I had never even read any of John Cheever's work. These journals are remarkable. They are real, intimate, and at times so personal they put me on the edge of anxiety for days. He is an incredible writer and I found these journals deep, pure and human.
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This book effected me more than I wanted. It was depressing in many ways, mostly because life just seemed to wash over Mr. Cheever. Although apparently highly successful, his journals read like any thinking person filled with anxiety, insecurity, loneliness, and bewilderedly out of control.He captures these feelings so adriotly, they can shock you to your roots, but somehow bring no relief that such an accomplished person...
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Read these journals and you will meet this man. Not just the sardonic detached observer of the cocktail party set. Yes, the journals verify that he is that. And not just the gentle introspective genius who pours his heart out to the labradors as he empties his nth glass of gin sitting on the porch as a warm summer night drifts to an end. (is that too). But the man who, when a grand and ancient 3 and a half foot snapping turtle...
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Cheever says "I am fifty-four, but I still think myself too young...to suffer nightmares about throughways and bridges." Daily peril is ever close at hand in the self-abusive pain and duty of the observed life of a 20th century master of English prose. The only peril in reading this book is a broken heart. I would stand anywhere and say there are paragraphs in these journals that rival in beauty and perfection any other...
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I am a big Cheever fan and it took me about a month at 10-12 pages a night to finish this book. Before buying this book, you should consider if you want to sit through 395 pages of drink, depression, marital strife, adultery, hypocrisy (Cheever's), and bisexuality; all set in a prose that is often beautiful and sometimes fragmentary. Please be forewarned, this is a journal, not a narrative, and Cheever is not at all concerned...
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