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In the Heart of the Heart of the Country
IN THIS SUITE of five short pieces -- one of the unqualified literary masterpieces of the American 1960s -- William Gass finds five beautiful forms in which to explore the signature theme of his fiction: the solitary soul’s poignant, conflicted, and doomed pursuit of love and community. In their obsessions, Gass’s Midwestern dreamers are like the "grotesques" of Sherwood Anderson, but in their hyper-linguistic streams of consciousness, they are the match for Joyce’s Dubliners.
First published in 1968, this book begins with a beguiling thirty-three page essay and has five fictions: the celebrated novella "The Pedersen Kid," "Mrs. Mean," "Icicles," "Order of Insects," and the title story.
272 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1968
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About the author
William H. Gass
64 books705 followersWilliam Howard Gass was an American novelist, short story writer, essayist, critic, and former philosophy professor.
Gass was born in Fargo, North Dakota. Soon after his birth, his family moved to Warren, Ohio, where he attended local schools. He has described his childhood as an unhappy one, with an abusive, racist father and a passive, alcoholic mother; critics would later cite his characters as having these same qualities.
He attended Wesleyan University, then served as an Ensign in the Navy during World War II, a period he describes as perhaps the worst of his life. He earned his A.B. in philosophy from Kenyon College in 1947, then his Ph.D. in philosophy from Cornell University in 1954, where he studied under Max Black. His dissertation, "A Philosophical Investigation of Metaphor", was based on his training as a philosopher of language. In graduate school Gass read the work of Gertrude Stein, who influenced his writing experiments.
Gass taught at The College of Wooster, Purdue University, and Washington University in St. Louis, where he was a professor of philosophy (1969 - 1978) and the David May Distinguished University Professor in the Humanities (1979 - 1999). His colleagues there have included the writers Stanley Elkin, Howard Nemerov (1988 Poet Laureate of the United States), and Mona Van Duyn (1992 Poet Laureate). Since 2000, Gass has been the David May Distinguished University Professor Emeritus in the Humanities.
Earning a living for himself and his family from university teaching, Gass began to publish stories that were selected for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories of 1959, 1961, 1962, 1968 and 1980, as well as Two Hundred Years of Great American Short Stories. His first novel, Omensetter's Luck, about life in a small town in Ohio in the 1890s, was published in 1966. Critics praised his linguistic virtuosity, establishing him as an important writer of fiction. In 1968 he published In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, five stories dramatizing the theme of human isolation and the difficulty of love. Three years later Gass wrote Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife, an experimental novella illustrated with photographs and typographical constructs intended to help readers free themselves from the linear conventions of narrative. He has also published several collections of essays, including On Being Blue (1976) and Finding a Form (1996). His latest work of fiction, Cartesian Sonata and Other Novellas, was published in 1998. His work has also appeared in The Best American Essays collections of 1986, 1992, and 2000.
Gass has cited the anger he felt during his childhood as a major influence on his work, even stating that he writes "to get even." Despite his prolific output, he has said that writing is difficult for him. In fact, his epic novel The Tunnel, published in 1995, took Gass 26 years to compose. An unabridged audio version of The Tunnel was released in 2006, with Gass reading the novel himself.
When writing, Gass typically devotes enormous attention to the construction of sentences, arguing their importance as the basis of his work. His prose has been described as flashy, difficult, edgy, masterful, inventive, and musical. Steven Moore, writing in The Washington Post has called Gass "the finest prose stylist in America." Much of Gass' work is metafictional.
Gass has received many awards and honors, including grants from the Rockefeller Foundation in 1965, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation in 1970. He won the Pushcart Prize awards in 1976, 1983, 1987, and 1992, and in 1994 he received the Mark Twain Award for Distinguished Contribution to the Literature of the Midwest. He has teaching awards from Purdue University and Washington University; in 1968 the Chicago Tribune Award as One of the Ten Best Teachers in the Big Ten. He was a Getty Foundation Fellow in 1991-1992. He received the Lannan Lifetime Achievement Award in 1997; and the American Book Award for The
Gass was born in Fargo, North Dakota. Soon after his birth, his family moved to Warren, Ohio, where he attended local schools. He has described his childhood as an unhappy one, with an abusive, racist father and a passive, alcoholic mother; critics would later cite his characters as having these same qualities.
He attended Wesleyan University, then served as an Ensign in the Navy during World War II, a period he describes as perhaps the worst of his life. He earned his A.B. in philosophy from Kenyon College in 1947, then his Ph.D. in philosophy from Cornell University in 1954, where he studied under Max Black. His dissertation, "A Philosophical Investigation of Metaphor", was based on his training as a philosopher of language. In graduate school Gass read the work of Gertrude Stein, who influenced his writing experiments.
Gass taught at The College of Wooster, Purdue University, and Washington University in St. Louis, where he was a professor of philosophy (1969 - 1978) and the David May Distinguished University Professor in the Humanities (1979 - 1999). His colleagues there have included the writers Stanley Elkin, Howard Nemerov (1988 Poet Laureate of the United States), and Mona Van Duyn (1992 Poet Laureate). Since 2000, Gass has been the David May Distinguished University Professor Emeritus in the Humanities.
Earning a living for himself and his family from university teaching, Gass began to publish stories that were selected for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories of 1959, 1961, 1962, 1968 and 1980, as well as Two Hundred Years of Great American Short Stories. His first novel, Omensetter's Luck, about life in a small town in Ohio in the 1890s, was published in 1966. Critics praised his linguistic virtuosity, establishing him as an important writer of fiction. In 1968 he published In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, five stories dramatizing the theme of human isolation and the difficulty of love. Three years later Gass wrote Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife, an experimental novella illustrated with photographs and typographical constructs intended to help readers free themselves from the linear conventions of narrative. He has also published several collections of essays, including On Being Blue (1976) and Finding a Form (1996). His latest work of fiction, Cartesian Sonata and Other Novellas, was published in 1998. His work has also appeared in The Best American Essays collections of 1986, 1992, and 2000.
Gass has cited the anger he felt during his childhood as a major influence on his work, even stating that he writes "to get even." Despite his prolific output, he has said that writing is difficult for him. In fact, his epic novel The Tunnel, published in 1995, took Gass 26 years to compose. An unabridged audio version of The Tunnel was released in 2006, with Gass reading the novel himself.
When writing, Gass typically devotes enormous attention to the construction of sentences, arguing their importance as the basis of his work. His prose has been described as flashy, difficult, edgy, masterful, inventive, and musical. Steven Moore, writing in The Washington Post has called Gass "the finest prose stylist in America." Much of Gass' work is metafictional.
Gass has received many awards and honors, including grants from the Rockefeller Foundation in 1965, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation in 1970. He won the Pushcart Prize awards in 1976, 1983, 1987, and 1992, and in 1994 he received the Mark Twain Award for Distinguished Contribution to the Literature of the Midwest. He has teaching awards from Purdue University and Washington University; in 1968 the Chicago Tribune Award as One of the Ten Best Teachers in the Big Ten. He was a Getty Foundation Fellow in 1991-1992. He received the Lannan Lifetime Achievement Award in 1997; and the American Book Award for The
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 370 reviews
April 26, 2023
William H. Gass knows how to tell a story with a twist…
The Pedersen Kid in the strange way reminded me of Erskine Caldwell.
Mrs. Mean is a suburban fabliau in John Cheever’s style but more pessimistic than ironic.
Icicles is a dreary office tale: if one’s life is absolutely empty then icicles become a spectacular event – a bit of Donald Barthelme, probably.
Order of Insects is a piece of Franz Kafka’s cockroach Gothic but on the funny side.
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country is a small town’s small person’s chronicles a la Sherwood Anderson gone sour.
Those who fly really high behave exactly like this.
The Pedersen Kid in the strange way reminded me of Erskine Caldwell.
Mrs. Mean is a suburban fabliau in John Cheever’s style but more pessimistic than ironic.
Recently, while I’ve been loitering at the end of the alley, taking my last look around, I’ve felt I’ve mixed up all my starts and endings, that the future is over and the past has just begun.
Icicles is a dreary office tale: if one’s life is absolutely empty then icicles become a spectacular event – a bit of Donald Barthelme, probably.
Order of Insects is a piece of Franz Kafka’s cockroach Gothic but on the funny side.
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country is a small town’s small person’s chronicles a la Sherwood Anderson gone sour.
I want to rise so high, I said, that when I shit I won’t miss anybody.
Those who fly really high behave exactly like this.
November 5, 2020
William H. Gass es un escritor excepcional, grande, y sin embargo… Aun así, estoy seguro de que algún día volveré a oír como palpita su corazón, algo que no puedo decir de muchos libros.
P.D. Ahora que he leído su primera novela “La suerte de Omensetter”, estoy mucho más seguro de algunas cosas: que Gass es un escritor excepcional, que volveré a leer sus cuentos y que estaré atento a la editorial La navaja suiza, a la que felicito por las ediciones de sus libros, por si decide seguir con la publicación del resto de su obra.
P.D. Ahora que he leído su primera novela “La suerte de Omensetter”, estoy mucho más seguro de algunas cosas: que Gass es un escritor excepcional, que volveré a leer sus cuentos y que estaré atento a la editorial La navaja suiza, a la que felicito por las ediciones de sus libros, por si decide seguir con la publicación del resto de su obra.
October 28, 2013
Gass and me (or Gass and “I”) are having a fallout. And “I” use the word fallout in the nuclear sense. This is the first Gass product that has elicited outright shrugging. Yawns. Page scans. Meandering thoughts. Derisive snorts. ‘The Pedersen Kid’ is exempt from these complaints. This novella is a startling creation and one of Gass’s finest fictions (proving “straight” narrative was not outwith his grasp). The remaining four pieces find Gass experimenting with the modernist toolbox in ways this 2013 reader found interminable. In ‘Mrs. Mean’ (the most tolerable of the four) the narrator is pure Gass floating brain—POV a shy outsider whose detachment from the lives of the titular tyrant renders the tale disturbing but too flippant to impact (upon me), but reminds me of the scorching (and better) Red the Fiend from Gil. I outright loathed ‘Icicles.’ The reasons are not 98.6% clear to me other than I feel Gass is straining hard in the modernist mode (chop-chop reported speech, realtor-speak, opaque narration), ‘Order of Insects’ was awkward and the title piece was too literary-literary in its style, containing some laughable howler sentences far too amateur to be published under the good Gass name. Where is that Gass music in these fumbling, staccato apprentice pieces? This young man could barely scrape a middle C on his violalele. “I” am off for a wee Willy weep.
November 13, 2013
I don't know for literary movements, so I don't know what this is called.
I know that few people can write an English sentence with as much brilliance as William H. Gass. And he's plenty inventive. He is not formulaic. He gives us here five stories, each a remarkably different slice of 20th Century Midwestern America. They are about Place:
In the Midwest, around the lower Lakes, the sky in winter is heavy and close, and it is a rare day, a day to remark on, when the sky lifts and allows the heart up. I am keeping count, and as I write this page, it is eleven days since I have seen the sun.
And People:
Billy closes his door and carries coal or wood to his fire and closes his eyes, and there's simply no way of knowing how lonely and empty he is or whether he's as vacant and barren and loveless as the rest of us are -- here in the heart of the country.
Oh, it's cold there, and gray, very gray. Gass is watching all of it. The houses, where the windows never open. The back door bangs but the breeze is metaphorical. The neighbors: Mrs. Mean could out-Christ Pius. Or telephone wires by a house which, in Gass' description, make me think of a certain culture-changing corporation with designs on absorbing an entire market:
These wires offend me. Three trees were maimed on their account, and now these wires deface the sky. They cross like a fence in front of me, enclosing the crows with the clouds. I can't reach in, but like a stick, I throw my feelings over. What is it that offends me? I am on my stump, I've built a platform there and the wires prevent my going out. The cut trees, the black wires, all the beyond birds therefore anger me. When I've wormed through a fence to reach a meadow, do I ever feel the same about the field?
I know, hunh?
And hovering over all this voyeured detail, intertwined in each uniquely imagined story, is this feeling of Love, inchoate or lost. Everything else is what Gass sees. Love's ache is what he feels. Very first person, that. That too, I suppose is the Heart in the heart of the country.
Now, there's also this about Gass. You can be reading one of his stories and thinking Oh, this is Genius and Jesus, this is good and This has the chance to be the greatest thing I've ever read. And then whatever he was doing and whatever he was saying morphs into dissonance. So there's that.
But I will be thinking about this for a long, long time. I will go back to it to recapture the magic of his language.
I know that few people can write an English sentence with as much brilliance as William H. Gass. And he's plenty inventive. He is not formulaic. He gives us here five stories, each a remarkably different slice of 20th Century Midwestern America. They are about Place:
In the Midwest, around the lower Lakes, the sky in winter is heavy and close, and it is a rare day, a day to remark on, when the sky lifts and allows the heart up. I am keeping count, and as I write this page, it is eleven days since I have seen the sun.
And People:
Billy closes his door and carries coal or wood to his fire and closes his eyes, and there's simply no way of knowing how lonely and empty he is or whether he's as vacant and barren and loveless as the rest of us are -- here in the heart of the country.
Oh, it's cold there, and gray, very gray. Gass is watching all of it. The houses, where the windows never open. The back door bangs but the breeze is metaphorical. The neighbors: Mrs. Mean could out-Christ Pius. Or telephone wires by a house which, in Gass' description, make me think of a certain culture-changing corporation with designs on absorbing an entire market:
These wires offend me. Three trees were maimed on their account, and now these wires deface the sky. They cross like a fence in front of me, enclosing the crows with the clouds. I can't reach in, but like a stick, I throw my feelings over. What is it that offends me? I am on my stump, I've built a platform there and the wires prevent my going out. The cut trees, the black wires, all the beyond birds therefore anger me. When I've wormed through a fence to reach a meadow, do I ever feel the same about the field?
I know, hunh?
And hovering over all this voyeured detail, intertwined in each uniquely imagined story, is this feeling of Love, inchoate or lost. Everything else is what Gass sees. Love's ache is what he feels. Very first person, that. That too, I suppose is the Heart in the heart of the country.
Now, there's also this about Gass. You can be reading one of his stories and thinking Oh, this is Genius and Jesus, this is good and This has the chance to be the greatest thing I've ever read. And then whatever he was doing and whatever he was saying morphs into dissonance. So there's that.
But I will be thinking about this for a long, long time. I will go back to it to recapture the magic of his language.
August 2, 2020
I think I am going to like this Gass, I thought, and here I am, at the end of it, hovering between four and five stars, as I so often do, but settling for that generous bedizening – the whole roster of stellar units. Linked only by nefariously complex sentences, riddled with the kind of chewy phrases boys on the ballpark lawn would work with their chapped lips to pull and prod between clenched teeth, the stories here are fascinating, jewel-like run-on spasms through form and essence, like a sun-drenched day, like houses standing in rows, staring at some horizon you are too short to see, like a moon in the sky at midday, defying reason, but lingering like some pendant over blasted landscapes of ghost-peopled towns, where sunk in lazy fiddling, meandering maws squawk and fingers rummage pocket lint, where schooled but not well-reasoned kids resuscitate Caesar within the abstract labyrinths of their somnambulism. The setting is fashioned after some sort of dioramic blend of gothic minimalism, which somehow isn’t hollow. Like a fruit, well-full of rind and insect-swarming seeds, peeled open to reveal a glint of golden nectar. It’s nostalgic headway into dream. It’s a slow slackening of all the reeled strictures of noveled, inflexible fiction. We’ve walked these roads, met these stunted Shakespeares, but we seldom paid attention to the blinding patter of their paws, to the struggles they wield in their wild tunneling toward death. Little stories come and ungainly go, but certain stories capture in their amber, hallowed moments of crystal life, refracting the essence of that unknowable divine back into our double-mirrored minds. Snatch what you can from Gass’ gaseous brand of madness.
September 10, 2013
The U.S. of Gass
William H. Gass writes with high literary value, higher than most actually and if I had to categorize his writing in particular the short story collection “In The Heart of The Heart of The Country”, I would call it Midwestern gothic, stream of consciousness , philosophy of isolation, but alas I’m barley an expert on literature , the English language and writing, but William H. Gass is an expert, one that besides from writing teaches philosophy at Purdue University , got his PhD at Cornell, he understands all facets of writing and literature and could write circles around his peers it's not so much that he understands the English Language so well, it’s just he breaks all perceived notions of what a writer can do it with.
This collection contains five stories that challenge your notion on what the American novel can be.
Snow and More Snow, Than Just in Case More Snow, a quick review of “The Pedersen Kid”
One of them stories in which it’s better going in blind. Going in snow blind. All you need to know is that it’s the only story in the collection that has any form of plot, it’s a story from start to finish the curdles the readers blood and at the same time sends the brain on over time. A philosophy suspense thriller, perhaps.
Would You Please Shut-Up, Please! A quick review of Mrs. Mean
Here is where William Gass abandons plot and shatters notions, you may think you know in the first few pages what is what, but I’ll bet the American Post Legion you are wrong. Nothing much happens expect for jaw dropping genius prose. A man sits on his porch and observes a woman with four children, and some of his other neighbors. He does not know her name calls her Mrs. Mean because she yells at her four children all of the time. Here is an example of what Gass writes.
“Ames. You little snot. Nancy. Witch. Here now. Look where you are now. Look now will you? God almighty. Move. Get. Oh jesus why do I trouble myself. It’ll die now, you little care. Squashed. That grass ain’t ants. Toll I warn you. God, god, how did you do that? Why, why, tell me that. Toll, what’s that now? Toll I warn you now. Pike. Shit. Get. What am I going to do with you? Step on you like that? Squash. Like that? Why try to make it nice. Why? Ames. Damn. Oh damn. You little snot. Wait’ll I get hold of you. Tim. You are so little, Tim. You are so snotty, so dirty snotty, so nasty dirty snotty. Where did you get that? What is that? What’s it now? Drop that. Don’t bring it here. Put it back. Nancy. Witch. Oh jesus, jesus, sweet, sweet jesus. Get. Did you piss in the flowers? Timmy? Timmy, Timmy , Timmy, did you? By god, I’ll beat your bottom flat. Come here. You’re so sweet, so sweet, so nice, so dear. Yes. Come here. All of you. Nancy. Toll. Ames. Tim. Get in here. Now, now I say. Now. Get. I’ll whale you all."
Thoughts In Isolation, a quick review of the rest.
In “Icicles” a realtor is sick of winter and his job; he becomes obsessed with the icicles that form on his house they get bigger, at the office his fellow realtors tell about the awful truths of man and Property, “Prop-purr-tee” his co-worker calls it. Once more William H Gass wows us with his words
“…but property, property endures. Sure, sure cars go to junk before the people in them do sometimes, but there’s all sorts of property, that’s all and a house will outlast it’s builder usually. Lots of things out last us, Fender. Lots of things. Lots do. Hah hah. Well. That’s it. Land’s damn dear immortal. Land lasts forever. That’s why it’s called real, see? oh it makes sense, Fender, old fellow and friend, it makes sense!
The last two stories continue in the vain of the first two, but each stand out on their own and break notions. I leave with more of Gass’s writing a short example to ride out the cold grey days
“Living alas, among men and their marvels, the city man supposes that his happiness depends on establishing somehow, a special kind of harmonious accord with others. The novelists of the city, of slums and crowds. They call it love-and break their pens”
Better Then Middle C and Middle C was Phenomenal
I just want add that I find myself still thinking back to this collection, this book needs to be read more readers, it may be the Best Book Ever!
December 11, 2022
"No hay duda, ya no soy yo. Este no es el mundo real. He ido demasiado lejos. Así es como empiezan los cuentos de hadas, un resbalón sobre el borde de la realidad."
"En el corazón del corazón del país" fue publicado en 1968 y justo después de haberme leído los cinco relatos que lo componen, tengo que reconocer que incluso ahora, después de transcurridos más de cuarenta años de su publicación, parece una obra atemporal, fuera de cualquier registro del tiempo. Ya había leído anteriormente “La suerte de Omensetter” y ya esta novela me fascinó por muchos detalles que ya dejé expuestos en la reseña. Sin embargo, en los relatos de En el corazon del corazon del país, quizás gracias a todo lo que ha llovido en mi bagaje literario desde Omensetter, he encontrado un Gass con el que he conectado de una forma que no me esperaba.
"En una ocasión el viento traspasó el cristal y trajo un copo de nieve. Las escaleras quedaron a oscuras. Si un rayo de luz bajara los peldaños, supongo que tendría que disparar."
Los cinco relatos, dos de ellos casi novelas cortas, están ambientados en el Medio Oeste americano y Gass incide como nadie a través de las palabras en los espacios físicos, en la alienación asfixiante, en lo que se esconde tras las paredes del hogar porque a veces la violencia latente, atmosférica, es tan palpable a través del texto que reconozco que es de esas veces que me he visto tan desbordada por la fuerza de la prosa, que hubo momentos en los que he tenido que parar durante la lectura, y regodearme en lo leído. En este aspecto al haber leído una traducción, tengo que valorar en su justa medida el soberbio trabajo de la traductora, Rebeca Garcia Nieto, que ha extrapolado algo que a priori parecía imposible y es esa fuerza del texto de Gass.
“Con qué intensidad miraba yo... Un arbusto, emocionado por sus rosas, no podría haber florecido de un tan hermoso como tú lo hiciste. Era una mirada que me gustaría dirigir a esta página. Porque eso es la poesía: hacer aflorar, cambiar."
Tal como sugiere el título de uno de los cuentos, los textos van sobre lo que se cuece en el corazón del interior del país, desde la intimidad de unos personajes, de sus mentes... Realmente nos convertimos en cómplices de la mente de cada personaje a medida que se nos va desplegando en cada relato y al principio puede que no entendamos nada pero poco a poco se nos va mostrando Todo en medio de un paisaje determinado, llanuras nevadas, habitaciones claustrofóbicas, o ciudades fantasmales habitados por vecinos que pueden parece respectros... y lo que maravilla en estas páginas es precisamente las palabras que tienen vida propia, la luminosidad de la prosa de William H. Gass es un milagro.
Dentro de los dos relatos mayores que son justo el del principio y el último , tenemos tres más cortos, experimentales pero igualmente absorbentes por cómo combina la prosa con los espacios:
En La Señora Ruin, el narrador se convierte en una especie de voyeur de la vida de su vecina y de la relación que tiene con sus hijos, la observa, la vigila, su mente divaga...
"Los Ruin son calvinistas, estoy seguro. Pueden albergar dudas sobre el cielo pero para ellos el infierno es real. Deben de sentir su calor y el temblor de la tierra bajo sus pies."
En Carámbanos, volvemos a indagar en la mente de un narrador que es una isla en sí mismo. Un agente inmobiliario enfrentado a su depresión, se obsesiona por los carámbanos que cuelgan de su casa nevada, una obsesión latente que le obliga a buscar significados donde aparentemente no los hay…
“Las personas se van al otro barrio. En la mitad de la vida, ya sabe, Fender…, bueno…, pero las propiedades, las propiedades se quedan…”
En El Orden de los Insectos, tenemos a un ama de casa como narradora y cómo vuelca su angustia existencial en los insectos, sobre todo en su aparición cuando están muertos. La forma en que va describiendo su transformación mental mientras los observa y vuelca su angustia sobre ellos, hace metamorfosearse esa repugnancia inicial en pura fascinación...
“Ya no soy dueña de mi imaginación."
Y a continuación paso a valorar los dos relatos que me me han parecido prodigiosos y que me han hecho volar la cabeza:
El Chico Pedersen: este es un relato largo, atmosférico, muy físico, con un ritmo que se va desplegando de una forma muy adictiva pero es una adicción a través de las palabras que tienen la misma fuerza como si el lector pudiera palparlas. El narrador es un niño, Jorge, que vive en un ambiente aislado y claustrofóbico con un padre alcohólico y violento, y una madre que se pasa el tiempo en la cocina ¿escondida? El relato comienza durante un invierno cerrado y nevado en plena tormenta cuando descubren en su propiedad, medio congelado al chico Pedersen, el hijo de unos vecinos. Mientras lo llevan a la cocina e intentan reanimarlo, se despliega una tensión que va convirtiendo en toxicidad el ambiente. El chico Pedersen en un momento en que parece revivir habla de lo que sucedió en su casa cuando salió huyendo, cuando su familia se tiene que refugiar en el sótano porque llegan unos hombres… Así que obligados por el padre, Jorge y Hans, salen en medio de la tormenta en dirección a la casa de los Pedersen para averiguar qué ha podido pasar y cuál pudo ser el motivo de la huida del niño, y a medida que se sumergen en la tormenta, el ambiente se va convirtiendo en puro cuento de terror. La nieve, el frío que los va ahogando poco a poco va convirtiendo la travesía en una pesadilla… y todo lo percibimos a través de la mente de Jorge, el niño protagonista, a veces aterrado, otras sin saber que está pasando…¿es real lo que percibe el lector a través de él o hasta qué punto está todo fragmentado en la mente de ese niño? Lo más impactante de este relato es la forma en la que Gass nos describe el espacio físico, nevado, que engulle a los personajes…, pocas veces he percibido tan poderosamente la fuerza de las palabras en un texto.
"Era aterrador, ese espacio blanco infinito. Yo solo tenía frío...frío...y estaba asustado y cansado de la nieve."
El último relato es precisamente el que le da titulo al libro “En el corazón del corazón del país”, un titulo tan hermoso como el cuento mismo, y que desde ya se ha convertido en uno de los cuentos de mi vida.
"Soñé que mis labios bajaban a la deriva por tu espalda como una barca en el río. Seguiría el curso de una vena con la yema de los dedos, sostendría tus pies descalzos entre mis manos desnudas."
Aquí tenemos a un narrador igualmente a la deriva que vive en un pueblo rural de Indiana. No cuenta mucho sobre sí mismo pero si sabemos que es un hombre que vive solo con un gato y de vez en cuando hay esbozos hermosísimos intercalados en el texto en relación a un amor perdido, abandonado o desterrado… “y yo estoy jubilado del amor.”
"Es cierto que hay momentos, momentos tontos, de éxtasis, sobre un tronco, en que me siento como ido, disperso, al pensar como una semilla, porque ahora me encuentro en la ridícula situación de conservar los restos de un amor que me gustaría olvidar..."
Durante el relato, el narrador va dando información sobre el pueblo, y poco a poco va sumergiéndose en los aspectos más desesperanzadores de la localidad donde vive y donde se hace evidente la alienación en la que vive, y mientras habla del pueblo, va hablando cada vez más de sí mismo y de la falta de rumbo en la que se ha convertido su vida. Aunque El Chico Pedersen es un cuento magnífico, es éste último el que de verdad me ha impactado: la vida interior de un hombre a través de su paisaje.
La traducción es de Rebeca Garcia Nieto que también contribuye a un Epílogo que es una auténtica delicia donde resume a la perfección la esencia de esta obra cuando dice y la cito: "En algún punto del relato, las palabras dejaron de serlo y fueron nieve."
“Billy cierra su puerta y lleva carbón o leña al fuego y cierra los ojos, y sencillamente no hay manera de saber hasta qué punto está solo y vacío, o si se siente tan deshabitado y desolado y falta de amor como el resto de nosotros, aquí, en el corazón del país."
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2022...
"En el corazón del corazón del país" fue publicado en 1968 y justo después de haberme leído los cinco relatos que lo componen, tengo que reconocer que incluso ahora, después de transcurridos más de cuarenta años de su publicación, parece una obra atemporal, fuera de cualquier registro del tiempo. Ya había leído anteriormente “La suerte de Omensetter” y ya esta novela me fascinó por muchos detalles que ya dejé expuestos en la reseña. Sin embargo, en los relatos de En el corazon del corazon del país, quizás gracias a todo lo que ha llovido en mi bagaje literario desde Omensetter, he encontrado un Gass con el que he conectado de una forma que no me esperaba.
"En una ocasión el viento traspasó el cristal y trajo un copo de nieve. Las escaleras quedaron a oscuras. Si un rayo de luz bajara los peldaños, supongo que tendría que disparar."
Los cinco relatos, dos de ellos casi novelas cortas, están ambientados en el Medio Oeste americano y Gass incide como nadie a través de las palabras en los espacios físicos, en la alienación asfixiante, en lo que se esconde tras las paredes del hogar porque a veces la violencia latente, atmosférica, es tan palpable a través del texto que reconozco que es de esas veces que me he visto tan desbordada por la fuerza de la prosa, que hubo momentos en los que he tenido que parar durante la lectura, y regodearme en lo leído. En este aspecto al haber leído una traducción, tengo que valorar en su justa medida el soberbio trabajo de la traductora, Rebeca Garcia Nieto, que ha extrapolado algo que a priori parecía imposible y es esa fuerza del texto de Gass.
“Con qué intensidad miraba yo... Un arbusto, emocionado por sus rosas, no podría haber florecido de un tan hermoso como tú lo hiciste. Era una mirada que me gustaría dirigir a esta página. Porque eso es la poesía: hacer aflorar, cambiar."
Tal como sugiere el título de uno de los cuentos, los textos van sobre lo que se cuece en el corazón del interior del país, desde la intimidad de unos personajes, de sus mentes... Realmente nos convertimos en cómplices de la mente de cada personaje a medida que se nos va desplegando en cada relato y al principio puede que no entendamos nada pero poco a poco se nos va mostrando Todo en medio de un paisaje determinado, llanuras nevadas, habitaciones claustrofóbicas, o ciudades fantasmales habitados por vecinos que pueden parece respectros... y lo que maravilla en estas páginas es precisamente las palabras que tienen vida propia, la luminosidad de la prosa de William H. Gass es un milagro.
Dentro de los dos relatos mayores que son justo el del principio y el último , tenemos tres más cortos, experimentales pero igualmente absorbentes por cómo combina la prosa con los espacios:
En La Señora Ruin, el narrador se convierte en una especie de voyeur de la vida de su vecina y de la relación que tiene con sus hijos, la observa, la vigila, su mente divaga...
"Los Ruin son calvinistas, estoy seguro. Pueden albergar dudas sobre el cielo pero para ellos el infierno es real. Deben de sentir su calor y el temblor de la tierra bajo sus pies."
En Carámbanos, volvemos a indagar en la mente de un narrador que es una isla en sí mismo. Un agente inmobiliario enfrentado a su depresión, se obsesiona por los carámbanos que cuelgan de su casa nevada, una obsesión latente que le obliga a buscar significados donde aparentemente no los hay…
“Las personas se van al otro barrio. En la mitad de la vida, ya sabe, Fender…, bueno…, pero las propiedades, las propiedades se quedan…”
En El Orden de los Insectos, tenemos a un ama de casa como narradora y cómo vuelca su angustia existencial en los insectos, sobre todo en su aparición cuando están muertos. La forma en que va describiendo su transformación mental mientras los observa y vuelca su angustia sobre ellos, hace metamorfosearse esa repugnancia inicial en pura fascinación...
“Ya no soy dueña de mi imaginación."
Y a continuación paso a valorar los dos relatos que me me han parecido prodigiosos y que me han hecho volar la cabeza:
El Chico Pedersen: este es un relato largo, atmosférico, muy físico, con un ritmo que se va desplegando de una forma muy adictiva pero es una adicción a través de las palabras que tienen la misma fuerza como si el lector pudiera palparlas. El narrador es un niño, Jorge, que vive en un ambiente aislado y claustrofóbico con un padre alcohólico y violento, y una madre que se pasa el tiempo en la cocina ¿escondida? El relato comienza durante un invierno cerrado y nevado en plena tormenta cuando descubren en su propiedad, medio congelado al chico Pedersen, el hijo de unos vecinos. Mientras lo llevan a la cocina e intentan reanimarlo, se despliega una tensión que va convirtiendo en toxicidad el ambiente. El chico Pedersen en un momento en que parece revivir habla de lo que sucedió en su casa cuando salió huyendo, cuando su familia se tiene que refugiar en el sótano porque llegan unos hombres… Así que obligados por el padre, Jorge y Hans, salen en medio de la tormenta en dirección a la casa de los Pedersen para averiguar qué ha podido pasar y cuál pudo ser el motivo de la huida del niño, y a medida que se sumergen en la tormenta, el ambiente se va convirtiendo en puro cuento de terror. La nieve, el frío que los va ahogando poco a poco va convirtiendo la travesía en una pesadilla… y todo lo percibimos a través de la mente de Jorge, el niño protagonista, a veces aterrado, otras sin saber que está pasando…¿es real lo que percibe el lector a través de él o hasta qué punto está todo fragmentado en la mente de ese niño? Lo más impactante de este relato es la forma en la que Gass nos describe el espacio físico, nevado, que engulle a los personajes…, pocas veces he percibido tan poderosamente la fuerza de las palabras en un texto.
"Era aterrador, ese espacio blanco infinito. Yo solo tenía frío...frío...y estaba asustado y cansado de la nieve."
El último relato es precisamente el que le da titulo al libro “En el corazón del corazón del país”, un titulo tan hermoso como el cuento mismo, y que desde ya se ha convertido en uno de los cuentos de mi vida.
"Soñé que mis labios bajaban a la deriva por tu espalda como una barca en el río. Seguiría el curso de una vena con la yema de los dedos, sostendría tus pies descalzos entre mis manos desnudas."
Aquí tenemos a un narrador igualmente a la deriva que vive en un pueblo rural de Indiana. No cuenta mucho sobre sí mismo pero si sabemos que es un hombre que vive solo con un gato y de vez en cuando hay esbozos hermosísimos intercalados en el texto en relación a un amor perdido, abandonado o desterrado… “y yo estoy jubilado del amor.”
"Es cierto que hay momentos, momentos tontos, de éxtasis, sobre un tronco, en que me siento como ido, disperso, al pensar como una semilla, porque ahora me encuentro en la ridícula situación de conservar los restos de un amor que me gustaría olvidar..."
Durante el relato, el narrador va dando información sobre el pueblo, y poco a poco va sumergiéndose en los aspectos más desesperanzadores de la localidad donde vive y donde se hace evidente la alienación en la que vive, y mientras habla del pueblo, va hablando cada vez más de sí mismo y de la falta de rumbo en la que se ha convertido su vida. Aunque El Chico Pedersen es un cuento magnífico, es éste último el que de verdad me ha impactado: la vida interior de un hombre a través de su paisaje.
La traducción es de Rebeca Garcia Nieto que también contribuye a un Epílogo que es una auténtica delicia donde resume a la perfección la esencia de esta obra cuando dice y la cito: "En algún punto del relato, las palabras dejaron de serlo y fueron nieve."
“Billy cierra su puerta y lleva carbón o leña al fuego y cierra los ojos, y sencillamente no hay manera de saber hasta qué punto está solo y vacío, o si se siente tan deshabitado y desolado y falta de amor como el resto de nosotros, aquí, en el corazón del país."
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2022...
Read
October 5, 2021I received permission to read Gass' story "Order of Insects" on The Collidescope Podcast. Other stories are already in the pipeline so it'll be some months before that happens. You can listen to the first episode here: https://www.buzzsprout.com/1849671
Also, don't forget about The Tunnel group read at the beginning of November!
Also, don't forget about The Tunnel group read at the beginning of November!
January 2, 2018
This book just kicked my ass. Holy fuck. I MUST reread Omensetters Luck...
Mrs. Mean is a thing of absolute glory.
Note: the last time I rated a book of fiction 5 stars was 2014...
Mrs. Mean is a thing of absolute glory.
Note: the last time I rated a book of fiction 5 stars was 2014...
January 22, 2016
Call it Midwestern Gothic.
I know this is heresy to most everyone here, but this is the Gass I will return to the most in my life. For some indefinable reason, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country always seems like an existence formerly lived. Maybe it’s the atrociousness of recognizing one’s insignificance or the overriding theme that life’s connection to the sublime is trivial at best. I just feel that I have been here before.
The Pedersen Kid: Nothing short of a marvel. Haunting and sparse, with a heart of maliciousness that must be read. Far and away the masterpiece of the collection and worth the price of admission alone. In my opinion, one of the best pieces of short fiction to come out of post-War America.
Mrs. Mean: Dandelion Wine refracted through a postmodernist lens. Although I prefer Bradbury’s version of small town hobgoblins, the last line continues the strange and wonderfully dark intentions of the everyman challenged to action against the mundane limitations of living in the absence of the supernatural.
Icicles: As someone that failed spectacularly at the same job as the protagonist, I can vet that Gass nails the weariness of someone in the wrong place surrounded by the right people. I used to work for a ‘Pearson’ and I was the guy thinking about peas in the pie. Nothing like realizing you are obsolete and appraising your own soul.
The Order of Insects: A real heartbreaker. Again, the ordinary is transubstantiated into the beautiful; something to anesthetize. A wonderful metaphor for the inequity of gender mores in 1968 and, sadly, just as relevant in 2016. Oh, and this: “I suspect if we were as familiar with our bones as with our skin, we’d never bury dead but shrine them in their rooms, arranged as we might like to find them on a visit; and our enemies, if we could steal their bodies from the battle sites, would be museumed as they died, the steel still eloquent in their sides, their metal hats askew, the protective toes of their shoes unworn, and friend and enemy would be so wondrously historical that in a hundred years we’d find the jaws still hung for the same speech and all the parts we spent our life with tilted as they always were—rib cage, collar, skull—still repetitious, still defiant, angel light, still worthy of memorial and affection.”
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country: Where Gass pulls back the curtain and lays bare the machinations of small town life in all its mendacity. A tragic litany of love lost and the husk of the past supine on the bed. “Sports, politics, and religion are the three passions of the badly educated.” Wonderful, wonderful.
I know this is heresy to most everyone here, but this is the Gass I will return to the most in my life. For some indefinable reason, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country always seems like an existence formerly lived. Maybe it’s the atrociousness of recognizing one’s insignificance or the overriding theme that life’s connection to the sublime is trivial at best. I just feel that I have been here before.
The Pedersen Kid: Nothing short of a marvel. Haunting and sparse, with a heart of maliciousness that must be read. Far and away the masterpiece of the collection and worth the price of admission alone. In my opinion, one of the best pieces of short fiction to come out of post-War America.
Mrs. Mean: Dandelion Wine refracted through a postmodernist lens. Although I prefer Bradbury’s version of small town hobgoblins, the last line continues the strange and wonderfully dark intentions of the everyman challenged to action against the mundane limitations of living in the absence of the supernatural.
Icicles: As someone that failed spectacularly at the same job as the protagonist, I can vet that Gass nails the weariness of someone in the wrong place surrounded by the right people. I used to work for a ‘Pearson’ and I was the guy thinking about peas in the pie. Nothing like realizing you are obsolete and appraising your own soul.
The Order of Insects: A real heartbreaker. Again, the ordinary is transubstantiated into the beautiful; something to anesthetize. A wonderful metaphor for the inequity of gender mores in 1968 and, sadly, just as relevant in 2016. Oh, and this: “I suspect if we were as familiar with our bones as with our skin, we’d never bury dead but shrine them in their rooms, arranged as we might like to find them on a visit; and our enemies, if we could steal their bodies from the battle sites, would be museumed as they died, the steel still eloquent in their sides, their metal hats askew, the protective toes of their shoes unworn, and friend and enemy would be so wondrously historical that in a hundred years we’d find the jaws still hung for the same speech and all the parts we spent our life with tilted as they always were—rib cage, collar, skull—still repetitious, still defiant, angel light, still worthy of memorial and affection.”
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country: Where Gass pulls back the curtain and lays bare the machinations of small town life in all its mendacity. A tragic litany of love lost and the husk of the past supine on the bed. “Sports, politics, and religion are the three passions of the badly educated.” Wonderful, wonderful.
April 12, 2017
La prosa de Gass deriva de Faulkner y de otros maestros norteamericanos pero en el 68 se aprecia destilada de misterio, poesía, surrealismo y amargura. Esta colección de novelas breves y relatos ya valdría la pena sólo por el enigma que propone 'El chico de Pedersen', una nouvelle en la que la corriente de conciencia describe el caos mental de un protagonista al que no se sabe muy bien qué le ocurre, pero que el lector siempre recordará por la enigmática presencia de la nieve. La traducción de Rebeca García Nieto se antoja ejemplar.
February 24, 2018
A reread. I've been inspired for a few years to reread Gass's older books. His death late last year has given the inspiration a new thrust. I've decided to start with In the Heart of the Heart of the Country in this edition of 2014, 1st read many years ago.
I don't remember when I first read this. Long ago. I do know the decision to revisit it was a right one because this is incredibly rich fiction. It's 3 short stories framed by the novellas The Pedersen Kid to begin the volume and In the Heart of the Heart of the Country to complete it. These are stories of an emotional desolation to match their midwestern landscapes. A sentence in In the Heart of the Heart of the Country serves to highlight its prevalent atmosphere: "Billy closes his door and carries coal or wood to his fire and closes his eyes, and there's simply no way of knowing how lonely and empty he is or whether he's as vacant and barren and loveless as the rest of us are--here in the heart of the country." Gass can see a snowy landscape as wasteland in The Pedersen Kid with its characters mirroring the cold, lifeless country. Or he can write In the Heart of the Heart of the Country so beautifully it practically becomes a poem, each section a stanza speaking the bleakness of the small town of B, in Indiana. Gass writes a midwest of ruin, sterility, and failure that will break your heart.
This was Gass's 2d book, published in 1968. The 1st had been the masterpiece Omensetter's Luck.
Most critics recognize 1995's The Tunnel as his most important work--and masterpiece. Perhaps 2013's Middle C also deserves that distinction. Certainly In the Heart of the Heart of the Country deserves the same renown and label. I most probably didn't recognize its eminent status when I read it long ago, but I call it a masterpiece today.
I don't remember when I first read this. Long ago. I do know the decision to revisit it was a right one because this is incredibly rich fiction. It's 3 short stories framed by the novellas The Pedersen Kid to begin the volume and In the Heart of the Heart of the Country to complete it. These are stories of an emotional desolation to match their midwestern landscapes. A sentence in In the Heart of the Heart of the Country serves to highlight its prevalent atmosphere: "Billy closes his door and carries coal or wood to his fire and closes his eyes, and there's simply no way of knowing how lonely and empty he is or whether he's as vacant and barren and loveless as the rest of us are--here in the heart of the country." Gass can see a snowy landscape as wasteland in The Pedersen Kid with its characters mirroring the cold, lifeless country. Or he can write In the Heart of the Heart of the Country so beautifully it practically becomes a poem, each section a stanza speaking the bleakness of the small town of B, in Indiana. Gass writes a midwest of ruin, sterility, and failure that will break your heart.
This was Gass's 2d book, published in 1968. The 1st had been the masterpiece Omensetter's Luck.
Most critics recognize 1995's The Tunnel as his most important work--and masterpiece. Perhaps 2013's Middle C also deserves that distinction. Certainly In the Heart of the Heart of the Country deserves the same renown and label. I most probably didn't recognize its eminent status when I read it long ago, but I call it a masterpiece today.
November 19, 2024
En cierta forma, las recientes elecciones de 2024 en Estados Unidos aportaron cierto plus de idoneidad a este libro de William Gass. Tras la noche electoral pudimos observar el mapa de voto de todo de Estados Unidos, notando como la franja central apoya de forma masiva a Donald Trump, el voto del enfado y la exasperación (entre otras cosas).
Y digo que esta lectura resulta oportuna en ese contexto porque a lo largo de estos relatos lo que hace Gass es un retrato oblicuo de la esencia de ese corazón de Estados Unidos, el clima displicente ocupa un factor primordial en el relato, El chico de los Pedersen, pero también aparece en otros como un factor que condiciona el decaimiento anímico. La naturaleza no juega un rol armónico y nutritivo, se suma a un estado mental que deriva hacia el aburrimiento, por eso la protagonista de un relato, el más breve, nos habla de su obsesión por los insectos que halla muertos cada mañana frente a su puerta, hasta el punto que cree ver ellos parecidos con figuras de Gaugin. Sin duda de forma hiperbólica todos los personajes están envueltos en la extrañeza, predomina el temperamento hosco, a veces incluso violento, en general el gran retablo resultante es el de un lugar que parece el paraíso del marasmo, dónde es muy complicado elevarse y desplegar la bonhomía.
Todo ello hay que entenderlo como algo poético, desde luego. El lenguaje que despliega Gass, y que con gran solvencia traduce Rebeca García Nieto, es sin duda donoso, y rico, el despliegue lingüístico es muy potente y tampoco dudo que ciertos refinamientos estéticos se me han pasado por alto y por eso quizás no acabo la lectura con mayor entusiasmo, en todo caso es una propuesta singular, en la que Gass se comprueba como un encuentro entre lo poético y lo académico, demostrándose como un gran conocedor de la tradición literaria y que domina ostensiblemente la lengua inglesa. Crea estas piezas, que dudo que encuentren demasiadas equivalencias en la producción literaria mundial, que aún y siendo leídas hoy, más de sesenta años después de creación, conserva su frescura y capacidad de sorpresa y fasinación.
Y digo que esta lectura resulta oportuna en ese contexto porque a lo largo de estos relatos lo que hace Gass es un retrato oblicuo de la esencia de ese corazón de Estados Unidos, el clima displicente ocupa un factor primordial en el relato, El chico de los Pedersen, pero también aparece en otros como un factor que condiciona el decaimiento anímico. La naturaleza no juega un rol armónico y nutritivo, se suma a un estado mental que deriva hacia el aburrimiento, por eso la protagonista de un relato, el más breve, nos habla de su obsesión por los insectos que halla muertos cada mañana frente a su puerta, hasta el punto que cree ver ellos parecidos con figuras de Gaugin. Sin duda de forma hiperbólica todos los personajes están envueltos en la extrañeza, predomina el temperamento hosco, a veces incluso violento, en general el gran retablo resultante es el de un lugar que parece el paraíso del marasmo, dónde es muy complicado elevarse y desplegar la bonhomía.
Todo ello hay que entenderlo como algo poético, desde luego. El lenguaje que despliega Gass, y que con gran solvencia traduce Rebeca García Nieto, es sin duda donoso, y rico, el despliegue lingüístico es muy potente y tampoco dudo que ciertos refinamientos estéticos se me han pasado por alto y por eso quizás no acabo la lectura con mayor entusiasmo, en todo caso es una propuesta singular, en la que Gass se comprueba como un encuentro entre lo poético y lo académico, demostrándose como un gran conocedor de la tradición literaria y que domina ostensiblemente la lengua inglesa. Crea estas piezas, que dudo que encuentren demasiadas equivalencias en la producción literaria mundial, que aún y siendo leídas hoy, más de sesenta años después de creación, conserva su frescura y capacidad de sorpresa y fasinación.
May 25, 2009
In hindsight, I wouldn't have picked this book by the "godfather of experimental writing" as the first selection of our fledgling book club. That being said, I still personally liked the book overall. The first story, "The Pedersen Kid" was my favorite. It felt to me like a southern gothic tale moved to the snowy midwest. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but I thought Gass crafted a scary, mysterious, and bizarre story. In general Gass is undoubtedly a gifted writer and utilizes poetic language in a successful manner, even though in a few of the other stories it just feels like showing off.
The title story cannot really be called a story, but rather a snarky collection of observations about "real Americans" which I at times laughed aloud reading. The very short story about a woman's obsession with insects in her house was probably my second favorite, but probably influenced by my simultaneous discovery of Isabella Rossellini's "Green Porno" short films about the reproductive habits of bugs.
I can easily recommend "The Pedersen Kid" to just about anyone, but would have many reservations in recommending the rest of this collection to most people. However, Im glad that I've been exposed to it.
The title story cannot really be called a story, but rather a snarky collection of observations about "real Americans" which I at times laughed aloud reading. The very short story about a woman's obsession with insects in her house was probably my second favorite, but probably influenced by my simultaneous discovery of Isabella Rossellini's "Green Porno" short films about the reproductive habits of bugs.
I can easily recommend "The Pedersen Kid" to just about anyone, but would have many reservations in recommending the rest of this collection to most people. However, Im glad that I've been exposed to it.
June 29, 2020
ADVERTENCIA IMPORTANTE: Las tres estrellas no se corresponden con el libro, que con seguridad es merecedor de un mayor reconocimiento, sino con el pobre lector, incapaz de penetrar con solvencia en la profundidad de los textos.
Esto es injusto, dirán algunos. Puede ser, pero una reseña es una interpretación subjetiva y, por tanto, la interpretación personal es una parte importante del veredicto.
Tengo la fuerte sensación de que mi valoración del libro ganaría muchos enteros con una segunda lectura. De hecho, es lo que me ha sucedido en "El orden de los insectos", quizá su relato más accesible y por el que me compré el libro, que si la primera vez que lo leí me gustó, esta segunda me ha parecido una maravilla.
Esto es injusto, dirán algunos. Puede ser, pero una reseña es una interpretación subjetiva y, por tanto, la interpretación personal es una parte importante del veredicto.
Tengo la fuerte sensación de que mi valoración del libro ganaría muchos enteros con una segunda lectura. De hecho, es lo que me ha sucedido en "El orden de los insectos", quizá su relato más accesible y por el que me compré el libro, que si la primera vez que lo leí me gustó, esta segunda me ha parecido una maravilla.
Read
November 20, 2013I find myself sympathetic to MJ’s disappointment reaction to In the Heart of the Heart of the Country ; but not quite to the same degree. It is Gass, but even more than Gass it feels like near average American 1950’s short fiction. I miss the Gass of The Tunnel and of the essays.
The Pederson Kid :: I am not as enraptured with this one as are most readers. It felt to me like a Faulknerian gothic, if I can say that having not read Faulkner in many an age. But it does make me feel less bad that Barth’s Faulknerian novel was lost to/stolen from the stacks at John Hopkins.
Mrs. Mean -- A nice touch of the Gassian misanthropy we have come to treasure.
Icicles -- Would be my favorite of the collection. Here we see a little of the Gassian love of language ; the way he can make dance the jargon of the rat-bastard realtors, ringing my ear with a touch of Glengarry Glen Ross.
Order of Insects -- Would that it were expanded to a forty page chapter of The Tunnel.
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country -- This is where I grew up.
By no means should In the Heart of the Heart of the Country be relegated to Completionist-Only status. It has served well as an introduction to the fiction and prose of Gass ; but from a retrospective perspective it is merely on-the-way to greatness, and at its publication one may have been hard-set to predict what was to come, that Gass would rise above the average of fictioning. But isn’t that always the situation with first fictions?
The Pederson Kid :: I am not as enraptured with this one as are most readers. It felt to me like a Faulknerian gothic, if I can say that having not read Faulkner in many an age. But it does make me feel less bad that Barth’s Faulknerian novel was lost to/stolen from the stacks at John Hopkins.
Mrs. Mean -- A nice touch of the Gassian misanthropy we have come to treasure.
Icicles -- Would be my favorite of the collection. Here we see a little of the Gassian love of language ; the way he can make dance the jargon of the rat-bastard realtors, ringing my ear with a touch of Glengarry Glen Ross.
Order of Insects -- Would that it were expanded to a forty page chapter of The Tunnel.
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country -- This is where I grew up.
By no means should In the Heart of the Heart of the Country be relegated to Completionist-Only status. It has served well as an introduction to the fiction and prose of Gass ; but from a retrospective perspective it is merely on-the-way to greatness, and at its publication one may have been hard-set to predict what was to come, that Gass would rise above the average of fictioning. But isn’t that always the situation with first fictions?
November 14, 2024
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2022...
"No hay duda, ya no soy yo. Este no es el mundo real. He ido demasiado lejos. Así es como empiezan los cuentos de hadas, un resbalón sobre el borde de la realidad."
"En el corazón del corazón del país" fue publicado en 1968 y justo después de haberme leído los cinco relatos que lo componen, tengo que reconocer que incluso ahora, después de transcurridos más de cuarenta años de su publicación, parece una obra atemporal, fuera de cualquier registro del tiempo. Ya había leído anteriormente “La suerte de Omensetter” y ya esta novela me fascinó por muchos detalles que ya dejé expuestos en la reseña. Sin embargo, en los relatos de En el corazon del corazon del país, quizás gracias a todo lo que ha llovido en mi bagaje literario desde Omensetter, he encontrado un Gass con el que he conectado de una forma que no me esperaba.
"En una ocasión el viento traspasó el cristal y trajo un copo de nieve. Las escaleras quedaron a oscuras. Si un rayo de luz bajara los peldaños, supongo que tendría que disparar."
Los cinco relatos, dos de ellos casi novelas cortas, están ambientados en el Medio Oeste americano y Gass incide como nadie a través de las palabras en los espacios físicos, en la alienación asfixiante, en lo que se esconde tras las paredes del hogar porque a veces la violencia latente, atmosférica, es tan palpable a través del texto que reconozco que es de esas veces que me he visto tan desbordada por la fuerza de la prosa, que hubo momentos en los que he tenido que parar durante la lectura, y regodearme en lo leído. En este aspecto al haber leído una traducción, tengo que valorar en su justa medida el soberbio trabajo de la traductora, Rebeca Garcia Nieto, que ha extrapolado algo que a priori parecía imposible y es esa fuerza del texto de Gass.
“Con qué intensidad miraba yo... Un arbusto, emocionado por sus rosas, no podría haber florecido de un tan hermoso como tú lo hiciste. Era una mirada que me gustaría dirigir a esta página. Porque eso es la poesía: hacer aflorar, cambiar."
Tal como sugiere el título de uno de los cuentos, los textos van sobre lo que se cuece en el corazón del interior del país, desde la intimidad de unos personajes, de sus mentes... Realmente nos convertimos en cómplices de la mente de cada personaje a medida que se nos va desplegando en cada relato y al principio puede que no entendamos nada pero poco a poco se nos va mostrando todo en medio de un paisaje determinado, llanuras nevadas, habitaciones claustrofóbicas, o ciudades fantasmales habitados por vecinos que pueden parece espectros... y lo que maravilla en estas páginas es precisamente las palabras que tienen vida propia, la luminosidad de la prosa de William H. Gass es un milagro.
Dentro de los dos relatos mayores que son justo el del principio y el último , tenemos tres más cortos, experimentales pero igualmente absorbentes por cómo combina la prosa con los espacios:
En La Señora Ruin, el narrador se convierte en una especie de voyeur de la vida de su vecina y de la relación que tiene con sus hijos, la observa, la vigila, su mente divaga...
"Los Ruin son calvinistas, estoy seguro. Pueden albergar dudas sobre el cielo pero para ellos el infierno es real. Deben de sentir su calor y el temblor de la tierra bajo sus pies."
En Carámbanos, volvemos a indagar en la mente de un narrador que es una isla en sí mismo. Un agente inmobiliario enfrentado a su depresión, se obsesiona por los carámbanos que cuelgan de su casa nevada, una obsesión latente que le obliga a buscar significados donde aparentemente no los hay…
“Las personas se van al otro barrio. En la mitad de la vida, ya sabe, Fender…, bueno…, pero las propiedades, las propiedades se quedan…”
En El Orden de los Insectos, tenemos a un ama de casa como narradora y cómo vuelca su angustia existencial en los insectos, sobre todo en su aparición cuando están muertos. La forma en que va describiendo su transformación mental mientras los observa y vuelca su angustia sobre ellos, hace metamorfosearse esa repugnancia inicial en pura fascinación...
“Ya no soy dueña de mi imaginación."
Y a continuación paso a valorar los dos relatos que me me han parecido prodigiosos y que me han hecho volar la cabeza:
El Chico Pedersen: este es un relato largo, atmosférico, muy físico, con un ritmo que se va desplegando de una forma muy adictiva pero es una adicción a través de las palabras que tienen la misma fuerza como si el lector pudiera palparlas. El narrador es un niño, Jorge, que vive en un ambiente aislado y claustrofóbico con un padre alcohólico y violento, y una madre que se pasa el tiempo en la cocina ¿escondida? El relato comienza durante un invierno cerrado y nevado en plena tormenta cuando descubren en su propiedad, medio congelado al chico Pedersen, el hijo de unos vecinos. Mientras lo llevan a la cocina e intentan reanimarlo, se despliega una tensión que va convirtiendo en toxicidad el ambiente. El chico Pedersen en un momento en que parece revivir habla de lo que sucedió en su casa cuando salió huyendo, cuando su familia se tiene que refugiar en el sótano porque llegan unos hombres… Así que obligados por el padre, Jorge y Hans, salen en medio de la tormenta en dirección a la casa de los Pedersen para averiguar qué ha podido pasar y cuál pudo ser el motivo de la huida del niño, y a medida que se sumergen en la tormenta, el ambiente se va convirtiendo en puro cuento de terror. La nieve, el frío que los va ahogando poco a poco va convirtiendo la travesía en una pesadilla… y todo lo percibimos a través de la mente de Jorge, el niño protagonista, a veces aterrado, otras sin saber que está pasando…¿es real lo que percibe el lector a través de él o hasta qué punto está todo fragmentado en la mente de ese niño? Lo más impactante de este relato es la forma en la que Gass nos describe el espacio físico, nevado, que engulle a los personajes…, pocas veces he percibido tan poderosamente la fuerza de las palabras en un texto.
"Era aterrador, ese espacio blanco infinito. Yo solo tenía frío...frío...y estaba asustado y cansado de la nieve."
El último relato es precisamente el que le da titulo al libro “En el corazón del corazón del país”, un titulo tan hermoso como el cuento mismo, y que desde ya se ha convertido en uno de los cuentos de mi vida.
"Soñé que mis labios bajaban a la deriva por tu espalda como una barca en el río. Seguiría el curso de una vena con la yema de los dedos, sostendría tus pies descalzos entre mis manos desnudas."
Aquí tenemos a un narrador igualmente a la deriva que vive en un pueblo rural de Indiana. No cuenta mucho sobre sí mismo pero si sabemos que es un hombre que vive solo con un gato y de vez en cuando hay esbozos hermosísimos intercalados en el texto en relación a un amor perdido, abandonado o desterrado… “y yo estoy jubilado del amor.”
"Es cierto que hay momentos, momentos tontos, de éxtasis, sobre un tronco, en que me siento como ido, disperso, al pensar como una semilla, porque ahora me encuentro en la ridícula situación de conservar los restos de un amor que me gustaría olvidar..."
Durante el relato, el narrador va dando información sobre el pueblo, y poco a poco va sumergiéndose en los aspectos más desesperanzadores de la localidad donde vive y donde se hace evidente la alienación en la que vive, y mientras habla del pueblo, va hablando cada vez más de sí mismo y de la falta de rumbo en la que se ha convertido su vida. Aunque El Chico Pedersen es un cuento magnífico, es éste último el que de verdad me ha impactado: la vida interior de un hombre a través de su paisaje.
La traducción es de Rebeca Garcia Nieto que también contribuye a un Epílogo que es una auténtica delicia donde resume a la perfección la esencia de esta obra cuando dice y la cito: "En algún punto del relato, las palabras dejaron de serlo y fueron nieve."
“Billy cierra su puerta y lleva carbón o leña al fuego y cierra los ojos, y sencillamente no hay manera de saber hasta qué punto está solo y vacío, o si se siente tan deshabitado y desolado y falta de amor como el resto de nosotros, aquí, en el corazón del país."
"No hay duda, ya no soy yo. Este no es el mundo real. He ido demasiado lejos. Así es como empiezan los cuentos de hadas, un resbalón sobre el borde de la realidad."
"En el corazón del corazón del país" fue publicado en 1968 y justo después de haberme leído los cinco relatos que lo componen, tengo que reconocer que incluso ahora, después de transcurridos más de cuarenta años de su publicación, parece una obra atemporal, fuera de cualquier registro del tiempo. Ya había leído anteriormente “La suerte de Omensetter” y ya esta novela me fascinó por muchos detalles que ya dejé expuestos en la reseña. Sin embargo, en los relatos de En el corazon del corazon del país, quizás gracias a todo lo que ha llovido en mi bagaje literario desde Omensetter, he encontrado un Gass con el que he conectado de una forma que no me esperaba.
"En una ocasión el viento traspasó el cristal y trajo un copo de nieve. Las escaleras quedaron a oscuras. Si un rayo de luz bajara los peldaños, supongo que tendría que disparar."
Los cinco relatos, dos de ellos casi novelas cortas, están ambientados en el Medio Oeste americano y Gass incide como nadie a través de las palabras en los espacios físicos, en la alienación asfixiante, en lo que se esconde tras las paredes del hogar porque a veces la violencia latente, atmosférica, es tan palpable a través del texto que reconozco que es de esas veces que me he visto tan desbordada por la fuerza de la prosa, que hubo momentos en los que he tenido que parar durante la lectura, y regodearme en lo leído. En este aspecto al haber leído una traducción, tengo que valorar en su justa medida el soberbio trabajo de la traductora, Rebeca Garcia Nieto, que ha extrapolado algo que a priori parecía imposible y es esa fuerza del texto de Gass.
“Con qué intensidad miraba yo... Un arbusto, emocionado por sus rosas, no podría haber florecido de un tan hermoso como tú lo hiciste. Era una mirada que me gustaría dirigir a esta página. Porque eso es la poesía: hacer aflorar, cambiar."
Tal como sugiere el título de uno de los cuentos, los textos van sobre lo que se cuece en el corazón del interior del país, desde la intimidad de unos personajes, de sus mentes... Realmente nos convertimos en cómplices de la mente de cada personaje a medida que se nos va desplegando en cada relato y al principio puede que no entendamos nada pero poco a poco se nos va mostrando todo en medio de un paisaje determinado, llanuras nevadas, habitaciones claustrofóbicas, o ciudades fantasmales habitados por vecinos que pueden parece espectros... y lo que maravilla en estas páginas es precisamente las palabras que tienen vida propia, la luminosidad de la prosa de William H. Gass es un milagro.
Dentro de los dos relatos mayores que son justo el del principio y el último , tenemos tres más cortos, experimentales pero igualmente absorbentes por cómo combina la prosa con los espacios:
En La Señora Ruin, el narrador se convierte en una especie de voyeur de la vida de su vecina y de la relación que tiene con sus hijos, la observa, la vigila, su mente divaga...
"Los Ruin son calvinistas, estoy seguro. Pueden albergar dudas sobre el cielo pero para ellos el infierno es real. Deben de sentir su calor y el temblor de la tierra bajo sus pies."
En Carámbanos, volvemos a indagar en la mente de un narrador que es una isla en sí mismo. Un agente inmobiliario enfrentado a su depresión, se obsesiona por los carámbanos que cuelgan de su casa nevada, una obsesión latente que le obliga a buscar significados donde aparentemente no los hay…
“Las personas se van al otro barrio. En la mitad de la vida, ya sabe, Fender…, bueno…, pero las propiedades, las propiedades se quedan…”
En El Orden de los Insectos, tenemos a un ama de casa como narradora y cómo vuelca su angustia existencial en los insectos, sobre todo en su aparición cuando están muertos. La forma en que va describiendo su transformación mental mientras los observa y vuelca su angustia sobre ellos, hace metamorfosearse esa repugnancia inicial en pura fascinación...
“Ya no soy dueña de mi imaginación."
Y a continuación paso a valorar los dos relatos que me me han parecido prodigiosos y que me han hecho volar la cabeza:
El Chico Pedersen: este es un relato largo, atmosférico, muy físico, con un ritmo que se va desplegando de una forma muy adictiva pero es una adicción a través de las palabras que tienen la misma fuerza como si el lector pudiera palparlas. El narrador es un niño, Jorge, que vive en un ambiente aislado y claustrofóbico con un padre alcohólico y violento, y una madre que se pasa el tiempo en la cocina ¿escondida? El relato comienza durante un invierno cerrado y nevado en plena tormenta cuando descubren en su propiedad, medio congelado al chico Pedersen, el hijo de unos vecinos. Mientras lo llevan a la cocina e intentan reanimarlo, se despliega una tensión que va convirtiendo en toxicidad el ambiente. El chico Pedersen en un momento en que parece revivir habla de lo que sucedió en su casa cuando salió huyendo, cuando su familia se tiene que refugiar en el sótano porque llegan unos hombres… Así que obligados por el padre, Jorge y Hans, salen en medio de la tormenta en dirección a la casa de los Pedersen para averiguar qué ha podido pasar y cuál pudo ser el motivo de la huida del niño, y a medida que se sumergen en la tormenta, el ambiente se va convirtiendo en puro cuento de terror. La nieve, el frío que los va ahogando poco a poco va convirtiendo la travesía en una pesadilla… y todo lo percibimos a través de la mente de Jorge, el niño protagonista, a veces aterrado, otras sin saber que está pasando…¿es real lo que percibe el lector a través de él o hasta qué punto está todo fragmentado en la mente de ese niño? Lo más impactante de este relato es la forma en la que Gass nos describe el espacio físico, nevado, que engulle a los personajes…, pocas veces he percibido tan poderosamente la fuerza de las palabras en un texto.
"Era aterrador, ese espacio blanco infinito. Yo solo tenía frío...frío...y estaba asustado y cansado de la nieve."
El último relato es precisamente el que le da titulo al libro “En el corazón del corazón del país”, un titulo tan hermoso como el cuento mismo, y que desde ya se ha convertido en uno de los cuentos de mi vida.
"Soñé que mis labios bajaban a la deriva por tu espalda como una barca en el río. Seguiría el curso de una vena con la yema de los dedos, sostendría tus pies descalzos entre mis manos desnudas."
Aquí tenemos a un narrador igualmente a la deriva que vive en un pueblo rural de Indiana. No cuenta mucho sobre sí mismo pero si sabemos que es un hombre que vive solo con un gato y de vez en cuando hay esbozos hermosísimos intercalados en el texto en relación a un amor perdido, abandonado o desterrado… “y yo estoy jubilado del amor.”
"Es cierto que hay momentos, momentos tontos, de éxtasis, sobre un tronco, en que me siento como ido, disperso, al pensar como una semilla, porque ahora me encuentro en la ridícula situación de conservar los restos de un amor que me gustaría olvidar..."
Durante el relato, el narrador va dando información sobre el pueblo, y poco a poco va sumergiéndose en los aspectos más desesperanzadores de la localidad donde vive y donde se hace evidente la alienación en la que vive, y mientras habla del pueblo, va hablando cada vez más de sí mismo y de la falta de rumbo en la que se ha convertido su vida. Aunque El Chico Pedersen es un cuento magnífico, es éste último el que de verdad me ha impactado: la vida interior de un hombre a través de su paisaje.
La traducción es de Rebeca Garcia Nieto que también contribuye a un Epílogo que es una auténtica delicia donde resume a la perfección la esencia de esta obra cuando dice y la cito: "En algún punto del relato, las palabras dejaron de serlo y fueron nieve."
“Billy cierra su puerta y lleva carbón o leña al fuego y cierra los ojos, y sencillamente no hay manera de saber hasta qué punto está solo y vacío, o si se siente tan deshabitado y desolado y falta de amor como el resto de nosotros, aquí, en el corazón del país."
July 9, 2019
Gotta love Gass.
The novellas and short stores within are great.
“The Pedersen Kid” was my favorite. It read like a southern gothic story. Others have labeled it Midwestern gothic. I agree. I felt the cold that was chilling from the words in the story. I could taste the whiskey being administered to the Pedersen kid to warm him from the insides. I walked through the drifts looking for the whiskey bottle that was dropped. The atmosphere of the piece was outstanding. Then I met Mrs. Mean.
“Mrs. Mean”=Mrs. Meh. I did not like the story. (Please enlighten me to what I missed)
“Icicles” was pretty cool. I think I read another review, or got it from somewhere cause I sure as hell didn’t come up with it, stating that it was like Glengarry Glen Ross. The quick dialogue was good. Reminded me of JR, or the little I have read of it.
“Order of Insects” felt creepy. Read it in bed before going to sleep and was concerned I would have nightmares of damn bugs crawling on me. EEK.
“In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” was almost as good as “The Pedersen Kid”. Very Winesburg, Ohio. I end with a quote from it:
”Sports, politics, and religion are the three passions of the badly educated. They are the Midwest’s open sores. Ugly to see, a source of constant discontent, they sap the body’s strength. Appalling quantities of money, time, and energy are wasted on them. The rural mind is narrow, passionate, and reckless on these matters. Greed, however shortsighted and direct, will not alone account for it. I have known men, for instance, who for years have voted squarely against their interests. Nor have I ever noticed that their surly Christian views prevented them from urging forward the smithereening, say, of Russia, China, Cuba, or Korea. And they tend to back their country like they back their local team: they have a fanatical desire to win; yelling is their forte; and if things go badly, they are inclined to sack the coach. All in all, then, Birch is a good name. It stands for the bigot’s stick, the wild-child-tamer’s cane.” (p.197)
I feel this in the south, too.
The novellas and short stores within are great.
“The Pedersen Kid” was my favorite. It read like a southern gothic story. Others have labeled it Midwestern gothic. I agree. I felt the cold that was chilling from the words in the story. I could taste the whiskey being administered to the Pedersen kid to warm him from the insides. I walked through the drifts looking for the whiskey bottle that was dropped. The atmosphere of the piece was outstanding. Then I met Mrs. Mean.
“Mrs. Mean”=Mrs. Meh. I did not like the story. (Please enlighten me to what I missed)
“Icicles” was pretty cool. I think I read another review, or got it from somewhere cause I sure as hell didn’t come up with it, stating that it was like Glengarry Glen Ross. The quick dialogue was good. Reminded me of JR, or the little I have read of it.
“Order of Insects” felt creepy. Read it in bed before going to sleep and was concerned I would have nightmares of damn bugs crawling on me. EEK.
“In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” was almost as good as “The Pedersen Kid”. Very Winesburg, Ohio. I end with a quote from it:
”Sports, politics, and religion are the three passions of the badly educated. They are the Midwest’s open sores. Ugly to see, a source of constant discontent, they sap the body’s strength. Appalling quantities of money, time, and energy are wasted on them. The rural mind is narrow, passionate, and reckless on these matters. Greed, however shortsighted and direct, will not alone account for it. I have known men, for instance, who for years have voted squarely against their interests. Nor have I ever noticed that their surly Christian views prevented them from urging forward the smithereening, say, of Russia, China, Cuba, or Korea. And they tend to back their country like they back their local team: they have a fanatical desire to win; yelling is their forte; and if things go badly, they are inclined to sack the coach. All in all, then, Birch is a good name. It stands for the bigot’s stick, the wild-child-tamer’s cane.” (p.197)
I feel this in the south, too.
November 20, 2023
Insanity runs rampant through the American Midwest, whether due to boredom, loneliness, alcohol, or the violently cold weather. The characters within this collection move through their normal lives as their minds fall deeper into a barrage of words that rattle both them and the reader. The first four stories each show a different form of this insanity – one driven from the land itself, one from boredom, one from work, and one from a repetitious life. The final story shows why so many fall into this insanity, and also how Gass himself, following in the footsteps of various big-city born writers, found his place writing in the Midwest. Each story adds to how a story is formed, and is a metaphor for the insanity within not just the minds of the characters, but in the mind of the author.
March 10, 2018
Starting today/tonight perhaps. My library hardbound cover is not represented here. Coincidentally I just finished reading the title story in R. Ford's Granta American Short story collection. This experience tells me it could be a problem to finish this book. The title story is mostly prose-poetry and to call it a story is a stretch. It's a kind of a story I guess.
Tuesday... I finally got into it this morning with the opening of "The Pederson Kid". Grim yet lyrical... Kind of reminds me of "Honey in the Horn".
Saturday... not getting very far due to my work schedule. Tonight!
Still not getting very far very fast but I did finish that first story. Reading 80 pages of Mr. Gass is like reading 200 of Elmore Leonard. He doesn't exactly push the pace of storytelling. The "story" in this case could have been told in 20 pages. What matters to the author is the whole psychic insides of things and people. His writing reminds me of Cormac McCarthy, Jim Harrison and Faulkner(of course). I'd say he does a pretty compelling job of putting us inside the life of Jorge: crazy, desperate, pain-filled and hanging on in the face of environmental, social and emotional pummelling. His escape/reprieve at the end is realistically pathetic and understandable. Reminded me of the Kid in "Blood Meridian". In my opinion WHG succeeds in word-picturing the mental insides of young lad in physical and emotional extremis.
Now in the middle of "Mrs. Mean". At first it seems like an account of the author's role as neighborhood psychic investigator. Haven't we all encountered adjacent hardcore terrorists and obsessed lunatics like the titular woman? My parents had to move once because of it. The abuse of the kids is hard to take. Then the narrative takes a turn and becomes more about the author as writer of lives he's semi-secretly trying to exploit and explore. Very interesting. Read the story and understand that he has indeed been the alien outsider who used them.
On Mr. Wallace: "... his eyes run, his ears ring, his teeth rot. His nose clogs. His lips pale and bleed. His knees, his hips, his neck and arms, are stiff. His feet are sore, the ankles swollen. His back, head and legs ache. His throat is raw, his chest constricted, and all his inner organs - heart, liver, kidneys, lungs, and bowels - are weak. Hands shake. Hair is falling. His flesh lies slack. ... But Mr. Wallace has a strong belly, it is taut and smooth and round, like a baby's..."
Willam Congreve - English playwright and poet 100 yrs. after Shakespeare.
Started "Icicles" last night but didn't get too far. Reminds me of "Glengarry Glen Ross", the part of "The Pale King" I read in The New Yorker, Richard Ford's realtor hero Frank Bascombe, and "And Then We came to the End". Mr. Gass definitely likes to get into the psychic insides if things and people. In this case a man living on the edge of despair/existential boredom.
... Finished "Icicles" and "Order of Insects" but skipped the title story since I read it recently in another book. So, what about William Gass? Some G'reads reviewers claim that reading him requires too much work, a la McCarthy, Faulkner and Nabokov at their most orotund, poetic, wordy, convoluted "best". He makes up words! I can see that point but say that for me it's been worth the effort. He certainly gets at and exposes the soul in extremis. Very personal... THAT said, I probably won't go looking for another book by WHG for a good while.
Tuesday... I finally got into it this morning with the opening of "The Pederson Kid". Grim yet lyrical... Kind of reminds me of "Honey in the Horn".
Saturday... not getting very far due to my work schedule. Tonight!
Still not getting very far very fast but I did finish that first story. Reading 80 pages of Mr. Gass is like reading 200 of Elmore Leonard. He doesn't exactly push the pace of storytelling. The "story" in this case could have been told in 20 pages. What matters to the author is the whole psychic insides of things and people. His writing reminds me of Cormac McCarthy, Jim Harrison and Faulkner(of course). I'd say he does a pretty compelling job of putting us inside the life of Jorge: crazy, desperate, pain-filled and hanging on in the face of environmental, social and emotional pummelling. His escape/reprieve at the end is realistically pathetic and understandable. Reminded me of the Kid in "Blood Meridian". In my opinion WHG succeeds in word-picturing the mental insides of young lad in physical and emotional extremis.
Now in the middle of "Mrs. Mean". At first it seems like an account of the author's role as neighborhood psychic investigator. Haven't we all encountered adjacent hardcore terrorists and obsessed lunatics like the titular woman? My parents had to move once because of it. The abuse of the kids is hard to take. Then the narrative takes a turn and becomes more about the author as writer of lives he's semi-secretly trying to exploit and explore. Very interesting. Read the story and understand that he has indeed been the alien outsider who used them.
On Mr. Wallace: "... his eyes run, his ears ring, his teeth rot. His nose clogs. His lips pale and bleed. His knees, his hips, his neck and arms, are stiff. His feet are sore, the ankles swollen. His back, head and legs ache. His throat is raw, his chest constricted, and all his inner organs - heart, liver, kidneys, lungs, and bowels - are weak. Hands shake. Hair is falling. His flesh lies slack. ... But Mr. Wallace has a strong belly, it is taut and smooth and round, like a baby's..."
Willam Congreve - English playwright and poet 100 yrs. after Shakespeare.
Started "Icicles" last night but didn't get too far. Reminds me of "Glengarry Glen Ross", the part of "The Pale King" I read in The New Yorker, Richard Ford's realtor hero Frank Bascombe, and "And Then We came to the End". Mr. Gass definitely likes to get into the psychic insides if things and people. In this case a man living on the edge of despair/existential boredom.
... Finished "Icicles" and "Order of Insects" but skipped the title story since I read it recently in another book. So, what about William Gass? Some G'reads reviewers claim that reading him requires too much work, a la McCarthy, Faulkner and Nabokov at their most orotund, poetic, wordy, convoluted "best". He makes up words! I can see that point but say that for me it's been worth the effort. He certainly gets at and exposes the soul in extremis. Very personal... THAT said, I probably won't go looking for another book by WHG for a good while.
Currently reading
December 27, 2022Updates seem absent from the new book pages, so I will briefly react here:
There's a tendency to imagine critical moments as precise and crystalline, but the crises of "The Pedersen Kid" ring truer: muddled, confused, panicked, left to emotion, reflex, and irrelevant stray thoughts, to the point where memory of the precise order and color of events might forever remain inaccessible after the fact.
There's a tendency to imagine critical moments as precise and crystalline, but the crises of "The Pedersen Kid" ring truer: muddled, confused, panicked, left to emotion, reflex, and irrelevant stray thoughts, to the point where memory of the precise order and color of events might forever remain inaccessible after the fact.
February 24, 2015
Review #6 of "Year of the Review All Read Books"
Gassing Up
For numerous reasons (none of them good) I've failed to read Omensetter's Luck, Gass' first book, sitting comfortably on the second floor of my local library. I am 100% convinced I am the only one to have checked it out in the last three years. This book fell to me by way of this website (either recommendation or someone elses reading list I can't remember). The book was at the top of my Christmas list after NYRB new edition was released.
I'm sure the books of essays will interest me as I get older, and The Tunnel, to this point, is one of those many other fat texts that I will get around to just as soon as I finish dealing with others of its ilk. Combined with the elusiveness of this text these factors gave rise to an overly-anticipated wait and desire for me to read. I was told Gass was a master wordsmith, unparalleled in the English language, strongly evocative of place and it all warmed my heart cockles and balls.
The Pynchon Connection
The first text I ever read by William Gass, was actually his introductory note to Gaddis' The Recognitions. In it he addresses some of the rumors about Gaddis' identity, including the one that he and Gaddis are the same man, an amalgamation of their near-names and/or their postmodern talent. Also postulated, apparently that he started writing under the nom de plume Thomas Pynchon. I bring this up because I have been concurrently reading Pynchon's Slow Learner. In ways these texts are not merely stories, but autobiographical understandings. Each has an introduction/foreword by their author discussing their work, particularly amongst their oevre. The short story is the kind of de facto proving grounds for American fictionists. The difference for me in these two readings is that I have read a decent chunk of Pynchon and none of Gass.
So what I had entering this reading was an expectation of craftsmanship, but also a blank slate in experience.
Sinusoid
The shape of my opinions for this book. I really liked stories 1,3,5 and roundly disliked 2 and 4.
"The Pederson Kid" is the most unlike anything else in length and in narrative drive. That kind of Faulknerian, McCarthy Gothic. The main character is a Buster Keaton character (my favorite kinds of characters for sure) in that he is constantly abused by the action and keeps going forward.
"Mrs. Mean" was a practice in style that simply failed to grab me by the lapels.
"Icicles" was like a sad Office meets Glengarry Glen Ross setting plus lonely obsessive Punch Drunk Love Adam Sandler character. It made me feel things.
"Order of Insects" seemed like a shorter less stylistic rehash of a few of the themes in Icicles. Storywise not that interesting but interesting in the witnessing-an-authors-younger-work kind of way.
"In The Heart of the Heart of the Country" was the most interesting way of dealing with plotlessness. Making little vignettes that tied together by the narrator's voice as cold and bitter as Midwestern winters. The kind of writing I was expecting all along.
Alternative Energies
I'll have to explore more of Gass. It seems unlikely that I'll get to much of his work for a while, especially since I'm trying to read books I actually own this year. I could conceivably see myself picking up Omensetter. If you have read it I would love to hear your opinions (long prairie winded or one word gustos) on it. I'll have to consider reading some of his non-fiction as well.
Gassing Up
For numerous reasons (none of them good) I've failed to read Omensetter's Luck, Gass' first book, sitting comfortably on the second floor of my local library. I am 100% convinced I am the only one to have checked it out in the last three years. This book fell to me by way of this website (either recommendation or someone elses reading list I can't remember). The book was at the top of my Christmas list after NYRB new edition was released.
I'm sure the books of essays will interest me as I get older, and The Tunnel, to this point, is one of those many other fat texts that I will get around to just as soon as I finish dealing with others of its ilk. Combined with the elusiveness of this text these factors gave rise to an overly-anticipated wait and desire for me to read. I was told Gass was a master wordsmith, unparalleled in the English language, strongly evocative of place and it all warmed my heart cockles and balls.
The Pynchon Connection
The first text I ever read by William Gass, was actually his introductory note to Gaddis' The Recognitions. In it he addresses some of the rumors about Gaddis' identity, including the one that he and Gaddis are the same man, an amalgamation of their near-names and/or their postmodern talent. Also postulated, apparently that he started writing under the nom de plume Thomas Pynchon. I bring this up because I have been concurrently reading Pynchon's Slow Learner. In ways these texts are not merely stories, but autobiographical understandings. Each has an introduction/foreword by their author discussing their work, particularly amongst their oevre. The short story is the kind of de facto proving grounds for American fictionists. The difference for me in these two readings is that I have read a decent chunk of Pynchon and none of Gass.
So what I had entering this reading was an expectation of craftsmanship, but also a blank slate in experience.
Sinusoid
The shape of my opinions for this book. I really liked stories 1,3,5 and roundly disliked 2 and 4.
"The Pederson Kid" is the most unlike anything else in length and in narrative drive. That kind of Faulknerian, McCarthy Gothic. The main character is a Buster Keaton character (my favorite kinds of characters for sure) in that he is constantly abused by the action and keeps going forward.
"Mrs. Mean" was a practice in style that simply failed to grab me by the lapels.
"Icicles" was like a sad Office meets Glengarry Glen Ross setting plus lonely obsessive Punch Drunk Love Adam Sandler character. It made me feel things.
"Order of Insects" seemed like a shorter less stylistic rehash of a few of the themes in Icicles. Storywise not that interesting but interesting in the witnessing-an-authors-younger-work kind of way.
"In The Heart of the Heart of the Country" was the most interesting way of dealing with plotlessness. Making little vignettes that tied together by the narrator's voice as cold and bitter as Midwestern winters. The kind of writing I was expecting all along.
Alternative Energies
I'll have to explore more of Gass. It seems unlikely that I'll get to much of his work for a while, especially since I'm trying to read books I actually own this year. I could conceivably see myself picking up Omensetter. If you have read it I would love to hear your opinions (long prairie winded or one word gustos) on it. I'll have to consider reading some of his non-fiction as well.
July 11, 2015
Gass is an evocative writer, describing people, their habits, the weather, small towns in such detail and with real attention to the range of elements that make up the thing that he is trying to narrate. As such, it is often introspective prose and tends to concentrate on minutiae of daily life. There is often also an undercurrent of threat or uncertainty to these stories which really made me question what exactly I was reading about and how much I really knew about the characters being presented. This worked very well. 'Icicles' was the most moving story, following the daily routine of a failed estate agent whose loneliness causes him to fixate with real tenderness on the icicles on his house. Whilst it sounds bizarre, it works so well and subtly meditates on solitude, the inability to connect with people and the fear of real intimacy. The final story, In the Hear of the Heart of the Country, is also brilliant in its depiction of a dissatisfied writer, not sure how to move on from a lost love. The book is worth reading for the preface alone, which is a thought-provoking account of what it means to be a writer, especially its emotional terrain.
June 22, 2022
I watched an interview where Gass explained that his approach is to try and write “sentences that put words in your mouth”, and that really rings true after reading “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country”. It’s just beautifully crafted, full of phrases that make you read aloud with a smile on your face and that build equally impressive stories.
July 9, 2025
Flatlands
Like his later short fiction, Gass' debut collection expands his interior perspective on his native Midwest. The last titular entry divides his scrutiny into smaller sections, the most effective. The first, The Pedersen Kid, evokes Quentin in Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury: it's headlong in its pace, unhinged in sensation, and enigmatic in its dramatization after a blizzard and a family murdered.
Icicles in its salesman scenario recalls for me the Cartesian Sonata inclusion about the itinerant seller stuck in a lodging with a crushing amount of clutter from a bygone era. The insect installment buzzed by briefly, and the remaining content like the short stories I've so far finished, and Middle C, share oppression and depression of forlorn, cursing, tipsy, lusty figures neither likeable nor sympathetic.
Yet there's no naysaying the author's talent. He's said to labor incessantly over his sentences. I don't doubt that. However, the forward momentum, the dynamic range, and the page-turning energy all dissipate, often before the plots can churn even a few spins. The craft evinced here as throughout his long career demonstrates Gass' dense thoughts and relentless self-examination. I understand his ontological intent, but this isn't engrossing. I'm not a sentimental reader, but I wished for a let up in his excoriating voices, and a merciful pause from the bleak torrents of harsh heartland heartlessness.
Like his later short fiction, Gass' debut collection expands his interior perspective on his native Midwest. The last titular entry divides his scrutiny into smaller sections, the most effective. The first, The Pedersen Kid, evokes Quentin in Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury: it's headlong in its pace, unhinged in sensation, and enigmatic in its dramatization after a blizzard and a family murdered.
Icicles in its salesman scenario recalls for me the Cartesian Sonata inclusion about the itinerant seller stuck in a lodging with a crushing amount of clutter from a bygone era. The insect installment buzzed by briefly, and the remaining content like the short stories I've so far finished, and Middle C, share oppression and depression of forlorn, cursing, tipsy, lusty figures neither likeable nor sympathetic.
Yet there's no naysaying the author's talent. He's said to labor incessantly over his sentences. I don't doubt that. However, the forward momentum, the dynamic range, and the page-turning energy all dissipate, often before the plots can churn even a few spins. The craft evinced here as throughout his long career demonstrates Gass' dense thoughts and relentless self-examination. I understand his ontological intent, but this isn't engrossing. I'm not a sentimental reader, but I wished for a let up in his excoriating voices, and a merciful pause from the bleak torrents of harsh heartland heartlessness.
August 29, 2021
More like four or five stars for "The Pedersen Kid", mostly.
I've known of Gass for years but have never endeavored to read anything by him. My psychotic NYRB collection/obsession has finally led him into my hands and it is largely a good thing. This is a collection of curious little pieces of bleak Americana. Stylistically, Gass is the able heir of Faulkner, I guess, with his convoluted stream-of-consciousness narratives. Unfortunately, not all the stories are winners, fortunately, "The Pedersen Kid" redeems the entire volume, although I did like "Mrs. Mean" and the title story. The others were okay, just of a slightly inferior quality to the others.
I've known of Gass for years but have never endeavored to read anything by him. My psychotic NYRB collection/obsession has finally led him into my hands and it is largely a good thing. This is a collection of curious little pieces of bleak Americana. Stylistically, Gass is the able heir of Faulkner, I guess, with his convoluted stream-of-consciousness narratives. Unfortunately, not all the stories are winners, fortunately, "The Pedersen Kid" redeems the entire volume, although I did like "Mrs. Mean" and the title story. The others were okay, just of a slightly inferior quality to the others.
November 5, 2014
A destacar los relatos "Carámbanos" y el que da título al libro, "En el corazón del corazón del país". Certeros disparos ambos al pecho de la sociedad norteamericana y, por extensión, al modelo imperante en nuestro Occidente civilizacional.
May 7, 2017
No he encontrado a Faulkner por ninguna parte, entiendo que lo intenta, parte de un primer cuento que tiene interés pero el siguiente me dejó más perpleja que interesada y a partir de ahí... nada. Un libro bastante hueco para lo que me habían vendido
Read
November 30, 2017Yeah. So, I would regard this book as being, line by line, one of the more difficult things I ever read. Gass writes like I imagine people who don’t really like literature imagine everyone writes, a stream of consciousness ramble which obfuscates basic facts, tends towards little by way of narrative, and doubles back on itself endlessly. I don’t regard any of those as being bad things, to be clear, it’s a style like any other style, sometimes I like it, sometimes I don’t, depending on its execution--though of course, in practice it’s so difficult a ‘genre’ that only enormously talented writers can manage it with even a pretense of competence. Gass manages it. He has an enormously rare gift for striking and unexpected sentences; you will not find, in its 200 pages, I think a single familiar metaphor. When this works it works fabulously, and already some of his lines – ‘lonely as overshoes, or someone else’s cough’—have wormed their way into my memory. I will admit that not all of the stories punched for me, and there were a lot of annoying bits where you have spend an amount of mental effort to deduce some quotidian detail. But the last two stories; one about bugs, basically, I can’t put it better than that, and the eponymous finale, were really, really masterful. Keep.
March 19, 2009
Thanks so much to Olly and Hilary for introducing me to William H. Gass! I am ashamed to say, I had never read him before. This collection of novellas and short stories is haunting, lovlely, and spare. Gass's writing engages the reader in such a unique, profound way. He seems to have taken Hemingway's "iceberg technique" and gone him one better: His prose is simultaneously spare and rich. He conceals and forces the reader to fill in all kinds of gaps for herself, but unlike Hemingway there is nothing macho or cold about his prose. And not since I first encountered Nabokov have I been this enchanted by an author's ability to play with and make me rethink the English language.
All of the stories here are wonderful -- "Mrs. Mean," a suburban man's musings on the inner life of his next door neighbor who is abusive to her bratty brood of kids, "Icicles," which details the breakdown of failed real estate agent, due mostly to the fact that his job forces him to view everything as property, "Order of Insects," the tale of a bored, frustrated housewife who finds a sort of solace in the corpses of strange insects that she finds littering the floor of her new home, and "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country," a peek at the innner workings of a small town in Indiana and the interior life of a lonely, lovelorn man who lives there -- but the real standout is the novella that opens the collection, "The Pedersen Kid." Told from the perspective of a young boy living on a farm, the story begins with a farmhand's discovery of a neighbor boy -- the Pedersen kid of the title -- frozen nearly to death in a field during a raging blizzard. As the farmhand and the narrator's mother struggle to revive him, the narrator's hatred for the kid mounts because his presence forces the narrator to awaken his angry, alcoholic father and forces his mother to admit that she knows the location of his hidden stash of whiskey. When the kid comes to he mutters something about a man in a green mackinaw , a black stocking cap, and yellow gloves with a gun who forced his family into the root cellar. After much argument about the potential veracity of the claim, the men in the house set off toward the Pedersen farm. The journey is fraught with tension, as intricate layers of antipathy between the three men are exposed and the blizzard becomes more and more of a problem. They reach the farm and the story's climax is one of the most eerie, lovely bits of prose I have read in a work of short fiction; chilling in every sense of the word, yet oddly redemptive. I feel I can't really do it justice, but it is a wholely unique and resounding medetation on evil.
Also (and I can't stress this enough) this is a collection where you must, must, must read the author's introduction. It is one of the most insightful pieces of writing-about-writing you will ever come across. I think it should be required reading for all young writers.
All of the stories here are wonderful -- "Mrs. Mean," a suburban man's musings on the inner life of his next door neighbor who is abusive to her bratty brood of kids, "Icicles," which details the breakdown of failed real estate agent, due mostly to the fact that his job forces him to view everything as property, "Order of Insects," the tale of a bored, frustrated housewife who finds a sort of solace in the corpses of strange insects that she finds littering the floor of her new home, and "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country," a peek at the innner workings of a small town in Indiana and the interior life of a lonely, lovelorn man who lives there -- but the real standout is the novella that opens the collection, "The Pedersen Kid." Told from the perspective of a young boy living on a farm, the story begins with a farmhand's discovery of a neighbor boy -- the Pedersen kid of the title -- frozen nearly to death in a field during a raging blizzard. As the farmhand and the narrator's mother struggle to revive him, the narrator's hatred for the kid mounts because his presence forces the narrator to awaken his angry, alcoholic father and forces his mother to admit that she knows the location of his hidden stash of whiskey. When the kid comes to he mutters something about a man in a green mackinaw , a black stocking cap, and yellow gloves with a gun who forced his family into the root cellar. After much argument about the potential veracity of the claim, the men in the house set off toward the Pedersen farm. The journey is fraught with tension, as intricate layers of antipathy between the three men are exposed and the blizzard becomes more and more of a problem. They reach the farm and the story's climax is one of the most eerie, lovely bits of prose I have read in a work of short fiction; chilling in every sense of the word, yet oddly redemptive. I feel I can't really do it justice, but it is a wholely unique and resounding medetation on evil.
Also (and I can't stress this enough) this is a collection where you must, must, must read the author's introduction. It is one of the most insightful pieces of writing-about-writing you will ever come across. I think it should be required reading for all young writers.
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