Melancholy distilled into precise, economical prose is Carver’s bread and butter. He’s just so good at it. You can add Night School to the long list of excellent Carver stories.
As usual, nothing much “happens” in a conventional sense. The narrator is lonely, depressed, and drinking alone at a bar when he meets two flighty young women who want to pull a prank on their teacher by showing up at his house late at night. They need a car, and the narrator feeling adrift and eager for connection might be able to help as their chauffeur. Over the course of their conversation, we learn he’s unemployed and taking night classes, hoping they might lead to something better. It’s all very low-key, very Carver.
As always, the dialogue has that sharp and natural feel to it. What happens next barely matters. What does matter is the mood Carver establishes and the quiet sadness humming underneath everything. That sadness really lands near the end when the narrator has a brief conversation with his father at home while the women wait impatiently outside. He doesn’t even own a car and has to borrow his father’s, which says more about his situation than any long explanation could.
Carver trusts the reader to fill in the gaps and that trust pays off. In just a few pages, he gives us a clear glimpse of the narrator’s stalled life, unresolved grief, and lingering sorrow. It all hits with that familiar, understated force.
Wonderful stuff.
No comments:
Post a Comment