A voice across 25 years

A voice, fluent, steady and sure is flooding images from the opening passages of the novel October Light into our brains with images of an old Vermonter, James Page, taking a shotgun and blowing a hole into the family television.

For me, there are several experiences I’m having at once; simultaneously; as if I am keenly aware that I am inhabiting (incarnating?) the Many Worlds theory. One experience is the vivid imagery of the story. I am there in that living room with that old curmudgeon James Page.

Another experience is watching Joel Gardner kneeling by a table lamp, reading this story. He is reading to a group of about twenty or so people gathered here at the home of David and Barbara Stanton to commemorate the author John Gardner who died 25 years ago.

I know that Joel’s synapses fire at a more rapid pace than most people’s, but listening to his story, I am truly surprised at how quickly his eyes can scan the words, and how fluidly his tongue can deliver them.

But finally, I am having a third experience. This one is odd because it involves distortions of what we commonly accept as reality. In this experience, it is not Joel reading October Light, but it is Joel’s father, John, the author. It is John’s voice, that quick, just a nuanced vibrato above a monotone stream of language. Its speed enhances the imagery, making the story vivid, urging you to anticipate the next moment, the next action, the next unfolding of the dream.

All of these experiences at once: James with his shotgun, Joel reading the text, John, channeled through his son.

Later, I will find out that one of the reasons that Joel was so intimately familiar with these opening passages of his father’s work is because once, in an attempt to understand that weight of each word, the directional power of each punctuation and the rhythm of John’s craft, he typed every word of the first seven pages of October Light.

That revelation doesn’t lesson the impact of the reading’s magic. In fact, it makes me appreciate it more. The words written by the father, later digested by the son, and last night, read in such a way that it brought all three to life: the story, the son, the father.

It was a truly wonderful evening with readings of John’s work by a number of people, each reading singular, but voices rising as a chorus.

And though I struggle with the romanization of drinking at such events, I will admit that – in the moment – I too fell into the enjoyment of intoxication mixed with astute conversations. Copious wine and gin lubricated the discussion on what comprises fiction with enduring relevance and how we are each Grendel, pleading with the dragon for the secret to life.