It is difficult to uncover any personal information on Richard Bausch; he is a very private man. Now 65, the widely acclaimed Georgia-born author of more than 11 novels and seven short-story collections lives in Tennessee, where he teaches creative writing at the University of Memphis. Bausch has admitted in interviews that he has a drawer full of stories and poems he plans never to publish, adding that they are good, but too disclosing. “I get to hide in fiction,” he said.
This seems a most peculiar stance for a writer, particularly one who claims that “the real truth in fiction is felt like emotional truth.” Where better to find that “truth” than in mining one’s own emotional terrain?
But Bausch doesn’t seem to see the irony and revels in vagueness about his creative process, almost as if he fears too much scrutiny might harm him. He rejects the familiar persona of the tortured, angst-ridden writer and insists he is able to live each day to the fullest, writing only in the evenings after which he allows himself a drink or two to unwind.
After finishing a piece of work, he asks himself, “Is it clear? Is it concrete? Is it mellifluous and seemingly effortless? Are the lines, as many of them as possible, accomplishing more than one thing? Are the emotions expressed as much as possible in things and the reaction to things? Is it visible? Is it palpable?”
But the unconscious often reveals what we don’t want it to, and the reader can’t help but wonder if some of what Bausch believes he has kept hidden from us has slipped quietly into his melancholy fiction.
His stories are filled with haunting portraits of lonely, isolated men leading unsatisfying lives; often stumbling from one lousy job or relationship to another without the introspective arsenal required to understand their own deep-seated feelings of malaise. His latest collection is no exception; the situations may differ, but a persistent sadness shrouds almost all of his work.
In the first story, a young female musician married to an older man, who mistakenly believes she has cheated on him and has moved out, struggles with her loneliness and longing for his return. In another tale, a man consumed by lust for his brother’s gorgeous wife finds himself unable to stop pursuing her, which results in dire consequences. In another poignant narrative, a recently divorced waitress finds herself obsessed by a man who comes to her diner each day for coffee.
Stunning work, despite the holes
In what many might consider the best story in this collection, a priest struggles with his faith, taunted by the brazen intelligence of a young boy who comes to visit him in the confessional booth. The child, who isn’t from his parish, speaks incessantly about his love of dinosaurs and his inability to believe, claiming himself guilty of the sin of doubt.
When the priest tries to persuade him to accept certain things without questioning them, the lad refuses, and eventually stops coming to see him. The priest attempts to continue to go about his daily routine but feels “too weary, too tired of his own mind. When he heard confessions, he kept listening for the boy’s voice, that distressed, reedy, sorrowful, faintly angry voice mouthing out startling phrases, and when it didn’t come he felt low and depressed.”
There is some stunning work here. But gaping holes too; a sense that something that needs to be said isn’t. It is hard to pinpoint precisely what is missing, but it feels as if Bausch has erected a carefully guarded fence between himself and his characters, and they sometimes can’t hear each other. Characters blend into one another, lose their distinctiveness, and leave us feeling little for them other than an awareness of the staleness of their lives.
Perhaps a clue to this disconnect can be ascertained from a glimpse at Bausch’s own biography. He served honorably as an Air Force survival instructor from 1966 to 1969, where he became an expert in training other soldiers in methods of evasion, resistance and escape.
One feels the lingering residue of some of that here.
Elaine Margolin is a freelance book reviewer and essayist in Hewlett, N.Y.
FICTION
Something Is Out There
By Richard Bausch, $25.95
