Mac's Reaction to Andre Dubus' Separate Flights

So, Tim’s selection this time was Andre Dubus’ short story collection, Separate Flights (1975). Andre Dubus had an amazing gift for perfectly describing the minute details of our surroundings. Indeed, his words remind me of Walter Benjamin’s statement about how the camera lense captures “unconscious optics.” Dubus’ words capture those things that our minds see and then forget (which Funes the Memorious was unable to do in the Borges story). His writings are full of trivial details that do not help advance the plot, but their presence makes the story all the more richer. His writing, because of its insistence on minutely detailed realism, reminds me of such authors as Benito Pérez Galdós, Emilia Pardo Bazán, Henry James, George Eliot, and Gustave Flaubert.

With those names mentioned, I must add that I hate Realist literature. I recognize the talent it takes to write realist prose, but I don’t appreciate that talent. I don’t read to get descriptions of everyday life; I experience that every day. I read so that literature will move me, make me feel something that I’ve never, or rarely, felt before. Under those criteria, this collection of stories DID make me feel something. But, what I felt wasn’t exciting, new, or engaging. Rather, it was a loathing of the ins-and-outs of the dreadful waiting game that is the marriage of most people. The slow descent into not loving one’s spouse, of turning to drink and cigarettes to slowly pass the time away—to help one cope with tedium, of infidelity and all the rationalizations as to why it’s okay, of making excuses, of selfishness, of despair and longing and unquenched desire for something that never existed.

The people in Dubus’ stories are miserable, because they choose to be. They are miserable because of their own pride. He notes, often, that the situations they find themselves in could all be reduced with an apology or a declaration of love. But, the people always balk at the last second. There’s selfishness and not selflessness in virtually every story.

I hated “Over the Hill,” “In My Life,” “Miranda Over the Valley,” and I especially loathed "We Don't Live Here Anymore" and “Separate Flights.” “Going Under” was a decent story, but not one I would ever care to read again. I really enjoyed “The Doctor,” and “If They Knew Yvonne” was an excellent read, and a story I might keep in the back of my mind when I write a paper on autonomous morality in literature.

As a married man, I can only read so many tales of adultery before it starts to bother me. I’ve never felt any of the despair and angst that these characters have because my marriage to Mickelle is based on more than just this life, plus I actually like my wife--our marriage wasn't founded on pure lust. My religion teaches me that my marriage in the temple is a covenant for time and for all eternity. To soil that covenant by being unfaithful is unthinkable. Yet, to the realist in me, it is a constant worry. I don’t want to ever become like the people in these stories, so in a way, I’m glad I read this really terrific (in the classic sense) book. It taught how not to be with my wife. Open communication of desires, frustrations, issues, and such is a key to a healthy marriage. The other person can’t respond to a problem if they don’t know about it.



Dubus’ book paints every man in the world is eventually unfaithful. Hardly!