Stoner by John Williams

I've come to the conclusion that I will never be able to write a review that will do justice to John William's Stoner, so I might as well write the review anyway.

Actually, this isn't really a review, so much as a log of what I think about this book, two months after I read it. And my first think is...

Oh my God, I love this book.

Considering it's been two months since I first read it, and I still think and feel the same, it must be true love.

I swear I'm not the only one. In fact, I got this book because folks over at The Millions were raving about it last year. Since I was trying to introduce myself to NYRBs, I figured I should start with the best, hence Stoner. Also, during our NYRB Reading Week, a couple of participants wrote very eloquently about Stoner.

The funny thing is, almost all the reviews I've read of Stoner prior to reading the book say that when you read or write the summary, it doesn't seem like an interesting book at all. Case in point:

Stoner is about the eponymous character, William Stoner, who came from farming stock but fell in love with literature in college and stayed on to become a teacher. He then falls in love with a woman and marries her, to his great regret. Then the rest of the book tracks his career as a teacher, his married life, his one passionate affair, all the way to his death. That wasn't a spoiler. The first page tells you that he died.

Now, does that sound interesting? Hardly. But I found, like the other reviewers, that once you start the book, you find yourself drawn into the story and, before you know it, you're more than 50 pages in. For my money, it all hinges on John Williams' writing. In the introduction to the book, John McGahern states that "the clarity of the prose is in itself an unadulterated joy." It is, it is. Another reviewer from the Millions says that a scene from John Williams' Stoner should be taught in writing classes over the world for its perfection, and I see what he means. There is such control, such beauty in its craft.

But it seems that Stoner is getting more attention now, as it should. A few days ago, I saw an article courtesy of NYRB's Facebook account, about John Williams finally finding his audience, 16 years after his death. On one hand, it seems sad that he wasn't acknowledged in his lifetime; on the other, I'm very happy that at least he's getting the recognition now, though I believe he deserves more.

I'll tell you another reason why I love Stoner: I fell in love with the man, too, the character. His was an ordinary life. From the outside, there would be nothing remarkable about him, except maybe for one or two instances. Other than that, he lived his life, made his choices, and chose to be answerable ultimately to himself. But, oh how he lived. He wasn't the Robin-Williams-in-Dead-Poets-Society kind of teacher. But he had his principles, which few knew about, much less understood.

I love Stoner because he might not be everyman, but he is a man I recognize. I worked for a long time with teachers. Used to be one myself. And back then, every day, I wonder at how these people, my colleagues and friends, had such rich, beautiful, but secret lives. Students didn't know about them, weren't privy to them. Other colleagues didn't know either--only friends. And I think when you look very closely at someone's life, no matter how ordinary it seems from a distance, it is actually quite extraordinary. The secrets that they keep, the inner struggles, everything they are becomes inspiring. But hardly anyone knows.

It is difficult to remain detached from William Stoner; John Williams makes us look closely at his life, makes us see what he sees, shows us what and how he thinks, shows us what Stoner loves, even if Stoner doesn't understand why he loves it. Also, for those of you who think that this is too serious a novel, let me disabuse you of that notion and say that there were a couple of times that I burst out laughing. Especially when Stoner finally succeeds in getting the classes that he wants to teach.

Since I started incoherently, I shall end incoherently. Nina Sankovitch, the lady who succeeded in reading one book a day for a whole year, once wrote a blog post entitled No Wine, Just Great Lines. In it, she described her book group's favorite portion during a discussion, which is the sharing of favorite lines from the book. Let me take a page from Nina Sankovitch's post and share with you a few of the numerous lines I marked in Stoner. I don't know if they'll mean anything to you, but they meant loads to me.

1.

"But don't you know, Mr. Stoner?" Sloane asked, "Don't you understand about yourself yet? You're going to become a teacher."
Suddenly Sloane seemed very distant, and the walls of the office receded. Stoner felt himself suspended in the wide air and he heard his voice ask, "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," Sloane said softly.
"How can you tell? How can you be sure?"
"It's love, Mr. Stoner," Sloane said cheerfully. "You are in love. It's as simple as that."

2.

Thus for more than a year William kept the house and cared for two helpless people. He was up before dawn, grading papers and preparing lectures; before going to the University he fed Grace, prepared breakfast for himself and Edith...
And he was more nearly a mother than a father to his daughter. He changed her diapers and washed theml the chose her clothing and mended it when it was torn; he fed her and bathed her and rocked her in his arms when she was distressed...
So, for the first year of her life, Grace Stoner knew only her father's touch, and his voice, and his love.

3.

He had come to that moment in his age when there occurred to him, with an increasing intensity, a question of such overwhelming simplicity that he had no means to face it. He found himself wondering if his life were worth the living; if it had ever been. It was a question, he suspected, that came to all men at one time or another; he wondered if it came to them with such impersonal force as it came to him.

4.

...it occurred to him that he was nearly sixty years old and that he ought to be beyond the force of such passion, of such love.
But he was not beyond it, he knew, and would never be.Beneath the numbness, the indifference, the removal, it was there, intense and steady; it had always been there...He had, in odd ways, given it to every moment of his life, and had perhaps given it most fully when he was unaware of his giving. It was a passion neither of the mind nor of the flesh; rather, it was a force that comprehended them both, as if they were but the matter of love, its specific substance. To a woman or to a poem, it said simply: Look! I am alive. (emphasis mine)