The Daily

James Salter Month

The Last Night

March 30, 2011 | by

Our Spring Revel is on April 12. In anticipation of the event, The Daily is featuring a series of essays celebrating James Salter, who is being honored this year with The Paris Review’s Hadada Prize. If you’re interested in purchasing tickets to the Revel, click here.

Walter Such, the man at the center of James Salter’s short story “Last Night,” which was first published in The New Yorker in 2002, is a particular, exacting man. He is a translator who, Salter writes, “could recite lines of Blok in Russian and then give Rilke’s translation of them in German, pointing out their beauty.” He has a stutter; he and his wife, Marit, have no children; he uses a pen “almost as if his hand were a mechanical device.” He is an unremarkable bourgeois intellectual; as a translator, he has spent his life reinterpreting and reworking the literary output of others.

The story hinges on what is literally the last night of Marit’s life. She is terminally ill with cancer, and she and Walter are about to go out for the final dinner of Marit’s existence, after which they will come home and Walter will inject Marit with a lethal drug cocktail that will kill her. “You look re-really nice,” Walter stutters to Marit when she comes downstairs in a red silk dress “in which she had always been seductive.” Here is a man who still thinks his wife, who is about to die, looks beautiful, and at this moment, Walter is overwhelmingly sympathetic. But it's sympathy tinged with guilt, because Walter is a pathetic man.

The Such’s have invited their younger friend along for the meal: Susanna, who is wearing a short skirt and whom Salter describes as looking like the “slightly errant daughter of a professor or banker.” At dinner, Walter orders two bottles of $575 Cheval-Blanc, a splurge. “We don’t usually order wine this good,” says Merit. They have never ordered a bottle that cost more than $35.

The mood at the meal is not grim, despite the fact that Marit already seems half dead: “her skin, pallid, seemed to emanate a darkness … She had a face that was now for the afterlife and those she would meet there.” Susanna feels uncomfortable, and Marit dimly perceives their differences: “Susanna’s long hair and freshness meant something, though she was not sure what.” After the meal, back at home, Walter is almost unable to do the deed; he cringes at the sight of the sharp syringe in the refrigerator. Who would have the strength or presence of mind to do what he is about to do? Who could kill their most beloved, even if it were because they were in unmitigated pain?

Marit is consoling and unselfish. She tells Walter, “This is the right thing … I’ve loved you as much as I’ve ever loved anyone in the world,” and asks, “Did you love me?” Walter’s stomach “churn[s] in despair,” and the needle wavers; he can hardly breathe, but he injects the poison into her vein, and as the syringe empties, he notices that the house “had fallen into silence, the silence of a fatal act.” But then Salter brings the story to a devastating place: Walter comes downstairs, and even though Susanna had said she was leaving, she is, in fact, outside, sitting in her car. She asks, “Did she really want me to come?” And Walter responds, “Darling, she suggested it. She didn’t know a thing.”

That remark—that darling—turns the story one more time, into something even darker, into a tale about betrayal, secrets, and lies. One is forced to reconsider Walter. Now his exactitude seems controlling, his orchestrations manipulative, his actions horribly selfish. He goes from being an angel of mercy to being an angel of death. And then, to Susanna: “I need you,” he says, and unbuttons her shirt. She tries to stop him, but he takes off her bra, and, Salter writes, “She tried to speak again, but he put his hand over her mouth and pushed her down. He devoured her.” Walter Such—translator, quoter of Rilke—is a monster, a murderer, a rapist.

Salter is not done twisting the knife. In the morning, as Walter and Susanna sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee, “complicit, not long risen, and not regarding one another too closely,” Walter does not allow himself to think about the calls that must be made to notify their friends and relatives about his dead wife (whose body, after all, is still upstairs in the matrimonial bed, almost literally still warm); instead, he is thinking only of Susanna and “mornings to come.” It is then that Marit comes downstairs, and one’s heart jumps: The injection didn’t work! She is still alive! “I thought you were going to help me,” she says pleadingly to Walter, and starts to cry. Then: “I have to do it all over.” She doesn’t seem to process, or want to process, what has happened with Susanna, who silently gathers her clothes and leaves.

The full meaning of the story’s title now becomes cruelly clear: it was the last night that Walter and Susanna would spend together, not the last night between him and his wife. For even though Susanna agrees to see him two or three more times (“at his insistence”), things are not the same: “Whatever holds people together was gone.” And we are left to wonder whether we can ever really know anyone, at all.

Doree Shafrir is a senior editor at and has contributed to New York Magazine, The New Yorker, The Awl, and The New York Observer.

To read Geoff Dyer on The Hunter and Louisa Thomas on The Skiing Life, click here.



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  1. Matt N. | March 30, 2011 at 10:23 pm

    Salter is definitely one of our best living writers. You hear much about his novels — they are great works, but many of his short stories are stunning. It’s refreshing to see them mentioned here. The collections DUSK and LAST NIGHT are two volumes I always keep nearby. It’s also interesting to compare early stories like “Am Strande Von Tanger” (first published in the Paris Review, I believe) and “American Express” with the later stories, like “Comet.” The stories of an older Salter are more spare and distilled — not better or worse than the early stories, just different stylistically. Such an interesting evolution. I also love to read Salter’s collections alongside one of his heroes, Isaac Babel. Both writers have a pleasing angularity to their stories. Their stories dart to the sublime and the unexpected, such as at the end of Babel’s “Guy de Maupassant.” They defy the traditional short story arc, that fluid dramatic motion or singular gesture.

    There’s something cheering when a writer can publish a masterful story in 1968, and an equally masterful story in 2002. Salter has continued to produce through a period when most established writers begin to rest on their laurels. I’m glad he’s being celebrated.

  2. Brandon D. | April 5, 2011 at 7:48 pm

    I might suggest even another way to interpret the title of the story. Naturally our sympathy shifts away from Walter and aligns more completely with Marit as she descends the stairs in the morning. It’s Marit whose point of view is honored by this narrative turn. It’s she who’s left to wonder what happened last night, and why, and what this means for her brief future.

  3. Nathan | November 29, 2015 at 2:02 pm

    That spareness in Salter’s prose is what makes the fiction maintain a delicious sense of velocity, and what makes it so much more profound when a sentence comes laden with some deeper implication or meaning.

2 Pingbacks

  1. […] annual Spring Revel on April 12.  The most recent essay is on Salter’s famous story “Last Night.”  Salter’s being honored at this year’s Revel with the Hadada Prize.  Looking […]

  2. […] month at The Paris Review. There, they are writing essays on Salter and his writings and the first essay is on “Last Night.”  So, I thought, to recognize of one of the great 20th Century […]

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