Sam Shepard’s voice, hoarse and haunting, has its
origins in the parched prairies and wide-open spaces of
the American Middle West and Far West.
Although early in his writing career he lived in New
York, where he worked as a waiter and rock-and-roll
musician and cranked out plays by the dozens, his vision
has turned toward the West. That is where he focuses his
considerable talents now, in this disparate selection of
prose pieces gathered together in Day Out of Days.
This book is unlike any other collection of stories you
will encounter, and yet the stories seem hauntingly
familiar, like the fleeting images in dreams.
Some of the pieces collected here are short shorts--only
weighing in at a paragraph or two--while others ramble
on for a few pages. Most of them achieve what American
novelist Ford Maddox Ford described as good writing:
words that are like "pebbles fetched fresh from the
brook."
One cannot identify Shepard as narrator in these pieces,
although snippets of his life as a writer, as an
observer of life, and as a wanderer, emerge--or in any
case, we assume it’s him (we never know for certain). He
exhibits a penchant for the macabre, in the fine
American tradition mastered by Edgar Poe and perfected
by the late Texas-born novelist and short story writer
William Goyen.
Shepard pays homage to Samuel Beckett; he also tips his
hat to Henry Miller. He croaks out a love song to Eric
Dolphy (a jazz musician of considerable talent who died
way too young). This collection is a glimpse into his
mind, and let it be said out loud that he is a writer of
profound depth. This book demonstrates that there are no
limits to his imagination, no matter how repugnant. This
is not a cheerful book.
There are numerous pieces about beheadings, or headless
bodies. There are pieces about violence, about boredom,
about abandonment. There are pieces that seem to be
ripped out of his drama sketchbook, wherein he is trying
out dialogue for a play that never quite made it to a
fully realized dramatic rendering.
There are pieces about places, but they are not really
about those places at all; rather, they are about what
the author felt when he was in those places, such as
Mandan, N.D., for example, or Quanah, Texas.
The book cannot be read casually, and it cannot be read
at one, two, or even three sittings, even if its
selections are brief. It is a book to pick up and listen
to, as Shepard’s dry, hoarse voice rasps out another
surrealistic tale.
I first encountered Shepard while in college, when
Trinity Rep’s Larry Arrick in Providence directed
Shepard’s play Tooth of Crime in 1973. That production
would herald a succession of uniquely disturbing
productions Trinity would go on to stage, climaxing with
Buried Child, which won Shepard the Pulitzer Prize.
Under Adrian Hall’s direction, Trinity Rep toured Buried
Child in India and Syria, thanks to a grant from the
government, and can be credited with helping to spread
Shepard’s restless talent--like seeds of a milk pod
burst open in a windstorm--to the far ends of our world.
Shepard blew people’s minds then, and with the
publication of this book, he continues in his own
tradition of startling readers with the unexpected.
If there is a key to understanding Shepard and his
prose, it can be found in the short piece titled
"Chatter," which gives as much insight as a reader is
going to get when struggling to learn why Shepard writes
the way he does, with such uncompromising intensity:
"I now have an almost constant swirling chatter going on
inside my head from dawn to dusk," Shepard writes. "I
never could have foreseen this when I was five, playing
with sticks in the dirt, but I guess it’s been slowly
accumulating over all these sixty-some years; growing
more intense, less easy to ignore. I wake up with it. I
feed chickens with it. I drive tractors with it. I make
coffee with it. I fry eggs with it. I ride horses with
it. I go to bed with it. I sleep with it. It is my
constant companion."
Sam Shepard is now in his late sixties. In an interview
recently, he was quoted as saying he is coming through a
period of trying to wrestle with his demons,
particularly those centered around alcohol, which got
him into hot water in Illinois recently on a drunken
driving charge.
A gifted actor, director, playwright, and musician,
Shepard has said he listens for the music in language to
convey the rhythms of human life. Reading this book of
short pieces brought me back to his work from the early
1970s.
I was a student learning how miraculous and unsettling
theater could be. Encountering Shepard and his strange
musical rhythms at Trinity Rep changed my life--and the
lives of many others--forever.
Sam Shepard, in the best pieces from this book, has that
kind of effect: his work is transformative and
harrowing.
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