William Gay, "I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down" (2002).

I wonder. How many times will I have to write a review of a William Gay book before everyone that reads this blog will run out and get one for themselves? This is an essential question because there is a particular imminence to my recommendation. Gay is still alive. How many times have you thought to yourself that you'd like to find a classic American author while he/she is still alive? You have that chance right now. Get in your car (or on your bike) and go to whatever local book store has the largest selection of lamentably obscure fiction. Now buy anything they have by William Gay. He is a living master. And he's about 66 years old. Go give him some of your hard-earned cash while he is still alive, because he won't last forever.

As for me, I'll patiently await the release of his next novel- The Lost Country. I have no other choice, since I've read virtually everything else that Gay has published in book form. Likely there is a treasure trove of unedited work lying somewhere that has never seen the light of day. That stuff can trickle out posthumously. For now I just want Gay to be as prolific as possible. I tried to save something for a rainy day, but I just couldn't. I had to read it sooner rather than later. Today I've finished I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, an amazingly well-crafted collection of stories that I'm certain will linger in my subconsciousness for a long time. It is constructed with a detailed hand that manages to wend its way into the substrata of my imagination.

In fact Gay writes with such a deft touch that I'm just a little bit scared when I read his stuff. I'm afraid that the events and themes that he writes about will slip off the page and began to manifest themselves in my life. That's the type of power and force that I attribute to the experience of reading his words. He manages to meticulously capture a sense of foreboding inevitability that is at once shocking and believable. There have been numerous times when I was reading his tales when I stopped short in the middle of a paragraph, at once divining what was to happen to one of Gay's characters. It's a heartrending experience, but there is nothing to be done but continue with the thread.

This specific collection underscores one of Gay's repeating obsessions- the idea that there are certain doors that, once opened and traveled through, cease to function as portals forever after. There are actions that entail such severe consequences that they permanently alter a life's trajectory. These form a "before" and "after" that define personal eras. As we watch a protagonist drift toward a certain decision, we become aware of the vicissitudes of fate. These people may know less than the reader, but at a cellular level they seem to realize exactly what they are heading for. In the case of Gay's tales, these destinations are always transformational, and seldom for the better.

Whether it's a successfully married man of thirty years gunning down his wife's annoying lapdog or a straying spouse finally succumbing to the worst sort of temptation, we know that Gay's characters will pay a steep price for their lapses andindiscretions. I can only speculate as to the real-life lessons that William Gay has accumulated. His hardened features seem to betray a series of disappointments and tragedies that have become his inescapable companions. Maybe we are better off with his fictions. They serve, as often as not, as cautionary tales. Perhaps we will subsequently go off and make the same mistakes we've seen documented in his books, but at least we will have a better facility for imagining the worst case scenarios.

William Gay, "Twilight" (2006).

I put off reading William Gay's Twilight for months after I found it on the shelves of a used book store. I had already been through his first two novels over the past twelve months, and I didn't want to run out of his works too quickly. Gay is an older man at 65, and I'm not sure how many more novels he has in him. I like the idea of setting one by for a rainy day. On the other hand, I've become accustomed to thinking about this author as one of my favorites, and I feel some obligation to complete my reading of his output in its entirety. Now I have just one collection of short stories to go, and then I'll have to wait for the publication of his work-in-progress, which is apparently titled The Lost Country.

Unlike Gay's previous two novels (Provinces of Night and The Long Home), Twilight is almost devoid of humor. It concerns a macabre discovery unearthed by siblings Kenneth and Corrie Tyler. Apparently the local undertaker (Fenton Breece) is kinkier than his job should allow. Gay doesn't necessarily linger over the details of Breece's perversions (at least not at first), but the reader is meant to understand that this creep has overstepped the lines of criminal decency. The Tylers are alerted to his activities because they have recently lost their bootlegging father and they have espied Breece removing a precious article from his grave. Upon further investigation, they realize that the man is up to no good.

While one might be tempted to immediately blow the whistle on such a ghoul, sister Corrie see these circumstances as an opportunity for her and Kenneth to escape the poverty of their life, and get out of town. She would like to blackmail Breece, but needs proof of his wrongdoing. This comes in the form of polaroid shots of the undertaker abusing dead bodies in his workshop. Despite her brother's hesitancy, Corrie approaches Breece and demands fifteen thousand dollars for the return of the photos. Now Fenton Breece is a bit of a pampered aristocrat, but he doesn't relish being extorted by a teen-aged girl (especially one that he has lusted after in the past). So he hires the meanest cuss in town to get the photographs back.

Granville Sutter is a bad, bad dude from rotten stock. It's no secret that townspeople fear him, and Kenneth Tyler would like to give him a wide berth. Unfortunately Sutter has targeted the young man as the weak link, and believes that the threat of violence against the siblings will compel them to give up the game. Sutter doesn't necessarily approve of what Breece has been up to, nor does he really want to know any of the gory details. He just wants what's coming to him when he delivers the goods to Breece. And he's bound to employ any means to accomplish his mission. Not surprisingly, things turn ugly for the Tylers. Soon enough Kenneth finds himself on the lam, pursued by the maniacal Sutter.

Much of Twilight takes place in a vast tract of overgrown wilderness called the Harrikan. It is in this haunted terrain that Sutter attempts to overcome Kenneth Tyler, and the boy in turn encounters some truly archetypal Southern Gothic figures. Gay is able to make the Harrikan come alive with his efficient yet evocative description of flora and fauna. Interspersed within the woods are the abandoned detritutus of coal and other industrial operations that accentuate the sense that the characters are passing through a forbidden "no man's land". A feeling of impending doom accompanies the text, so that the reader is not sure what might happen next, but remains continuously aware that the possibilities are virtually endless.

William Gay, "The Long Home" (1999).

As I predicted in this blog about a month ago, I have eagerly devoured another heaping portion of Southern Gothic by the talented writer William Gay. This time I chose to read his very first book, The Long Home. As I've previously mentioned, this was the first novel that Gay published after toiling in obscurity for almost forty years. Not only did it garner prizes and critical acclaim, but it ensured that the author would have additional opportunities to access a greater audience. While it's a bit of a shame he's not better-known, I feel privileged to have come across his work. I made no secret of the fact that I was impressed by Provinces of Night, and I'm happy to report that his earlier title stood up to the standard of excellence that I expected.

The Long Home begins with an enigmatic event of great magnitude- a backwoods bootlegger named Hovington is almost swallowed up by a cataclysmic pit that spontaneously forms on his land. Soon after, his homestead is invaded by a darkly malevolent character named Dallas Hardin. This interloper takes advantages of Hovington's rather steady deterioration, moving in on not just the whiskey business, but on the man's wife as well. As the original master slowly fades, Hardin consolidates his power over both the household and the community. He begins to build a small empire of vice and will let nothing and/or no man stand in his way. Even Hovington's beautiful young daughter is held in his power.

That's particularly disconcerting to young Nathan Winer. This seventeen-year-old man has already had his share of misfortune. His father disappeared ten years ago, and his bitter mother suspects that she has been intentionally abandoned. Nathan is put off by her harsh recriminations of her long lost husband, and secretly believes that his Dad met a far worse fate than escaping his shrill harpy of a wife. But there's not much that young Winer can do about any of this. The only paternal guidance he gets is from an elderly neighbor who lives and works on a nearby plot of land. William Tell Oliver has been around a long time, and understands local secrets that he'd rather shunt aside. Still he cares a lot for Winer.

Despite the mild warnings that Oliver delivers to the boy, Winer decides to take Dallas Hardin up on an offer for a job. Hardin is expanding his operation with a large honkytonk, and he needs someone that can help with its construction. When the head carpenter on the project gets caught with his figurative pants down, Hardin decides to let Winer take his place. Even though Nathan has no formal training, he is confident that carpentry is in his blood (his father worked the trade). With a contrary resolve to mind his own business, Winer is brought inextricably into the gritty demimonde of a truly villainous character. Hardin is both devious and determined, and thinks little of destroying life for his own gain.

When Winer falls for Amber Rose Hovington (the orphaned teen who Hardin has "adopted" as his own), a brooding storm threatens to erupt. Secrets and betrayals are exchanged, and all the story's players assume their tragic roles. The violent consequences strike the reader with such force that one can only wonder whether they can be redemptive, or if they merely underscore the essential bleakness of the boneyard of life. Gay has struck a few deep chords of humor into his tale, but one suspects that they are only meant to serve as the sugar that helps the bitter medicine go down. There is a deep despair underlying the beautifully evocative descriptions in Gay's prose. I can only hope that he remains productive in his late years.

William Gay, "Provinces of Night" (2000).

In my current campaign to read some of the lesser known contemporary Southern Gothic writers, I came across the name of William Gay. Assuming that he was a new young voice in the tradition of Faulkner, McCarthy, and O'Connor, I picked up Provinces of Night with substantial expectations. In examining its jacket I spotted a blurb from Steve Yarbrough that read, "It is time to stop calling William Gay an exciting new voice. In Provinces of Night he proves that he is simply one of our finest voices." That's high praise from a fairly successful regional author, and it reinforced my preconceptions about the author. But there is a particular irony to those words, because Gay is a 65-year-old man who published his first book in 1999.

This native Tennessean has been writing short stories since 1958, but for decades he toiled in obscurity. He is a veteran of the US Navy, and served in the Vietnam War. Throughout his life he has spent time living in New York City, Chicago and Lewis County, TN. He has worked as a carpenter, drywall-hanger and painter. Gay comes from the sort of background that expects its inhabitants to eke out a working class living. His people are solidly rural and Southern, and belong to a tradition that extends backward to the first days of Reconstruction. Few of his neighbors could have expected him to eventually develop a following as an established author. But that's exactly what has happened over the last ten years.

Gay's first published novel (The Long Home) earned him the James A. Michener Memorial Prize. It also attracted the attention of Doubleday, the publisher of Provinces of Night. His second novel tells the story of several generations of the Bloodworth clan. These hardy sons of the dust refuse to be settled by their surroundings. Each generation in turn strikes out to find some elusive freedom, at once beyond and wholly determined by their inheritance. Patriarch E.F. is approaching the end of his life, and has finally slowed down enough to begin his ruminations over a misspent life. His sons are occupied with their own quests- defining their own relationships with the land and kin.

The third generation is represented by Fleming Bloodworth, an atypically cerebral teenager who is largely left to his own devices. His father (Boyd) has abandoned him in the pursuit of his wayward wife, and Fleming is alternatively repulsed and fascinated by his extended family. His aging grandmother would like to take him in, but has her hands full with keeping up with the chores and her increasingly crazy youngest son. Uncle Brady keeps a pack of feral dogs on the family property, and is not shy about offering his clairvoyance and hexing services for a fee. He is suspicious of his siblings, and displays an outright hostility for E.F. Every one of the Bloodworths is completely capable of complicating what should be honest and straightforward interactions between themselves and the world.

As if there weren't enough players filling his pages, Gay has created a large cast of peripheral characters with complicated idiosyncrasies and warped agendas of their own. Although the book is a modest 290 pages long, it manages to convey enough information so that the reader knows what these folks are about. Gay's writing style is densely evocative. His sentences are the type that may require a pause for a re-read, but the essential economy becomes clear once one processes the words. His prose is so beautifully wrought that (at times) I was overwhelmed by his sense of place. It would be easy for Gay to be intimidated by the literary heritage that informs his work, but he manages to confidently tell an entertaining and moving tale. I'll definitely be returning to his territory.