I've been slogging through her earliest short story collection: Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been? It is amazing to think that many of these stories were written when Oates was an older teen back in the 1950s. Much insight. Much truth. And she's been teaching at Princeton for decades while also churning out volume after volume of stories, essays and novels. She lost her husband, Ray, a couple of years ago and has since written a marvelous first-person account of grief and the aftermath of loss.
Unlike me, Oates actually looks like a writer. She has that life-hardened, intelligent appearance that I lack. My author photos make my look like a funeral home director or an insurance salesman. That's why I'm thinking of dying my hair coal black and growing some lamb chop sideburns. With a little work, I could take on the appearance of Elvis and get people talking.
It has also been said that all the great writers suffered: Tolstoy, Kafka, Berryman . . . evidently a writer has to suffer or lose two toes to frostbite in order to be taken seriously. Perhaps.
But the way I figure it, that's why I'm married. This in itself is suffering. I'm suffering, even now, just writing this when I should be cleaning the kitchen per my wife's instructions . . . and it's God-awful early in the morning, which should tell you something about how long each day is for me, and how far-reaching this suffering goes, and what I must endure to create happiness.
Of course, as soon as I get my hair dyed black and clean the toilet, I'm off to the gym. Probably be the first one there. I'm going to torture my body today, subdue it, bring it into submission with heavy weights packed on my shoulders and back.
And if you buy this one . . . let me tell you another story. I tell you, I can suffer with the best of 'em.
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