From Death to Morning - Thomas Wolfe
In “The Story of a Novel” Wolfe describes the struggle he had in writing Of Time and the River, and in doing so he inadvertently reveals the pitfalls that come from too fecund an imagination, an obsessive-compulsive need to embrace everything in words, a desire to impart profound truths about life, a romantic belief in the artist as a tormented soul. Missing are restraint, discipline, a sense of structure – anything that imposes limits. The editor who tried to bring some order to Wolfe’s gargantuan outpouring of words was Maxwell Perkins; what an ordeal that poor man went through. Of the stories that make up the rest of the book, most fail due to those flaws inherent in the author’s nature. Two of them, though not outright bad, have too much description; the words don’t capture the essence of the moment, nor do they serve any purpose to the plot (what plot?); things become repetitive, as if Wolfe were insisting, “Understand, damn it!” In two others emotionality runs amok, and the results are unreadable. Yet Wolfe had talent when it was reined in. The structure of “Only the Dead Know Brooklyn” imposed limits. The man talking to the reader isn’t a poet; he’s a down-to-earth guy who had an encounter that he found compelling, mysterious. Wolfe lets him tell his story in his voice; it’s presented directly, simply, in a narrative that flows naturally. In "Chickamauga” an old man relates his harrowing experience in a Civil War battle. Here too the need to take on the voice of the person, and no more, put limits on Wolfe’s extravagance. These stories show how good he could be, which is very good.

Furious Seasons - Raymond Carver
What’s memorable in a piece of writing? That question came up in regard to this collection. Four times I realized, after a few pages, that I had read the stories before. I had only a dim sense of what they were about. I didn’t reread them, but I wondered where the fault lay. What do we remember, and why? There are novels I cherish, ones I read long ago, but as for specific content – what happens to whom – I’m hazy. Once they were meaningful, so the authors had done their job. “Long ago” – time is naturally a factor. A short story has to make a lasting impression with far fewer words than a novel. Maybe only those that are both great and unique establish a secure place in one’s memory; they move in to stay. Those four Carver stories I mentioned didn’t. Two short-shorts I read for the first time don’t deserve to stay; they’re just plain bad, and two others were mediocre. The impressionistic title story was confusing and murky. And then I came to “Pastoral.” It’s about a man on a lonely fishing trip, and it evokes the end of something (Carver was good when dealing with loss). This one deserves to be remembered.

Where I’m Calling From - Raymond Carver

How good was Carver? Very good, at times, and five stories in this collection belong with the best in American fiction: “Are These Actual Miles?,” “Careful,” “A Small, Good Thing,” “Blackbird Pie,” and “Boxes.” His prose is simple and inviting, but he always tried to say something of significance. His characters are mostly male losers, either alcoholics or recovering alcoholics; their relationships with women are going badly, as are financial matters. I believe these people are worthy of attention, their predicaments are important. Carver treats them in a non-judgmental way – after all, he was one of the losers. Some of his later stories dwell on his guilt and remorse concerning his first wife, and in “Blackbird Pie” he makes those feelings palpable; the ending is wrenching. When Carver tried for profundity (which he had a tendency to do, as in the message-laden “Cathedral”), his work suffered; he was at his best when he dealt with the hard facts of dead-end lives. It was then that Carver could tell us what he knew.

The Healing Art - A. N. Wilson

What doesn’t work in this novel? Let me count the ways. I saw through Wilson’s manipulations (on page thirty-five I suspected that the X-rays had been switched; I was right). The religious angle is leaned on too heavily. The way Pamela reacts to her impending death is implausible. Wilson’s characters are stridently odd, and there’s no basis for plot twists (such as the sexual liaison between Pamela and another woman). When John arrives on the scene – another oddball – I had enough. The author is presumably promoting redemption and love (as he did so successfully in Wise Virgin), but in this book he’s notably mean in some of his portrayals. Also, the sex scenes are grubby. The old question arises for me: How can an author’s work vary so radically in quality?