I am feeling so overwhelmed that I can't say anything. However, I highly recommend.

At this moment, my mind is in a state of chaos. There are so many emotions and thoughts swirling around inside me that I find it difficult to put them into words.

But despite this, I know that there is something that I need to recommend. It could be a book, a movie, a product, or an experience. Something that has had a profound impact on me and that I believe others would also benefit from.

Maybe it's a self-help book that has helped me to overcome my fears and insecurities. Or perhaps it's a movie that has made me laugh, cry, and think about life in a different way.

Whatever it is, I know that it's something worth sharing. So even though I'm feeling too overwhelmed to say much more, I encourage you to give it a try and see for yourself.

John Cheever left behind twenty-nine notebooks of notes upon his death, along with the explicit desire that these diaries, written over a period of more than three decades, be published posthumously. The author entrusted his children and his editor, Robert Gottlieb, with the management of thousands of written pages without initially thinking about their publication. These texts saw the light when few could imagine the anguish that was eating away at the great North American author.

It portrays the struggle between the haste to write to pay off debts in the complexity of his life and to prevent his "ship" from being destroyed. "I would like to show that I triumph over that complexity. So far, I haven't managed it."

Although it is a masterpiece, it has stories in the first fifth that are overly descriptive, irrelevant, and soporific to the point that, at times, it seems like a simple notebook of annotations.

It sketches a depressive diary of someone who constantly lies contemplative in the face of the passing of life, suffering from his repressed homosexual lasciviousness and his awakenings at 3 in the morning as a result of his bladder filled with alcohol. "The drink, its accessories, its environment, and its effects seem repugnant to me. However, every day, at noon, I look for the bottle of whisky. I seem incapable of drinking in moderation and also seem incapable of giving up the drink."

From the course of the trip to Rome, the book takes on another rhythm and lends itself to a more friendly, engaging reading with nuances similar to those we are accustomed to in his stories, although with the constant obsession with alcohol and sex and the imperious demand for love.

"I am sure that there is a relationship between my need to drink and my need to receive some kind of love, and I am determined to describe it even if it is clumsily.

(...) Twenty years ago, after a more bitter fight than usual, I locked myself in the garage to cry for my desire for love. We don't have a garage here, but the situation is the same. I don't get divorced out of fear: of loneliness, alcoholism, and suicide. These rooms, these gardens, the presence of my son, help me to preserve life."

Whew, that was depressing!

It really felt like a heavy cloud had settled over me. I don't know what exactly brought on this feeling, but it just seemed to creep up on me out of nowhere. Maybe it was the events of the day, or perhaps it was something deeper within. Whatever the cause, it left me with a sense of sadness and hopelessness. I tried to shake it off, but it clung to me like a shadow. I thought about reaching out to someone for support, but I just didn't have the energy. Instead, I sat there, lost in my own thoughts, feeling sorry for myself. But then, I realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn't going to solve anything. I needed to find a way to pick myself up and move forward. So, I took a deep breath, wiped away my tears, and decided to look for the positive in the situation. After all, every cloud has a silver lining, right?

As I was engaged in translating this book into Dutch, I finally came to a profound realisation.

No, this collection of notes from Cheever's extensive archive of journals was as exquisitely beautiful and immaculately spotless as it had been when I first perused them in The New Yorker 25 years ago. Here, one was truly in the presence of a master. His remarkable command of the language, his absolute control over every sentence, bending and meandering it to suit whatever emotional shade he desired to convey, was awe-inspiring and deeply motivational.

As I strived to get as close as possible to his voice, his unique "sound", I discovered him to be astonishingly vulnerable, to an almost overwhelming degree. During the period when I was working on the Cheever journals, as I accompanied him through his intense mood swings, I often felt physically and mentally drained.

Yet, within all these notes, there was an authority, a voice that was so reassuring, convincing me of the necessity to not let this moment in a private life pass, but rather to render it into another language. This was because Cheever had conserved it so well. Often, I was overcome with a depressing sense of inadequacy for the task at hand. However, my dear friend Paul de Bruin (himself a talented translator) encouraged me with his comments as he read the manuscript.

One instance was when Cheever referred to a distant uncle, calling the man "a crazy old monkey". Paul vehemently argued with me to translate this as literally as possible: "gekke ouwe aap". I am still grateful that I heeded his advice. The passage comes alive every time I pick up the book and begin reading once more.

Many books tend to lose at least some of their luster during the translation process. But for me, Cheever remains firmly at the top, in the majors. And we should be content, yes, even grateful - simply to be in a position to witness him walk out of the dugout and pick up his bat.

Fiction persists in flourishing as an art form due to the fact that its dramas unfold within the exclusive domain of the human imagination, where the external and internal worlds converge. Novels and stories serve as imaginative interfaces. Jointly, the author and the reader fashion a vivid landscape that is more comprehensive, immersive, and filled with significance than the lavishly produced moving images on even the highest fidelity flat screen.

However, the question remains: how does a writer manage to initiate this magical act of co-creation? The answer, in part, lies in the fact that we enable readers to experience the exterior world from within a specific character. This concept is referred to as interiority.

The distinctive quality of the novel that permits us to become deeply immersed in another person's mind is central to its value and popularity. Perhaps, in part, because we are deprived of it in our daily lives, we yearn for the experience of accompanying a consciousness that is not our own as it contends with antagonists, embarks on journeys, desires, searches, reacts, contemplates, reflects, falls in love, and copes with the stress and emotional challenges associated with engaging storytelling. In fiction, it is not merely the external plot (although the external plot is, of course, essential), but rather the inner landscape that truly holds significance. This inner landscape is something that novels excel at better than any other medium, and the reason they will never be completely replaced by movies, TV, or video games.

But why is the inner landscape so irresistibly captivating to us? And how can we, as fiction writers, enhance its allure?

In search of answers, I turned to one of the most inexplicably compelling books of unplotted, unstructured narrative that I have ever read: The Journal of John Cheever. This is a 400-page book without a traditional plot per se, nor an arc or dramatic necessity in the conventional sense, aside from the day-to-day, moment-by-moment struggle of one individual to come to terms with himself and the world. And yet, it is impossible to put down. Cheever's introspective journal entries are so vivid, so charged with meaning, and so engaging to read that they are instantly and irresistibly addictive, much like heroin or Fritos corn chips. For these reasons, The Journal appears to be a fitting place to attempt to isolate the factors that render interiority irresistible, even in the absence of an underlying narrative framework.

Read the remainder of my review here: https://timweed.net/fictions-inner-la...

One must act with a free heart—there can be nothing covert—and seek the best ways of expressing ourselves within the conditions under which we live.

And waking I think how narrow and anxious my life is. Where are the mountains and green fields, the broad landscapes? (1957)

John Cheever, he is truly a perfect writer, yet also a tormented human. His journals, which are beautifully written and seem to be intended for publication (thus reducing that stinging feeling of voyeurism that I experience when reading the diaries of the deceased), offer a stirring and often heartbreaking window into his life and his demons.

Particularly, alcoholism, his lifelong struggle with homosexual desire, and his tireless ambition to be great and to be remembered. The entries are undated, except for the year, and are composed with brilliance, clarity, and stark self-awareness. He is always more critical of himself than of others (even his frequently desired/despised wife, Mary), and there is a touching humility and brokenness that characterizes these pages.

“What we take for grief or sorrow seems, often, to be our inability to put ourselves into a viable relationship with the world; to this nearly lost paradise. Sometimes we see the reasons for this and sometimes we do not. Sometimes we wake up to find the lens that magnifies the excellence of the world and its people broken.” (1954)

My Favourite Quotes:

Is there anything more wonderful than the Monday morning train: the 8:22? The weekend, especially a long summer weekend like the Fourth, has left you feeling completely rested. There have been delightful picnics, spectacular fireworks, and enjoyable excursions to the beach – all the pleasant things that we do together as a family. On Sunday, we had cocktails late in the day and a casual pickup supper in the garden. We watched the darkness bring an end to the weekend without any hint of regret – it has all been so incredibly pleasant. In the garden, we can hear, from the west, the noise of traffic on the parkway rise to a high pitch that it will maintain until nearly midnight, as other families drive back to the city from the mountains or the shore. The sleeping children, the clothing hung in the backseat, the endless stream of headlights – the sense we get from these overcrowded Sunday roads of a gigantic evacuation, a gigantic pilgrimage – is all a part of this hour. You water the grass, tell the children a story, take a bath, and then get into bed.

The morning is brilliant and fresh. Your wife drives you to the train in the convertible. The children and the dog come along for the ride. From the minute you wake up, you seem to be on the verge of an irrepressible joy. The drive down Alewives Lane to the station feels triumphal. When you see the station below you, the trees, and the few people who have already gathered there, waiting in the morning sun, and when you kiss your wife and your children goodbye, give the dog’s ears a scratch, say good morning to everyone around the platform, unfold the Tribune, and hear the train, the 8:22, coming down the tracks, it seems to me to be a truly wonderful thing.

I dream that someone in space says to me: So let us rush, then, to see the world. It is shaped like an egg, covered with vast seas and diverse continents, warmed and lighted by the glorious sun. It has churches of indescribable beauty, raised to gods that have never been seen. There are cities whose distant roofs and smokestacks will make your heart leap with excitement. There are ballparks and comfortable auditoriums in which people listen to music of the most serious import, celebrating life. Here, the joy of women’s breasts and backsides, the colors of water, the shapes of trees, athletes, dreams, houses, the shapes of ecstasy and dismay, and even the shape of an old shoe are all celebrated. Let us rush to see the world. They serve delicious steak on jet planes and dance at sea. They have invented musical instruments to express love, peaceableness, and to stir the finest memories and aspirations. They have invented games to capture the hearts of young men. They have ceremonies to exalt the love of men and women. They make their vows to the music and the sound of bells. They have invented ways to heat their houses in the winter and cool them in the summer. They have even invented engines to cut their grass. They have free schools for the pursuit of knowledge, pools to swim in, zoos, and vast manufactories of all kinds. They explore space and the trenches of the sea. Oh, let us rush to see this amazing world.

"Oh, to be so much a better man than I happen to be." (1965)

This statement reflects a deep longing within a person to improve and grow, to rise above their current self and become something more. It shows an awareness of one's own shortcomings and a desire to overcome them.

"I am not better than the next man, but I am better than I was." (1976)

Here, there is a sense of humility. The person acknowledges that they may not be superior to others, but they take pride in the progress they have made. It's a recognition that self-improvement is a personal journey and not a competition with others.

"... the splendid thing about working happily is that it leaves me with very little energy for bitterness, anger, impatience and long endictments."

This final quote emphasizes the positive impact of a happy work environment. When we are content in our work, it consumes our energy in a positive way, leaving little room for negative emotions. It shows how finding joy in what we do can lead to a more fulfilling and harmonious life.

Finally, I have completed this extensive collection from one of America's prominent literary figures. It has not been an easy feat. Cheever's entries are largely unedited, and he wanders from one idea to another within each entry, making it sometimes challenging to understand what he is referring to. It would be more accurate to classify this type of writing as something介于 prose and poetry.

It is also difficult to endure the level of disdain and murky cynicism he holds towards those close to him, especially his wife Mary. It seems as if he was not only struggling with alcoholism but also with depression, and towards the end of his life, with bone cancer. Indeed, a significant portion of the text is dedicated to his coming to terms with his homosexuality. His critique of post-war and late 20th-century suburban life is incisive, yet I wish it had more of the satire that would make this kind of writing more enjoyable (similar to Jonathan Franzen). Close readers might argue that the purpose of Cheever's writing is not to please or delight, but I still find it rather off-putting.

I am glad that I have managed to get through this, and I am hoping that with more formal study of his work, I can explore what his short stories and novels are like.

To put it in Holden's words, this is one of those books that makes you wish you could be friends with the author so you could call him and talk about it as much as you like. It's truly a remarkable piece of literature that has the power to engage and captivate the reader on a deep level. The story unfolds in a way that keeps you on the edge of your seat, eager to know what will happen next. The characters are so vividly drawn that you feel as if you know them personally. It's a book that you can read over and over again, and each time you'll discover something new. Whether you're a fan of fiction or non-fiction, this book is sure to leave a lasting impression. So, if you're looking for a great read, look no further than this amazing book.

Ecco perché un racconto non può durare per 500 pagine.

A story is like a journey. If it is too long, the reader may lose interest along the way.

A concise and well-structured story can engage the reader's attention more effectively.

It allows the author to convey the main ideas and emotions clearly without getting bogged down in excessive details.

Moreover, a shorter story is more likely to be remembered by the reader.

It leaves a stronger impression and can have a greater impact.

In today's fast-paced world, people have limited time and attention spans.

They prefer to read something that is quick and easy to understand.

Therefore, when writing a story, it is important to consider the length and make sure it is appropriate for the intended audience.

A story that is too long may end up being a waste of time for both the author and the reader.

Of all the journals I’ve read—Isherwood’s, Plath’s, Orton’s, Rorem’s et. al.—this may be the most moving.

This man was truly what writing is all about. For forty years, he dedicated himself to the craft, religiously putting his ass in a chair and writing every single day.

He had a unique way of writing about his daily life. The scenes he described often seemed as if they were taken from fiction, yet they were rooted in his real experiences.

Now, I feel compelled to read his fiction, all of it, to understand how it aligns with his journal.

Remarkably, he continued to write even when he was drunk. And as he lay dying of cancer, he maintained the same workman-like manner, writing with extreme honesty and beauty until his very last breath.

His commitment to writing was unwavering, and his work serves as an inspiration to all those who strive to express themselves through the written word.