My own experience of encountering, and then finally reading, John Williams’ great novel of 1965 is probably similar to that of many others. At libraries, and less frequently at bookstores, I’d ever so often catch a glimpse of Stoner—specifically the edition put out by the New York Review of Books. The intriguing cover shows a lone man in a dark suit, with a ponderous and melancholy look plastered on his face. It’s a painting by Thomas Eakins, fittingly chosen to depict Professor William Stoner, the quiet protagonist of John Williams’ novel.
How many times I caught sight of the book on various shelves over the years, I have no idea; but it was enough times that Stoner came to occupy a place in that slightly nagging category of books: the heard of it, have a vague idea of it, but haven’t got down to reading it category. I was acutely aware, however, that Stoner carried the aura of an underrated classic. Strangely enough, though, I couldn’t have articulated why or how I came to know that.
After reading Charles J. Shields’ book about John Williams and his “perfect novel,” a potential explanation seems more clear. Despite Stoner’s obscurity over the decades, it’s the kind of novel that makes such a striking and lasting impression on its small crowd of readers that an electric buzz forms around the book. The echoes of adulation might be relatively faint, but they stretch far enough and persistently enough that, sooner or later, zealous readers will hear of it.
A few weeks ago, when I once again saw Stoner on the shelf, I finally read it. To my delight, my experience was commensurate with the praise that it’s so frequently given: that it’s a beautifully-written, masterfully-constructed, and strangely-compelling novel.
Indeed, it affected me enough that I eagerly read Willams’ first novel, Nothing But the Night, and then his last completed novel, Augustus.
Curious to know more about John Williams—who oversaw the creative writing program at the University of Denver, won a National Book Award, and was a staple at prestigious writing conferences—I happily discovered a recent biography. That book was Charles J. Shields’ The Man Who Wrote the Perfect Novel: John Williams, Stoner, and the Writing Life.
Though its principal subject doesn’t always make for a sympathetic character, Shields’ book offers an illuminating portrait of an novelist that was largely overlooked during his time but who has now risen to much greater prominence. (The book’s epilogue offer an illuminating chronology of Stoner’s gradual rise to fame.)
Shields’ book tackles Williams’ life and novels in chronological order, beginning with his humble beginnings in Wichita Falls, Texas, and finishing with his final illness-plagued months in Fayetteville, Arkansas, where he spent his final days reflecting on the joyful and sour times of a long and bumpy career.
Most readers, I think, upon the close of this book, would agree that Williams can be a difficult character to get inside. He was, on the one hand, a reasonably dedicated teacher who would steer students in the right direction or offer a listening ear. On the other hand, he could be a lackluster father and husband (he married four times), and let out totally callous remarks. He seems to have encompassed some consistently diametrical characteristics.
Many of these behaviors become most apparent in the latter part of Williams’ career—a career filled with accomplishment but not popularity or wide acclaim. (It was in this context that a number of Williams’ petty barbs and behaviors came out, exacerbated at times by his heavy drinking.)
Early on in this book, however, Shields writes at some length about another dual-natured aspect to Williams. When he was nine years old, his mother informed him that the man in the home was his stepfather (not his father), and that George Rae was his stepsister (not full sister). Not surprisingly, this profoundly affected John as he sought to understand his identity.
Shields divulges an added layer of insight here, in that one of Williams’ favorite stories as a young boy was A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens’ novel featuring a character who comes to embody two different lives. The fact that Williams, at this very young age, would gravitate so strongly to this complex story is telling. Indeed, he not only took it to heart but also wrote a paper on it, earning the high praise of his middle school teacher.
Between this event and his youthful propensity for reading, it’s perhaps no great shock that Williams would become a professor and author. But as a young boy from a poor family in northern Texas, a path in higher education was hardly predestined.
In fact, it wasn’t until after serving in World War II and the break up of a youthful marriage that Williams decided to re-enroll in college. It was a decision partly precipitated by the relationship he formed with Alan Swallow, an ardent publisher of a small press who also taught at the University of Denver, where Williams would take up his studies. Finding the academic life conducive, Williams eventually entered the University of Missouri as a Ph.D student. From there, it was back to the University of Denver—this time as a professor—where he wound up teaching for decades as he pursued his literary ambitions.
Part of the joy in reading Shield’s biography is its unvarnished look at this intelligent, multi-faceted man who was frequently a stubborn and difficult personality. Shields neither sugarcoats Williams’ failings nor magnifies his achievements. From his family life to his interactions with fellow professors, we see a man frequently at odds with his surroundings, unable to smoothly get along with others (though he did have his share of friends and could at times come across very well).
Another pleasure of the book comes from its nuggets about the literary and publishing world. As just one example, Williams was irritated to no end when his second novel, Butcher’s Crossing, was published and branded as a “western.” Unlike many other occasions in Williams’ life, here it is quite easy to be sympathetic. From the novel’s inception, Butcher’s Crossing was conceived as offering a counter to the endless fictional narratives idealizing the West and frontier life. It was a labor of love that took four years of effort. Understandably, then, Williams was immensely annoyed over how the book was marketed and came to be perceived.
Stoner, the book Williams is most known for today, was also not received in the way Williams desired, though not due to issues of branding. Instead, the novel simply failed to gain much attention. It was only “lightly reviewed” and its sales were dismal. Perhaps just as grating to Williams was the fact that his colleagues in the English department didn’t make any fanfare about it—indeed many made no remark at all.
The novel’s status, however, would change considerably in the decades to come, and it’s this burgeoning afterlife of Stoner that forms the main inspiration for Shields’ book. Whether or not one has read Stoner, readers of this biography can enjoy the chance to explore an American literary figure who flew under the radar for so long.
Spectatio 