All That Is by James Salter: Deep seriousness and grammar-defiant swooning

Salter appears to feel no terror at boundlessness and no need to impose his own geometry. What he is more eager to impose – or to let flourish – is a particular way of seeing. Among recent American novels, <em>All That Is</em> has few equals on this score

All That Is
James Salter
Picador, 304pp, £18.99

In Michael Chabon’s novel Wonder Boys, a creative writing student in possession of a style “as plain and poetic as rain on a daisy” warns her celebrated but worn tutor that his latest novel, many years in the making and, at 2,500-plus pages, still unfinished, has a feeling of being “spread out”. “Spread out?” he asks. “Okay, not spread out, then, but jammed too full,” she replies, citing a few examples of what she means, among them the genealogies of the characters’ horses. It’s a vivid glimpse of the kind of long-gestating project that has actual models in literary history – Harold Brodkey’s The Runaway Soul (1991) might be the classic modern instance – and so it is to James Salter’s credit that, in writing his first new novel in 35 years, he has taken an approach that risks being both spread out and jammed and comes up with something that is so nearly a masterpiece.

If there’s an appropriate metaphor for the way Salter tells the story of the navy vet and book editor Philip Bowman, it isn’t the family tree but the social network, with its emphasis on “mutual friends” and “people you may know”. In other words, this is a novel with an inordinate number of dropped names, including such figures as Vernon Beseler, a drunken poet and the ex-husband of Dena (there are also characters called Enid and Edina), a “tall, loose-limbed” single mother from Texas who ends up living in “a small white house in Piermont” with Bowman’s friend Eddins; Stanley Palm, a divorced painter whom Eddins and Dena meet at the restaurant Sbordone’s; and Judy, the “darkhaired girl in a tight sweater” whom Stanley meets at the Village Hall and who says nothing when he slips his hand inside her leather jacket. Everywhere Salter turns, he finds facts and anecdotes and fragrances to pass on; you soon stop distinguishing between the essential and the indolent.

A heaving supporting cast tends to be used to fill out a world but the purpose here is temporal as much as spatial. Bowman is a frequenter of bars and dinner parties and an able seducer but he is also an ordinary man, the majority of whose mostly uneventful life we see, and all those secretaries and in-laws and colleagues amount to a lifetime’s driftwood. We first encounter him during his final days as a seaman in the Pacific war and we leave him in a moment of apparent calm, at some point in the 1980s. The years stream by, doing little – apart from supplying the odd presidential assassination – to distinguish themselves. The only palpable means by which Salter marks the passage of time is in the intermittent updates about the ailments, break-ups and business schemes of people Bowman knows or knows about or from whom he is separated by one or two degrees. There are a thousand ways for a life to go wrong and Salter shows us most of them.

Bowman is the novel’s still centre and, now and then, a dead one; though never exactly a blank, he tends to let things happen to him and they reliably do. Most of his thoughts are of the short-term variety. The press of experience allows him plenty of downtime – he loves to read at night, with silence and the golden colour of whiskey as “companions” – but not much detachment. The only moment he says anything concrete about himself is in the early 1960s when, on a trip to London, a woman in a Soho pub asks him, “What has your life been like? . . . What are the things that have mattered?” and he replies: “The navy and the war.” But a few minutes later: “He was not sure he had told the truth.”

Any moderately or even sporadically attentive reader of All That Is would have to say that what matters, what gives Bowman a sense of purpose, is sex. Of his many relationships – things get a little frenzied near the end – the most significant are with the remote Vivian, a product of Virginia horse country, to whom he is briefly married, and Christine, a single mother whom he meets in an airport taxi queue. Bowman’s life is defined by his appetites; elaborated and explored, these are what fill the novel. The resulting view of human existence is on the limited side – liquor, female flesh, hardbacks, title deeds, divorce papers – but Salter gets what he needs from this seedy quintet.

The confidence is staggering and must be a product of age. Salter turns 88 next month and has been publishing novels since the 1950s, albeit infrequently (this is his sixth). In his preface to Roderick Hudson, which, despite the ineradicable existence of Watch and Ward, he called “my first attempt at a novel”, Henry James recalled the “terror” he felt as “a young embroiderer of the canvas of life”; continuing but switching visual figures, he wrote: “Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so.” Salter is more than a half-century older than James was when he embarked on Roderick Hudson – a quartercentury older than James was when he wrote the preface – and he appears to feel no terror at boundlessness and no need to impose his own geometry.

What he is more eager to impose – or to let flourish – is a particular way of seeing. Among recent American novels, All That Is has few equals on this score. Rhapsodic and marvelling, with a treasurable lack of cynicism and a 1950s-ish directness, Salter’s style is sensory without being exactly lyrical, like a finergrained Henry Miller or a coarser-grained Lawrence Durrell. Although he likes to linger over impressions, he is rarely wasteful. A former screenwriter, he can nail a whole relationship in a half-page scenelet, in a few exchanges or a canny detail. Eddins’s first sight of Dena is typical: “Intense but quick to laugh, she spoke with a drawl in a voice filled with life.” And yet he is not a daintily descriptive writer for whom fine purity or clean elegance is the only goal; he begins sentences with “also” and commits crimes against syntax – and occasionally sense – in pursuit of a powerful effect. The novel, though full of highlights, amounts to more than just the sum of them.

At the moment, the only other evidence we have of Salter’s late manner comes from “Charisma”, 11 elliptical pages on which “the ink has only just dried”, as John Banville puts it in his introduction to Salter’s welcome – and wieldy – Collected Stories (Picador, £18.99). It’s an awkward performance – an inquiry into the way that women think about men (“No one was like him, his energy, his emanation”) that gives the reader all kinds of reasons to recoil.

At times, you recoil from the novel, too, from the hard-boiled worldliness and the straitened conception of women and – related to these – the lordly indifference to movements in the public sphere. But mostly, Salter’s grammar-defiant swooning is the vehicle for a deep seriousness about human sensation and emotion and you give in, happy to be helpless, like Bowman when, on meeting Christine, he tells himself: “All right, become intoxicated.”

The writer James Salter, aged 87. Photograph: Matt Nager/Redux/Eyevine

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, You were the future once

ED THOMPSON / LUZ / EYEVINE
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"We’ve got things in common": why one of the EDL's original members quit

An early supporter of the group, painter-decorator Darren Carroll has had death threats since he left. But why did he change his mind about the English Defence League?

Darren Carroll is a slight man with bright blue eyes and an urgent need for redemption. A painter-decorator in his fifties, he has lived in Luton his whole life. He was one of the original members of the English Defence League (EDL), the far-right street movement founded by Carroll’s nephew Tommy Robinson.

Recently, things haven’t been easy. Four months before our meeting at a café near Luton Airport Parkway Station, Carroll had a minor stroke that affected his speech and vision. It was the delayed fallout from an attack in a pub across the road, his local. A stranger, who seemed to know a lot about him, started a conversation. “He showed me his arm. It was tattooed. There was a little bit of white skin left on the whole sleeve,” says Carroll. “He said, ‘Look at that.’ I said, ‘What?’ He said, ‘White is right.’ I said, ‘Nah, mate, I know exactly where you’re coming from. There’s nothing wrong with being white but there’s nothing right with it.’”

The man pretended to leave the pub, then walked back in and hit Carroll hard on the back of the head with his forearm. Afterwards, Carroll suffered persistent headaches. It caused a blood clot that set off the stroke. When we met, he had mostly recovered but was still unable to work.

It was not the first attack. Carroll has also had his front door kicked in. He and his children have received death threats. “This is since speaking up,” he says. “Not leaving – that’s different.”

Carroll looks uncomfortable when we discuss the early days of the EDL. “It was an organic thing,” he says. “Lots of people were involved at the very beginning for different reasons. Personally, I was not happy with the way the town was being run on a political level. Looking back, I was disenfranchised from mainstream politics.”

Luton has the dubious distinction of being a centre of both far-right and Islamist extremism. The EDL began here in 2009, in response to a demonstration organised by Anjem Choudary’s now banned extremist group al-Muhajiroun, which in turn was a reaction against an army regiment marching in Luton.

A counterprotest led to arrests and the EDL was born, with sometimes violent neo-fascist street protests spreading across the country. Robinson insisted from the outset that the EDL was not racist, but only “against the rise of radical Islam”. Carroll says it was local difficulties, rather than national issues such as immigration, that unsettled and motivated him – and he didn’t articulate the core problem as racism against white people, not even to himself. The EDL has never had a formal membership, but the think tank Demos estimated that there were between 25,000 and 35,000 active members in 2011, a loose coalition of football hooligans and far-right activists. Today, the numbers are much reduced.

Carroll’s family was closely involved and it was a while before he realised that the EDL was an extremist, racist group. He describes being at a demo in Birmingham soon after the first protest. “I looked at the other lads there and I didn’t like them. They didn’t smell right for me, as far as integrity goes. I thought, ‘I don’t want this.’” Carroll’s parents are Irish and he considers himself the child of immigrants.

It took several months for him to extricate himself from the group and stop attending demonstrations. “It’s a relationship breaker, so you’ve got to accept that things are broken for ever.” On building sites, he was known as the EDL guy. Work dried up.

Amid attempts to coerce him back into the movement, and concerned about damaging his family relationships, Carroll stayed silent for another year and a half, only starting to speak up a few years after he left the EDL. This triggered a new wave of threats. He reeled off a list of incidents: slashed tyres, smashed windows. “Last week, I got one on Facebook [saying] that I’m a ginger Muslim and I’m gonna get shot. That was someone I know privately, which I don’t take as a threat. Their particular problem seems to be that I’m on record saying I’d have a cup of tea in a mosque and sit down and talk to people.”

Carroll did so after seeing a Facebook post by a local activist, Dawood Masood. Masood had shared a video of an imam in Leicester speaking about terrorist violence, with a message saying that any EDL members were welcome to get in touch. Carroll met him and others from the Muslim community and they discussed ways to make Luton better. He told them that he wasn’t interested in religion, but invited them to what he considers his church: Luton Town FC.

“I had the idea it’s about setting precedents, because you never know who or what that affects,” he says. “I just thought, if I’m seen going to the football with them, it’s going to break a big piece of ice.”

As the EDL evolved largely from a football subculture, this was a bold step. They went to the match. “He’s Luton born and bred and he certainly don’t need his hand held. But I made him as comfortable as possible. Luton scored and he’s jumping up and down, loving it. At that point, I thought: ‘This is really Luton harmony. He’s cheering for the same thing and I’m cheering for the same thing. We’re both happy together at this moment in time. We’ve got things in common.’”

They have been to many matches since, Masood bringing his kids, Carroll his grandkids. Carroll has had a few threatening calls but remains undeterred. “The working-class Muslim lads are working-class Muslim lads. They’ve got all the same problems and social issues as us white, working-class people. It’s not just me or us. It’s everyone.” 

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage