Dusk and Other Stories by James SalterAh, Salterland! Where it’s always 196—. Where Town is a gleaming oak bar, Country a superb yet forsaken woman who drinks a little too much (and has a good chance of dying in a riding accident), and Europa a precocious gamine who is really down for anything, you just have to ask. I wouldn’t want a woman who hadn’t already lived a few lives, and so the title story “Dusk,” and “Foreign Shores,” stories of durable divorcees, autumn roses, seemed to me the most effective (affective is what I mean). “The Cinema” was a disappointment and most of the rest merely ok. I turned to the final story, “Dirt,” last night, expecting it to do no more than elegantly divert that last half hour of consciousness, dance in the remaining half inch of my nightcap. But it wowed me. I sat up on the pillows. High-toned Salter strides into the roadhouse of “Dirty Realism”—ranch hands nursing beers, waitresses with kids; the few and eloquent belongings of itinerants; the spare sayings of old men worked to the bone—and emerges with a story that Andre Dubus would envy. Salter probably thinks his talent for laconic dialogue best realized by the breathy, awkward English, cryptic yet assenting, of European schoolgirls. Turns out he can voice an elderly Okie with something like genius. ‘Say,’ he said. There was something he wanted to tell. He looked at the ground. ‘Ever been West?’
Remembering James Salter
The story is about a divorced woman who gets thrown from her horse. Salter, who died yesterday in Sag Harbor at the age of 90, spent much of his time in Aspen, swishing around in suspendered snowpants , and so, Eastern upbringing and West Point education aside, he understood those parts, understood the meaning of wilderness and life lived in proximity to it. She was sitting on a couch with her arms stretched out on either side and a drink in one hand. We talked about dogs. Simple enough. But then the sentences, staccato and forthright, crystalize with magical economy, and you start to see that something more is going on, a layered watercolor is being painted.
Thank you! In the clear light of day, Salter's usually privileged characters seek fame and fortune, pleasure and passion with often reckless abandon and naked ambition.
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James Arnold Horowitz  June 10, — June 19, , better known as James Salter , his pen name and later-adopted legal name , was an American novelist and short-story writer. Originally a career officer and pilot in the United States Air Force , he resigned from the military in following the successful publication of his first novel, The Hunters. After a brief career in film writing and film directing, in Salter published the novel Solo Faces. He won numerous literary awards for his works, including belated recognition of works originally criticized at the time of their publication. Horowitz grew up in Manhattan, where he attended P. While he intended to study at Stanford University or MIT , he entered West Point on July 15, , at the urging of his father — who had rejoined the Corps of Engineers in July , in anticipation of war breaking out. With others from his original Class of , George Horowitz was called back to West Point after a month of duty to complete a post-graduate officer's course.
These stories reflect a prism of human experience, of lives seen from a multiplicity of viewpoints. In one of them, a divorced woman learns that she is about to lose the last thing of real value to her. In another, a callow screenwriter discovers in Rome the true meaning of art and glory. Read more Read less. No customer reviews. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review.