Outer Banks (48 page)
Authors: Russell Banks
During the attacks of fever, however, I was not aware of anyone who happened to be in my presence, nor was I aware of the passage of time, so that I had to be shown with a calendar how long each wave had lasted and told, with notes from the physician, for I could not understand his speech due to my deafness, who had attended me and what had been done for my comfort, information I desired so as to be able, during my periods of
lucidity following the wave, to show my gratitude. In this way I learned of the physician's sustained efforts to cool my body by applying alcohol soaked sponges and the regular baths he provided for the removal of the stools and urine that I emitted while feverish and unable to care for such functions myself. I also learned that my jailor, too, and even his superior officers had taken an interest in my condition and had posted an assistant jailor to keep watch over me, so that at no time was I without someone keeping vigil.
During the first few onslaughts of fever, I felt as if I were in a dream, although I knew I was not sleeping, and there came to me numerous faces from among the dead, and they would speak soothingly to me, as if to strengthen me in my resolve not to resist life so as to keep my penance. In this way I was encouraged by my father and my uncle, and also my first wife and on another occasion my second wife, both of whom knew from their own lives how difficult and painful it often is not to resist living. There also came to me Justice Hale, who had died during the second year of my imprisonment and who now appreciated the wisdom of a faith that in his life time he had merely been willing to tolerate (which raised him above his brother judges, however, for none there were among them, except Justice Hale, who had been willing even to tolerate dissenters), and he too encouraged me in my resolve to exchange my life for John Bethel's death, for he reminded me of the foolishness of my desire in the beginning of my imprisonment to bring my case to a legal point.
Then there followed several more waves of fever, and no longer were the dead presenting themselves to me. In their stead came the faces of the living. First there came my second jailor Jacob Moon, who was wearing now a handsome pin-striped business suit instead of his old gray uniform, and he too tried to comfort me, but his words were of a different order than had been those of the dead, for he kept telling me that I should not fall into despair, for soon I would no longer be among the living.
And my wife's cousin Gina, in the company of my five children, all of whom looked upon me with great sympathy and said that I had suffered enough and should give myself over from this penance. Mingled with these were the faces of my present jailor, and sometimes his assistants, and even sometimes that of my physician, and they were all saying to me the same thing, that I should let myself die now, for my sufferings had gone on long enough for many normal life times. There even came to me one of my own brethren in the faith, my friend of long ago who had counseled me to leave off the making of coffins and turn my skills to the manufacture of glass-fronted cabinets, and he once again gave me his sympathetic counsel, because of his love for me, and again it was counsel that denied my understanding of my own love of the dead, for he urged me to leave off my determination not to resist life.
Until there came at last the waves of fever in which there appeared to me the faces of both the living and the dead, and I could not tell one from the other, the living from the dead, although I knew them all, and they all counseled me and cajoled me and showed me great sympathy, and I loved them all for it and was grateful to them, even to those among them who said nothing, some living and some dead, who merely with their presence showed a concern for me, the Justices Bester and Twisdom of long ago, and certain of my brethren, and the infant born dead to my second wife, and many of my fellow prisoners, the party boys and the athletes and the philosophers, and even the knife boys and madmen who had wanted to do so much violence. Some among these were dead, and some were yet living, and the dead among them urged me not to come among them, to hold fast to my penance, and the living among them urged me to depart from them now, to join the eternal dead. And their voices were like a chorus that harmonized their differences and sent up a song of such precise beauty that I wept uncontrollably, for I loved them all so very much.
T
HOUGH MY IMPRISONMENT
continues, my relation of it cannot. I must bring it to a close. I have composed it during the interludes between the attacks of the undulant fever. My strength for this composition, despite the effects of my illnesses, has been given to me by my coffin, which was presented to me at last by the prison authorities when it seemed to them that I would soon die of a disease that could be spread chiefly by handling an infected corpse. For this reason, they came into my cell during one of my attacks, when I was not aware of their presence, and placed my body into a simple but adequate wood coffin, so that when the wave of fever had passed over me and I knew again where I was, I found myself lying in my coffin. My joy was great at this, and to the astonishment of my physician and the jailor, I was immediately given sufficient strength to use the periods of lucidity that followed each new attack of fever for the purpose of composing this relation. I asked for pen and paper that very day, and also a board to prop against the sides of my coffin, and as I lay there, I began to write. In no other way during my life time have I been able to tender this much mercy to the dead, as I do now, with this relation of my imprisonment, for it has been composed expressly for the use of the living, to whom I must now say Farewell.
R
USSELL
B
ANKS
was born in New Hampshire, in 1940, to a blue-collar family. His tumultuous relationship with his father led him to steal a car and briefly run away from home at age sixteen. He later enrolled in Colgate College on a full scholarship, the first in his family to attain higher education, but dropped out a few months later in a case of what he calls “turbulence.” He headed south, resolving to join Castro's Cuban revolution. “It seemed like a noble thing to do. In the late 1950s we had very few political heroes, us young folk, us kids ⦠We could project romantic, altruistic, idealistic, political feelings onto [Castro and Che Guevara]. I was running off to try to make it real.” He hitchhiked as far as Florida, but soon ran out of money. “Then I'm moving furniture in a hotel and trying to survive, and pretty soon I forget about Castro.” Banks later ended up dressing mannequins at a Maas Brothers department store.
By age nineteen he had married, and by twenty he had fathered a child. By age twenty-one, he was already divorced. Living in a trailer park in Florida in the 1960s, pumping gas and doing odd jobs, Banks, inspired by Walt Whitman and Mark Twain, first contemplated being a painter. “Writing isn't one of those things, in a literate culture, like music or painting, where the gift is obvious at a young age. My obvious gift as a boy was in painting. I could draw well; I had the gift genetically. I didn't know whether I had any particular writing talent at all. I set out to be a painter in my late teens and gradually discovered that I was writing, as one discovers one is breathingâand so you feel you must be alive! The discovery, the definition, came after the activity.” But his new identity didn't come easily. “I was doing something that seemed a self-destructive kind of compulsion. Wanting to be a writer seemed to be a terrible waste of a life to my family and to me.” At a writers' conference, he met migrant worker-turned-novelist Nelson Algren, who “gave me permission. He never told me how to write. But he said, âYou can do it, kid, and it's worth doing.' ”
For a time, Banks returned to New Hampshire and followed in his father's and grandfather's footsteps: he became a plumber. A few years later, he attended the University of North Carolina and graduated Phi Beta Kappa at age twenty-seven. He taught writing at the University of New Hampshire and had several short stories published in literary reviews, but it was not until age thirty-five that he published his first book, a story collection titled
Searching for Survivors
.
His pursuit of literature removed from Banks a nasty appetite for barroom brawls. “There are certain things that writing has done for me that if I hadn't had them, I probably would have killed myself or somebody else,” he told Salon. “Some magazine was asking writers what they would have become if they hadn't become a writer, and I said what would have happened to me is that I would have been stabbed to death in the parking lot outside a bar in Florida at twenty-four, or something like that. I really believe that, actually. I think writing saved my life. I was so self-destructive, so angry and turbulent, that I don't think I could have become a useful citizen in any other way. So I don't think it worked as exorcism, or therapy, but I think it saved my life.”
During his thirties, Banks developed a passionate interest in Jamaica. “I had been to the Caribbean, like most Americans who can swing it, a week here, a week there in the wintertime. I became deeply attracted to the culture, the people, and fell in love with the place.” When awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship to write a book, he took his family to Jamaica and stayed there a year and a half. He spent much of his time “up in the back country” of the island, absorbing the local traditions and idiom. Drawing on his experiences in both Jamaica and Florida, Banks next published
Trailerpark
, a collection of short stories, and
The Book of Jamaica
, a novel.
“I think writing saved my life. I was so self-destructive, so angry and turbulent, that I don't think I could have become a useful citizen in any other way.”
But it was not until the publication of his eighth book,
Continental Drift
, in 1985, that Banks first achieved critical success. The novel is the story of Bob Dubois, a burned-out oil-burner repairman from New Hampshire struggling to escape mediocrity, and Vanise Dorsinville, a refugee struggling to escape Haiti for the promised land of America, and the tragedy that ensues when they become involved in each other's destiny. The novel's title refers to the theory that the earth's continents were once a united land mass that broke up and continues to drift slowly apart. Banks, however, is referring to demographic, not geologic, drifting, as people all over the world flee their homes in search of new lives. He is also describing the drift that occurs between human hearts, leaving an unbridgeable gap between husbands and wives, families and friends.
“I want to feel I have my arm around a shoulder of this reader and I'm explaining, narrating, telling a wonderful story to this person that I've stopped, like the wedding guest in Coleridge's âRime of the Ancient Mariner.'Â ”
In order to capture a narrative voice capable of encompassing the disparate worlds of blue-collar New England and Caribbean voodoo, Banks invokes the Haitian
loa
, or mouth-man, the spirit of the dead that speaks through the mouth of the living, to help tell the story. “I'm really interested in reinventing the narrator. It's a convention that went out the window in the twentieth century. I want to feel I have my arm around a shoulder of this reader and I'm explaining, narrating, telling a wonderful story to this person that I've stopped, like the wedding guest in Coleridge's âRime of the Ancient Mariner.' I'm like the ancient mariner stopping the wedding guest in his rush to tell this wonder to him. And I want to have that sense of intimacy, a face-to-face, arm-around-the-shoulder contact.”
Continental Drift
, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, won the John Dos Passos Award and an American Academy of Arts and Letters Award. James Atlas, writing in
Atlantic Monthly
, hailed the book as “a great American novel ⦠a lesson in history⦠It is the most convincing portrait I know of contemporary America.”
Writing also helped Banks come to terms with his past. Though he made peace with his father before the older man's death in 1979, the theme of troubled father-son relationships continues to play a large role in Banks's novels. In
Affliction
, he explores the terrible legacy that an alcoholic and abusive father, Wade Whitehouse, has upon his son. “Writing
Affliction
, and dealing with Wade Whitehouse, gave me a kind of mercy and certainly forgiveness and understanding of my father that if I had just turned my back on him and walked away and acted bruised and hurt the rest of my life, I never would have obtained.”
In
The Sweet Hereafter
, Banks again explores the world of troubled blue-collar families. The novel takes as its central event the fatal crash of a school bus and the devastating effect it has on a small town's emotional life. Banks was initially inspired by a newspaper clipping of a similar crash, as well as the tragic early death of his younger brother. The freight train his seventeen-year-old brother hopped onto was caught in a mudslide in Santa Barbara. “It was an inexplicable event. It was a mystery, finally.” The novel wrestles with issues of blame and causation in cases of accidents.
Rule of the Bone
returns to the author's twin obsession with Jamaica and dysfunctional American families. The novel tells the story of a teenage misfit's flight from an unhappy home in an upstate New York trailer park and the series of adventures he embarks upon until his final redemption in Jamaica. Banks borrows from
Huckleberry Finn
in order to create a contemporary American odyssey of race relations and alienation of youth.
“[In
Rule of the Bone
], Banks borrows from
Huckleberry Finn
in order to create a contemporary American odyssey of race relations and alienation of youth.”
Buoyed by the success of these novels, as well as the film adaptations of
The Sweet Hereafter
and
Affliction
, Banks retired from teaching and gave up his professorship at Princeton. “A funny thing happened when I quit Princeton,” he recalled in
The Irish Times
. “My attention shifted. I immediately forgot opinions I had on things like deconstruction. And I started noticing things like: âWhy is the television set on in my neighbor's house at five in the morning? Is that woman really unhappy? Or has the old man got drunk again and passed out?' I sat in on a murder trial in the next town. I read the local paper instead of the
TLS
.”
Banks and his fourth wife, poet Chase Twichell, bought a second home in Keene, New York, not far from the abolitionist John Brown's old farm. The move inspired his thirteenth novel,
Cloudsplitter
, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and winner of the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award. Seven years in the making,
Cloudsplitter
is the story of the firebrand John Brown and the events leading to his disastrous raid on Harpers Ferry, as told through the eyes of his son, Owen. Banks began thinking about his legendary neighbor and realized John Brown's story has all the themes “I've been concerned with, some would say obsessed with, for twenty yearsâthe relationships between parents and children, particularly fathers and sons, and the interconnections between politics and religion and race.”
The Darling
(selected by the
New York Times Book Review
as a Notable Book of 2004), is set in late twentieth-century Liberia. The work spans topics of civil and political upheaval, and strained loyalties to country and family.
His latest novel,
The Reserve
, is a national bestseller. Set in the rugged beauty of the Adirondacks,
The Reserve
explores the intersections of class, politics, art, love, and madness that occur when two powerful personalities come together on the eve of the Second World War.
The father of four daughters, Banks continues to write in a converted sugar shack just down the road from John Brown's grave.
Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
