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76  april 25, 1998 I could lecture on the moral and social inquiry and myself behave like a moral and social outcast. I workedhardsometimeagoonalecturethatmeantalottome—about Raymond Carver’s short fiction, his poetry and his personal writing (essays about his life and his reading preferences). I use his stories all the time, especially “Cathedral” and “A Small, Good Thing,” both in the collection titled Where I’m Calling From, which was published posthumously (he died in 1988 at the age of fifty). For years I taught Carver in conjunction with Edward Hopper’s paintings and prints, which I showed the students as slides. Carver’s world is mostly made up of working-class people,menandwomenstrugglinghardtostayafloatagainstconsiderable odds, be they some aspect of our social and economic system or of their ownpsychologicallife.Sometimestheselatetwentieth-centuryAmericans are down, but not out; they have glimpsed a redemptive possibility here and there, no matter the melancholy tug of their lives—though in some instances, alas, an unrelieved bleakness stares the reader in the face. So with Hopper’s visual scenes: they give expression at times to a qualified expectancy, if not hope; but, not rarely, they, too, candidly remind us how lost we can be—sadly out of sorts and withdrawn from others, or confusedaboutourpurposeinthisheavilycommercial,impersonal,urban  77 life of office buildings and apartment houses and subways and cafeterias and coffee shops. During the lecture I read from the stories of this American master, a direct, accomplished descendant of Chekhov. I read from his sometimes heart-breaking, sometimes humorous, always quite humble poems. I read from his autobiographical writing. I showed slides of Hopper’s work. I tried to make connections between those two enormously talented Americans,evenasIofferedinterpretationsofanddiscursivecommentary on a writer’s fiction, an artist’s pictures. I worked hard to get at the moral implications of what we were studying—the way, for example, Carver confronts us with our own blindness as he tells us what a blind man enabled his sighted host to “see.” Hopper’s paintings, though relatively well known, often prompt a noticeable stiffness in the students—as if they have been compelled to see an intended warning: Look out, there is danger aplenty ahead, lots of mixed signals, no small amount of the “alienation” that philosophers have discussed in recent times. By the end of the lecture I hoped to have relayed some information, conveyed the spirit of two gifted observers of this country’s life, sparked enough interest in the students so that they would explore, become familiar with “Carver country,” as his writing has been called, and also with Hopper’s unnerving,brooding takesonthewaywe live now. Iwashoping for a responsive passion in the students—that they would really connect with Carver, comprehend what it is that Hopper wants them to know. After I had finished, I thought I’d accomplished my purpose—a host of students were anxious to ask questions, seek references, share their own stories. I left the lecture hall with a sense of reasonable satisfaction—an important lecture, so I saw it, reasonably well delivered. I felt that with the help of an exceptionally knowing writer and a visionary artist I had 78  been able to discuss that most important moral matter—how one lives a life, to what purpose. SoonenoughIwasonmywayhome.Ihaderrandstodo,anafternoon appointment to keep. I had, as mentioned, been delayed by conversation withstudentsattheendofthelecture—youngpeoplewhowantedtohave serious reflective exchanges. Now I started making up for my late departure from Cambridge. As a light turned yellow, telling me to slow down, stop, I accelerated, went through it as it showed red. As a car progressed through a city street all too slowly for my taste, I quickly passed it, not the right thing to do on a two-lane thoroughfare. Once at the highway I started maneuvering, going faster than the posted speed limit, zooming in and out of lanes, while all the time keeping my eye out for the police. Eventually, I saw a state police car parked on the side of the road—a speederhadbeenstopped,wasbeingticketed—sotheoddswerenowhigh I’dbespared.Iplungedonward,glancingatthecar’sclock,attherearview mirror, and, of course, at the road ahead, each lane an invitation, each car an obstacle, each minute a challenge to cover more distance. I was doing fine, no matter the array of lights popping on behind me—worried, irate individuals, righteously signaling their discontent with and disapproval of a fast-traveling driver. At last the downward slope toward my hometown. I am arrogantly, thoughtlessly pleased with myself—a...

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