I just finished “Tree of Smoke,” by Denis Johnson. My notes say I was on page 407 three days ago, so the last half of the book in a couple days. Some books rise to a climax and end; this book (like “Catch-22”) just got better, page by page by page. There was no release of an ending, it just spun up right until the last word. Felt like I was holding my breath at times through the end; not because of action or suspense but how the world was created and woven together.
Some favorite passages:
… in whose skid-row atmosphere he felt he could forget his mother and wrestle unobserved with his confusion. P407
Doubt is one thing, hesitation another. I waited three years to decide. I should have jumped. Doubt is the truth, hesitation a lie. P553
To trust anyone on earth was ill-advised.
He felt the weight of innumerable griefs - but so many people had just as much to carry, and even more. But this one. This one was very lonely. P554
From this distance, the things he thought he’d miss looked small. His jobs had demanded his soul and in return had given him poverty, the women he’d dealt with had quickly turned to irritants. Liquor had brought him high times but propelled him often into the arms of the police. Among free citizens his stomach had ached constantly. He hadn’t felt like swallowing anything but booze. P585
He could hardly get the machine upright on his own — too much drinking and too much sitting around; he was a mess. No wonder he lost so many fights. But he enjoyed losing, enjoyed a sort of righteous lethargy while he curled in a ball and somebody kicked him in the head and back and legs, enjoyed lying with his face in his own blood while voices cried, “Stop it! That’s enough! You’re killing him! You’re killing him!” because they were wrong. They hadn’t come anywhere close to killing him. P616
Man when I’m in my grave don’t wanna go to Heaven
Just wanna lie there looking up at Heaven
All I gotta do is see the motherfucker
You don’t need to put me in it P682
Today makes three years without drinking. I had been drinking for about 20 years when I stopped. The first year sober didn’t really count, if I was measuring this as a long-term enterprise, and the second year was still some weird middle ground. In my own evaluation of this, three proves to some degree that it’s sustainable.
Everything that has happened since is a new experience done without. And I just had to see how I felt during the life moments (deaths, departures, celebrations such as they come along at this stage in life) that had been marked in bars, or passing a bottle around, or drinking quietly by myself and writing. That last is what I miss the most; it was a shelter.
Sobriety isn’t a panacea. Sometimes I miss the deadening of emotion, the self medicating, for which alcohol is so useful. But drinking harmed my ability to parent my sons, and to retain the use of my brain and body.
Listening:
Atmosphere
Prof
Reading:
Tree of Smoke
Hard Rain Falling
Reckless on the Rails