. ‘Your thinking is so crude and mean. You only want to hurt me.’
All ordinary families are alike; each strange family is strange in its own way…
April 24, 2018
The author was a famous short story writer and this was his first attempt at a novel. It won the National Book Award for 1958.
It’s kind of a coming of age story of two young men, although most of the plot follows not their youth, but the start of their careers.
Their father was a river boat captain so there’s a bit of sea lore. We’re in a small New England sea town at the turn of the century, a time when autos are replacing horses. There’s a focus on change: “…nothing was anymore what it aimed to be or what it would be in the end and the house that had meant to express family pride was now a funeral parlor, the house that had meant to express worldly pride was a rooming house, Ursuline nuns lived in the castle that was meant to express the pride of avarice…”
There are a lot of accidental deaths by drowning or in car crashes. Mostly the story is of two brothers interspersed with excerpts from a diary kept by their father that chronicles his life and gives us family secrets.
An unmarried aunt controls the family fortune. When she sees her two nephews begin fooling around with the local girls she orders them out into the world. One goes to New York and one to Washington DC. They both eventually marry and end up in troubled marriages.
The story is quasi-autobiographical. Cheever had a brother to whom he said he was “ungainly attached.” He grew up in a New England seaport (Quincy, Mass.) with ship captain ancestors. In the story his mother becomes the support for the family by opening a gift shop in the derelict ship; in real life Cheever’s mother did the same in a failed shoe factory. His aunt controlled the family fortune.
The main way the story seems autobiographical is in Cheever’s portrayal of the two marriages. The men are perfectly fine; the two women are a bundle of anxieties and almost nuts. This parallels Cheever’s life where he insisted that his wife go with him for psychological counseling (avant garde at that time). When the psychologist told him “John, YOU’RE the problem,” Cheever never went back. Cheever was manic depressive, an alcoholic and had a series of affairs. Late in life he had bisexual affairs. His daughter Susan Cheever chronicled this family life in her own memoir in 2001, Home Before Dark
For 1954 it contains what would have been considered graphic sex for that time. and in fact Cheever holds the “honor” of the first allowance of the f-word in selections chosen by Book of the Month Club. (As a side note it is interesting that “three Johns” pushed the boundaries of explicit sex in popular American works. In addition to Cheever (1912-1982), there was John O’Hara (1905-1970) and then John Updike (1932-2009). Late in the book is a chapter about one of the brothers having a homosexual experience. It’s the 1950’s so here’s how Cheever begins that chapter: “And now we come to the unsavory or homosexual part of our tale [those words are in italics in the book] and any disinterested reader is encouraged to skip.”
Some examples of good writing:
“I mean he doesn’t have anything nice to remember and so he borrows other people’s memories.”
“…he was much shorter than his wife – a jolly pink-faced man with a quietness that might have been developed to complement the noise she made.”
“…the power beautiful women have of evoking landscapes – a sense of rueful distance – as if their eyes had come to rest on a horizon that had never been seen by any man.”
A pretty good read but it drags a bit and we have the unrealistic portrayal of the marriages. I’ll give it a 3. Cheever wrote a sequel, The Wapshot Scandal, but I think I’ll pass and perhaps read some of his short stories.
Postcard of Quincy Market in 1904 from pinterest.com
Photo of the author from nytimes.com
It’s kind of a coming of age story of two young men, although most of the plot follows not their youth, but the start of their careers.
Their father was a river boat captain so there’s a bit of sea lore. We’re in a small New England sea town at the turn of the century, a time when autos are replacing horses. There’s a focus on change: “…nothing was anymore what it aimed to be or what it would be in the end and the house that had meant to express family pride was now a funeral parlor, the house that had meant to express worldly pride was a rooming house, Ursuline nuns lived in the castle that was meant to express the pride of avarice…”
There are a lot of accidental deaths by drowning or in car crashes. Mostly the story is of two brothers interspersed with excerpts from a diary kept by their father that chronicles his life and gives us family secrets.
An unmarried aunt controls the family fortune. When she sees her two nephews begin fooling around with the local girls she orders them out into the world. One goes to New York and one to Washington DC. They both eventually marry and end up in troubled marriages.
The story is quasi-autobiographical. Cheever had a brother to whom he said he was “ungainly attached.” He grew up in a New England seaport (Quincy, Mass.) with ship captain ancestors. In the story his mother becomes the support for the family by opening a gift shop in the derelict ship; in real life Cheever’s mother did the same in a failed shoe factory. His aunt controlled the family fortune.
The main way the story seems autobiographical is in Cheever’s portrayal of the two marriages. The men are perfectly fine; the two women are a bundle of anxieties and almost nuts. This parallels Cheever’s life where he insisted that his wife go with him for psychological counseling (avant garde at that time). When the psychologist told him “John, YOU’RE the problem,” Cheever never went back. Cheever was manic depressive, an alcoholic and had a series of affairs. Late in life he had bisexual affairs. His daughter Susan Cheever chronicled this family life in her own memoir in 2001, Home Before Dark
For 1954 it contains what would have been considered graphic sex for that time. and in fact Cheever holds the “honor” of the first allowance of the f-word in selections chosen by Book of the Month Club. (As a side note it is interesting that “three Johns” pushed the boundaries of explicit sex in popular American works. In addition to Cheever (1912-1982), there was John O’Hara (1905-1970) and then John Updike (1932-2009). Late in the book is a chapter about one of the brothers having a homosexual experience. It’s the 1950’s so here’s how Cheever begins that chapter: “And now we come to the unsavory or homosexual part of our tale [those words are in italics in the book] and any disinterested reader is encouraged to skip.”
Some examples of good writing:
“I mean he doesn’t have anything nice to remember and so he borrows other people’s memories.”
“…he was much shorter than his wife – a jolly pink-faced man with a quietness that might have been developed to complement the noise she made.”
“…the power beautiful women have of evoking landscapes – a sense of rueful distance – as if their eyes had come to rest on a horizon that had never been seen by any man.”
A pretty good read but it drags a bit and we have the unrealistic portrayal of the marriages. I’ll give it a 3. Cheever wrote a sequel, The Wapshot Scandal, but I think I’ll pass and perhaps read some of his short stories.
Postcard of Quincy Market in 1904 from pinterest.com
Photo of the author from nytimes.com
December 5, 2020
Esta obra no solo ganó el National Book Award de 1958 sino que lo hizo compitiendo con verdaderos gigantes de la novela: Una muerte en la familia (James Agee), El dependiente (Bernard Malamud), Pnin (Vladimir Nabokov) y La ciudad (William Faulkner). No me extraña, Cheever es jodidamente bueno, tan bueno que es capaz de hacer enorme una novela algo irregular y descompensada como es esta.
Estamos en los años 50 y los Wapshot son una vieja familia orgullosa de pertenecer a Saint Botolphs, un viejo pueblo fluvial de Nueva Inglaterra, uno de esos poblados conservadores y amantes de sus tradiciones, donde las cosas se hacen como todo el mundo sabe que se hacen, donde todo el mundo se conoce y conoce todo de todo el mundo, y en el que solo se soportan con una cierta condescendencia las excentricidades de unos pocos, siempre que sean pocos y únicamente constituyan curiosidades locales, porque hasta ahora todo ha ido bien y difícilmente podría ir mejor.
En esta crónica familiar encontramos capítulos que funcionan como auténticos y magníficos relatos junto a divagaciones que fácilmente podrían haber llegado a serlo. Esta aparente dispersión es manejada con habilidad por Cheever, conduciéndonos admirablemente por una procesión de acontecimientos, experiencias y anécdotas, a cada cual más llamativo, que desfilan en paralelo al relato principal y que nos imbuye de esa atmósfera fin de época retratada por el autor con grandes dosis de nostalgia.
Si algo tengo que reprochar a Cheever es precisamente que esas divagaciones a las que me refiero no llegaran más allá o que a algunos de los personajes no se les otorgara un mayor protagonismo, como la altiva y dictatorial Justina, cuya voz, imperiosa y ronca, es capaz de recorrer “una octava completa de ambiciones sociales satisfechas”, o a la entrometida, extravagante y maravillosa, siempre que no sea tu tía carnal, Honora. Pero, sobre todo, me hubiera gustado saber mucho más de Sarah, la madre del clan Whapshot.
“Era más admirada entre las señoras que entre los hombres y puede que la esencia de su belleza fuese el desencanto (Leander la había engañado), pero ella había puesto todos los recursos de su sexo en esa infidelidad y había sido recompensada con tal aire de nobleza ofendida y luminosa visión, que algunas de sus partidarias suspiraron al verla atravesar la plaza, como si por su cara vieran pasar una vida.”Y es que los personajes femeninos de la familia son cien veces más potentes que los masculinos, seres incapaces de dirigir sus vidas, y en cuya tarea son claramente sustituidos sin mucha resistencia por su parte. Sin embargo, son estos, los masculinos, la columna vertebral de la novela: Leander, redactor de un diario en el que, entre lamentos por esos cosquilleos de los que todavía es víctima a pesar de su franco deterioro físico, nos describe con un estilo peculiar, eficaz y poderoso la añoranza de ese modo de vida agonizante del que es digno representante; y sus dos hijos - Moses y Coverly- que, expulsados del paraíso por su tía Honora, vivirán en carne propia el impacto de ese final de era cuyo brillo sale reforzado tras el choque con la nueva realidad.
Por el medio encontraremos loas a la vida al aire libre, las trampas del matrimonio, el alivio y la desgracia que procura el alcohol, dudas de homosexualidad, el poderoso ímpetu de la lujuria, el gran peso de la culpa, y, en definitiva, mucha piedad ante las muchas flaquezas humanas y hasta florituras líricas como esta:
“Todas las cosas del mar pertenecen a Venus: las perlas y las conchas, y el oro de los alquimistas, y las algas y el olor salobre de las mareas muertas, el verde del agua cerca de la costa y el morado más afuera, y el gozo de las distancias, todo esto es de Venus, pero ella no sale del mar para todos nosotros. Ella salió para Coverly por la puerta giratoria de una tienda de bocadillos”Pena que esta novela tuviera tan regular secuela en El escándalo de los Wapshot…
April 15, 2017
… we might climb the stairs and pry into things of more pertinence. There is Leander’s bureau drawer, where we find a withered rose – once yellow – and a wreath of yellow hair, the butt end of a Roman candle that was fired at the turn of the century, a boiled shirt on which an explicit picture of a naked woman is drawn in red ink, a necklace made of champagne corks and a loaded revolver.
4 ½ stars
John Cheever (1912-1982) sold a short story to The New Yorker in 1935, the first of many. His reputation as a short story writer rose rapidly, and his first novel, The Wapshot Chronicle , won the National Book award in 1958. He later published three other novels: The Wapshot Scandal (1965), Bullet Park (1969), and Falconer (1977). But he was primarily known for his short stories; some critics have ventured that Cheever is one of the most important short fiction writers of the 20th century, and he has been referred to as “the Chekhov of the suburbs”.
Born in New York, Cheever’s stories are set in Manhattan, the Westchester suburbs, and the shore towns along the coast that stretches from New York City to Boston. Connecting Cheever’s stories to the suburban world does not mean that he romanticized the suburban lifestyle as it developed in the decades in which he matured and wrote. Wiki notes that many of his works also express “a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community” in the smaller towns along this coast, “as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia”.
The Wapshot Chronicle
Being a chronicle, we might surmise that the novel tells of “important historical events”; but this would be ironic, for the events told in the third person narrative have significance only for the characters living them, and a few friends and neighbors in the mythical town of St. Botolphs, located just inland of the coast mentioned above. Those characters being the father Leander Wapshot, the mother (Mrs. Wapshot to us, though Leander reveals in his inner dialogues that her name is Sarah), Leander’s two teen-aged sons Moses and Coverly, and Leander’s “cousin” (though with a slight complication involving separate grandmothers) Honora. She, Honora, plays a role outsized for a cousin, resulting from the facts that (a) she inherited quite a sum, (b) she was brought up by Leander’s father (one of her “uncles” - with that same complication), (c) she has never married, (d) she desires to leave her wealth (which is also a sometime loan source to Leander) to his sons, but (e) only on condition that they themselves produce male heirs. A telling fork in the chronicle results from Honora unfortunately witnessing a happening of sexual nature involving one of the sons.
But that previously mentioned Cheever theme of “nostalgia for a vanishing way of life” was what I soon sensed myself as I began reading the novel. Actual dates are not mentioned often, especially in the first chunk, yet as I read Cheever’s strange and poignant prose, I felt that I was reading a picture – a Norman Rockwell painting illustrating small town New England life in the first third of the century.
Here read a lengthy passage about the Wapshot house - set rather dilapidatedly on its acreage some distance outside St. Botolphs - and its residents.
The adventures of Leander’s sons, as they set sail from St. Botolphs to make their own stabs at life, as well as the continuing events of Leander, Mrs. Wapshot, and Honora back in St. Botolphs, form the larger part of the Wapshot family’s chronicle. Though it is not heart-poundingly exciting, not saturated with either sex or violence, there are some surprisingly dark, or perhaps better described as foreboding and unexpected, happenings. These not only lend some spice to the consistently interesting read, but are (wiki tells us) another characteristic of Cheever’s outlook – this darker streak apparently connected with Cheever’s hidden homosexuality, and associated feelings of guilt at this concealed inner life; the agony of this guilt assuaged by drink.
There is an interview with his daughter published in the Guardian ( https://www.theguardian.com/books/200... ) in which she expresses very positive feelings towards her father, and a sadness that he felt so much guilt about something that has ceased to produce that shame/guilt burden so many were condemned to until more enlightened recent years.
Some readers will not be particularly thrilled with this rather tame story, or with the somewhat soft landing of the ending. But for me the book was a wonderful read. If you have a possible interest it might be a good idea to check out some of his short stories to see if they might provide an impetus to read this novel (or his final novel Falconer, thought by some to be his best.) Stories worth seeking out include "The Enormous Radio", "Goodbye, My Brother", "The Five-Forty-Eight", "The Country Husband", and "The Swimmer".
For myself, I’ll be looking for more by Cheever.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Previous review: Manchild in the Promised Land autobiography, fiction
Random review: History of Art, Janson
Next review: 2016 on Goodreads
4 ½ stars
John Cheever (1912-1982) sold a short story to The New Yorker in 1935, the first of many. His reputation as a short story writer rose rapidly, and his first novel, The Wapshot Chronicle , won the National Book award in 1958. He later published three other novels: The Wapshot Scandal (1965), Bullet Park (1969), and Falconer (1977). But he was primarily known for his short stories; some critics have ventured that Cheever is one of the most important short fiction writers of the 20th century, and he has been referred to as “the Chekhov of the suburbs”.
Born in New York, Cheever’s stories are set in Manhattan, the Westchester suburbs, and the shore towns along the coast that stretches from New York City to Boston. Connecting Cheever’s stories to the suburban world does not mean that he romanticized the suburban lifestyle as it developed in the decades in which he matured and wrote. Wiki notes that many of his works also express “a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community” in the smaller towns along this coast, “as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia”.
The Wapshot Chronicle
Being a chronicle, we might surmise that the novel tells of “important historical events”; but this would be ironic, for the events told in the third person narrative have significance only for the characters living them, and a few friends and neighbors in the mythical town of St. Botolphs, located just inland of the coast mentioned above. Those characters being the father Leander Wapshot, the mother (Mrs. Wapshot to us, though Leander reveals in his inner dialogues that her name is Sarah), Leander’s two teen-aged sons Moses and Coverly, and Leander’s “cousin” (though with a slight complication involving separate grandmothers) Honora. She, Honora, plays a role outsized for a cousin, resulting from the facts that (a) she inherited quite a sum, (b) she was brought up by Leander’s father (one of her “uncles” - with that same complication), (c) she has never married, (d) she desires to leave her wealth (which is also a sometime loan source to Leander) to his sons, but (e) only on condition that they themselves produce male heirs. A telling fork in the chronicle results from Honora unfortunately witnessing a happening of sexual nature involving one of the sons.
But that previously mentioned Cheever theme of “nostalgia for a vanishing way of life” was what I soon sensed myself as I began reading the novel. Actual dates are not mentioned often, especially in the first chunk, yet as I read Cheever’s strange and poignant prose, I felt that I was reading a picture – a Norman Rockwell painting illustrating small town New England life in the first third of the century.
Here read a lengthy passage about the Wapshot house - set rather dilapidatedly on its acreage some distance outside St. Botolphs - and its residents.
The house is easy enough to describe but how to write a summer’s day in an old garden? ... It is dusk and the family has gathered … Leander is drinking bourbon and the parrot hangs in a cage by the kitchen door. A cloud passes over the low sun, darkening the valley, and they feel a deep and momentary uneasiness as if they apprehended how darkness can fall over the continents of the mind. The wind freshens and then they are all cheered as if this reminded them of their recuperative powers … But as we see the Wapshots, spread out in their rose garden above the river, listening to the parrot and feeling the balm of those evening winds that, in New England, smell so of maidenly things – of orris root and toilet soap and rented rooms, wet by an open window in a thunder shower; of chamber pots and sorrel soap and roses and gingham and lawn; of choir robes and copies of the New Testament bound in limp morocco and pastures that are for sale, blooming now with rue and fern – as we see the flowers, staked by Leander with broken hockey sticks and mop and broom handles, as we see the scarecrow in the cornfield wears the red coat of the defunct St. Botolphs Horse Guards and that the blue water of the river below them seems mingled with our history, it would be wrong to say as an architectural photographer once did, after photographing the side door, “It’s just like a scene from J.P. Marquand.”
The adventures of Leander’s sons, as they set sail from St. Botolphs to make their own stabs at life, as well as the continuing events of Leander, Mrs. Wapshot, and Honora back in St. Botolphs, form the larger part of the Wapshot family’s chronicle. Though it is not heart-poundingly exciting, not saturated with either sex or violence, there are some surprisingly dark, or perhaps better described as foreboding and unexpected, happenings. These not only lend some spice to the consistently interesting read, but are (wiki tells us) another characteristic of Cheever’s outlook – this darker streak apparently connected with Cheever’s hidden homosexuality, and associated feelings of guilt at this concealed inner life; the agony of this guilt assuaged by drink.
There is an interview with his daughter published in the Guardian ( https://www.theguardian.com/books/200... ) in which she expresses very positive feelings towards her father, and a sadness that he felt so much guilt about something that has ceased to produce that shame/guilt burden so many were condemned to until more enlightened recent years.
Some readers will not be particularly thrilled with this rather tame story, or with the somewhat soft landing of the ending. But for me the book was a wonderful read. If you have a possible interest it might be a good idea to check out some of his short stories to see if they might provide an impetus to read this novel (or his final novel Falconer, thought by some to be his best.) Stories worth seeking out include "The Enormous Radio", "Goodbye, My Brother", "The Five-Forty-Eight", "The Country Husband", and "The Swimmer".
For myself, I’ll be looking for more by Cheever.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Previous review: Manchild in the Promised Land autobiography, fiction
Random review: History of Art, Janson
Next review: 2016 on Goodreads
June 10, 2017
I have found at times that the all American novel struggles to be deeply rooted in the social world, that in a Society so fluid and so ever changing fiction hardly has time to digest the way things really happen, tending to tread a path of unrealistic characters journeying through some sort of fantasy life. John Cheever's debut, The Wapshot Chronicle both confirms my suspicions but also contradicts them. The family under the spotlight here get the full treatment, making for a striking read, and as first novels go, there are far, far worse.
Based on his own experiences, Cheever sets his family narrative in St Botolph’s, a small picturesque town on the New England coast, a place of boats, fishing, and salty air, he sets up a securely situated time and place within a matter of pages, and my immediate thoughts were, wow!, this is going to be special. St Botolph is seriously steeped in heritage, and seems almost incapable of change, that goes for the people as well. Captain Leander Wapshot along with wife Sarah and two boys Moses and Cloverly live in a big farmhouse close to the river. He raises his sons to the traditional values that went before them, camping trips, boat clubs, and respectability throughout town. Leander is an ageing seaman that has the feeling of an antique lost in time, and doesn't want to move with an ever changing America, whist struggling to cope after both boys leave home.
Things that happen to the family are both ordinary and impractical, but it's the little things I found most charming throughout, the small details that capture devoted family moments, sharing their time, happy, loving. When things change for the Wapshots later in the novel mixed with odd little episodes here and there, including Leander's diary entries which are obscure to say the least, I am not sure Cheever knew how to handle them clearly, but this is generally only a small niggle, as his strength lies in the time frame of his writing which he nails to a tee, not only the syntax but by how Cheever framed the story, which I have to say is so easy on the eye. I enjoyed the fact that he gives the reader a chance to get to know the characters and their surroundings within the story without trying to push too hard, slowly building a vibrant portrait of small town living.
Gently amusing, tragic, joyous and messy, Cheever writes with his heart on his sleeve, with a style that is truly alive. This is the sort of novel Philip Roth could have written if he wasn't so obsessed with masturbation, or maybe even Richard Ford had he not been half asleep.
The Wapshot Chronicle is not perfect, but delivers the goods,
reeling you in on a sturdy fishing line. 4/5
Based on his own experiences, Cheever sets his family narrative in St Botolph’s, a small picturesque town on the New England coast, a place of boats, fishing, and salty air, he sets up a securely situated time and place within a matter of pages, and my immediate thoughts were, wow!, this is going to be special. St Botolph is seriously steeped in heritage, and seems almost incapable of change, that goes for the people as well. Captain Leander Wapshot along with wife Sarah and two boys Moses and Cloverly live in a big farmhouse close to the river. He raises his sons to the traditional values that went before them, camping trips, boat clubs, and respectability throughout town. Leander is an ageing seaman that has the feeling of an antique lost in time, and doesn't want to move with an ever changing America, whist struggling to cope after both boys leave home.
Things that happen to the family are both ordinary and impractical, but it's the little things I found most charming throughout, the small details that capture devoted family moments, sharing their time, happy, loving. When things change for the Wapshots later in the novel mixed with odd little episodes here and there, including Leander's diary entries which are obscure to say the least, I am not sure Cheever knew how to handle them clearly, but this is generally only a small niggle, as his strength lies in the time frame of his writing which he nails to a tee, not only the syntax but by how Cheever framed the story, which I have to say is so easy on the eye. I enjoyed the fact that he gives the reader a chance to get to know the characters and their surroundings within the story without trying to push too hard, slowly building a vibrant portrait of small town living.
Gently amusing, tragic, joyous and messy, Cheever writes with his heart on his sleeve, with a style that is truly alive. This is the sort of novel Philip Roth could have written if he wasn't so obsessed with masturbation, or maybe even Richard Ford had he not been half asleep.
The Wapshot Chronicle is not perfect, but delivers the goods,
reeling you in on a sturdy fishing line. 4/5
December 5, 2007
It's gonna happen sometime, people, no matter how you may dread it. Yes, I am referring to my long-planned, heavily-unanticipated, as-yet-unwritten, irritatingly irrelevant monograph on John Cheever, wherein I single-handedly return him to his proper place in the first rank of American novelists. Due in equal parts to Seinfeld and postmodernism, Cheever has become little more than a punch line: a sad symbol of dated postwar suburban cocktail-party angst… well, think again, bitches! The Wapshot Chronicle is a heartbreakingly beautiful novel, full of moral clarity, the inevitability of sin, sex, booze, ambition, jazz, city life, country life, all poured out in chiselled, pristine prose. There will be more to come from me in this vein, I promise. Oh yes, I promise.
February 9, 2017
Do NOT be as stupid as me. Don’t pick a book by its cover.
Particularly when the cover does not accurately portray what the book will give you. I wanted to re-test John Cheever and the cover drew my attention. Big mistake!
The primary focus of this novel is sexuality. The author was bisexual, so I have full understanding that one’s sexual identity was a topic of particular interest to him. Halfway through the book, not yet understanding that ambivalent feelings about one's sexual identity is in fact the book's central focus, I exploded, saying '"For God's sake, doesn't a person instinctively know when sex is good?" I am quite simply the wrong reader for this book. It should be noted, the book looks at men’s rather than women’s bisexuality.
I thought the book was about living near the sea or about appreciation of aquatic surroundings or about a fisherman's life or something to do with the sea! Look at the cover! We are told in the book’s description that this is to be a family chronicle of the Wapshots living in St. Botolphs, a "quintessential Massachusetts fishing village". We are told there will be stories of Captain Leander Wapshot, a venerable sea dog, but this is only where the story begins. The chapters flip between Captain Wapshot's journal entries about his youth (written in staccato, abbreviated, incomplete sentences) and the coming-of-age experiences of his two sons. What is often a central ingredient of coming-of-age stories? Well of course, sex. Here the author’s own bisexual leaning influences the telling. The youngest son, Coverly, is sixteen when the story begins. The older, Moses, is in college. We follow the father and these two sons until they are married and have their own children. There is a question of inheritance. The two sons flee the village, one to NYC and the other to San Francisco and then as far afield as islands in the Pacific. So just forget that cover!
A secondary theme is estrangement; you feel this in each character’s loneliness, separateness and inability to relate to others. (Sex is often the Band-Aid stuck on a wound! Or a do-it-all pill to remedy unease.) We readers observe at a distance, just as the novel’s characters seem incapable of reaching out to each other. The result is an overall sadness and despondency.
Finally there is a message that what is important in life are “the ordinary things”. This is delivered by Leander in what he writes to his sons.
There are some beautiful lines. There is ironic, satirical humor. If you pay close attention, you come to realize that the author is in fact quite often joking with us. Well at least, that is my interpretation.
The audiobook I listened to was narrated by Joe Barrett. It is easy to follow, so the narration is good. One hears a melancholy that I think should be there. It expresses an inability to properly communicate.
Maybe this sounds like I liked the book? Well I didn’t. It didn’t give me at all what I was looking for. It was boring to listen to the stupid things the characters did. I simply couldn’t relate. Sex is portrayed in a fashion that put me off. The sex isn’t graphic; it just left me cold. Should sex leave you cold?! Both the cover and the book description led me astray. The central failure of the book is that the author failed to make it possible for me to empathize with the characters' ambivalent feelings.
Particularly when the cover does not accurately portray what the book will give you. I wanted to re-test John Cheever and the cover drew my attention. Big mistake!
The primary focus of this novel is sexuality. The author was bisexual, so I have full understanding that one’s sexual identity was a topic of particular interest to him. Halfway through the book, not yet understanding that ambivalent feelings about one's sexual identity is in fact the book's central focus, I exploded, saying '"For God's sake, doesn't a person instinctively know when sex is good?" I am quite simply the wrong reader for this book. It should be noted, the book looks at men’s rather than women’s bisexuality.
I thought the book was about living near the sea or about appreciation of aquatic surroundings or about a fisherman's life or something to do with the sea! Look at the cover! We are told in the book’s description that this is to be a family chronicle of the Wapshots living in St. Botolphs, a "quintessential Massachusetts fishing village". We are told there will be stories of Captain Leander Wapshot, a venerable sea dog, but this is only where the story begins. The chapters flip between Captain Wapshot's journal entries about his youth (written in staccato, abbreviated, incomplete sentences) and the coming-of-age experiences of his two sons. What is often a central ingredient of coming-of-age stories? Well of course, sex. Here the author’s own bisexual leaning influences the telling. The youngest son, Coverly, is sixteen when the story begins. The older, Moses, is in college. We follow the father and these two sons until they are married and have their own children. There is a question of inheritance. The two sons flee the village, one to NYC and the other to San Francisco and then as far afield as islands in the Pacific. So just forget that cover!
A secondary theme is estrangement; you feel this in each character’s loneliness, separateness and inability to relate to others. (Sex is often the Band-Aid stuck on a wound! Or a do-it-all pill to remedy unease.) We readers observe at a distance, just as the novel’s characters seem incapable of reaching out to each other. The result is an overall sadness and despondency.
Finally there is a message that what is important in life are “the ordinary things”. This is delivered by Leander in what he writes to his sons.
There are some beautiful lines. There is ironic, satirical humor. If you pay close attention, you come to realize that the author is in fact quite often joking with us. Well at least, that is my interpretation.
The audiobook I listened to was narrated by Joe Barrett. It is easy to follow, so the narration is good. One hears a melancholy that I think should be there. It expresses an inability to properly communicate.
Maybe this sounds like I liked the book? Well I didn’t. It didn’t give me at all what I was looking for. It was boring to listen to the stupid things the characters did. I simply couldn’t relate. Sex is portrayed in a fashion that put me off. The sex isn’t graphic; it just left me cold. Should sex leave you cold?! Both the cover and the book description led me astray. The central failure of the book is that the author failed to make it possible for me to empathize with the characters' ambivalent feelings.
June 29, 2016
"Man is not simple. Hobgoblin company of love always with us."
― John Cheever, The Wapshot Chronicle
The Wapshot Chronicle is a twin Bildungsroman of sons Moses and Coverly, framed by the letters, journaling, and loneliness of their father Leander. It is a crazy beautiful 20th Century Great Expectations-like novel of a family's depth and breadth, its secrets and its flaws. The two brothers are saddled with the albatross and obligation to insure ensure that Old Honora’s keeps paying the bills (future) for the boys and (current) for their parents.
Cheever fills his novel with dominating mothers, idiosyncratic and co-dependent guardians, changeable wives and costly lovers. The trinity of Wapshot men, float throughout Cheever's novel in a wayward, rudderless boat. Their lives are constantly taking on water and they seem destined to be blown further from the shore by the dominant humor of the nearest strong-willed female.
The characters in The Wapshot Chronicle were amazing. Its language and narrative were incredible. Cheever's satire and ribald humor constantly bit this reader in his lusty-for-good-literature ass.
― John Cheever, The Wapshot Chronicle
The Wapshot Chronicle is a twin Bildungsroman of sons Moses and Coverly, framed by the letters, journaling, and loneliness of their father Leander. It is a crazy beautiful 20th Century Great Expectations-like novel of a family's depth and breadth, its secrets and its flaws. The two brothers are saddled with the albatross and obligation to insure ensure that Old Honora’s keeps paying the bills (future) for the boys and (current) for their parents.
Cheever fills his novel with dominating mothers, idiosyncratic and co-dependent guardians, changeable wives and costly lovers. The trinity of Wapshot men, float throughout Cheever's novel in a wayward, rudderless boat. Their lives are constantly taking on water and they seem destined to be blown further from the shore by the dominant humor of the nearest strong-willed female.
The characters in The Wapshot Chronicle were amazing. Its language and narrative were incredible. Cheever's satire and ribald humor constantly bit this reader in his lusty-for-good-literature ass.
November 12, 2020
4.5 Stars
To the best of my recollection, I have never read anything by Cheever. For some reason I am drawn to his name, like I have past reference, a book, a story, something, but I can find nor remember anyhing indicating I have ever read or heard of him before. A short while ago I bought a copy of The Stories of John Cheever. I did this based solely on name recognition. To date I haven’t read a story, so why does his name ring such a bell with me that I grabbed this book on sight. I feel I should know who he is. It’s like he is a household name like Hemmingway and Faulkner, everybody knows who he is, but me.
The mystery of how I came to know of John Cheever name will remain unsolved, but I’m glad I learned it, because this book is unique. It certainly isn’t the best book I’ve ever read, not even in the top twenty. I can’t decide if this is an outstanding story simply told well, or an average story told with unusual excellence. I’m leaning toward the later, this writing style for me was frankly intriguing and unlike anything I can remember.
The Wapshot’s Aunt Honora, Leander, Sarah, Moses, and Coverly are fully written and described. They are for the most part simple down to earth people and like most humans are incredibly complicated and in the case of the Wapshot’s truly eccentric. I was entertained from the beginning, Cheever tells this family’s story using their individual thoughts and feelings, with both seriousness and humor, and I for one enjoyed it very much.
I am looking forward to tackling Cheever's short stories.
To the best of my recollection, I have never read anything by Cheever. For some reason I am drawn to his name, like I have past reference, a book, a story, something, but I can find nor remember anyhing indicating I have ever read or heard of him before. A short while ago I bought a copy of The Stories of John Cheever. I did this based solely on name recognition. To date I haven’t read a story, so why does his name ring such a bell with me that I grabbed this book on sight. I feel I should know who he is. It’s like he is a household name like Hemmingway and Faulkner, everybody knows who he is, but me.
The mystery of how I came to know of John Cheever name will remain unsolved, but I’m glad I learned it, because this book is unique. It certainly isn’t the best book I’ve ever read, not even in the top twenty. I can’t decide if this is an outstanding story simply told well, or an average story told with unusual excellence. I’m leaning toward the later, this writing style for me was frankly intriguing and unlike anything I can remember.
The Wapshot’s Aunt Honora, Leander, Sarah, Moses, and Coverly are fully written and described. They are for the most part simple down to earth people and like most humans are incredibly complicated and in the case of the Wapshot’s truly eccentric. I was entertained from the beginning, Cheever tells this family’s story using their individual thoughts and feelings, with both seriousness and humor, and I for one enjoyed it very much.
I am looking forward to tackling Cheever's short stories.
July 10, 2012
Have you ever met someone who is particularly striking or beautiful but when you pick apart all their features they don't add up to your definition of attractiveness. Maybe their lips are thin and you associate that with being cruel. Maybe their nose is off-center or their eyes too close. Pointy chin, rough skin, thick shins--it shouldn't add up but it does. Tne Wapshot Chronicle was a glorious read, but if you analyze all its separte pieces it doesn't seem as if it should. Set in a Massachusetts fishing village, the book tells the stories of the eccentric Wapshot family. The description of the back of my copy calls the book, "Tragic and funny, ribald and splendidly picaresque ..." I was expecting a farcical read but Cheever goes so deep; you barely realize he's taking you there. A chapter that examines Coverly Wapshot's possible homosexuality is filled with yearning and pain as he looks into "... the dark plains of American sexual eperience where the bison still roam."
Cheever's strength as a short story writer are in evidence, which is why The Wapshot Chronicle isn't just an overarching tale, but a series of individual stories. Some might see this as a flaw. Characters are introduced and dropped. One chapter might be following one theme with a distinct writing style and suddenly you are inside the voice of Leander Wapshot who tells his story in short phrases meant to be his memoir. Cheever's free use of adjectives would be damned by most writing teachers and the changes in point-of-view would be equally frowned upon. There are sudden shifts in direction. At the end of the book, there is a scene of destruction following which the characters are suddenly back on track, as if Cheever got himself into a tight space and didn't know how to get to the end without destroying what came before.
But because Cheever is not a writing workshop student, his lack of concern for rules makes for an exuberant read. His words flow and break over you because of their rhythm or because his vocabulary is so rich. Even the most minor characters are described with full attention. A stranger who has fallen off her horse is imagined by Moses Wapshot as "... pasty and round and worn it seemed with such anxieties as cooking, catching trains and buying useful presents at Christmas ..." A art appraiser who has a bit part at the very end receives ten lines of description including, "He must have been fifty--the bags under his eyes couldn't have been formed in a shorter time."
It is for passages like this, though, that The Wapshot Chronicles is worth reading. Leander has gone to the beach, hoping for solitude but finds two "old ladies who were discussing canned goods and the ingratitude of daughers-in-law while the surf spoke in loud voices of wrecks and voyages and the likeness of things; for the dead fish was striped like a cat and the sky was striped like a fish and the conch was whorled like an ear and the beach was ribbed like a dog's mouth and the movables in the surf splintered and crashed like the walls of Jericho."
Cheever's words vibrate and tremble like Jericho but they never fall down.
Cheever's strength as a short story writer are in evidence, which is why The Wapshot Chronicle isn't just an overarching tale, but a series of individual stories. Some might see this as a flaw. Characters are introduced and dropped. One chapter might be following one theme with a distinct writing style and suddenly you are inside the voice of Leander Wapshot who tells his story in short phrases meant to be his memoir. Cheever's free use of adjectives would be damned by most writing teachers and the changes in point-of-view would be equally frowned upon. There are sudden shifts in direction. At the end of the book, there is a scene of destruction following which the characters are suddenly back on track, as if Cheever got himself into a tight space and didn't know how to get to the end without destroying what came before.
But because Cheever is not a writing workshop student, his lack of concern for rules makes for an exuberant read. His words flow and break over you because of their rhythm or because his vocabulary is so rich. Even the most minor characters are described with full attention. A stranger who has fallen off her horse is imagined by Moses Wapshot as "... pasty and round and worn it seemed with such anxieties as cooking, catching trains and buying useful presents at Christmas ..." A art appraiser who has a bit part at the very end receives ten lines of description including, "He must have been fifty--the bags under his eyes couldn't have been formed in a shorter time."
It is for passages like this, though, that The Wapshot Chronicles is worth reading. Leander has gone to the beach, hoping for solitude but finds two "old ladies who were discussing canned goods and the ingratitude of daughers-in-law while the surf spoke in loud voices of wrecks and voyages and the likeness of things; for the dead fish was striped like a cat and the sky was striped like a fish and the conch was whorled like an ear and the beach was ribbed like a dog's mouth and the movables in the surf splintered and crashed like the walls of Jericho."
Cheever's words vibrate and tremble like Jericho but they never fall down.
July 25, 2021
Grazie Paolo del Ventoso Est ! Il tuo commento rispecchia completamente tutto il piacere che ho avuto anch'io , leggendo questo libro ! Mi sto innamorando di Cheever - e mi sto leggendo anche i suoi racconti, lentamente. Non si finisce mai di scoprire autori che piacciono -grazie a tutti gli amici di Gr dove trovo sempre validissime indicazioni.
December 5, 2023
I like a family saga, I like Wodehouse (Blandings rather than Jeeves) and the blurb on this book said it was a melding of the two so I was fairly confident I would enjoy it. Reader, I didn’t.
I found every member of the family insipid and disagreeable and written in a cold, removed way which gave them the air of puppets rather than living characters. Love affairs are stilted and we are told of the passion felt rather than shown evidence of it, a major character in the first section makes a sudden exit and no more is mentioned of her. Eccentric old aunts are not eccentric enough to maintain attention, even the father’s skeleton in the cupboard turns out to not be his own. It all feels a bit restrained, like Cheevor kept himself from going all in with the characters which is a shame as there could have been some high comedy and pathos rather than this monotonal tome.
Of course a book’s merit or enjoyment does not rest on whether you like the inhabitants of the pages but if you don’t warm to them then they had better do some interesting things and none of the Wapshots do but at least Cheevor admits this with this little gem of a description that made me chuckle,
“Along with the phrenological paper and the portrait were the family journals, for all the Wapshots were copious journalists. There was hardly a man of the family who had doctored a sick horse or bought a sailboat or heard, late at night, the noise of rain on the roof without making a record of these facts.”
A book that was just not for me.
I found every member of the family insipid and disagreeable and written in a cold, removed way which gave them the air of puppets rather than living characters. Love affairs are stilted and we are told of the passion felt rather than shown evidence of it, a major character in the first section makes a sudden exit and no more is mentioned of her. Eccentric old aunts are not eccentric enough to maintain attention, even the father’s skeleton in the cupboard turns out to not be his own. It all feels a bit restrained, like Cheevor kept himself from going all in with the characters which is a shame as there could have been some high comedy and pathos rather than this monotonal tome.
Of course a book’s merit or enjoyment does not rest on whether you like the inhabitants of the pages but if you don’t warm to them then they had better do some interesting things and none of the Wapshots do but at least Cheevor admits this with this little gem of a description that made me chuckle,
“Along with the phrenological paper and the portrait were the family journals, for all the Wapshots were copious journalists. There was hardly a man of the family who had doctored a sick horse or bought a sailboat or heard, late at night, the noise of rain on the roof without making a record of these facts.”
A book that was just not for me.
December 8, 2022
Un Cheever meno caustico
Per chi si fa irretire dalle classifiche o dalle liste la casa editrice Modern Library ha aggiunto le Cronache della famiglia Wapshot al sessantatreesimo posto tra i 100 migliori libri in lingua inglese del ventesimo secolo.
Questo romanzo si svolge in maggioranza nel New England che ho scoperto non essere uno stato, lo cercavo insistentemente in Maps senza trovarlo, perché sto cercando di memorizzare e localizzare tutti i 52 stati americani.
In realtà il New England è un raggruppamento di stati, regione più nord-orientale degli Usa che comprende Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut e Rhode Island, con paesaggii naturali molto simili.
E deve essere bellissimo in questo periodo, oltre alle camelie tardive che fioriscono in autunno, vederne le foreste che si rivestono di un magnifico foliage, lo immagino così.
E anche letterariamente parlando, probabilmente anche per un passato coloniale importante, il New England è stato un alveo che ha dato natali a importanti scrittore Poe, la poetessa Emily Dickinson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thoreau e più recentemente Updike, Stephen King, e una gran varietà di altri che non ricordo o conosco.
Questo romanzo è la narrazione delle vicissitudini della famiglia Wapshot, dei genitori e dei due figli, oltre ad un variegata moltitudine di personaggi che vi gravitano intorno, tutti personaggi un po' eccentrici ma non troppo.
Famiglia strampalata ma non disfunzionale perché in queste Cronache c'è una genuinità che intenerisce e non arriviamo all'originalità estrosa e bizzarra della famiglia di Hotel New Hampshire di Jhon Irving, altro autore nato nell'aveo del New England, o alle patrie famiglie de I Malavoglia o de i nostrani Viceré
E perrché I Buddenbrook e la loro epopea declinante li vogliamo dimenticare? O la famiglia Joad di Furore che va verso l'Ovest a cercare fortuna, dove la madre giganteggia come una cariatide mentre il marito non si eleva nemmeno a livello di un ciuaua con il cappottino, in inverno.
Queste famiglie ci appassionano perché raccontano la vita, e c'è sempre uno dei personaggi in cui ci riconosciamo di più: e sì in quel magnifico frangente avrei fatto come Tizio... oppure mi sento più in sintonia con la melancolia di Caio etc etc.
Benché il romanzo famigliare non sia un genere letterario a sé stante a ben vedere potrebbe diventarlo.
Differenziandosi dalla saga, che di solito segue più generazioni cavalcando epoche e decenni e dove l'interesse si concentra più sulle vicende, mentre nel romanzo famigliare l'orizzonte temporale è più circoscritto concentrandosi sui personaggi che seguiamo con interesse vorace.
Questo è il primo romanzo di Cheever e si avverte, almeno per chi ha già letto i racconti per cui Cheever è più noto, c'è come una immaturità di fondo di un autore che non è ancora vittima del disincanto della vita, quando la vita non ha ancora picchiato duro, per lui.
Perché mentre nelle sue shortstories Cheever è fortemente caustico e solleva impunemente il lembo del tappeto mostrando tutta la polvere che si nasconde là sotto e che facciamo finta di non vedere, in questo primo romanzo la sua penna non sprofonda ma sta su più in superficie, ci fa camminare sopra il tappeto svelando il disegno della tessitura della storia ma meno il suo retropensiero, non graffia
Per chi si fa irretire dalle classifiche o dalle liste la casa editrice Modern Library ha aggiunto le Cronache della famiglia Wapshot al sessantatreesimo posto tra i 100 migliori libri in lingua inglese del ventesimo secolo.
Questo romanzo si svolge in maggioranza nel New England che ho scoperto non essere uno stato, lo cercavo insistentemente in Maps senza trovarlo, perché sto cercando di memorizzare e localizzare tutti i 52 stati americani.
In realtà il New England è un raggruppamento di stati, regione più nord-orientale degli Usa che comprende Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut e Rhode Island, con paesaggii naturali molto simili.
E deve essere bellissimo in questo periodo, oltre alle camelie tardive che fioriscono in autunno, vederne le foreste che si rivestono di un magnifico foliage, lo immagino così.
E anche letterariamente parlando, probabilmente anche per un passato coloniale importante, il New England è stato un alveo che ha dato natali a importanti scrittore Poe, la poetessa Emily Dickinson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thoreau e più recentemente Updike, Stephen King, e una gran varietà di altri che non ricordo o conosco.
Questo romanzo è la narrazione delle vicissitudini della famiglia Wapshot, dei genitori e dei due figli, oltre ad un variegata moltitudine di personaggi che vi gravitano intorno, tutti personaggi un po' eccentrici ma non troppo.
Famiglia strampalata ma non disfunzionale perché in queste Cronache c'è una genuinità che intenerisce e non arriviamo all'originalità estrosa e bizzarra della famiglia di Hotel New Hampshire di Jhon Irving, altro autore nato nell'aveo del New England, o alle patrie famiglie de I Malavoglia o de i nostrani Viceré
E perrché I Buddenbrook e la loro epopea declinante li vogliamo dimenticare? O la famiglia Joad di Furore che va verso l'Ovest a cercare fortuna, dove la madre giganteggia come una cariatide mentre il marito non si eleva nemmeno a livello di un ciuaua con il cappottino, in inverno.
Queste famiglie ci appassionano perché raccontano la vita, e c'è sempre uno dei personaggi in cui ci riconosciamo di più: e sì in quel magnifico frangente avrei fatto come Tizio... oppure mi sento più in sintonia con la melancolia di Caio etc etc.
Benché il romanzo famigliare non sia un genere letterario a sé stante a ben vedere potrebbe diventarlo.
Differenziandosi dalla saga, che di solito segue più generazioni cavalcando epoche e decenni e dove l'interesse si concentra più sulle vicende, mentre nel romanzo famigliare l'orizzonte temporale è più circoscritto concentrandosi sui personaggi che seguiamo con interesse vorace.
Questo è il primo romanzo di Cheever e si avverte, almeno per chi ha già letto i racconti per cui Cheever è più noto, c'è come una immaturità di fondo di un autore che non è ancora vittima del disincanto della vita, quando la vita non ha ancora picchiato duro, per lui.
Perché mentre nelle sue shortstories Cheever è fortemente caustico e solleva impunemente il lembo del tappeto mostrando tutta la polvere che si nasconde là sotto e che facciamo finta di non vedere, in questo primo romanzo la sua penna non sprofonda ma sta su più in superficie, ci fa camminare sopra il tappeto svelando il disegno della tessitura della storia ma meno il suo retropensiero, non graffia
April 6, 2014
This moves along with humor and old-fashioned New Englandness (is that a word?) and I expected to give it a solid four stars. But the ending made my heart sing and I will not feel stingy.
I quibbled with Cheever off and on in this. There are two aging/elderly female characters who are single, wealthy, use that wealth to wield power, and wish to live in a chaste world. Well, almost. Honora Wapshot wants to leave her wealth to her nephews, but only if they produce sons. In any case, I could not relate to either of these women on any of the above points. Their wealth and power and wishes are not mine.
There is quite a bit of lusting going on here and often it is fulfilled. Not explicitly, of course, as this was first published in 1957. Cheever is especially humorous when the lusting is only wishful. Much of the lusting equates with love. I cheered and smiled, smiled and cheered.
The Goodreads blurb describes Cheever's works as ... express[ing] a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community, as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia. I don't know if "nostalgia" is quite the right word, but this world was certainly vanishing when this was first published and is probably now gone. I expect that many in my generation, and the few of the prior generation still around, will feel Cheever is familiar. Younger folk may wonder why this is special.
I quibbled with Cheever off and on in this. There are two aging/elderly female characters who are single, wealthy, use that wealth to wield power, and wish to live in a chaste world. Well, almost. Honora Wapshot wants to leave her wealth to her nephews, but only if they produce sons. In any case, I could not relate to either of these women on any of the above points. Their wealth and power and wishes are not mine.
There is quite a bit of lusting going on here and often it is fulfilled. Not explicitly, of course, as this was first published in 1957. Cheever is especially humorous when the lusting is only wishful. Much of the lusting equates with love. I cheered and smiled, smiled and cheered.
The Goodreads blurb describes Cheever's works as ... express[ing] a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community, as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia. I don't know if "nostalgia" is quite the right word, but this world was certainly vanishing when this was first published and is probably now gone. I expect that many in my generation, and the few of the prior generation still around, will feel Cheever is familiar. Younger folk may wonder why this is special.
September 15, 2019
Ne zamandır kütüphanemde beklettiğim bir kitaptı, daha fazla bekletmek istemedim.
Wapshot Kayıtları, isminden de anlaşılacağı üzere Wapshot ailesinin fertlerinin yaşadıklarına dair bir roman. Baba Leander Wapshot, oğullar Moses ve Coverly Wapshot esas olarak hikâyeleri anlatılan aile fertleri olarak okuyucunun karşısına çıkıyor.
İlk kez John Cheever okudum, bu sebeple bu benzetme ne kadar doğru olacak bilmiyorum; ancak Wapshot Kayıtları, bana bir romandan ziyade bir öykü kitabı havası verdi. Bundan kitabın birbiriyle alakası olmayan bölümlerden oluştuğu zannedilmesin; ancak yer yer bir öykü kitabı okuduğum hissiyatıyla doldu içim. Bundan dolayı olsa gerek keşke bu romanda kendisine yer bulan karakterler, bir romanda bu denli uzun anlatılacağına bir öykünün kahramanı olsalarmış diye düşündüm. Zira karakterlerin hepsi birbirinden ilginç; fakat onları bir bütün olarak okumak itiraf etmek gerekirse yer yer beni sıktı.
Wapshot Kayıtları, isminden de anlaşılacağı üzere Wapshot ailesinin fertlerinin yaşadıklarına dair bir roman. Baba Leander Wapshot, oğullar Moses ve Coverly Wapshot esas olarak hikâyeleri anlatılan aile fertleri olarak okuyucunun karşısına çıkıyor.
İlk kez John Cheever okudum, bu sebeple bu benzetme ne kadar doğru olacak bilmiyorum; ancak Wapshot Kayıtları, bana bir romandan ziyade bir öykü kitabı havası verdi. Bundan kitabın birbiriyle alakası olmayan bölümlerden oluştuğu zannedilmesin; ancak yer yer bir öykü kitabı okuduğum hissiyatıyla doldu içim. Bundan dolayı olsa gerek keşke bu romanda kendisine yer bulan karakterler, bir romanda bu denli uzun anlatılacağına bir öykünün kahramanı olsalarmış diye düşündüm. Zira karakterlerin hepsi birbirinden ilginç; fakat onları bir bütün olarak okumak itiraf etmek gerekirse yer yer beni sıktı.
September 9, 2018
Moses and Coverly Wapshot, dissolute Leander's two sons, have to make their way in the America of the mid-Twentieth Century armed with the airs and attitudes of Nineteenth-Century New England. "St. Botolphs is like a pumpkin pie," says their elderly aunt Honora of their home town, "no upper crust." But there is limited room in St. Botolphs for the two boys, so they set out on their seriocomic adventures. THE WAPSHOT CHRONICLE is a comedy, and often a darn funny one at that in spite of (or perhaps in juxtaposition with) John Cheever's well-recognized tendency toward brief outbursts of anguish.
THE WAPSHOT CHRONICLE is fine reading, perhaps bettered by John Cheever's following novel, THE WAPSHOT SCANDAL, inspired in part by Cheever's sojourn in Italy with wife, son, and new son born there.
The Wapshot Scandal
THE WAPSHOT CHRONICLE is fine reading, perhaps bettered by John Cheever's following novel, THE WAPSHOT SCANDAL, inspired in part by Cheever's sojourn in Italy with wife, son, and new son born there.
The Wapshot Scandal
March 18, 2025
¿Y si tu destino estuviera sellado por un viejo testamento que dicta el curso de tu vida?
Bienvenidos al inigualable universo de los Wapshot, una familia tan gloriosamente disfuncional que haría sonrojar a cualquier terapeuta. En Crónica de los Wapshot, John Cheever nos entrega un relato sobre herencias absurdas, sueños a medio construir y la eterna lucha entre el deseo de escapar y la incapacidad de hacerlo. Es una novela donde el drama se codea con lo ridículo, la melancolía se ríe de sí misma y la ironía se instala como el invitado que nunca se va.
Tenemos un pequeño pueblo de Nueva Inglaterra, St. Botolphs, que parece congelado en el tiempo, un patriarca entrañable pero desastroso, dos hijos que no terminan de encontrar su sitio en el mundo y, como cereza en el pastel, una tía millonaria y tiránica que maneja los hilos del destino con la sutileza de un dictador. El futuro de los Wapshot depende de un testamento caprichoso que les exige algo imposible: vivir según las reglas de una América que ya no existe.
A partir de aquí, Cheever nos regala una serie de episodios que oscilan entre lo hilarante y lo trágico, en los que cada personaje intenta —con más pena que gloria— descubrir qué hacer con su vida sin romper del todo con el peso de su apellido.
No esperes aquí una trama convencional. Crónica de los Wapshot no es es una novela de trama cerrada, la clásica historia con principio, nudo y desenlace al uso. Y es que John Cheever, antes de ser novelista, era, sobre todo, cuentista. Y no uno cualquiera, sino el puto amo de los cuentos. Por eso, Crónica de los Wapshot es como abrir una caja de postales antiguas: cada escena es un pequeño universo, con su propio fulgor, su propia herida y su propia ironía cruel. No sigues una trama, sigues momentos, viñetas que parecen aisladas hasta que, de pronto, te das cuenta de que juntas forman algo más grande. Un eco de lo que es la vida misma, con su caótico desfile de absurdos y epifanías pasajeras.
El estilo de Cheever es una combinación de elegancia y puñalada: elegante pero mordaz, lírica pero sin sentimentalismos baratos. Sus descripciones de la vida en Nueva Inglaterra están llenas de una nostalgia inquietante, de esa sensación de que la felicidad se escapa entre los dedos justo cuando crees haberla atrapado. Describe con lirismo, sí, pero también con un bisturí afilado que deja al descubierto lo patético, lo hermoso y lo absurdo de la existencia. Su ironía es tan sutil que a veces llega con retraso: te ríes, avanzas unas páginas y luego te das cuenta de que, en realidad, la risa tenía un filo melancólico que te deja con una punzada en el pecho. Porque su manejo del humor es una delicia: no se trata de carcajadas obvias, sino de una fina ironía que transforma lo cotidiano en una tragicomedia magistral.
Porque aquí está precisamente el truco de Cheever: te hace reír justo antes de darte el puñetazo. Lees una escena, sueltas una carcajada y, cuando bajas la guardia, el golpe llega con la precisión de un crochet de derecha. Un personaje ridículo de pronto tiene un momento de devastadora lucidez. Una situación absurda oculta una verdad aterradora. Es un equilibrio perfecto entre lo cómico y lo trágico, una cuerda floja sobre la que Cheever camina con la elegancia de alguien que sabe que la caída es inevitable.
Lo que me resulta más fascinante de Crónica de los Wapshot es que, bajo su apariencia de relato familiar excéntrico, esconde una crítica mordaz a una América de posguerra que está perdiendo su identidad. Moses y Coverly, los hijos, representan a una generación que flota en el limbo: no encajan en las tradiciones que los formaron, pero tampoco encuentran su lugar en el mundo moderno. Porque no son solo dos tipos desorientados; son el retrato de un país entero que ya no sabe a dónde pertenece. Y es que la novela es algo más que una mera historia familiar: es el testimonio de una América que está perdiendo pie, un mundo que se desmorona mientras sus habitantes siguen interpretando papeles que ya no tienen sentido. La vieja moral se deshace, las nuevas reglas aún no están claras y, en medio de todo eso, los personajes de Cheever intentan aferrarse a cualquier cosa que les dé la ilusión de estabilidad. Aunque sea una tía tiránica con un testamento absurdo.
Y luego tenemos a Leander, el patriarca: un hombre que, en cualquier otra novela, sería un personaje secundario pintoresco, pero que aquí se apodera de la función con su mezcla de ternura y tragedia. Es un soñador atrapado en una vida que le queda pequeña, un hombre con nostalgia de tiempos mejores, un capitán de barco sin tripulación ni rumbo, un navegante sin océano. Su obsesión con los barcos, con el agua, con esa promesa de escape que nunca llega, no es un simple capricho. Es el reflejo de una vida atrapada en la orilla, mirando hacia un horizonte que nunca podrá alcanzar. Y lo hermoso y terrible es que no es el único atrapado. En los Wapshot, todos flotan a la deriva, pero ninguno sabe cómo zarpar.
Pero la joya de la corona es tía Honora, la tía que uno jamás querría tener pero que, en el fondo, sostiene a la familia con su mano de hierro. Honora es un personaje tan tiránico y desquiciado que convierte cada escena en la que aparece en un espectáculo de comedia negra. Una anciana de voluntad férrea que sostiene el control financiero de la familia con la frialdad de un banquero y la teatralidad de una actriz shakesperiana. Si hubiera un Olimpo de matriarcas literarias dominantes, estaría sentada en primera fila, ajustándose los guantes y juzgando a todos con una ceja levantada.
Así que aquí estamos, cerrando las páginas de esta Crónica de los Wapshot, preguntándonos lo mismo que sus protagonistas: ¿se puede alguna vez escapar del legado familiar, o estamos condenados a ser, en el fondo, solo una nota más en la gran historia de nuestra tribu?
Si aún no has leído Crónica de los Wapshot, hazte un favor y léela. Es de esas novelas que, sin previo aviso, te sacuden y te dejan con una sonrisa torcida y una verdad incómoda en la cabeza.
Y ahora, ¿nos lanzamos a debatir si Moses tenía alguna posibilidad real de librarse de los Wapshot o aceptamos que, nos guste o no, todos llevamos un pequeño Wapshot dentro?
Bienvenidos al inigualable universo de los Wapshot, una familia tan gloriosamente disfuncional que haría sonrojar a cualquier terapeuta. En Crónica de los Wapshot, John Cheever nos entrega un relato sobre herencias absurdas, sueños a medio construir y la eterna lucha entre el deseo de escapar y la incapacidad de hacerlo. Es una novela donde el drama se codea con lo ridículo, la melancolía se ríe de sí misma y la ironía se instala como el invitado que nunca se va.
Tenemos un pequeño pueblo de Nueva Inglaterra, St. Botolphs, que parece congelado en el tiempo, un patriarca entrañable pero desastroso, dos hijos que no terminan de encontrar su sitio en el mundo y, como cereza en el pastel, una tía millonaria y tiránica que maneja los hilos del destino con la sutileza de un dictador. El futuro de los Wapshot depende de un testamento caprichoso que les exige algo imposible: vivir según las reglas de una América que ya no existe.
A partir de aquí, Cheever nos regala una serie de episodios que oscilan entre lo hilarante y lo trágico, en los que cada personaje intenta —con más pena que gloria— descubrir qué hacer con su vida sin romper del todo con el peso de su apellido.
No esperes aquí una trama convencional. Crónica de los Wapshot no es es una novela de trama cerrada, la clásica historia con principio, nudo y desenlace al uso. Y es que John Cheever, antes de ser novelista, era, sobre todo, cuentista. Y no uno cualquiera, sino el puto amo de los cuentos. Por eso, Crónica de los Wapshot es como abrir una caja de postales antiguas: cada escena es un pequeño universo, con su propio fulgor, su propia herida y su propia ironía cruel. No sigues una trama, sigues momentos, viñetas que parecen aisladas hasta que, de pronto, te das cuenta de que juntas forman algo más grande. Un eco de lo que es la vida misma, con su caótico desfile de absurdos y epifanías pasajeras.
El estilo de Cheever es una combinación de elegancia y puñalada: elegante pero mordaz, lírica pero sin sentimentalismos baratos. Sus descripciones de la vida en Nueva Inglaterra están llenas de una nostalgia inquietante, de esa sensación de que la felicidad se escapa entre los dedos justo cuando crees haberla atrapado. Describe con lirismo, sí, pero también con un bisturí afilado que deja al descubierto lo patético, lo hermoso y lo absurdo de la existencia. Su ironía es tan sutil que a veces llega con retraso: te ríes, avanzas unas páginas y luego te das cuenta de que, en realidad, la risa tenía un filo melancólico que te deja con una punzada en el pecho. Porque su manejo del humor es una delicia: no se trata de carcajadas obvias, sino de una fina ironía que transforma lo cotidiano en una tragicomedia magistral.
Porque aquí está precisamente el truco de Cheever: te hace reír justo antes de darte el puñetazo. Lees una escena, sueltas una carcajada y, cuando bajas la guardia, el golpe llega con la precisión de un crochet de derecha. Un personaje ridículo de pronto tiene un momento de devastadora lucidez. Una situación absurda oculta una verdad aterradora. Es un equilibrio perfecto entre lo cómico y lo trágico, una cuerda floja sobre la que Cheever camina con la elegancia de alguien que sabe que la caída es inevitable.
Lo que me resulta más fascinante de Crónica de los Wapshot es que, bajo su apariencia de relato familiar excéntrico, esconde una crítica mordaz a una América de posguerra que está perdiendo su identidad. Moses y Coverly, los hijos, representan a una generación que flota en el limbo: no encajan en las tradiciones que los formaron, pero tampoco encuentran su lugar en el mundo moderno. Porque no son solo dos tipos desorientados; son el retrato de un país entero que ya no sabe a dónde pertenece. Y es que la novela es algo más que una mera historia familiar: es el testimonio de una América que está perdiendo pie, un mundo que se desmorona mientras sus habitantes siguen interpretando papeles que ya no tienen sentido. La vieja moral se deshace, las nuevas reglas aún no están claras y, en medio de todo eso, los personajes de Cheever intentan aferrarse a cualquier cosa que les dé la ilusión de estabilidad. Aunque sea una tía tiránica con un testamento absurdo.
Y luego tenemos a Leander, el patriarca: un hombre que, en cualquier otra novela, sería un personaje secundario pintoresco, pero que aquí se apodera de la función con su mezcla de ternura y tragedia. Es un soñador atrapado en una vida que le queda pequeña, un hombre con nostalgia de tiempos mejores, un capitán de barco sin tripulación ni rumbo, un navegante sin océano. Su obsesión con los barcos, con el agua, con esa promesa de escape que nunca llega, no es un simple capricho. Es el reflejo de una vida atrapada en la orilla, mirando hacia un horizonte que nunca podrá alcanzar. Y lo hermoso y terrible es que no es el único atrapado. En los Wapshot, todos flotan a la deriva, pero ninguno sabe cómo zarpar.
“Leander nunca se llevó a sus hijos aparte para hablarles de sexo, pese a que la continuidad de los numerosos favores de Honora dependiera de su virilidad. Si miraban por la ventana durante un minuto podían ver el paso de las cosas. Él sentía que el amor, la muerte y la fornicación, extraídas del rico puré de guisantes de la vida, no eran más que verdades a medias y, por ello, su manual de instrucciones era tan general. Le hubiese gustado que ellos captaran que ese pasar desapercibido de lo ceremonioso de su vida era un gesto o un sacramento en honor de la riqueza y la continuidad de las cosas. El día de Navidad iba a patinar —sobrio o borracho, enfermo o sano— porque pensaba que tenía la responsabilidad ante el pueblo de aparecer en el lago Parson. «Allí está Leander Wapshot», decía la gente, y él los oía. Un espléndido símbolo de continuada e inocente deportividad, que él esperaba que sus hijos siguiesen. El baño frío que se daba cada mañana era ceremonial, a veces era solo eso, ya que casi nunca se enjabonaba y salía de la bañera oliendo fuertemente a las sales marinas de las viejas esponjas que usaba. La chaqueta que se ponía para cenar, la oración que rezaba en la mesa, la excursión de pesca que hacía cada primavera, el bourbon que tomaba al anochecer y la flor que llevaba en el ojal, todo ello eran formas que él esperaba que sus hijos comprendieran y quizá imitaran. Les había enseñado a talar un árbol, a desplumar y condimentar un pollo, a sembrar, cultivar y cosechar, a pescar, a ahorrar dinero, a enderezar un clavo, a hacer sidra con una prensa manual, a limpiar una escopeta, a navegar en un bote […]”
Pero la joya de la corona es tía Honora, la tía que uno jamás querría tener pero que, en el fondo, sostiene a la familia con su mano de hierro. Honora es un personaje tan tiránico y desquiciado que convierte cada escena en la que aparece en un espectáculo de comedia negra. Una anciana de voluntad férrea que sostiene el control financiero de la familia con la frialdad de un banquero y la teatralidad de una actriz shakesperiana. Si hubiera un Olimpo de matriarcas literarias dominantes, estaría sentada en primera fila, ajustándose los guantes y juzgando a todos con una ceja levantada.
“Honora había sido presentada al presidente de Estados Unidos en una ocasión y al estrecharle la mano le había dicho: «Yo soy de Saint Botolphs. Supongo que usted sabrá dónde está eso. Dicen que Saint Botolphs es como una tarta de calabaza. No tiene corteza por arriba...».”Lo maravilloso —e inquietante— de esta novela es que, cuando la terminas, te das cuenta de que la familia Wapshot no es solo una reliquia del pasado, sino un espejo de cualquier clan familiar con tradiciones absurdas y expectativas imposibles. No importa cuánto corras, el peso de tu apellido siempre encuentra la forma de alcanzarte.
Así que aquí estamos, cerrando las páginas de esta Crónica de los Wapshot, preguntándonos lo mismo que sus protagonistas: ¿se puede alguna vez escapar del legado familiar, o estamos condenados a ser, en el fondo, solo una nota más en la gran historia de nuestra tribu?
Si aún no has leído Crónica de los Wapshot, hazte un favor y léela. Es de esas novelas que, sin previo aviso, te sacuden y te dejan con una sonrisa torcida y una verdad incómoda en la cabeza.
Y ahora, ¿nos lanzamos a debatir si Moses tenía alguna posibilidad real de librarse de los Wapshot o aceptamos que, nos guste o no, todos llevamos un pequeño Wapshot dentro?
September 11, 2017
Zio Pipino Marzapane
Nei confronti di questo libro avevo un pregiudizio negativo, la copertina orrenda che mi ha respinta per anni e un pregiudizio positivo, dovuto alla lettura precedente di Il nuotatore, bellissimo racconto.
Cheever racconta di questa famiglia del New England, degna rappresentante di un’aristocrazia naturale statunitense: arrivati dall’Inghilterra nel 1630, sono bianchi, belli, eleganti, sportivi, esperti di sport nautici. Nascono e crescono in una di quelle splendide case di legno con soffitte in grado di far giocare i bambini nella polvere e nei raggi di sole fino al compimento della maggiore età.
Viene enfatizzata l’orgogliosa eccentricità dei personaggi, ci sono varie donne che declinano questa caratteristica nei toni dell’autoritarismo, dell’esibizione da ricca molto becera, della personalità multipla (Honora – Justina – Melissa). La cosa più bella è che queste donne tengono in scacco per i motivi più vari gli uomini sani di mente della famiglia.
Una tradizione familiare seguita da secoli è quella del tenere un diario e si riportano stralci esilaranti. Le storie di colore locale sono piuttosto divertenti, le vicende dei protagonisti le ho trovate noiose e meste.
Perché come si conviene all’aristocrazia naturale, essa ha superato i passati splendori e tende a decadere. Non mi è piaciuto il tono un po’ favolistico col quale Cheever accompagna questi Wapshot attraverso le tribolazioni della loro vita, mi sembra un po’ stonato e quasi irrispettoso, anche se credo che sia un vezzo dell’autore (ma non mi piacciono i vezzi degli autori).
Direi che la famiglia nel suo insieme suona improbabile, perché i personaggi più assurdi, invece di essere accettati per quel che sono, hanno un grosso ascendente sugli altri, per denaro o per amore. Non escludo tuttavia che Cheever abbia una visione delle dinamiche interpersonali migliore della mia e che quindi quello che a me sembra improponibile, in realtà accada con una certa frequenza. Sono ben rappresentate le figure dei due fratelli, Moses e Coverly, quello sicuro di sé e quello timido, che comunque a loro modo combattono la loro guerra per affermarsi nella vita, sempre volendosi bene. In particolare mi ha fatto tenerezza Coverly, che è abbandonato dall’amata moglie Betsey e quando insperatamente ritorna, va sotto la pioggia a rubare una rosa dal giardino dei vicini “perché lei era tornata ad essere la sua piccoletta, la sua smorfiosetta, il suo piccolo, dolce passerotto”. Beata dolcezza.
Qualcuno si chiede chi è Zio Pipino Marzapane? E il più eccentrico di St. Botolphs, un omino discendente da una dinastia di lupi di mare che non ha queste virili ambizioni, anzi, di solito si aggira nudo fra le frasche. Nella civile St. Botolphs non è oggetto di maltrattamenti, viene solo appellato con un “Va a casa, Pipino, e mettiti qualcosa addosso”.
Nei confronti di questo libro avevo un pregiudizio negativo, la copertina orrenda che mi ha respinta per anni e un pregiudizio positivo, dovuto alla lettura precedente di Il nuotatore, bellissimo racconto.
Cheever racconta di questa famiglia del New England, degna rappresentante di un’aristocrazia naturale statunitense: arrivati dall’Inghilterra nel 1630, sono bianchi, belli, eleganti, sportivi, esperti di sport nautici. Nascono e crescono in una di quelle splendide case di legno con soffitte in grado di far giocare i bambini nella polvere e nei raggi di sole fino al compimento della maggiore età.
Viene enfatizzata l’orgogliosa eccentricità dei personaggi, ci sono varie donne che declinano questa caratteristica nei toni dell’autoritarismo, dell’esibizione da ricca molto becera, della personalità multipla (Honora – Justina – Melissa). La cosa più bella è che queste donne tengono in scacco per i motivi più vari gli uomini sani di mente della famiglia.
Una tradizione familiare seguita da secoli è quella del tenere un diario e si riportano stralci esilaranti. Le storie di colore locale sono piuttosto divertenti, le vicende dei protagonisti le ho trovate noiose e meste.
Perché come si conviene all’aristocrazia naturale, essa ha superato i passati splendori e tende a decadere. Non mi è piaciuto il tono un po’ favolistico col quale Cheever accompagna questi Wapshot attraverso le tribolazioni della loro vita, mi sembra un po’ stonato e quasi irrispettoso, anche se credo che sia un vezzo dell’autore (ma non mi piacciono i vezzi degli autori).
Direi che la famiglia nel suo insieme suona improbabile, perché i personaggi più assurdi, invece di essere accettati per quel che sono, hanno un grosso ascendente sugli altri, per denaro o per amore. Non escludo tuttavia che Cheever abbia una visione delle dinamiche interpersonali migliore della mia e che quindi quello che a me sembra improponibile, in realtà accada con una certa frequenza. Sono ben rappresentate le figure dei due fratelli, Moses e Coverly, quello sicuro di sé e quello timido, che comunque a loro modo combattono la loro guerra per affermarsi nella vita, sempre volendosi bene. In particolare mi ha fatto tenerezza Coverly, che è abbandonato dall’amata moglie Betsey e quando insperatamente ritorna, va sotto la pioggia a rubare una rosa dal giardino dei vicini “perché lei era tornata ad essere la sua piccoletta, la sua smorfiosetta, il suo piccolo, dolce passerotto”. Beata dolcezza.
Qualcuno si chiede chi è Zio Pipino Marzapane? E il più eccentrico di St. Botolphs, un omino discendente da una dinastia di lupi di mare che non ha queste virili ambizioni, anzi, di solito si aggira nudo fra le frasche. Nella civile St. Botolphs non è oggetto di maltrattamenti, viene solo appellato con un “Va a casa, Pipino, e mettiti qualcosa addosso”.
August 11, 2009
First off, this is not my sort of topic for a book. Waspy New England families of a bygone era? Blech blahh! Second of all, it doesn't matter when the prose is so lovely and vivid. Cheever manages to make otherwise boring crap sound beautiful. And out of the random doings of a family in a New England port town emerge many of the problems and themes universal to families, blah blah blah. But then out of nowhere, you see through the character's mundane workaday into what makes them tick. Cheever never spells it out really, he doesn't give us access to their innermost contemplations, but by the end, the puzzle pieces start to fit together and you see why everyone is alternately miserable and satisfied.
Perhaps he's a bit misogynistic... it's kind of a bummer, but I fear fairly typical of the 50's, of which this book is a product. Even though my girlfriend thinks the ending is terribly depressing, I find it to be heartbreakingly bittersweet, and sometimes that's what I want from a book. Something so emotionally confusing that your heart soars and sinks, and I think that's what Cheever accomplishes in this wonderful surprise of a book!
Perhaps he's a bit misogynistic... it's kind of a bummer, but I fear fairly typical of the 50's, of which this book is a product. Even though my girlfriend thinks the ending is terribly depressing, I find it to be heartbreakingly bittersweet, and sometimes that's what I want from a book. Something so emotionally confusing that your heart soars and sinks, and I think that's what Cheever accomplishes in this wonderful surprise of a book!
February 16, 2013
Meh. That is all the emotion with which this book left me. Somewhere I read that Cheever was heavily inspired by James Joyce, and it is so, so obvious here. I don't mean that in a good way either.
Cheever is not a novelist, and it is quite apparent. He is a short story writer who wanted to jump ship for novels, but this book is nothing more than a short story that is about 200 pages too long. I got bored more times than I can count.
Aside from that, he is a good writer. The book flows well, and he is has a way with words. Unfortunately that doesn't translate well into a way with plot. The book focuses mostly on character development, which is something I don't usually mind.
I didn't hate it. I didn't love it. Rather I walked away just feeling totally underwhelmed and unmoved.
Cheever is not a novelist, and it is quite apparent. He is a short story writer who wanted to jump ship for novels, but this book is nothing more than a short story that is about 200 pages too long. I got bored more times than I can count.
Aside from that, he is a good writer. The book flows well, and he is has a way with words. Unfortunately that doesn't translate well into a way with plot. The book focuses mostly on character development, which is something I don't usually mind.
I didn't hate it. I didn't love it. Rather I walked away just feeling totally underwhelmed and unmoved.
January 17, 2018
„Crack your skull before you weep."
Pokušavam da sročim utisak o ovoj knjizi, ali jedino što mi pada na pamet jeste da je ova knjiga kao da najlepši dan u godini provedeš zatvoren u sobi. Jeste, sve je divno-bajno-krasno. Ali kroz prozor. Zatvoren. Prilično mali. Podrumski. I onda postane potpuno svejedno to što je napolju oaza lepih stvari, kada je sve što vidiš fleka od masnih prstiju na staklu.
Čiverova proza je možda i najbolja koju sam sreo. Rame uz rame stoji sa Nabokovim (od dobrih prozista tu su i Krouli, Pinčon, Išiguro). Ukrašena dosta, svakako, ali milina je čitati i potom izgovarati rečenice, toliko su prepune melodijom i onako lepotom na kilogram da često ostavljaju bez teksta. Plus, Čiver ima opak smisao za humor. Prilično sam siguran da nikada nisam više rečenica podvukao nego ovde. To je taj lepi prozor o kome pričam.
A onda dodje sve ostalo, tojest unutrašnjost prostorije. Možda preterujem. Ništa nije toliko loše – likovi i narativa sasvim su zadovoljavajući, ali su i samo to, zadovoljavajući. A kada stanu rame uz rame sa onako spektakularnom prozom, prosto nekako izblede. Utope se u pozadinu i tekst postane suv, neupečatljiv. Jedino atmosfera, koja je opet u tesnoj vezi sa pomenutom liričnošću teksta, donekle uspeva da ispuni Čiverov standard.
Nikad nisam čitao knjigu gde su aspekti romana ovoliko različiti. Vidi se da je Čiver prvenstveno pisac kratke proze, jer kao da se izgubio u dužini romana. Na neki način, sve podseća na prizor prosjaka što nosi roleks – nekako sve ide ka toj ideji da je i roleks lažan. A onda ipak pogledaš neke od Čiverovih rečenica, i potpuno instinktivno se pokloniš.
(da ne bude da pričam u prazno:
- „Would you like some whisky?“ Honora asked. „Yes, please,“ Leander said. „There isn’t any,“ Honora said. „Have a cookie.“
- „After all, we only pass this way once.“ As often as she made the remark about passage, it had not lost its strength. She was born; she would die.
- For who, these days, was rich enough to have bats in their kitchen?
-The foliage was dense and pungent and in the oaks were whole carping parliaments of crows.
-„Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone.“
-„I have more tears than milk. I’ve cried my breasts dry.“
-On beaches the joy and gall of perpetual youth. Even today. smell east wind. Hear Neptune’s horn. Always raring to go. Pack sandwiches. Bathing suit. Catch ramshackle bus to beach. Irresistible. In blood perhaps. Father read Shakespeare to waves. Mouthful of pebbles. Demosthenes?
-Shells stones, sea tack. All simple things. In the golden light memories of paradise perhaps.
-On the table near where he stood someone had stuck a candle into a root and beside this was a detective story, its first chapters eaten by mice.
-She was weary of trying to separate the power of loneliness from the power of love and she was lonely. )
4-
Pokušavam da sročim utisak o ovoj knjizi, ali jedino što mi pada na pamet jeste da je ova knjiga kao da najlepši dan u godini provedeš zatvoren u sobi. Jeste, sve je divno-bajno-krasno. Ali kroz prozor. Zatvoren. Prilično mali. Podrumski. I onda postane potpuno svejedno to što je napolju oaza lepih stvari, kada je sve što vidiš fleka od masnih prstiju na staklu.
Čiverova proza je možda i najbolja koju sam sreo. Rame uz rame stoji sa Nabokovim (od dobrih prozista tu su i Krouli, Pinčon, Išiguro). Ukrašena dosta, svakako, ali milina je čitati i potom izgovarati rečenice, toliko su prepune melodijom i onako lepotom na kilogram da često ostavljaju bez teksta. Plus, Čiver ima opak smisao za humor. Prilično sam siguran da nikada nisam više rečenica podvukao nego ovde. To je taj lepi prozor o kome pričam.
A onda dodje sve ostalo, tojest unutrašnjost prostorije. Možda preterujem. Ništa nije toliko loše – likovi i narativa sasvim su zadovoljavajući, ali su i samo to, zadovoljavajući. A kada stanu rame uz rame sa onako spektakularnom prozom, prosto nekako izblede. Utope se u pozadinu i tekst postane suv, neupečatljiv. Jedino atmosfera, koja je opet u tesnoj vezi sa pomenutom liričnošću teksta, donekle uspeva da ispuni Čiverov standard.
Nikad nisam čitao knjigu gde su aspekti romana ovoliko različiti. Vidi se da je Čiver prvenstveno pisac kratke proze, jer kao da se izgubio u dužini romana. Na neki način, sve podseća na prizor prosjaka što nosi roleks – nekako sve ide ka toj ideji da je i roleks lažan. A onda ipak pogledaš neke od Čiverovih rečenica, i potpuno instinktivno se pokloniš.
(da ne bude da pričam u prazno:
- „Would you like some whisky?“ Honora asked. „Yes, please,“ Leander said. „There isn’t any,“ Honora said. „Have a cookie.“
- „After all, we only pass this way once.“ As often as she made the remark about passage, it had not lost its strength. She was born; she would die.
- For who, these days, was rich enough to have bats in their kitchen?
-The foliage was dense and pungent and in the oaks were whole carping parliaments of crows.
-„Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone.“
-„I have more tears than milk. I’ve cried my breasts dry.“
-On beaches the joy and gall of perpetual youth. Even today. smell east wind. Hear Neptune’s horn. Always raring to go. Pack sandwiches. Bathing suit. Catch ramshackle bus to beach. Irresistible. In blood perhaps. Father read Shakespeare to waves. Mouthful of pebbles. Demosthenes?
-Shells stones, sea tack. All simple things. In the golden light memories of paradise perhaps.
-On the table near where he stood someone had stuck a candle into a root and beside this was a detective story, its first chapters eaten by mice.
-She was weary of trying to separate the power of loneliness from the power of love and she was lonely. )
4-
September 24, 2025
Por mí, le daría 10 estrellas.
Hay de sagas a sagas. La historia de la familia Wapshot es un extraordinario relato se vea por dónde se vea.
Cheever era un genio de la literatura.
Aquí hay varios narradores que nos sorprenden porque de pronto entran y salen de una forma inesperada, pero perfecta.
El ritmo, la cadencia, el entramado, todo encaja y se articula como pieza de relojería.
El lenguaje es poderoso y preciso. (Felicitaciones a la #traductora Laura Gallegos García por esta magnífica labor. Mis respetos.)
La novela encierra una serie de relatos que funcionan perfectamente por sí solos, pero que a la vez forman parte indisoluble de la vida de los Wapshot.
Casi 700 páginas de alta literatura. Leer a Cheever eleva la vara: de aquí para arriba.
Hay de sagas a sagas. La historia de la familia Wapshot es un extraordinario relato se vea por dónde se vea.
Cheever era un genio de la literatura.
Aquí hay varios narradores que nos sorprenden porque de pronto entran y salen de una forma inesperada, pero perfecta.
El ritmo, la cadencia, el entramado, todo encaja y se articula como pieza de relojería.
El lenguaje es poderoso y preciso. (Felicitaciones a la #traductora Laura Gallegos García por esta magnífica labor. Mis respetos.)
La novela encierra una serie de relatos que funcionan perfectamente por sí solos, pero que a la vez forman parte indisoluble de la vida de los Wapshot.
Casi 700 páginas de alta literatura. Leer a Cheever eleva la vara: de aquí para arriba.
July 22, 2024
poche parole, anzi una sola... CAPOLAVORO... alcune pagine sono in perfetto stile inglese (intendo UK) soprattutto le parti descrittive dei paesaggi in cui l'autore descrive la cittadina usando la seconda persona plurale... in questo romanzo si ride e si piange
July 4, 2022
Not too bad but a bit of a disappointment nevertheless. Quite repetitive at times. The ‘standard’ description of ‘attractive women’ becomes irritating very quickly. 2.5*
October 4, 2018
Scopro Cheever, in ritardo e con gran gusto. Tre le tante cose che mi hanno colpito della sua scrittura, ho notato sin dalle prime pagine una piccola ossessione nel descrivere gli odori, squadernando al lettore varie immagini di una specie di catalogo olfattivo.
Questo amore clandestino e impossibile tra descrizione e olfatto ben si riassume in questa frase a inizio romanzo: "La casa è abbastanza facile da descrivere, ma cosa si può dire di un giorno d’estate in un vecchio giardino? Sentite che profumo ha l’erba, sentite che odore hanno gli alberi!"
Cheever chiede al lettore una complicità nel "sentire", e collabora con descrizioni rigogliose ed efficaci: ...Quella brezza serale che nel New England odora di cose verginali, di radice di giaggiolo e sapone da toletta e stanze in affitto bagnate per colpa di una finestra lasciata aperta durante uno scroscio di pioggia, di orinali e zuppa di acetosella e rose e cotonina e prato, di vestiti da coro e copie del Nuovo Testamento rilegate in pelle morbida e pascoli messi in vendita rigogliosi di felci e ruta.
C'è del profumo, nella prima parte di questo romanzo, una esplorazione di odori che cambia con il vento (...portati dal vento dell'est l’odore di limoni, di legna bruciata, di rose e polvere), conosce i vecchi ambienti (Nel capanno da pesca c’era odore di vermi e interiora, di cherosene, di frittelle bruciate, l’odore stantio delle coperte, del fumo, delle scarpe bagnate, della liscivia), ed esplora nuove sensazioni con il classico viaggio che dalla domestica e pura campagna porta alla Città sconosciuta, ammaliante e babilonica (Sentite l’odore del cibo di un ristorante spagnolo, di pane fresco, di birra annacquata, di caffè tostato e dei fumi di scarico di un autobus).
Cheever e le sue parole che "evocano un quadro amichevole anche se avverti la nuda lama della malignità".
Ci si inabissa nella sconsolante e tragica realtà umana, più fredda e meschina che avventurosa e romantica. Come pozze di disperazione, ferme ai lati della corrente vitale. "La terra, alla vaga luce dell’aurora, gli apparve ipocrita e offensiva come il sorriso di un venditore porta a porta. Tutto era falso, pensò Badger, nulla era come appariva e l’enormità di questo inganno, la delicatezza con la quale il colore del cielo si faceva più acceso mentre si vestiva, lo fece infuriare." Gli svaghi son terminati, direbbe il Prospero di Shakespeare.
Tremendo, lucido, freddo, certo un po' bastardo ma carico, carico, tanto carico di umanità come nel "testamento spirituale" del padre Leander (magnifico personaggio) ai suoi due figli: "La paura sa di coltello arrugginito, non farla entrare in casa. Il coraggio sa di sangue. Andate avanti sempre a testa alta. Ammirate il mondo. Godete dell’amore di una donna come si deve. Confidate nel Signore."
Questo amore clandestino e impossibile tra descrizione e olfatto ben si riassume in questa frase a inizio romanzo: "La casa è abbastanza facile da descrivere, ma cosa si può dire di un giorno d’estate in un vecchio giardino? Sentite che profumo ha l’erba, sentite che odore hanno gli alberi!"
Cheever chiede al lettore una complicità nel "sentire", e collabora con descrizioni rigogliose ed efficaci: ...Quella brezza serale che nel New England odora di cose verginali, di radice di giaggiolo e sapone da toletta e stanze in affitto bagnate per colpa di una finestra lasciata aperta durante uno scroscio di pioggia, di orinali e zuppa di acetosella e rose e cotonina e prato, di vestiti da coro e copie del Nuovo Testamento rilegate in pelle morbida e pascoli messi in vendita rigogliosi di felci e ruta.
C'è del profumo, nella prima parte di questo romanzo, una esplorazione di odori che cambia con il vento (...portati dal vento dell'est l’odore di limoni, di legna bruciata, di rose e polvere), conosce i vecchi ambienti (Nel capanno da pesca c’era odore di vermi e interiora, di cherosene, di frittelle bruciate, l’odore stantio delle coperte, del fumo, delle scarpe bagnate, della liscivia), ed esplora nuove sensazioni con il classico viaggio che dalla domestica e pura campagna porta alla Città sconosciuta, ammaliante e babilonica (Sentite l’odore del cibo di un ristorante spagnolo, di pane fresco, di birra annacquata, di caffè tostato e dei fumi di scarico di un autobus).
Cheever e le sue parole che "evocano un quadro amichevole anche se avverti la nuda lama della malignità".
Ci si inabissa nella sconsolante e tragica realtà umana, più fredda e meschina che avventurosa e romantica. Come pozze di disperazione, ferme ai lati della corrente vitale. "La terra, alla vaga luce dell’aurora, gli apparve ipocrita e offensiva come il sorriso di un venditore porta a porta. Tutto era falso, pensò Badger, nulla era come appariva e l’enormità di questo inganno, la delicatezza con la quale il colore del cielo si faceva più acceso mentre si vestiva, lo fece infuriare." Gli svaghi son terminati, direbbe il Prospero di Shakespeare.
Tremendo, lucido, freddo, certo un po' bastardo ma carico, carico, tanto carico di umanità come nel "testamento spirituale" del padre Leander (magnifico personaggio) ai suoi due figli: "La paura sa di coltello arrugginito, non farla entrare in casa. Il coraggio sa di sangue. Andate avanti sempre a testa alta. Ammirate il mondo. Godete dell’amore di una donna come si deve. Confidate nel Signore."
July 25, 2016
Uno scatolone di vecchie fotografie.
L’odore e il disordine sono le principali sensazioni che il romanzo mi ha lasciato al termine della lettura.
Gli odori (ma anche i sapori) che nel primo ‘900 pervadono i paesi costieri del New England, sono rievocati dall’autore con meticolosa precisione, nella loro composita sostanza, densa di multiple percezioni sensoriali, profumi, afrori sgradevoli, acidità, esalazioni reali o immaginate dalla materia degli oggetti, tutta un’atmosfera che richiama ripetutamente l’essenza di quel mondo e dei suoi abitanti.
Per averne un’idea basta analizzare uno qualsiasi fra i brani, citati da tanti commenti, in cui a profumi stravaganti ma pur sempre razionalmente immaginabili (“radice di giaggiolo”, “sapone da toletta”, “zuppa di acetosella”) si mescola un componente (”… copie del Nuovo Testamento rilegate in pelle morbida”) impossibile da percepire col solo olfatto ma estremamente suggestivo per la nostra fantasia! Come sarà mai l’odore di copie del Nuovo Testamento rilegate in pelle morbida? E se ad emettere odore di rilegatura in pelle fosse invece un libro di poesie o un manuale? Forse non saremmo nel New England del primo ‘900…
Sul piano stilistico invece, a prevalere è un’impressione di disordine e di inafferrabilità, tramite l’alternarsi di registri, di stili, di personaggi che dominano la prima parte e poi spariscono dal cuore della narrazione o viceversa, l’assenza di un fulcro che siamo soliti associare a una storia (non chiamiamola “saga”) familiare, di padri e figli, mogli e mariti, fratelli, cugini… e zie particolarmente autoritarie!
Forse il termine stesso di “Cronache” avrebbe dovuto mettere in guardia, prepararci ad una programmatica e deliberata frammentarietà e ad una successione di eventi che talora sembra assemblata in modo quasi casuale e precario, con vicende drammatiche liquidate in poche frasi e, per contro, dissertazioni che se non spezzano, quanto meno deviano e rinviano il filo del racconto.
Vengono inseriti imprevisti scarti nello stile stesso del periodare di alcuni capitoli. Diari composti da frasi telegrafiche e smozzicate, che sembrano schemi o appunti per uno sviluppo narrativo ulteriore o virtuosismi come l’uso della seconda persona plurale nel capitolo 15, che è forse uno dei più suggestivi del libro, dove si affronta con notevole efficacia e suggestione l’impatto di ognuno dei due giovani provinciali Wapshot con la dimensione metropolitana.
Insomma, contrariamente alle apparenze, questa non è la storia della famiglia Wapshot ma una collezione di vecchie fotografie, alcune nitide altre più sfocate, ripescate un po’ alla rinfusa da un vecchio scatolone in soffitta; sfogliando le quali ci si chiede a volte chi fosse mai la persona riprodotta, perché quel personaggio apparisse malinconico o divertito, a quale anno si riferisse quell’immagine, che cosa ne sia stato di Rosalie, di Honora, del ricco Mr.Cutter e tante altre domande le cui risposte sfuggono o restano permeate di ambiguità… benchè gli sfondi restino immancabilmente suggestivi e seducenti.
L’odore e il disordine sono le principali sensazioni che il romanzo mi ha lasciato al termine della lettura.
Gli odori (ma anche i sapori) che nel primo ‘900 pervadono i paesi costieri del New England, sono rievocati dall’autore con meticolosa precisione, nella loro composita sostanza, densa di multiple percezioni sensoriali, profumi, afrori sgradevoli, acidità, esalazioni reali o immaginate dalla materia degli oggetti, tutta un’atmosfera che richiama ripetutamente l’essenza di quel mondo e dei suoi abitanti.
Per averne un’idea basta analizzare uno qualsiasi fra i brani, citati da tanti commenti, in cui a profumi stravaganti ma pur sempre razionalmente immaginabili (“radice di giaggiolo”, “sapone da toletta”, “zuppa di acetosella”) si mescola un componente (”… copie del Nuovo Testamento rilegate in pelle morbida”) impossibile da percepire col solo olfatto ma estremamente suggestivo per la nostra fantasia! Come sarà mai l’odore di copie del Nuovo Testamento rilegate in pelle morbida? E se ad emettere odore di rilegatura in pelle fosse invece un libro di poesie o un manuale? Forse non saremmo nel New England del primo ‘900…
Sul piano stilistico invece, a prevalere è un’impressione di disordine e di inafferrabilità, tramite l’alternarsi di registri, di stili, di personaggi che dominano la prima parte e poi spariscono dal cuore della narrazione o viceversa, l’assenza di un fulcro che siamo soliti associare a una storia (non chiamiamola “saga”) familiare, di padri e figli, mogli e mariti, fratelli, cugini… e zie particolarmente autoritarie!
Forse il termine stesso di “Cronache” avrebbe dovuto mettere in guardia, prepararci ad una programmatica e deliberata frammentarietà e ad una successione di eventi che talora sembra assemblata in modo quasi casuale e precario, con vicende drammatiche liquidate in poche frasi e, per contro, dissertazioni che se non spezzano, quanto meno deviano e rinviano il filo del racconto.
Vengono inseriti imprevisti scarti nello stile stesso del periodare di alcuni capitoli. Diari composti da frasi telegrafiche e smozzicate, che sembrano schemi o appunti per uno sviluppo narrativo ulteriore o virtuosismi come l’uso della seconda persona plurale nel capitolo 15, che è forse uno dei più suggestivi del libro, dove si affronta con notevole efficacia e suggestione l’impatto di ognuno dei due giovani provinciali Wapshot con la dimensione metropolitana.
Insomma, contrariamente alle apparenze, questa non è la storia della famiglia Wapshot ma una collezione di vecchie fotografie, alcune nitide altre più sfocate, ripescate un po’ alla rinfusa da un vecchio scatolone in soffitta; sfogliando le quali ci si chiede a volte chi fosse mai la persona riprodotta, perché quel personaggio apparisse malinconico o divertito, a quale anno si riferisse quell’immagine, che cosa ne sia stato di Rosalie, di Honora, del ricco Mr.Cutter e tante altre domande le cui risposte sfuggono o restano permeate di ambiguità… benchè gli sfondi restino immancabilmente suggestivi e seducenti.
July 20, 2009
I was hesitant to begin reading Cheever (I have no idea why I believed his fiction wouldn't interest me), and even more skeptical about starting with a novel rather than his more well-regarded short stories. However, this novel was nothing short of excellent, and makes me even more excited to turn to his short fiction. The Wapshot Chronicle tells the tale of a single family's existence in and around St. Botolph's, a fishing village on the northern coast of Massachusetts. The novel focuses most heavily on the wildly complex relations between the patriarch of the family and his two sons, who are as different as they come. As the sons attempt to chart their own courses, both geographically and emotionally removing themselves from their hometown, the full strength of their family ties abruptly surfaces, again and again.
As my summary suggests, the story is an old one, but the expression is entirely unique and wondrous (if sometimes slightly uneven) to read. At its best, Cheever slips out of the third person into the minds and hearts of his characters, recreating their journal entries, suggesting their innermost anxieties. He also makes some of the most affective use of the second person I've ever encountered. An example: "You walk and walk and walk, changing your suitcase from hand to hand. You pass lighted store fronts, monuments, theaters and saloons. You hear dance music and the thunder of tenpins from an upstairs bowling alley and wonder how long it will be before you being to play a role against this new scene. You will have a desk, a secretary, a telephone extension, duties, worries, triumphs and promotions. In the meantime, you will be a lover. You will meet a girl by that monument on the corner, buy her some dinner in that restaurant across the street and be taken home by her to that apartment in the distance. You will have friends and enjoy them as these two men, swinging down the street in shirt sleeves, are enjoying each other. You may belong to a bowling club that bowls in the alley whose thunder you hear. You will have money to spend and you may buy that raincoat in the store window on your right. You may--who knows?--buy a red convertible like that red convertible that is traveling southeast above the trees, and you may even be a father holding a little girl by one hand and a quart of strawberry ice cream in the other. It is only a question of days before the part begins, you think, although it must in fact have begun as soon as you entered the scene with your suitcase."
Cheever's prose, second person or not, is filled with this sort of density and richness. It makes you want to linger over sentences and exposes the power of small moments and gestures. Its meaning is in its intricacy, and its strength is such that it carries what shortcomings this novel might have in terms of its plot. A page-turner this novel is not, but it is well-worth the effort.
As my summary suggests, the story is an old one, but the expression is entirely unique and wondrous (if sometimes slightly uneven) to read. At its best, Cheever slips out of the third person into the minds and hearts of his characters, recreating their journal entries, suggesting their innermost anxieties. He also makes some of the most affective use of the second person I've ever encountered. An example: "You walk and walk and walk, changing your suitcase from hand to hand. You pass lighted store fronts, monuments, theaters and saloons. You hear dance music and the thunder of tenpins from an upstairs bowling alley and wonder how long it will be before you being to play a role against this new scene. You will have a desk, a secretary, a telephone extension, duties, worries, triumphs and promotions. In the meantime, you will be a lover. You will meet a girl by that monument on the corner, buy her some dinner in that restaurant across the street and be taken home by her to that apartment in the distance. You will have friends and enjoy them as these two men, swinging down the street in shirt sleeves, are enjoying each other. You may belong to a bowling club that bowls in the alley whose thunder you hear. You will have money to spend and you may buy that raincoat in the store window on your right. You may--who knows?--buy a red convertible like that red convertible that is traveling southeast above the trees, and you may even be a father holding a little girl by one hand and a quart of strawberry ice cream in the other. It is only a question of days before the part begins, you think, although it must in fact have begun as soon as you entered the scene with your suitcase."
Cheever's prose, second person or not, is filled with this sort of density and richness. It makes you want to linger over sentences and exposes the power of small moments and gestures. Its meaning is in its intricacy, and its strength is such that it carries what shortcomings this novel might have in terms of its plot. A page-turner this novel is not, but it is well-worth the effort.
March 30, 2009
The "chronicle" here is the story of Captain Leander Wapshot and his sons, Coverly and Moses, and their lives on the New England coast. Parts of the story are told through Leander's diary, though other chapters are written as flashes, like pieces of short stories. This is Cheever's first novel, being a short story writer first so an entire novel being written in that format is not particularly surprising. It often reminded me of, ugh, Sinclair Lewis, or, double-ugh, Sherwood Anderson, but for a long while I gave Cheever several second chances. The book started strong, but about halfway through I threw my hands in the air and could not honestly care less or more about any of the characters. It felt stagnant and I lost touch of the Wapshots and their gripings.
Still, I hear that his short stories are better, so eventually I will get to that ginormous collection I have that I keep putting off in fear that I just won't like Cheever. And maybe - just maybe - I might someday also get around to reading the second book, The Wapshot Scandal.
Still, I hear that his short stories are better, so eventually I will get to that ginormous collection I have that I keep putting off in fear that I just won't like Cheever. And maybe - just maybe - I might someday also get around to reading the second book, The Wapshot Scandal.
November 14, 2011
I was ready to be bored by this novel. My expectations were not met. It was much funnier than a novel with so stuffy a title should ever be. It was cleverer and zanier than I imagined a popular or literary novel from the 1950's had a right to be. It was, at times, more experimental in its style and even subject matter than I would have thought possible from a novel with so staid a countenance. And it was brighter and livlier and more modern than many its junior.
March 4, 2022
Un drama familiar absoluto, una serie de personajes que se van conectando entre sí y que poco a poco nos dejan saber más de ellos. Personajes construidos de una manera asombrosa, personajes que parecen tan reales como el mismo lector, tan reales que cuesta no identificarse con uno o con más personajes de esta maravillosa novela.
Sin duda, Cheever es uno de los grandes narradores norteamericanos.
Sin duda, Cheever es uno de los grandes narradores norteamericanos.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 486 reviews