A Sport and a Pastime, by James Salter

It’s been years since I read this classic novel, but it’s been on my radar again – ever since Larry wrote an evocative post about reading James Salter’s memoir (I mention Larry’s post here – sadly, the link to his site no longer works). Anyway. Haven’t written much (at all) about James Salter – I came to him late, and I didn’t come to him through A Sport and a Pastime: A Novel, his most well-known book. The first of his I read was Light Years and I was very young when I read it, early 20s – and it sounded some kind of chord in me that made me DEEPLY uneasy. It’s definitely a middle-aged kind of book – with all its resignations and disappointments and echoey silences- and I think I’m hesitant to pick it up now. But I will never forget my first reading of the book. I felt literally uneasy.

It’s hard to describe what he does as a writer, and why it is so good and so singular … maybe I’ll look around for some reviews to see if I can clarify it, if someone else managed to say it perfectly. Even to say “he’s a good writer” is absurd. It would be like saying, “Cormac McCarthy can write, bro!” Well, yeah. But … Methinks we need to create a different definition of “writer” for guys like McCarthy and Salter. Comparing the two may seem rather insane – because there is really nothing similar about them … McCarthy catapults us into the genocidal American past, and Salter evokes a gentle dying world in the present. Where events happen that form us – but so quickly that they are gone in a second … leaving us marked, but also somewhat dazed … did that really happen? But I feel now like I would recognize a Cormac McCarthy sentence if I bumped into it in a dark alley – and the same with Salter’s language. I read Salter and there are times when I get that same feeling I got when I was reading Blood Meridian: Oh God … this is too deep, too deep … I can’t slow down enough to really contemplate it … must keep moving …

And then by the end of the book you find yourself flattened. LIKE A BUG. SMUSH. Never to recover 100%. Writers like that sneak up on you. They work their magic subtly. It’s not that they do not want to be noticed: their writing is nothing if not startlingly attention-getting. It’s that they do not want to be congratulated. Their concentration lies somewhere else entirely.

I read Light Years a million years ago (uhm, light years ago) – and immediately picked up A Sport and a Pastime which is another book that made me almost uneasy. They’re quiet books, no noise or chaos … but there is something at the heart of them that is unbearably sad. I think it was the sense of looking back on a time when you were most alive … looking back from a more dim drab present … the sense of loss … of unrecoverable vitality … I’m making him sound bleak, and that’s about right, but the language is so beautiful, and so simple – so simple – that the bleakness almost feels like a betrayal when it comes. He describes a snowfall so perfectly that you are transported into its beauty and then he jujitsus you with some bleak empty sentiment. Never too proud of himself, never elaborating, always simple and clear. That’s the key to his genius. Most of his sentences are short.

My friend Jon wrote in the comments section of my blog:

First of all, “Light Years” is probably one of the best books I’ve read in the past five years–and is certainly on my “Top Something” list. I was a wreck after reading that. The scene where Ned comes back to his empty house after seeing Ibsen’s “The Master Builder?” I think I had a slight heart attack while reading that. Unbelievably powerful. That whole book is like a column of light, each sentence almost literally like a tiny, multi-faceted diamond, shining such focused rays in eternal directions. And I’ve been meaning to read more of him ever since–can’t believe how long I’ve gone without actually doing it. Onward.

And I responded:

I am so thrilled to read you were as blown over by Light Years as I was. There were quiet moments in the book (like at the end, with the turtle in the woods) where I felt so … Basically what I want to say is: the book stunned me, and sometimes it was a barely pleasant sensation … Like, it affected me PERSONALLY. I’m almost afraid to read it again. He is SUCH a good writer.

So I decided to go back and re-read A Sport and a Pastime (I still don’t feel ready to look at Light Years again, especially now when my equilibrium is hanging by a thread on a moment-to-moment basis – but if you’re reading me, and you like book recs, etc. – all I can say is: READ Light Years. My God!!)

And I come across passages of such simplicity and beauty that I want to grab Salter by the collar and say, “DIVULGE YOUR SECRETS.” I wish I could write like this.

A Sport and a Pastime takes place in provincial France (“the real France” as the main character keeps saying) in the 1960s. A Yale dropout hooks up with a French girl. That’s it. No big plot machinations. But the imagery, the language … Again, I can feel myself skimming the surface of it … it’s almost TOO good … too good to absorb in one sitting. He’s deceptively simple. In almost the manner of Hemingway. If you just skim the surface, you’ll miss most of it. But Hemingway doesn’t let you off the hook, and divulge the subtext … or when he does? You’ll know it. Salter is the same way. He’s describing a soccer stadium here. That seems to be all that is going on. But no no no. The deeps he sounds in his writing …

Four in the afternoon. The trees along the street, the upper branches, are catching the last, full light. The stadium is quiet, some bicycles leaning against the outer wall. I read the schedule once again and then go in, turning down towards the stands which are almost empty. Far away, the players are streaming across the soft grass. There seem to be no cries, no shouting, only the faint thud of kicks.

It is the emptiness which pleases me, the blue dimensions of this life. Beyond the game, as far as one can see, are the fields, the trees of the countryside. Above us, provincial sky, a little cloudy. Once in a while the sun breaks out, vague as a smile. I sit alone. There are the glances of some young boys, nothing more. There’s no scoreboard. The game drifts back and forth. It seems to take a long, long time. Someone sends a little boy to the far side to chase the ball when it goes out of bounds. I watch him slowly circle the field. He passes behind the goal. He trots a while, then he walks. He seems lost in the journey. Finally he is over there, small and isolated on the sideline. After a while I can see him kicking at stones.

I am at the center of emptiness. Every act seems purer for it, easier to define. The sounds separate themselves. The details all appear. I stop at the Cafe St. Louis. It’s like an old school room. The varnish is worn from the curve of the chairs. The finish is gone from the floor. It’s one large, yellowing room, huge mirrors on the wall, the same size and position as windows, generous, imperfect. Glass doors along the street. Wherever one looks, it seems possible to see out. They’re playing billiards. I listen without watching. The soft click of the balls is like a concert. The players stand around, talking in hoarse voices. The rich odor of their cigarettes … They’re never there in the daytime. It’s very different with the morning light upon it, this cafe. Stale. The billiard table seems less dark. The wood is drawing apart at the corners. It’s quite old, at least a hundred years I should think, judging from the elaborate legs. Beneath the pale green cloth which is always thrown over it, the felt is worn, like the sleeves of an old suit.

“Monsieur?”

It’s the old woman who runs the place. False teeth, white as buttons. Belonged to her husband probably. I can hear them clattering in her mouth.

“Monsieur?” she insists.

Exquisite. Just perfect.

And then there’s this bit of observational genius:

The three or four gilded youths of the town, too, slouched on the divans. I know them by sight. One is an angel, at least for betrayal. Beautiful face. Soft, dark hair. A mouth like spoiled fruit. Nothing amuses them – they don’t talk until somebody leaves, and then they begin little laughing cuts, sometimes calling over to the barman. The rest of the time they sit in boredom, polishing the gestures of contempt. The angel is taller than the rest. He has an expensive suit and a tie knotted loosely at the neck. Sometimes a sweater. Soft cuffs. I’ve seen him on the street. He’s about seventeen, and he seems less dangerous in the daylight, merely a bad student or a boy already notorious for his vices. He’s ready to start seductions. Perhaps he even says it’s easy, and that women are simple to get. To believe is to make real, they say. A chill passes through me. I recognize in him a clear strain of assurance which has nothing to imitate, which springs forth intact. It feeds on its own reflection. He looks carefully at himself in the mirror, combing his hair. He inspects his teeth. The maid has let him undress her. She hates him, but she cannot make him go. I try to think of what he’s said. He has an instinct for it. He is here to hunt them down, to discover the weaklings. I don’t know what he feels – the assassin’s joy.

The less said about such writing the better, I think. To analyze it or point out elements that work would be to ruin it. It’s perfect, as is. And I’m thinking: A chill ran through you?? A chill runs through me, Mr. Salter, every time I pick up one of your damn books!

It’s been almost 20 years since I read this book and I’m still just stunned by it.