John Cheever

The Swimmer
Let's just get this third bit of disappointing post over with once and for all. I've not much to say about Cheever, but don't be deceived. I loved the story. I am sure that when written it was twenty years ahead of its time. I can't explain that comment; I just get a sense. It felt very early 80's to me. Very '84 specifically. It's an inexplicable number that comes out of the ether. I leave it with you.

If Charlotte Gillman and Henry James had a love-child, John Cheever would be it. As with Charlotte's story, The Swimmer was a chronicle of individual madness. As with James' story, the author went on too long. And yet, Cheever is an inverted combination of the two.

John drives the point home without fully losing me. He understands the setup and the fine line. He takes Gillman's unraveling and breathes life into it; he makes me somehow care about the swimmer in a way I never cared for the woman in the wallpaper. When the swimmer undoes, mine is a small, internal gasp of pity for him. He's a cad to be sure, and yet Cheever manages our sad affections. When Charlotte's wild wallpaper woman finally loses it however, I thank God that the men in white jackets are surely soon in coming to carry her writhing person away leaving me finally in sweet longed-for peace.

If Cheever is the love-child of Gillman and James, one point is scored for evolution. Excellent and real, he had me at the end, and I wanted more.

No known images of Cheever's grave.