Read Online The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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my first book, By the North Gate , published on October 23, 1963. I think it was 1963. Later events of 1963, public events, necessarily blurred and eclipsed personal life…so that one tends to block out the date 1963, in terms of personal existence.
The assassination of Kennedy: an event no one who lived through it, no one with any sensitivity, will ever quite transcend. The burden of my writing, of the novels. Those who lived through the death of a President…a kind of original sin…though we are helpless, blameless, far distant from the actual scene of….
The Assassins : A Book of Hours.
Most difficult, teasing novel. Drains all energies to it, so that the effort of typing over a poem is too much: have actually postponed typing two or three tiny poems for weeks—not like me. No short stories, none. Except“Poetics 105.” * And that nightmarish, swinging-staggering, quite horrible; redeemed (if redeemed) by humor.
Make a point of telling my students regularly: mankind’s talent for humor, for laughter, is possibly our highest talent. Ability to adapt. Imagination. The wilder the better. No restraint—no “common sense”—decency—etc.
Anniversary, dinner out, a movie afterward. Grateful to be alone this evening (Saturday). Recall the delirious social life of several years ago—incredible that we actually participated in it—were we different people? So much energy expended…. Friendship, in contrast to social life, demands intensity, a kind of tenderness. One cannot maintain relationships with very many people. Limited amount of love, affection, concern, awareness. No getting around it: it must be nature. Friendship is endangered when “social life” gets out of hand. Instead of friends one has acquaintances. Instead of people with whom one can speak frankly, one has lists of people to invite to dinner, to send Christmas cards to, to wonder who owes whom whatever is “owed” in that odd market. Going to England was our salvation—making the break irrevocably—escaping commitments we had unwisely allowed ourselves to be drawn into making—learning to say No, no thanks, no—far harder than one imagines. Bred to be courteous, encouraged to be rather sweet (though not at the expense of being clever […]). Still, I doubt that one must always choose between being “sweet” and being “clever.” It is always possible to behave one way, and to allow one’s characters to behave in another way; to encourage them, in fact.
Finished the first third of The Assassins . Felt some anxiety at the end, identifying with Hugh. But—he must be allowed his fate—his necessary destiny—the fulfillment of the pattern—his “values” (his God) making his comic suicide a bygone conclusion. “We are what we worship”—we become what we hate—the irritable isolated combative ego ends by destroying itself. Hugh’s horror: mystery. He cannot live with mystery. He must know—must know everything. Otherwise he won’t live, finds life intolerable.
December 1, 1974. A Sunday. Woke to a blizzard this morning—wind wailing—snow already drifted quite high in our courtyard—in back, the river churning and breaking in enormous waves—running backward and sideways, against the current—Belle Isle across the way no longer visible. Not needing to journey out, we think of the storm as pleasant. The house cozy. A stray cat, taken in only yesterday, basks luxuriously atop the piano—trots into the kitchen to eat—again, and again—trots back to sleep—unconscious how close it—that is, she—came to oblivion. Last year there was flooding but this year hopefully there will not be. End of November, beginning of December. Always a storm. Driveway nearly impassable. Juncos out back, hopping in the snow, have found a kind of shelter inside the fireplace. No other birds. Snow falling, falling constantly, since before dawn and now it’s one o’clock and the bushes are heavy with snow and
The assassination of Kennedy: an event no one who lived through it, no one with any sensitivity, will ever quite transcend. The burden of my writing, of the novels. Those who lived through the death of a President…a kind of original sin…though we are helpless, blameless, far distant from the actual scene of….
The Assassins : A Book of Hours.
Most difficult, teasing novel. Drains all energies to it, so that the effort of typing over a poem is too much: have actually postponed typing two or three tiny poems for weeks—not like me. No short stories, none. Except“Poetics 105.” * And that nightmarish, swinging-staggering, quite horrible; redeemed (if redeemed) by humor.
Make a point of telling my students regularly: mankind’s talent for humor, for laughter, is possibly our highest talent. Ability to adapt. Imagination. The wilder the better. No restraint—no “common sense”—decency—etc.
Anniversary, dinner out, a movie afterward. Grateful to be alone this evening (Saturday). Recall the delirious social life of several years ago—incredible that we actually participated in it—were we different people? So much energy expended…. Friendship, in contrast to social life, demands intensity, a kind of tenderness. One cannot maintain relationships with very many people. Limited amount of love, affection, concern, awareness. No getting around it: it must be nature. Friendship is endangered when “social life” gets out of hand. Instead of friends one has acquaintances. Instead of people with whom one can speak frankly, one has lists of people to invite to dinner, to send Christmas cards to, to wonder who owes whom whatever is “owed” in that odd market. Going to England was our salvation—making the break irrevocably—escaping commitments we had unwisely allowed ourselves to be drawn into making—learning to say No, no thanks, no—far harder than one imagines. Bred to be courteous, encouraged to be rather sweet (though not at the expense of being clever […]). Still, I doubt that one must always choose between being “sweet” and being “clever.” It is always possible to behave one way, and to allow one’s characters to behave in another way; to encourage them, in fact.
Finished the first third of The Assassins . Felt some anxiety at the end, identifying with Hugh. But—he must be allowed his fate—his necessary destiny—the fulfillment of the pattern—his “values” (his God) making his comic suicide a bygone conclusion. “We are what we worship”—we become what we hate—the irritable isolated combative ego ends by destroying itself. Hugh’s horror: mystery. He cannot live with mystery. He must know—must know everything. Otherwise he won’t live, finds life intolerable.
December 1, 1974. A Sunday. Woke to a blizzard this morning—wind wailing—snow already drifted quite high in our courtyard—in back, the river churning and breaking in enormous waves—running backward and sideways, against the current—Belle Isle across the way no longer visible. Not needing to journey out, we think of the storm as pleasant. The house cozy. A stray cat, taken in only yesterday, basks luxuriously atop the piano—trots into the kitchen to eat—again, and again—trots back to sleep—unconscious how close it—that is, she—came to oblivion. Last year there was flooding but this year hopefully there will not be. End of November, beginning of December. Always a storm. Driveway nearly impassable. Juncos out back, hopping in the snow, have found a kind of shelter inside the fireplace. No other birds. Snow falling, falling constantly, since before dawn and now it’s one o’clock and the bushes are heavy with snow and
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