The End

They used to close novels and films with those two words — as if we couldn’t figure out on our own that it was over. 

My “The End” has to do with an inability to get the pleasure I once derived from novels and films. I blame it partly on age — I’m old, and there’s a general closing down occurring. Also, values have changed, in a radical way, and I’m not in step with these sorry times. But to lose two things so vital to me is especially disheartening.

First, films.

At this site I counted fourteen essays about films. And here’s a little personal story.

The town I grew up in had a theater which, on Saturday matinees, showed films to appeal to the young. Mostly boys, though a few of the rowdier girls attended. They usually showed westerns, often starring Roy Rogers, though a few educational films based on classic novels were thrown in. At any rate, whatever the film, it got no attention. It was riot time in the aisles, and, at eight or nine, I fully participated. But — BUT — one day a film caught my attention, and in the midst of the pandemonium I watched it. Cut ahead fifteen years. I’m living in New York, exploring the Mecca of art film houses. It may have been the Thalia that was showing “Blood of the Poet,” which I thought was terrible. The other film on the double feature was a Mexican one entitled “The Young and the Damned,” and the outside poster depicted a lurid scene of some juvenile delinquents; I was uninterested, and posed to get up and leave. But — BUT — something in the opening scenes had a compelling conviction. From being on the edge of my seat, I settled back. What I was about to go through was an emotional experience that only great works of art can deliver. The film was “Los Olvidados,” and the director was Luis Bunuel. I began to seek out his movies, and one was “Robinson Crusoe.” Watching it, I recalled that it was the same film that had engaged my eight-year-old self. I even recalled, on this second viewing, what happened at the ending — Robinson tuning to look back at the island he was leaving, and hearing something . . . Even as a kid I was attracted to quality work.

The point being: I love films, but I no longer have them as a part of my life.

As far as those being made currently, in the past few years I’ve watched, on DVD, all of two films and part of maybe three or four. Part because they were too bad to continue. Of those I finished, I did so with a feeling of indifference. I’m talking about work that gets lauded by supposedly respected sources, that receives prestigious prizes. They were done with technical expertise, had dazzling special effects, but it was all gloss — the stories lacked validity and the people were without substance. Since I believed in no one, cared about no one, I felt uninvolved. A lot of sex and gore and vulgarity were thrown in— seems you need that nowadays. And why are films so damn long? My DVD player has had the last word: ejection.

I’m sure that, off the beaten track, some fine films are still being made, but they’re unavailable to me. Where I live now the one movie house (which I haven’t visited in twenty or so years) and my local library only get stuff that’s mainstream. I once belonged to Netflix, but have exhausted what they had to offer.

Should I re-watch great films? I have! — sometimes four or five times. But I’ve found that you reach a point where you’re doing the film a disservice. Scenes that once moved you lose their impact. And I care too much to let this happen.

Next, my first and most lasting love: novels. That’s the subject of most of my essays at this site. I write about what I like, and what I don’t like.

Here too is a little story.

I was raised in a home in which there were no books. My reading was limited to comics and the Hardy Boys. But in junior high I had an English teacher who introduced me to great literature. (I was probably the only kid in the class who considered what we were given to read to be “great.”) It began with her assigning “To Build a Fire.” I took the Jack London story home and read it in bed. It was . . . Well, it was a galvanizing experience. I was there in the Yukon with the man, and I died with him. This experience — for it was an experience — changed my life. My thinking went along these lines: Do you mean that there are things this good to be found in the pages of books? Worlds I could escape into — for, at the time, I needed escape. I began to frequent  the local library and found more of the same. And so my life went in a new direction.

I never thanked this teacher, something I regret.

So — I used to, for many, many years, get immersed in a fictional world, and to respond emotionally. It was part of every night. But now, when I turn to a new novel that is praised and awarded, I’m not pulled into a story and the lives of its characters. Is it all my fault, part of that closing down I mentioned? Or is the work currently being produced lacking? In this new work I see a trend toward oddity, crudity, obscurity, length. To me those are all flaws, though important people obviously see innovation, inventiveness, ambition. At any rate, this type of thing becomes the latest recipient of the National Book Award or the Booker Prize. I used to respect the choices of both these entities, but not anymore. The books they select don’t meet the requirements for good fiction that Philip Larkin set forth — and which I agree with (see my essay “Philip Larkin’s Three Questions”).

Over seventy years as a reader, I’ve pretty much exhausted the store of treasures from the past. The two libraries presently at my disposal have little left to offer. Wandering the stacks I sometimes pull out a book I had never heard of, by an author unknown to me; I read the description of the plot and the first paragraph. Seems good? In this serendipitous way (which recreates my boyhood method of picking reading material) I’ve stumbled on gems. But this is a very rare occurrence. So lately I’ve turned to re-reads. In my personal library I’ve gathered the books I valued since I was twelve. These oldies (only books that predate my writing of reviews on my Jack London site) are what I’m reading now. Since I originally encountered some as far back as my early teens, it’s partly a pleasant stroll down Memory Lane. Do they all hold up? Well, no, and in a few cases I can’t understand what appealed to me. Still, none are outright clunkers. I am again appreciating the virtues of most of them, and some I consider to be works of art.

There are hundreds of books in my library. This will, I hope, keep me occupied for the duration.

The End