The Journals of John Cheever

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.

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 could feel the same as you. On the positive, b/c it is real, you can witness his evolution and contiual appreciation of the small joys in life.And, of course, the journals are beautifully written. I never read anything by him prior to this, and after, I immediately bought two of his books.

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 dares trample his flower bed, pumps 10 shotgun rounds unceremoniously into its head. Ten. (and remember, this is in Westchester). A man who basked in his celebrity and yet felt insecure around people of learning (he was high school dropout). A man who loved his wife as deeply as he resented marriage (ok, that's most of us - but he captures it). Some slogging, no doubt. But the gems make it overwhelmingly worthwhile. To read it is not just research, but a prose adventure into a soul.

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 in English literature you may produce. Cheever can't help it; this kind of genius is inevitable. What does it matter that misery formed a life? The pages written in Italy in the late '50's, especially, nurse a kind of transparent abiding of deep misery - seeking, arranging and soldiering it, all the while writing, fortunately for us. However alcohol and inner troubles may have crippled aspects of Cheever's career, nothing but glory shadows his paragraphs of light! The book is more like an autobiographical duel in the form of a novel, so raw is Cheever's self-reaching, and so moving his conclusions. Barely able to escape the intense life of the mind, Cheever's art almost threatens confessional literature by refusing to confess. He keeps his writer's mind, and makes the rest serve. As a result, the book full of a beauty that will never disappear. It's a worthwhile idea to get a copy just to read the paragraph written in 1981, after taking the dogs walking deep into the rainy woods, returning & listening to Bach's Concerto for Two Violins on headphones, while the wet and muddy dogs dry on the porch. It's an amazing book by a peerless writer.

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 about clarity. PS: I was struck by how much he admired Hemingway. "I think of Hemingway, what we remember of his work is not so much the color of the sky as it is the absolute taste of loneliness."