My job at the university is to impersonate “Joyce Carol Oates.”
Strictly speaking, I am not impersonating this individual, since “Joyce Carol Oates” doesn’t exist, except as an author-identification. On the spines of books shelved in certain libraries and bookstores you will see OATES but this is a descriptive term, this is not a noun.
This is not a person. This is not a life.
A writing-life is not a life.
Teaching is an act of communication, sympathy—a reaching-out—a wish to share knowledge, skills; a rapport with others, who are students; a way of allowing others into the solitariness of one’s soul.
It is not invariably the case that a teacher is also a writer, and that, as a teacher, she has been hired to impersonate the writer. But it is the case with me here in Princeton, as it had not been, for instance, in Detroit, where my identification was “Joyce Smith”—“Mrs. Smith.”
In the lives of teachers there are teaching-days, teaching-hours like islands, or oases, amid turbulent seas.
In the immediate days following Ray’s death, I did not teach. Colleagues urged that I take more time off, even the entire semester, but I was eager to return to my fiction workshops the following week, on February 27, in time to attend a joint reading that evening by Honor Moore and Mary Karr in our creative-writing reading series.
This “Oates”—this quasi-public self—is scarcely visible to me, as a mirror-reflection, seen up close, is scarcely visible to the viewer. “Oates” is an island, an oasis, to which on this agitated morning I can row, as in an uncertain little skiff, with an unwieldy paddle—the way is arduous not because the water is deep but because the water is shallow and weedy and the bottom of the skiff is endangered by rocks beneath. And yet—once I have rowed to this island, this oasis, this core of calm amid the chaos of my life—once I arrive at the university, check my mail, and ascend to the second floor of 185 Nassau where I’ve had an office since fall 1978—once I am “Joyce Carol Oates” in the eyes of my colleagues and my students—a shivery sort of elation enters my veins. I feel not just confidence but certainty—that I am in the right place, and this is the right time. The anxiety, the despair, the anger I’ve been feeling—that has so transformed my life—immediately fades, as shadows on a wall are dispelled in sunshine.
Always I have felt this way about teaching but more strongly, because more desperately, after Ray’s death.
So long as, with reasonable success, I can impersonate “Joyce Carol Oates,” it is not the case that I am dead and done for—yet.
Now for the first time in what I’ve grown to think of as my “posthumous life”—my life after Ray—I am feeling almost hopeful, happy. Thinking Maybe life is navigable. Maybe this will work.
Then I recall: hope was the predominant emotion I had felt—we had both felt—during the long week of Ray’s hospitalization. Hope, in retrospect, is so often a cruel joke.
“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson so boldly said. The thing that is ungainly, vulnerable, embarrassing. But there it is.
For some of us, what can hope mean? The worst has happened, the spouse has died, the story is ended. And yet—the story is not ended, clearly.
Hope can be outlived. Hope can become tarnished.
Yet, I am hopeful about teaching. Each semester I am hopeful and each semester I become deeply involved with my writing students and each semester has turned out well—in fact, very well—since I first began teaching at Princeton. But now, I am thinking that I will focus even more intensely on my students. I have just 22 students this semester—two workshops and two seniors whom I am directing in “creative” theses.
Devote myself to my students, my teaching. This is something that I can do, that is of value.
For writing—being a writer—always seems to the writer to be of dubious value.
Being a writer is like being one of those riskily overbred pedigreed dogs—a French bulldog, for instance—poorly suited for survival despite their very special attributes.
Being a writer is in defiance of Darwin’s observation that the more highly specialized a species, the more likely its extinction.
Teaching—even the teaching of writing—is altogether different. Teaching is an act of communication, sympathy—a reaching-out—a wish to share knowledge, skills; a rapport with others, who are students; a way of allowing others into the solitariness of one’s soul.
“Gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche”—so Chaucer says of his young scholar in The Canterbury Tales. When teachers feel good about teaching, this is how we feel.
And so, in this afternoon’s “advanced fiction” workshop, in an upstairs, lounge-like room in 185 Nassau, the university’s arts building, I am greatly relieved to be teaching! To be back in the presence of undergraduates who know nothing of my private life. For two lively and absorbing hours I am able to forget the radically altered circumstances of this life—none of my students could guess, I am certain, that “Professor Oates” is a sort of raw bleeding stump whose brain, outside the perimeter of the workshop, is in thrall to chaos.
Along with prose pieces by several students, we discuss in detail, rending our way through the story line by line as if it were poetry, that early masterpiece of Ernest Hemingway—“Indian Camp.” Four pages long, written when the author was only a few years older than these Princeton undergraduates, the stark and seemingly autobiographical “Indian Camp” never fails to make a strong impression on them.
How strange it is, how strangely comforting, to read great works of literature throughout our lives, at greatly different phases of our lives—my first reading of “Indian Camp” was in high school, when I was 15, and younger than the author; each subsequent reading has been revelatory in different ways; now this afternoon, in this new phase of my life, when it seems to me self-evident that my life is over, I am struck anew by the precision of Hemingway’s prose, exquisite as the workings of a clock. I am thinking how, of all classic American writers, Hemingway is the one who writes exclusively of death, in its manifold forms; “The perfect man of action is the suicide,” William Carlos Williams once observed, and surely this was true of Hemingway. In a typical Hemingway story foregrounds as well as backgrounds are purposefully blurred, like the contours of his characters’ faces and their pasts, as in those dreams of terrible simplicity in which stark revelation is the point, and the time for digressing is gone.
At an Indian camp in Northern Michigan to which Nick Adams’s father, a doctor, has been summoned to help with a difficult childbirth, an Indian commits suicide by slashing his throat while lying in the upper bunk of a bunk bed, even as his wife gives birth to their child in the lower bunk. Hemingway’s young Nick Adams is a witness to the horror—before his father can usher him from the scene, Nick sees him examining the Indian’s wound by “tipping” the Indian’s head back.
Later, walking back to the boats to return home from the Indian camp, Nick asks his father why the Indian killed himself, and his father says, “I don’t know, Nick. He couldn’t stand things, I guess.”
No theory of suicide, no philosophical discourses on the subject are quite so revelatory as these words. Couldn’t stand things, I guess.
How poignant it is to consider that Hemingway would kill himself several decades later, with a shotgun, at the age of 62.
Suicide, a taboo subject. In 1925, when “Indian Camp” was first published, in Hemingway’s first book, In Our Time, how much more of a taboo subject than now.
Suicide is an issue that fascinates undergraduates. Suicide is the subject of a good number of their stories. Sometimes, the suicidal element so saturates the story, it’s difficult to discuss the story as a text without considering frankly the subject, and its meaning to the writer.
Not that most of these young writers would “consider” suicide—I’m sure—but all of them have known someone who has killed himself.
Sometimes, these suicides have been friends of theirs, contemporaries from high school or college.
These personal issues, I am not likely to bring into workshop discussions, as I never discuss anything personal about myself, or even my writing. Though I came of age in the 1960s when the borderline between “teacher” and “student” became perilously porous, I am not that kind of teacher.
My intention as a teacher is to refine my own personality out of existence, or nearly—my own “self” is never a factor in my teaching, still less my career; I like to think that most of my students haven’t read my writing.
(Visiting writers/instructors at Princeton—I’m thinking of Peter Carey, for instance, and seeing the look of quizzical hurt on Peter’s face—are invariably astonished/crestfallen to discover that their students are not exactly familiar with their oeuvre; but I’m more likely to feel relief.)
It isn’t an exaggeration to say that, this semester of Ray’s death, my students will be my lifeline. Teaching will be my lifeline.
Along with my friends, a small circle of friends—this will “keep me going.” I am sure that my students have no idea of the circumstances of my life, and that they are not curious about it; nor will I ever hint to them what I am feeling, at any time; how I dread the conclusion of the teaching-day, and the return to my diminished life.
It’s a matter of pride—or, almost!—that, this afternoon in the workshop, I behaved no differently, or seemed no different, than ever in the past. In my exchanges with my students, I have given them no reason to suspect that anything is amiss in my life.
In the doorway of my office stand two of my writing students from last semester. One of them, who’d been a soldier in the Israeli army, slightly older than most Princeton undergraduates, says awkwardly, “Professor Oates? We heard about your husband and want to say how sorry we are… If there’s anything we can do…”
I am utterly surprised—I had not expected this. Quickly I tell the young men that I’m fine, this is very kind of them but I am fine…
When they leave, I shut my office door. I am shaking, I am so deeply moved. But mostly shocked. Thinking They must have known all along today. They must all know.
I THE VIGIL
- The Message
- Car Wreck
- The First Wrong Things
- E-mail Record
- E. coli
- Hospital Vigil(s)
- E-mail Record
- Memory Pools
- "I'm Not Crying for Any Reason"
- The Call
II FREE FALL
- "The Golden Vanity"
- Yellow Pages
- The Arrow
- E-mail Record
- Last Words
- "You've Said Good-bye"
- Double Plot
- Cat Pee
- "Sympathy Gift Basket"
- The Betrayal
- The Artisans
- E-mail Record
III THE BASILISK
- "Beady Dead Eyes Like Gems"
- The Lost Husband
- "How Are You?"
- "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter"
- The Nest
- Ghost Rooms
- E-mail Record
- Bruised Knees
- A Dream of Such Happiness!
- "We Want to See You Soon"
- Moving Away
- "Won't Be Seeing You for a While"
- "Can't Find You Where Are You"
- "I Am Sorry to Inform You"
IV PURGATORY, HELL
- "Neither Joyce Nor I Can Come to the Phone Right Now"
- The Military Order of the Purple Heart
- In Motion!
- In Motion!—"Still Alive"
- In Motion!—"Mouth of the Rat"
- In Motion!—"The Wonder Woman of American Literature"
- In Motion!—"You Can't Sit There"
- "Never Forget"
- The Widow's Secret
- Congratulations! I
- Congratulations! II
- E-mail Record
- The Cache
- Morbidity Studies
- The Intruder
V "YOU LOOKED SO HAPPY"
- Too Soon!
- "Leaving Las Vegas"
- "The Unlived ..."
- Crude Cruel Stupid "Well-Intentioned"
- "Never, Ever That Again"
- The "Real World"
- Little Love Story
- Please Forgive!
- "Happy, and Excited"
- Blood in the Water!
- Walking Wounded
- Dead Woman Walking
- "Ashamed to Be 'White'"
- It Made No Difference
- The Garden
- The Pilgrimage
- "You Looked So Happy"
- Black Mass I
- Black Mass II
- "Good Girl"
- The Resolution
- "Did Ray Like Swing?"
- "Your Husband Is Still Alive"
- Three Small Sightings in August
- The Widow's Handbook
- Donna Seaman, Booklist, October 1, 2010, p. 13
- Gina Kaiser, Library Journal, October 15, 2010, p. 76
- Kirkus Reviews, November 1, 2010, p. 1098
- Publisher's Weekly, December 20, 2010, p. 45
- Ruth Franklin, Artforum, February/March 2011, p. 24
- Economist, February 12, 2011, p. 92
- F. Cord Volkmer, Wall Street Journal, February 12, 2011, p. C6
- David L. Ulin, Los Angeles Times, February 13, 2011, p. E8
- Marion Winik, Newsday, February 13, 2011, p. C26
- Valerie Sayers, Washington Post, February 13, 2011, p. B6
- Janet Maslin, New York Times, February 14, 2011, p. C1
- Yvonne Zipp, Christian Science Monitor, February 16, 2011
- Tina Jordan, Entertainment Weekly, February 18, 2011, p. 1
- Joel Yanofsky, The Gazette (Montreal), February 19, 2011, p. J13
- Leah McLaren, The Globe and Mail (Canada), February 19, 2011, p. R3
- Marian Botsford Fraser, The Globe and Mail (Canada), February 19, 2011, p. R20
- Ann Hulbert, New York Times Book Review, February 20, 2011, p. 1
- Chris Vognar, Dallas Morning News, February 22, 2011, p. E1
- Anne Kingston, Macleans's, February 28, 2011, p. 57
- Kim Hubbard, People, February 28, 2011, p. 49
- Mary Pols, Time, February 28, 2011, p. 73
- Bel Mooney, Daily Mail (London), March 4, 2011
- Sophie Cunningham, The Age (Melbourne, Australia), March 5, 2011, p. 32
- Chaterine Ford, Sydney Morning Herald, March 5, 2011, p. 32
- Kate Kellaway, The Observer (England), March 6, 2011, p. 37
- Stephen Amdon, The Sunday Times (London), March 6, 2011, p. 47
- Jane Shilling, The Daily Telegraph (London), March 12, 2011, p. 26-27
- James Magowan, The Toronto Star, March 13, 2011, p. IN7
- Peter Craven, Weekend Australian, March 19, 2011, p. 20
- Janet Todd, The Guardian (London), March 19, 2011, p. 8
- John Preston, The Sunday Telegraph (London), March 20, 2011, p. 28
- Julian Barnes, New York Review of Books, April 7, 2011, p. 10-14