{"id":14443,"date":"2011-04-12T13:08:45","date_gmt":"2011-04-12T17:08:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=14443"},"modified":"2011-04-12T13:08:45","modified_gmt":"2011-04-12T17:08:45","slug":"solo-faces","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/04\/12\/solo-faces\/","title":{"rendered":"Solo Faces"},"content":{"rendered":"

Our Spring Revel<\/a> is tonight, April 12. In anticipation of the event, The Daily is featuring a series of essays<\/a> celebrating James Salter, who is being honored this year with <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019s Hadada Prize<\/a>. <\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"Imagine: there is a man who likes to climb mountains. It\u2019s the only thing he likes. Of course he likes women, too, but he won\u2019t put them at the center of his life. \u201cI\u2019m not really a great climber,\u201d he says, \u201cI\u2019m not that talented.\u201d He just loves it more than anyone else does, or can. But he isn\u2019t climbing. His name is Vernon Rand, and he\u2019s bumming around, roofing, picking up work out in Los Angeles.<\/p>\n

And then one day, playing father to his girlfriend\u2019s twelve-year-old son, he encounters his old climbing companion, Jack Cabot. That they are lost brothers is admitted outright, but not that Cabot is Rand\u2019s animating force, prophet, bird or devil, tempter sent.<\/p>\n

\n

As for Rand, he had had a brilliant start and then defected. Something had weakened in him. That was long ago. He was like an animal that has wintered somewhere, in the shadow of a hedgerow or barn, and one morning, mud-stained and dazed, shakes itself and comes to life. Sitting there [with Cabot], he remembered past days, their glory. He remembered the thrill of height.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

That\u2019s all it takes, Cabot\u2019s tapping on the door. That in Rand which loves the mountain stirs.<\/p>\n

\n

There was something he had to tell her. He was leaving, she said. She could hardly hear him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

He repeated it. He was going away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen?\u201d she asked foolishly. It was all she could manage to say.<\/p>\n

\u201cTomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTomorrow,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n


<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

WHAT IS THERE<\/small> to say about this brilliant novel? What can be said? Brilliant<\/em>\u2014what does it mean? It means shining <\/em>as it falls, like the falling coin in its first paragraph.<\/p>\n

\n

They were at work on the roof of the church. All day from above, from a sea of light where two white crosses crowned twin domes, voices came floating down as well as occasional pieces of wood, nails, and once, in the dreamlike air, a coin that seemed to flash, disappear, and then shine again for an endless time before it met the ground. Beneath the eucalyptus branches a signboard covered with glass announced the Sunday sermon: Sexuality and God.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gary, Rand\u2019s fellow-roofer, though warned to put in another cleat, nearly falls from that roof. Rand saves him.<\/p>\n

\n

Gary felt weak, ashamed. \u201cThe scaffolding would have stopped me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019d have shot right past it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike a bird,\u201d Rand said.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

And later\u2014in France, on Pointe Lachenal\u2014that scene recurs:<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cDo you know how to self-arrest?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really,\u201d Love said.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Paul Love is one of the many pseudo-Cabots for whom Rand must occasionally settle.<\/p>\n

\n

Suddenly Love, who had lost all thought of danger, slipped. His feet went out from under him. He began to accelerate.<\/p>\n

\u201cSelf-arrest! Self-arrest!\u201d<\/p>\n

He did not make the slightest attempt to help himself but slid like a rag doll \u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t you hear me?\u201d Rand cried, hurrying up to him.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yes, I heard you,\u201d he said gazing up. \u201cI heard you. I said, he is my friend.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy very good friend,\u201d Love said.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

No wonder, then, that Rand climbs the Fr\u00eaney, \u201ca buttress, inaccessible and huge, on the side of Mont Blanc,\u201d alone: even Love cannot be trusted.<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

RAND HAS GONE<\/small> feral, \u201cfilling with wildness like a prophet from the Old Testament.\u201d \u201cHe looks like some kind of holy man,\u201d Cabot\u2019s wife says. Driven on by the courage that is Cabot, Rand soon exceeds him: Cabot cannot follow Rand up the fearful Dru.<\/p>\n

\n

The brush of a great wing seemed to have passed over Cabot. As if in obedience, slowly, he was bowing. His legs went slack, his arms slipped away. Without a sound he performed a sacred act\u2014he began to fall.<\/p>\n

\u201cJack!\u201d<\/p>\n

The rope went taut. Cabot was hanging above him and off to one side.<\/p>\n

\u201cJack! Are you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Cabot\u2019s head was bent, his legs dangling. There was no reply.<\/p>\n

One man cannot lift another with the rope, he can only hold him \u2026.<\/p>\n

Suddenly the dusk went white with a deafening explosion. Blue-white snakes of voltage came writhing down the cracks.<\/p>\n

Lightning struck again. This time his arms and legs shot out from a jolt that reached the ledge. There was a smell of burning rock, brimstone. Hail began to fall. [Rand] was clinging to his courage though it meant nothing. He could taste death in his mouth.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n


<\/p>\n

RAND AND CABOT<\/small> make it, escaping from their high brimstone hell-heaven, returning to earth. Years pass. Rand makes many more brave climbs, and is made famous by them, and is ruined by his success, by his enjoyment of success, by women: \u201cOne woman is like another. Two are like another two. Once you begin there is no end.\u201d There is nothing outside a man that, entering into him, can defile him; the things that come out of him, these are the things that defile a man.<\/p>\n

Rand is ruined, he surrenders on the Walker. Defeated, he descends on foot to find that Cabot, too, has fallen, though not only from grace:<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cYour friend, Cabot \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about him?\u201d The air itself seemed to empty.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe fell.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFell? Where?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn Wyoming, I think.\u201d He turned to someone else. \u201cWyoming, n\u2019est-ce pas? O\u00f9 Cabot est tomb\u00e9.<\/em>\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

It was Wyoming.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Tetons,\u201d Rand said.<\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps. I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sure it was the Tetons. Was he hurt?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow bad?\u201d [\u2026]<\/p>\n

He was paralyzed from the waist down, his legs in the limp cloth of a cripple\u2019s pants. The fall had almost killed him; he had been in a coma for a week. At first they thought he would never come out of it and only half of him did.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Now, abandoned by what had formerly driven him on, Rand seeks out and accuses Cabot-as-courage:<\/p>\n

\n

Cabot wheeled himself to the table near the door to turn on the lights.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd if you\u2019ve given up, where does that leave me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou?\u201d<\/p>\n

Rand waited.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Cabot admitted. He was filling his glass. \u201cI know where it leaves me \u2026 Do you believe in death?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI suppose so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you\u2019re not dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were always ahead of me,\u201d Rand said. \u201cI\u2019d never have gone to Europe except for you \u2026 You gave me all that. You made me do the greatest things of my life \u2026 Have you lost your courage? Like me?\u201d Rand said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you prove it?\u201d Rand said. He poured his glass half full like an adversary prepared to spend the night and at the same time raised his hand from between his legs. In it, blue and heavy, was a pistol.<\/p>\n

Cabot stared at it. \u201cThat\u2019s mine,\u201d he remarked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve already died,\u201d Rand said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot quite.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was with you. We were caught up there. Lightning was hitting the peak. You\u2019re not going to back down now?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

I know another story about lightning on a mountain: Moses spoke with the eternal amid lightnings on Sinai\u2019s mountaintop and came down with light shining in his countenance. The eternal had said to Moses, \u201cWrite thou these words\u201d: and the words he had heard there, on high, he had written in his own hand. \u201cAnd when Aaron and all the children of Israel saw Moses, behold, the skin of his face shone; and they were afraid to come nigh him.\u201d<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

IN THE END<\/small>, you could retype the whole novel. For a while I thought I might. I typed thousands of words, quoting and quoting.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s easy to know why a bad book is bad. Things are bad because things are<\/em> bad: badness is the prevailing condition, at all times and everywhere. A thing is bad because it exists<\/em>, because it is here<\/em>, in our existence, plane of the fallen, flawed, and finite.<\/p>\n

But why is a good book good? It\u2019s hard to know and harder to say. As if we knew any longer, if we ever did, why things are good, why goodness should descend, why it should consent to dwell among us. It is so generous. Perhaps it is enough to describe it.<\/p>\n

Solo Faces<\/em> is a novel about what all real novels are about, what it is like to be alive, if you are, when you are: brilliant<\/em>, like a coin flashing as it falls from a church top. All will fall, but not everything will shine.<\/p>\n

J. D. Daniels lives in Massachusetts. <\/em><\/p>\n

To read more essays for James Salter Month, click here<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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