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    Standard Dreaming: A Novella
    Standard Dreaming: A Novella
    Standard Dreaming: A Novella
    Ebook113 pages1 hour

    Standard Dreaming: A Novella

    By Hortense Calisher

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    A unique novel of parents and children—and the spaces between them
    Dr. Niels Berners—a Swiss plastic surgeon living in New York—is struggling to recover from his dysfunctional son’s abandonment of him. He joins a group of four other parents, all with absent children either in jail or in jeopardy, to discuss their feelings and seek a sense of community, comfort, and closure.
    Hortense Calisher artfully strings together tales of healing, brilliantly tracing the shadow of the generational gap. With compassion and precision, she paints the bruised egos of concerned parents confronting very empty nests.  
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateSep 17, 2013
    ISBN9781480438965
    Standard Dreaming: A Novella
    Author

    Hortense Calisher

    Hortense Calisher (1911–2009) was born in New York City. The daughter of a young German-Jewish immigrant mother and a somewhat older Jewish father from Virginia, she graduated from Barnard College in 1932 and worked as a sales clerk before marrying and moving to Nyack, New York, to raise her family. Her first book, a collection of short stories titled In the Absence of Angels, appeared in 1951. She went on to publish two dozen more works of fiction and memoir, writing into her nineties.A past president of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and of PEN, the worldwide association of writers, she was a National Book Award finalist three times, won an O. Henry Award for “The Night Club in the Woods” and the 1986 Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize for The Bobby Soxer, and was awarded Guggenheim Fellowships in 1952 and 1955.

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      Standard Dreaming - Hortense Calisher

      Introduction to Standard Dreaming

      THERE IS, IT WOULD seem, in the dimensional scale of the world, a kind of delicate meeting-place between imagination and knowledge, a point, arrived at by diminishing large things and enlarging small ones, that is intrinsically artistic. Thus Nabokov, accounting for the magical efficacy of lanternslides, microscope views and the like.

      The work I rejoice is an expression of that delicate meeting-place, a triumphant incarnation of a literary form whose name is uncertain among us and therefore, as a genre, somewhat mysterious. Henry James, a master of it, called such things as The Aspern Papers and The Spoils of Poynton, after the French fashion, nouvelles; and often we encounter the word novella (used by Willa Cather, Peter Taylor, Jean Stafford, to name three American practitioners) to describe what has quite as urgent a reality as the short story, though if we say short novel I wonder if it is clear that we refer, invariably, to the responsibility of function rather than of extent …

      Perhaps a better, though equally outlandish, label—and in these matters, naming is as emergent a task as ever it was in Eden: we know only what we name, and only so far—for the work of single transformation would be récit, that generic title Gide claimed for his Immoralist back in 1900; for the sake of suggestiveness, we could identify as récits such fictions as Notes from Underground and Benito Cereno. In these texts (written by authors who elsewhere spread themselves thick, since for them writing large and even loose implies an analogous intention to write lean and intense) we hear the resonance of a separated consciousness, the murmur of the singled-out soul at grips with some environing and opposing other. There is an inevitable defeat or submersion registered and, at the same time an emblem of conscious and therefore tragic triumph (one thinks of Death in Venice, of The Secret Sharer)—but I have invoked enough great names to qualify the effort with which I want to associate Hortense Calisher’s trophy in the genre: the finest of the three récits she has written, and the fullest realization of just that opposition Nabokov proposes as a compositional device which will enable the form.

      We are, we begin, at the start of the seventies, an interval when the generations are more explicitly at war with each other in the United States than perhaps at any other time. So fierce has the contention become that it is possible—speculates our central self, our singular consciousness—the race may have been given over, humanity lost. It is a preposterous donnée, yet so familiar, as apocalypses go these days, that the assured reality of place and presumed identity must do everything for us—everything else. In a work of this narrowness of scope, this sharpness of focus, there is no occasion for promiscuous detail, for what Barthes calls "l’effet du réel: we cannot here suspend narrative action in the name of our delight in representational presence. Everything must immediately signify, must do what it says, and indeed it is the ransom of all Calisher’s work elsewhere as a mere novelist, or as a mere novelist," that it does so. She enforces the city symbolically—New York, capital of group therapy, as essential to the design of this over-determined fiction as Venice to Aschenbach or Amsterdam to the narrator of Camus’ The Fall. And quite as compulsive in its hold upon our understanding is the profession of Calisher’s hero: We begin the surgery, he says at the end, which is a relationship. The notion that what must be incised, severed, withdrawn is, under certain kinds of pressure, in the presence of a certain attention, a link, a rapport, indeed a relation (for we are to be speaking of fathers and sons), is the entire justice of Hortense Calisher’s design upon us: absence becomes presence, loss is transformed not into possession but the meaning which possession seeks; and all the negatives turn into a kind of consecration: He bowed his head, and in his dream, his son anointed it.

      Imagine, Calisher commands, a kind of encounter-group consisting of parents who have been repudiated by their children—parents cut adrift who have nothing more in common with each other than that, the failure of that continuity which might assure the survival of our kind. To their erratic meetings proceeds—into Harlem—Dr. Berners, Swiss and accountable, prepared throughout to report to us, readers in the ghostly amphitheater which surrounds his every movement and failure to move, his operations, indeed, with a kind of sulphuric (or is it celestial) glow:

      We are all here with him; he knows who we are. We are that animal, which whether it is entering the sea of death or the ark of hope, turns equally to look back on itself.

      A profoundly reflexive work, then, and it is its author’s cunning to have been able to fold into it so many other people (Hegel’s definition of Hell), so many felt and affabulated lives, so much of the anomalous beauty which makes living in New York such an apparent wonder. The five severed parents—their alienated children in jail or jeopardy of terrible sorts—are indeed the fingers of what by the récit’s end we believe to be the Society of the Hand, that agent of human continuity which is to be reattached on the last page, and which has already been reattached on the first. Between the miraculous event and its fulfillment falls, or writhes, the bitter lyric of this painful and splendid prise de conscience. Though we have come to some sort of accounting, in the bookkeeping sense, for the other four parents—honorably widowed, married, unmarried, deserted—it is Dr. Niels Berners whose metamorphosis (his acceptance of the chance that his son’s will-to-death can, if released, turn to a life of his own) we trace in that acknowledged alembication of Hortense Calisher’s—her confidence, which is soon enough ours, that if we are patient with the details, the story will transpire through them, will be them in time. For that is what a story is, Calisher here shows us: details in the medium of time. The little circuit, with all the Swiss doctor’s youth and education in another country, his dead French wife and estranged colleagues, manages to enter itself doubly, a kind of specific ledger which clocks the way out as an inference of the way back. Boehme and Darwin are the books which Dr. Berners reads in parallel with his self-starving, life-denying son: science and religion, analysis and faith. And at the end of the story, of the circuit, which must be its beginning, the books are returned, the freedom is granted:

      let us be the uncollected place

      that is the mysterious pseudo-zen message this repudiating yet reprieving son grants his father, who is grateful for the ‘us’.

      I believe only a writer capable of such prodigies of design, not single details only but chains and clusters of repetitive imagery, the kind we usually identify with poetry—the elegant patterning and revelation of such language as, implicitly, must supply the meanings a diligent reader may trace on his own—only such a writer could make the sharpest point of her récit, of her dramatic monologue in prose, that there is a freedom beyond all artifice, something which refuses the mere mastery of design, and transcends it. The art of this fiction is entirely committed to the demonstration that there is an uncollected place beyond art. Perhaps that is just the meeting-place Nabokov meant; surely that is the pervasive irony of the short novel as a form, and of this triumph of the genre as a passion.

      —Richard Howard

      STANDARD DREAMING

      AT SIX O’CLOCK ON the evening of the last Friday in the past July, Dr. Berners tells us, he reentered his office here in the hospital after reattaching the severed hand of an accident victim, and stood before the window, as is his habit when recovering his nonsurgery self. Thinking as well of this report. To calibrate a parent is not easy. So much of it is not parenthood. He decides to put everything in.

      Midsummers around that time, he could watch the city changeover telegraph itself west-east from river to river—the New York invitation, or threat—in his blood ever since his early teens and first visit here, as one freshly arrived boy-vegetable, opal-cheeked and cocoa-calm, from Switzerland. In winters, the office light goes from bluebell to dark; then only he thought of his alp-ringed childhood, the neat prunings around his father’s dispensary, and air like a carillon breathed.

      This night, the window was letting in a heat-roughened rosiness already browning at the edges, with less than usual hints of golden goings-on elsewhere. The weekend buzz outside was a leaving one. Technically sundown, nighttime for the single

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