Muhammad Ali: His Life and Times
by Thomas Hauser
Simon and Schuster, 543 pp., $24.95
The Black Lights: Inside the World of Professional Boxing
by Thomas Hauser
Simon and Schuster, 259 pp., $9.95 (paper)
Sports Illustrated Boxing's Best: Muhammad Ali
HBO Video, 60 minutes, $9.99
Ali vs. Foreman, 1974
Hemdale Home Video, 44 minutes, $19.95
The Ali/Norton Trilogy
NAC Home Video, 90 minutes (out of print)
Muhammad Ali: Skill, Brains and Guts
Vid-America Inc., 90 minutes (out of print)
And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
—Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”
A boxer’s victory is gained in blood.
Professional boxing is the only major American sport whose primary, and often murderous, energies are not coyly defected by such artifacts as balls and pucks. Though highly ritualized, and as rigidly bound by rules, traditions, and taboos as any religious ceremony, it survives as the most primitive and terrifying of contests: two men, near-naked, fight each other in a brightly lit, elevated space roped in like an animal pen (though the ropes were originally to keep rowdy spectators out); two men climb into the ring from which only one, symbolically, will climb out. (Draws do occur in boxing, but are rare, and unpopular.)
Boxing is a stylized mimicry of a fight to the death, yet its mimesis is an uncertain convention, for boxers do sometimes die in the ring, or as a consequence of a bout; their lives are sometimes, perhaps always, shortened by the stress and punishment of their careers (in training camps no less than in official fights). Certainly, as in the melancholy case of Muhammad Ali, the most acclaimed and beloved heavyweight in boxing history, the quality of the boxer’s post-retirement life is frequently diminished. For the great majority of boxers, past and present, life in the ring is nasty, brutish, and short—and not even that remunerative.
Yet, for inhabitants of the boxing world, the ideal conclusion of a fight is a knockout, and not a decision; and this, ideally, not the kind in which a man is counted “out” on his feet, still less a TKO (“technical knockout”—from injuries), but a knockout in the least ambiguous sense—one man collapsed and unconscious, the other leaping about the ring with his gloves raised in victory, the very embodiment of adolescent masculine fantasy. Like a tragedy in which no one dies, the fight lacking a classic knockout seems unresolved, unfulfilled: the strength, courage, ingenuity, and desperation of neither boxer have been adequately measured. Catharsis is but partial, the Aristotelian principle of an action complete in itself has been thwarted. (Recall the fury of young Muhammad Ali at the too-readily-defeated Sonny Liston in their second, notorious title fight, of 1965: instead of going to a neutral corner, Ali stood over his fallen opponent with his fist cocked, screaming, “Get up and fight, sucker!”)
This is because boxing’s mimesis is not that of a mere game, but a powerful analogue of human struggle in the rawest of life-and-death terms. When the analogue is not evoked, as, in most fights, it is not, the action is likely to be unengaging, or dull; “boxing” is the art, but “fighting” is the passion. The delirium of the crowd at one of those matches called “great” must be experienced firsthand to be believed (Frazier–Ali I, 1971, Hagler–Hearns, 1986, for instance); identification with the fighters is so intense, it is as if barriers between egos dissolve, and one is in the presence of a Dionysian rite of cruelty, sacrifice, and redemption. “The nearest thing to death,” Ali described it, after his third title match with Joe Frazier, in 1975, which he won when the fight was stopped after the fourteenth round. Or: “This is some way to make a living, isn’t it?” as the superlightweight Saoul Mamby said, badly battered after a title fight with the champion Billy Costello, in 1984.
A romance of (expendable) maleness—in which The Fight is honored, and even great champions come, and go.
For these reasons, among others, boxing has long been America’s most popularly despised sport: a “so-called” sport, even a “meta-” or an “anti-” sport: a “vicious exploitation of maleness”1 as prostitution and pornography may be said to be a vicious exploitation of femaleness. It is not, contrary to common supposition, the most dangerous sport (the American Medical Association, arguing for boxing’s abolition, acknowledges that it is statistically less dangerous than speedway racing, thoroughbred racing, downhill skiing, professional football, et al.), but it is the most spectacularly and pointedly cruel sport, its intention being to stun one’s opponent’s brain; to affect the orgasmic communal “knockout” that is the culminating point of the rising action of the ideal fight. The humanitarian argues that boxing’s very intentions are obscene, which sets it apart, theoretically at least, from purer (i.e., Caucasian) establishment sports bracketed above.
Boxing is only possible if there is an endless supply of young men hungry to leave their impoverished ghetto neighborhoods, more than willing to substitute the putative dangers of the ring for the more evident, possibly daily, dangers of the street; yet it is rarely advanced as a means of eradicating boxing that poverty itself be abolished; that it is the social conditions feeding boxing that are obscene. The pious hypocrisy of Caucasian moralists vis-à-vis the sport that has become almost exclusively the province of black and ethnic minorities has its analogue in a classic statement of President Bush’s of some months ago, that he is worried by the amount of “filth” flooding America by way of televised hearings and trials: not that the Clarence Thomas–Anita Hill hearing and the William Kennedy Smith rape trial revealed “filth” at the core of certain male–female relations in our society, but that public airings of such, the very hearings and trials, are the problem. Ban the spectacle, and the obscenity will cease to exist.
Black boxers from the time of Jack Johnson (the first and most flamboyant of the world’s black heavyweight champions, 1908–1915) through Joe Louis, Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammad Ali, Larry Holmes, Sugar Ray Leonard, and Mike Tyson have been acutely conscious of themselves as racially other from the majority of their audiences, whom they must please in one way or another, as black villains, or honorary whites. (After his pulverizing defeat of the “good, humble Negro” Floyd Patterson, in a heavyweight title match in 1962, Sonny Liston gloated in his role as black villain; when he lost so ingloriously to Muhammad Ali, a brash new-style black who drew upon Jack Johnson, Sugar Ray Robinson, and even the campy professional wrestler Gorgeous George for his own public persona, Liston lost his mystique, and his career soon ended.)
To see race as a predominant factor in American boxing is inevitable, but the moral issues, as always in this paradoxical sport, are ambiguous. Is there a moral distinction between the spectacle of black slaves in the Old South being forced by their white owners to fight, for purposes of gambling, and the spectacle of contemporary blacks fighting for multimillion-dollar paydays, for TV coverage from Las Vegas and Atlantic City? When, in 1980, in one of the most cynically promoted boxing matches in history, the aging and ailing Muhammad Ali fought the young heavyweight champion Larry Holmes, in an “execution” of a fight that was stopped after ten rounds, did it alleviate the pain, or the shame, that Ali was guaranteed $8 million for the fight? (Of which, with characteristic finesse, promoter Don King cheated him of nearly $1 million.) Ask the boxers.
Boxing today is very different from the boxing of the past, which allowed a man to be struck repeatedly while trying to get to his feet (Dempsey–Willard, 1919), or to be knocked down seven times in three wholly one-sided rounds (Patterson–Johansson I, 1959), or so savagely and senselessly struck in the head with countless unanswered blows that he died in a coma ten days later (Griffith-Paret, 1962); the more immediate danger, for any boxer fighting a Don King opponent, is that the fight will be stopped prematurely, by a zealous referee protective of King’s investment.
As boxing is “reformed,” it becomes less satisfying on a deep, unconscious level, more nearly resembling amateur boxing; yet, as boxing remains primitive, brutal, bloody, and dangerous, it seems ever more anachronistic, if not in fact obscene, in a society with pretensions of humanitarianism. Its exemplary figure is that of the warrior, of some mythopoeic time before weapons were invented; the triumph of physical genius, in a technologically advanced world in which the physical counts for very little, set beside intellectual skills. Even in the gritty world of the underclass, who, today, would choose to fight with mere fists? Guns abound, death to one’s opponents at a safe distance is possible even for children. Mike Tyson’s boast, after his defeat of the twelve-to-one underdog Carl Williams in a heavyweight title defense of 1989, “I want to fight, fight, fight and destruct the world,” strikes a poignantly hollow note, even if we knew nothing of subsequent disastrous events in Tyson’s life and career.2
Consider the boxing trainer’s time-honored adage: They all go if you hit them right.
These themes are implicit in Thomas Hauser’s Muhammad Ali: His Life and Times and The Black Lights: Inside the World of Professional Boxing; but it is only in the latter work that theoretical, historical, and psychological issues are considered—Hauser sees boxing as “the red light district of professional sports,” in which individuals of exceptional talent, courage, and integrity nonetheless prevail. His Ali is the heftier and more ambitious of the two, befitting its prodigious subject—the most famous athlete of all time, until recent years the most highly paid athlete of all time. An authorized biography, it would appear to be definitive, and is certainly exhaustive; Hauser spent thousands of hours with his subject, as well as approximately two hundred other people, and was given access to Ali’s medical records. The text arranges these testimonies into a chronological history in which (is this New Age biography?) the author’s voice alternates with, but rarely comments upon, still less criticizes, what these others have said. Compassionate, intelligent, fair-minded, Muhammad Ali: His Life and Times might have benefited from further editing and paraphrase. Specific subjects (an imminent fight, financial deals, Ali’s marital problems, Ali’s health problems, the Nation of Islam, et al.) become lost in a welter of words; frequently, it is difficult to locate dates, even for important fights. And no ring record of Ali in the appendix!—a baffling omission, as if Ali’s performance as an athlete were not the primary reason for the book.
As it happens, Hauser’s succinct commentary on the Ali phenomenon and his shrewd analysis of the boxing world, including Don King’s role in it, in his earlier book, The Black Lights, can provide, for the reader of the biography, a kind of companion gloss; the books are helpfully read in tandem. It is a remark of Ali’s, in 1967, that gives The Black Lights its ominous title:
They say when you get hit and hurt bad you see black lights—the black lights of unconsciousness. But I don’t know nothing about that. I’ve had twenty-eight fights and twenty-eight wins. I ain’t never been stopped.
Muhammad Ali, born Cassius Marcellus Clay in Louisville, Kentucky, on January 17, 1942, grandson of a slave, began boxing at the age of twelve, and, by eighteen, had fought 108 amateur bouts. How is it possible that the young man who, in his twenties, would astonish the world not just with the brilliance of his boxing but the sharpness of his wit seems to have been a dull-average student in high school who graduated 376th out of a class of 391? In 1966, his score on a mental aptitude test was an Army IQ of 78, well below military qualification. In 1975, Ali confessed to a reporter that he “can’t read too good” and had not read ten pages of all the material written about him. I remember the television interview in which, asked what else he might have done with his life, Ali paused, for several seconds, clearly not knowing how to reply. All he’d ever known, he said finally, was boxing.
Mental aptitude tests cannot measure genius except in certain narrow ranges, and the genius of the body, the play of lightning-swift reflexes coupled with unwavering precision and confidence, eludes comprehension. All great boxers possess this genius, which scrupulous training hones, but can never create. “Styles make fights,” as Ali’s great trainer Angelo Dundee says, and “style” was young Ali’s trademark. Yet even after early wins over such veterans as Archie Moore and Henry Cooper, the idiosyncrasies of Ali’s style aroused skepticism in boxing experts. After winning the Olympic gold medal in 1960, Ali was described by A.J. Leibling as “skittering…like a pebble over water.” Everyone could see that this brash young boxer held his hands too low; he leaned away from punches instead of properly slipping them; his jab was light and flicking; he seemed to be perpetually on the brink of disaster. As a seven-to-one underdog in his first title fight with Sonny Liston, the twenty-two-year-old challenger astounded the experts with his performance, which was like none other they had ever seen in the heavyweight division; he so out-boxed and demoralized Liston that Liston “quit on his stool” after the sixth round. A new era in boxing had begun, like a new music.
Ali rode the crest of a new wave of athletes—competitors who were both big and fast…. Ali had a combination of size and speed that had never been seen in a fighter before, along with incredible will and courage. He also brought a new style to boxing. Jack Dempsey changed fisticuffs from a kind of constipated science where fighters fought in a tense defensive style to a wild sensual assault. Ali revolutionized boxing the way black basketball players have changed basketball today. He changed what happened in the ring, and elevated it to a level that was previously unknown.
(Larry Merchant, quoted in Muhammad Ali)
In the context of contemporary boxing—the sport is in one of its periodic slumps—there is nothing more instructive and rejuvenating than to see again these old, early fights of Ali’s, when, as his happy boast had it, he floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee and threw punches faster than opponents could see—like the “mystery” right to the temple of Liston that felled him, in the first minute of the first round of their rematch. These early fights, the most brilliant being against Cleveland Williams, in 1966, predate by a decade the long, grueling, punishing fights of Ali’s later career, whose accumulative effects hurt Ali irrevocably, resulting in what doctors call, carefully, his “Parkinsonianism”—to distinguish it from Parkinson’s disease. There is a true visceral shock in observing a heavyweight with the grace, agility, swiftness of hands and feet, defensive skills, and ring cunning of a middleweight Ray Robinson, or a lightweight Willie Pep—like all great athletes, Ali has to be seen to be believed.
In a secular, yet pseudo-religious and sentimental nation like the United States, it is quite natural that sports stars emerge as “heroes”—“legends”—icons.” Who else? George Santayana described religion as “another world to live in” and no world is so set off from the disorganization and disenchantment of the quotidian than the world, or worlds, of sports. Hauser describes, in considerable detail, the transformation of the birth of Ali out of the unexpectedly stubborn and idealistic will of young Cassius Clay: how, immediately following his first victory over Liston, he declared himself a convert to the Nation of Islam (more popularly known as the Black Muslims) and “no longer a Christian.” He repudiated his “slave name” of Cassius Marcellus Clay to become Muhammad Ali (a name which, incidentally, The New York Times, among other censorious white publications, would not honor through the 1960s). Ali became, virtually overnight, a spokesman for black America as no other athlete, certainly not the purposefully reticent Joe Louis, had ever done—“I don’t have to be what you want me to be,” he told white America. “I’m free to be me.” Two years later, refusing to be inducted into the army to fight in Vietnam, Ali, beleaguered by reporters, uttered one of the memorable incendiary remarks of that era: “Man, I ain’t got no quarrel with them Vietcong.”
How ingloriously white America responded to Ali: the government retaliated by overruling a judge who had granted Ali the status of conscientious objector, fined Ali $10,000, and sentenced him to five years in prison; he was stripped of his heavyweight title and deprived of his license to box. Eventually, the US Supreme Court would overturn the conviction, and, as the tide of opinion shifted in the country, in the early 1970s as the Vietnam War wound down Ali returned triumphantly to boxing again, and regained the heavyweight title not once but twice. Years of exile during which he’d endured the angry self-righteousness of the conservative white press seemed, wonderfully, not to have embittered him. He had become a hero. He had entered myth.
Yet the elegiac title of Angelo Dundee’s chapter in Dave Anderson’s In The Corner3—“We Never Saw Muhammad Ali at His Best”—defines the nature of Ali’s sacrifice for his principles, and the loss to boxing. When, after the three-and-a-half-year layoff, Ali returned to the ring, he was of course no longer the seemingly invincible boxer he’d been; he’d lost his legs, thus his primary line of defense. Like the maturing writer who learns to replace the incandescent head-on energies of youth with what is called technique, Ali would have to descend into his physical being and experience for the first time the punishment (“the nearest thing to death”) that is the lot of the great boxer willing to put himself to the test. As Ali’s personal physician at that time, Ferdie Pacheco, said,
[Ali] discovered something which was both very good and very bad. Very bad in that it led to the physical damage he suffered later in his career; very good in that it eventually got him back the championship. He discovered that he could take a punch.
The secret of Ali’s mature success, and the secret of his tragedy: he could take a punch.
For the remainder of his twenty-year career, Muhammad Ali took punches, many of the kind that, delivered to a nonboxer, would kill him or her outright—from Joe Frazier in their three exhausting marathon bouts, from George Foreman, from Ken Norton, Leon Spinks, Larry Holmes. Where in his feckless youth Ali was a dazzling figure combining, say, the brashness of Hotspur and the insouciance of Lear’s Fool, he became in these dark, brooding, increasingly willed fights the closest analogue boxing contains to Lear himself; or, rather, since there is no great fight without two great boxers, the title matches Ali–Frazier I (which Frazier won by a decision) and Ali-Frazier III (which Ali won, just barely, when Frazier virtually collapsed after the fourteenth round) are boxing’s analogues to King Lear—ordeals of unfathomable human courage and resilience raised to the level of classic tragedy. These somber and terrifying boxing matches make us weep for their very futility; we seem to be in the presence of human experience too profound to be named—beyond the strategies and diminishments of language. The mystic’s dark night of the soul, transmogrified as a brutal meditation of the body.
And Ali–Foreman, Zaire, 1974: the occasion of the infamous “rope-a-dope” defense, by which the thirty-two-year-old Ali exhausted his twenty-six-year-old opponent by the inspired method of, simply, and horribly, allowing him to punch himself out on Ali’s body and arms. This is a fight of such a magical quality that even to watch it closely is not to see how it was done, its fairy-tale reversal in the eighth round executed. (One of Norman Mailer’s most impassioned books, The Fight, is about this fight; watching a tape of Ali on the ropes enticing, and infuriating, and frustrating, and finally exhausting his opponent by an offense in the guise of a defense, I pondered what sly lessons of masochism Mailer absorbed from being at ringside that day, what deep-imprinted resolve to outwear all adversaries.)
These hard-won victories began irreversible loss: progressive deterioration of Ali’s kidneys, hands, reflexes, stamina. By the time of that most depressing of modern-day matches, Ali–Holmes, 1980, when Ali was thirty-eight years old, Ferdie Pacheco had long departed the Ali camp, dismissed for having advised Ali to retire; those who supported Ali’s decision to fight, like the bout’s promoter, Don King, had questionable motives. Judging from Hauser’s information, it is a wonder that Ali survived this fight at all: the fight was, in Sylvester Stallone’s words, “like watching an autopsy on a man who’s still alive.” (In The Black Lights, Hauser describes the bedlam that followed this vicious fight at Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas, where gamblers plunged in an orgy of gambling, as in a frenzy of feeding, or copulation: “Ali and Holmes had done their job.”) Incredibly, Ali was allowed to fight once more, with Trevor Berbick, in December 1981, before retiring permanently.
Hauser’s portrait of Ali is compassionate and unjudging: Is the man to be blamed for having been addicted to his body’s own adrenaline, or are others to be blamed for indulging him—and exploiting him? The brash rap-style egoism of young Cassius Clay underwent a considerable transformation during Ali’s long public career, yet strikes us, perhaps, as altered only in tone: “Boxing was just to introduce me to the world,” Ali has told his biographer. Mystically involved in the Nation of Islam, Ali sincerely believes himself an international emissary for peace, love, and understanding (he who once wreaked such violence upon his opponents!); and who is to presume to feel sorry for one who will not feel sorry for himself?
The Black Lights: Inside the World of Professional Boxing describes a small, self-contained arc—a few years in the career of a boxer named Billy Costello, at one time a superlightweight titleholder from Kingston, New York. Like Muhammad Ali, it is a sympathetic study of its primary subject, Costello, his manager Mike Jones, and their families and associates; yet, in the interstices of a compelling narrative taking us through the preparation for a successful title defense of 1984, it illuminates aspects of the boxing world generally unknown to outsiders—the routine and discipline of the boxer in training; the complex role of the fight manager; the exhausting contractual negotiations; the state of this “red-light district”—
Professional boxing is no longer worthy of civilized society. It’s run by self-serving crooks, who are called promoters…. Except for the fighters, you’re talking about human scum…. Professional boxing is utterly immoral. It’s not capable of reformation. I now favor the abolition of professional boxing. You’ll never clean it up. Mud can never be clean.
(Howard Cosell, quoted in The Black Lights)
Like others sympathetic with boxers, who are in fact poorly paid, nonunionized workers with no benefits in a monopolistic business without antitrust control, Hauser argues strongly for a national association to regulate the sport; a federal advisory panel to protect boxers from exploitation. His portrait of Billy Costello allows us to see why a young man will so eagerly risk injuries in the ring, which is perceived as a lifeline, and not a place of exploitation; why he will devote himself to the rigors of training in a sport in which, literally, one’s entire career can end within a few seconds.
Black Lights ends dramatically, with Costello retaining his title against a thirty-seven-year-old opponent, Saoul Mamby, and with his hope of moving up in weight and making more money. Since its publication in 1986, the book has become a boxing classic; it is wonderfully readable, and, unlike Ali, judiciously proportioned. Yet to end the book with this victory is surely misleading, and even, to this reader, perplexing. The “black lights of unconsciousness” would be experienced by Billy Costello shortly, in a bout with a dazzlingly arrogant and idiosyncratic Ali-inspired young boxer named, at that time, “Lightning” Lonnie Smith, who would KO Costello in one of those nightmares all boxers have, before a hometown audience in Kingston. Following that devastating loss, Costello would fight the aging Alexis Arguello, one of the great lightweights of contemporary times, who would beat him savagely and end his career. To end with a tentative victory and not supply at least a coda to take us to the collapse of Billy Costello’s career deprives Black Lights of the significance it might have had—for boxing is about failure far more than it is about success. In the words of the battered Saoul Mamby, “I’ll miss it. I love boxing. Everything passed too soon.”
Not a Lightweight May 14, 1992
In a literary tradition populated by many figures known for a single play or a handful of painstakingly wrought novels, Oates is notable first for her consistently prodigious output. Hundreds of stories and poems, printed and anthologized in a wide variety of publications, and dozens of novels, novellas, plays, essays, prefaces, and reviews have come from her pen, with an equally wide variety of settings, themes, genres, and styles. This productivity has even been a source of some criticism, inspiring suspicions that Oates works too fast and carelessly, that she lacks the basic self-censorship necessary to a writer. Oates, unaffected by criticism, has never slowed her pace. While some of her novels seem more felt than planned, and some of her stories inevitably overlap, Oates is a writer whose meanings can be appreciated cumulatively and whose craft and imagination are beyond question.
A more serious criticism is that her writing, especially in the 1960’s and 1970’s, is too violent, too dark, too obsessed with blood and death. (In 1981, in an essay in The New York Times Book Review titled “Why Is Your Writing So Violent?,” Oates branded such criticism blatantly sexist and asserted the female novelist’s right to depict nature as she sees it.) A typical Oates novel may feature mass murder, rape, suicide, arson, an automobile crash, or an autopsy, portrayed with detachment and graphic detail. Such violence is less a literal portrayal of the author’s experience of life (though her great grandfather committed suicide in a rage after trying to kill his wife, Oates’s own life has been relatively sedate) than an expression of the violence she sees beneath the surface of American life.
One of Oates’s primary concerns is the shape of American identity in the twentieth century. Her novels often trace the lives of prototypical Americans and can be seen as paradigms of their collective history. Very aware of her parents’ experiences through the 1930’s, Oates often places the Depression at the beginning, chronologically if not narratively, of the stories she tells, for that is the source of much of the history of the 1960’s, 1970’s, and 1980’s. (In Bellefleur, she goes further back to trace all of American history through a single family chronicle.) Many of her works are set in an imaginary Eden County, modeled on the Erie and Niagara counties of western New York. As the name suggests, Eden County is a mythical paradise where Oates depicts the American loss of innocence. Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart, What I Lived For, We Were the Mulvaneys, and Broke Heart Blues continued to mine this theme in this setting in the 1990’s.
Oates documents, and at times seems to prophesy, this loss of innocence through a pattern reflecting the American national heritage. This historical paradigm involves derivation from a strong familial tradition, be it the migrant workers of A Garden of Earthly Delights or the patricians of The Assassins: A Book of Hours; dislocation, often violent and senseless, from that home or tradition; the search for parent figures; the lack of fixed identity; acceptance of the American Dream, with all of its materialistic manifestations; emergence from poverty and anonymity; the obsession that arrives with single-minded pursuits; and the vacuity and transparency of contemporary American modes of being and communicating. Black Water, in 1992, was a thinly veiled retelling of the 1969 tragedy at Chappaquiddick, Massachusetts, where the young Mary Jo Kopechne drowned in the car of Senator Edward Kennedy, while Blonde, which won the National Book Award in 2001, was a fictional reworking of the life of Marilyn Monroe.
This paradigm is not inviolate, nor does it inform all of Oates’s work. One of her most noted novels, them, is drawn quite faithfully from the life experience of a woman Oates knew while teaching in Detroit, and Marya: A Life (1986) is based to an extent on her mother’s and her own early lives. Conversely, the stories in Marriages and Infidelities (1972) are modeled on (and even named for) earlier stories by acknowledged masters, such as James Joyce’s “The Dead” (1914) and Franz Kafka’s Die Verwandlung (1915; “The Metamorphosis,” 1936), and their appreciation can depend on familiarity with—indeed, “marriage” to—their predecessors. A number of her works, including the satirical collection The Hungry Ghosts: Seven Allusive Comedies (1974), are set in academic institutions not unlike Oates’s own universities of Windsor and Princeton.
Whatever the setting and the model for dramatic movement, certain themes are central. Oates is fascinated with the multiple facets of individual personality, and her characters often undergo dramatic upheavals and transformations (which are larger metaphorical expressions of the violence of modern life). They are constantly questioning who and where they are, constantly feeling detached from their bodies and their immediate experiences of the world. Nothing is certain or fixed. In such a whirlwind, emotion and sensation are all one can really know and trust; having a name; as the fundamental unit of identity, becomes of paramount importance.
Many of Oates’s novels and stories, therefore, based in the emotional reality of a character, have a surrealistic quality. Oates is fascinated with dreams; not only do her characters relate theirs, but also the lines between perception, imagination, and dream or nightmare often become hazy. Because objective reality is unavailable, people become trapped within their own personalities, and connections between them are often tenuous and false. Many of the short stories, such as “The Census-Taker” (1963), “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” (1966), “How I Contemplated the World from the Detroit House of Correction and Began My Life Over Again” (1969), “Queen of the Night” (1979), and “The Seasons” (1985), focus on jarring and unsuccessful encounters or relationships between very disparate personalities.
Generally, Oates’s style is controlled and detached; her narrative voices do not cater to the reader but demand that the reader make necessary connections and assumptions. Her works are sometimes challenging puzzles that require careful attention. She is a skilled technician who uses precise and explicit language and portrays personality through detailed sketching of both interior and exterior reality. Not surprisingly, the imagery Oates employs is often violent: exposed flesh, broken glass, explosions, floods, fire. All these elements—the detachment, the ambiguity, the detail, the imagery—combine to create an uncertain world where reality is constantly reconceived and re-imagined through the window of perception, and truth—historical, subjective, and psychic—is ever-changing.
A Garden of Earthly Delights
First published: 1967, revised 2003
Type of work: Novel
A woman’s quest to escape her impoverished past bequeaths to her son a world full of power but empty of meaning and identity.
A Garden of Earthly Delights is a novel that portrays the American economic system and the ills suffered both by those who fail and by those who succeed in it. Oates tells the story of Clara, from the day of her birth among migrant laborers to her waning years watching television in a nursing home, and the men—father, lovers, son—who define her life experience.
The title is taken from a dramatic triptych by the fifteenth century Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch. The three panels of the original Garden of Earthly Delights illustrate Eve’s creation in paradise, the debauchery of her descendants, and humankind’s punishment in hell. Oates’s novel mirrors this structure in its three sections. The first, titled “Carleton,” focuses on a bitter migrant laborer named Carleton Walpole as he takes his growing family from state to state, struggling to control his rage and maintain his lost sense of dignity. Clara, the third and favorite of his five children, learns to look beyond the distress and misery of their migrant existence and eventually runs off with a virtual stranger to find a better life.
The second section, “Lowry,” follows Clara through adolescence. The stranger, an enigmatic drifter named Lowry, sets her up in a small southern town, but he is involved in shady activities and soon disappears, spurning her obsessive love and unknowingly leaving her pregnant. Clara, a survivor, has attracted the attentions of a wealthy landowner, Curt Revere; she becomes his mistress, leads him to believe he is the father of her child, accepts his boundless generosity, and, with the death of his ailing wife, becomes the second Mrs. Revere.
Now established in comfort and wealth, having achieved a perfect vision of the American Dream, Clara consolidates her power. The third section of the novel, “Swan,” focuses on Clara’s son Steven (whom she calls Swan) and the pressures he feels growing up an outsider among someone else’s wealth, destined to inherit it but unable to make sense of his destiny or to fulfill his mother’s exaggerated expectations for him.
Within this structure, the narrative moves chronologically but with a greatly modulated pace. Oates relates individual scenes or periods in the lives of her characters with slow and careful accuracy and feeling, and then shifts the action months or years ahead, establishing the passage of time casually with age or year references. Such shifts highlight the suddenness of the events and changes that have occurred. This irregular flow serves to emphasize, as if microscopically, certain telling moments or encounters. Carleton’s rage explodes during an arm-wrestling match, and he kills his best friend, an event that Clara recalls throughout her life. A jaunt into a nearby town where Clara impulsively steals a flag, her first night with Lowry, and her decision to run away are vividly portrayed and establish the fearlessness and pride that will bring tragedy in later life. A pivotal encounter comes at the end of the second section when, after years of silence, Lowry shows up at Clara’s house to reclaim her: She does not love Revere, and she feels a flood of emotion at the sight of Lowry, but her resolution to accumulate power at any cost is too firm, and she sends her former lover—and her only hope for true happiness—away forever.
Swan, however, only three years old at the time, is affected by Lowry—by some deep instinct of his own paternity—and the knowledge of that ominous visitor stays with him. Swan is not at home with Revere and his rightful sons, for Swan’s true identity has been sacrificed to Clara’s lust for power. Though she acts with his future supremacy in mind, she cannot understand his psychic needs, and, in the novel’s ultimate violent act, he refuses the power she has achieved for him and renders the struggles of her life meaningless.
Clara’s is a very American story, for her ascent and accomplishments reach a point of diminishing returns, but she refuses to relent. Set against a subtly drawn backdrop of national events from the 1920’s through the 1960’s—the Depression, the renewal of industrial prosperity, the transformation of race relations and erosion of class structures in the South—Clara’s story takes on wider repercussions as an American fable, with implicit commentary on the misguided motives and empty values of American political and materialistic ethics.
First published: 1971
Type of work: Novel
A young man undergoes a series of transformations as he comes to maturity and strives for identity in a dreamlike American landscape.
Wonderland bears certain rough similarities to A Garden of Earthly Delights. It follows three generations of a family through stages of rage, searching, and emptiness. It offers critical comment on the lust for knowledge and power. It spans a particular period of American political and economic history. It moves irregularly, with sudden shifts and changes. It also draws on another work of art as a model. Wonderland, is, however, stylistically much less naturalistic, its commentary more satirical, and its concern for the issues of dislocation and identity more fully focused on a single central character, Jesse.
As the title suggests, Oates used Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) as a thematic source for her novel. Like Alice, Jesse bursts into new worlds and must deal with characters that verge on caricatures and that parallel the Mad Hatter, Cheshire Cat, and others. Oates has taken Carroll’s thematic framework and applied it sharply and imaginatively to the American scene.
The novel begins abruptly: Fourteen-year-old Jesse Harte returns home one day to find his family murdered by his crazed father. Jesse escapes through a window (like Alice’s “looking glass”) and is orphaned by his father’s suicide. Emotionally numbed, Jesse embarks on a passive search for replacements—for a father figure, for a home, for a viable belief system, for a name that is truly his. He lives first with his silent, bitter grandfather (taking the surname Vogel), then with uncomprehending cousins, then in an orphanage.
Book 1 of the novel is titled “Variations on an American Hymn,” and most of it details Jesse’s life with the Pedersens, his adoptive family of freaks. The father is a dogmatic, morphine-addicted doctor/mystic, the mother an obsequious alcoholic, the son a blithering piano virtuoso, the daughter an angry mathematical genius. The Pedersens are all grotesquely obese, and with them Jesse expands accordingly. He takes their name and their ways but never gives himself completely to the doctor’s maniacal egoism. In the end, after helping Mrs. Pedersen in an aborted attempt to escape, Jesse is disowned, dislocated, and, again, nameless.
He goes to college at the University of Michigan to study medicine and, an excellent student, falls under the tutelage of Drs. Cady and Perrault and an errant scientist and poet named T. W. Monk (whose poem “Wonderland” provides the epigraph to Oates’s novel). Each of the men expresses a distinct and limited worldview—empiricism, behaviorism, nihilism—which Jesse adopts to a point but is unable to accept fully or embody.
He becomes a brilliant surgeon, marries Cady’s daughter Helene, and fathers two daughters, but the marriage is unfulfilling, and Jesse becomes inexplicably obsessed with a woman he encounters at a chance moment in the emergency room—Reva Denk, whose name suggests “think/dream.” Book 2, titled “The Finite Passing of an Infinite Passion,” ends with Jesse’s impulsive decision to begin a new life with Reva, and, once she agrees, his equally impulsive decision to return at once to Helene.
Book 3, “Dreaming America,” alternates between Jesse’s search for his runaway daughter Shelly and her angry, enigmatic letters home declaring insistently that his pursuits—of knowledge, of love, of wealth, of metaphysical supremacy—have ruined her life. Her letters contain veiled hints, and when Jesse finally locates her among a community of draft dodgers in Toronto, the novel ends on a reservedly optimistic note.
Throughout Wonderland, Oates’s language and imagery are palpable and graphic. Certain scenes are striking: Hilda Pedersen gluttonously devouring chocolates during a mathematical competition; Helene’s obsession with her own reproductive capacities turning to panic during a gynecological examination; a man, who turns out to be Reva’s lover, arriving at Jesse’s hospital self-mutilated; later, Jesse symbolically mutilating himself with a rusty razor before abandoning Reva. Such scenes reinforce the thematic presence of science and medicine as means of knowing and experiencing life. There are recurrent perceptions of living organisms as reduced to their simplest form, protoplasm, and as beings that emerge from and consume other beings. The concept of “homeostasis”—the natural tendency toward balance—which Dr. Pedersen asks Jesse to explain one evening at the dinner table, provides a standard for the desirable pattern of functioning that Jesse, not to mention the gallery of characters that surround him, cannot achieve.
Wonderland—which is also the name of the new shopping mall where the dissatisfied Helene meets her lover—is an Oatesian world of unnatural proportions where, like the Pedersens’ obesity, ideas, emotions, and aspirations are often ridiculously reduced or magnified. The portraits Oates creates are exaggerated, narcissistic, and often very comical.
The only exception is Jesse, who lacks an inherent personality and becomes a reflection or embodiment of the people and ideas around him. Thus, the other characters take on the dimensions of allegory: They become emotional or philosophical options for him to review and try, but his movement through and experience of them, like his movement from name to name and home to home, leaves him at the novel’s end only barely less innocent and passive than he was at its start. Ultimately, his search for identity and longing for a sense of solidity in his existence are the only reliable facts of his life.
The Assassins: A Book of Hours
First published: 1975
Type of work: Novel
After the supposed assassination of a prominent politician, his brothers and widow struggle to find meaning in their lives.
The Assassins: A Book of Hours is perhaps Oates’s darkest and most pessimistic novel. It takes its subtitle from a canonical book that ends with the Office of the Dead, and it is concerned with characters mourning or obsessed with death.
The four characters central to the novel are Andrew Petrie, a former senator from New York and outspoken political observer; his brothers Hugh and Stephen; and his widow, Yvonne. Andrew himself is dead and appears only through memory or flashback; Hugh, Yvonne, and Stephen provide the viewpoints for the three parts of the novel, which are accordingly named for them.
“Hugh” begins enigmatically, and only later does it become evident that his diffuse and convoluted first-person narrative takes place within his conscious mind as he lies inexpressive and paralyzed in a hospital bed. Hugh is a bitter and sardonic political cartoonist who has devoted his life to hating and lampooning all that his successful older brother represents. His character—greedy, impotent, hypochondriac, alcoholic—is expressed through his obsessive rantings as he recounts his experience during the year following Andrew’s death. Without Andrew, Hugh’s life lacks the pivot on which it had turned. Consumed with a desire to discover his brother’s assassins and convinced that Yvonne holds...
(The entire section is 7820 words.)