Tag: age

Yoon Choi, “The Art of Losing” (2017)

An old man, Mo-Sae, a Korean War survivor (he was 10 when it started) and dementia victim, left home alone his wife Young-ja who’s “coming up with errands that were really excuses to leave,” though she doesn’t need to: shes’s ill, too. He’s losing his memory, and she’d rather not always be near him to witness it. A young boy at his stoop, “appearing also in Mo-Sae’s cognition.” Not a very good sign, this Cognition. The boy is his grandson, Jonathan. Young-Ja has atrial fibrillation. Her husband was at that stage where he would come up “with likely versions of the past that became fixed in his memory.” But the story loses itself in memories of Young-ja, her violence toward her sister, “her need to connect again and again with something solid, resistant, and alive—shoulder, cheekbone, the open mouth that housed the teeth,” an image As convincing, poetic or otherwise, as a closed-mouthed metaphor. It’s about filling in the past in Korea, before hands-off America, where there was no hitting. Then back to facing a hisband’s dementia. Sundowning. And the bullshit of doctors’ advice: “She had been told to expect increased confusion, even agitation. She had been told that the only way to respond was with patience and kindness. Patience. Kindness. What did they really mean between husband and wife? Sometimes she felt that patience and kindness could be stretched so far in a marriage as to become their opposites.”

And this, of course:

Did he know?
She could never directly ask him, never actually say the word Alzheimer’s, chimae, in English or Korean. She would rather pacify, indulge, work around his nonsense. Perhaps this was patience and kindness. Or perhaps it was the worst possible way to be unkind.
Sometimes she wondered. Was it all an act? Would nothing really remain? In the middle of the night, did a dawning horror sometimes spread over his soul? Or did he really think, as it seemed when his defenses were up, that all the world was in error and he was its lone sentinel of truth and fact?

Those thoughts we’ve always had caring (if caring it was) for an Alzheimer’s torture victim. But now the church is asking his wife whether he’d consider returning to the church choir for a Messiah
Reformable after quitting out if dissatisfaction with the previous conductor. His wife would rather he not be found out. But he accepts. And makes a spectacle of himself, sidling up to the soloist’s part during the performance. The secret was out. “Thus she was free from the burden of his reputation.” But not the burden of responsibility. Her children broach the inevitable: “Something had to be done about Dad… but what?”

But this: the twist is that it’s young-ja whose illness collapses everything, herself included. Mo-Sae can only make sense of fragments, and not of her absence as he watches the boy, remembering memories near and far, keeping vigil over the sleeping boy, waiting for his wife to return, as she will not. It’s a searingly true story, calmly told, its tragedy a surprise, but not a surprise, unless you read it cynically, though no less realistically, if not justifiably: Young-Ja’s illness was not unwilled.

New England Review, vol. 38, Nr. 2, 2017.

Hemingway, “Old Man at the Bridge” (1938)

 

A two-page sketch, a 76-years-old man escaping from the advancing fascists (during the Spanish Civil War), but too exhausted to go on. All pathos, all pity. He talks of his animals that he took care of until the last minute before he was forced to leave. He thinks the cat can take care of itself, but not so much the other animals–who, it turns out, are like him: his fate is sealed. The fascists’ planes were not up. “That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old an would ever have.” The story is intended to be heartbreaking. Visualizing the old man, it is. It is a universal image: the civilian at the end of his rope, and luck. Those are his last moments, witnessed apparently by a news reporter. Unlike “Cat in the Rain,” the cats in this case are self-sufficient: it’s the old man who is reduced to the state of a kitten, shivering with uncertainty, no Hadley to save him.

Notably, the sketch was possibly intended as a news article: “It is based upon an Easter Sunday stopover at the Ebro River during his coverage of the Spanish Civil War in April 1938. Although employed by the North American Newspaper Association (NANA), Hemingway apparently decided to submit it to Ken Magazine as a short story instead of using it as a news article.”

Ken Magazine, May 19, 1938

Edith Wharton, “Mrs. Mantsey’s View”

Mrs. Mantsey is an aging, stuck-in-her-ways woman whose only pleasure in life seems to be the views of the city from her boardinghouse in New York. Mrs. Black plans to build an extension of the building in front of Mantsey’s view, which would be blocked. Matsey panics, offers $1,000 to Black not to build. Black had offered her a room in the extension, which would have fixed the problem. But Mantsey doesn’t want to move. Black takes Mantsey for nuts. She’s right. Mantsey next sets fire to the construction’s wares after the first day. But she catches pneumonia and dies–happy, because she was able to look at her view one last time. (Compare to Carver’s “The Idea.” Why do we assume that looking out from a greater distance is OK, but looking from a nearer distance is voyeurism, at least when one is within one’s own home?)

The story reminded me of this recent item in The Times: “That Noise? The Rich Neighbors Digging a Basement Pool in Their $100 Million Brownstone: The extremely loud and incredibly expensive renovations that have shattered a formerly quiet residential block in Manhattan.” (See the picture above.)

 

Isaac Bashevis Singer, “A Friend of Kafka” (1968)

isaac singer a frien d of kafka

The former actor Jacoharaques Khon’s rambling story of his illusions of shadowing glamour, whether through his friendship with the unknown Kafka or his affair, a one night stand, with a countess running away from her murderous lover. Too rambling. Similar to Singer’s “Dr. Beeber.”

Forfward, June 1968, The New Yorker, November 23, 1968