Sometimes a Great Notion Read Free

would be the stuff people would look back at, a century or two from now, when they wanted to understand our time.
    In his own case, I think he was wrong. Because Kesey also had an obsession with something he called entropy at times; at other times he called it madness; then again he’d say it was emptiness. And what he writes disturbs anyone who reads it. He is not the writer who sets out to capture and catalogue our culture’s manners and morals, though that task occurs in his work. He is not the writer who seeks to focus on our interior hells and who chucks society while he pursues the demons of the individual, though such moments also occur in his books. He is that old-fashioned kind of writer, the moral critic, the prophet without a prophecy, a person who is cut from that moth-eaten old bolt of wool we’d forgotten about up in the attic, the stuff Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, to name two, were cut from. He asks questions and can’t give us answers. But he has these bothersome questions, the main one being: what are we going to do about this emptiness, this lack of dreams, ambitions, visions? We no longer have promises to keep, miles to go before we sleep, so do we just content ourselves with meeting the mortgage payments on this continental empire we seem to have inherited?
    In Kesey’s books people are afraid, afraid of this emptiness, and all the dope and merry pranks cannot disguise this fact. In Demon Box , he spells out the condition of our condition: “I allowed that it could be a possibility. ‘But I don’t think it’s the people I’m fascinated by so much as the puzzle. Like what is crazy? What’s making all these people go there? I mean, what an interesting notion this metaphor of yours is, if I’ve got it right—that modern civilization’s angst is mechanical first and mental second?’ ‘Not angst, ’ he corrected. ‘Fear. Of emptiness.
    Since the Industrial Revolution, civilization is increasingly afraid of running empty.’ ”
    There is an image in Sometimes a Great Notion of a buck deer swept out to sea, found by a fishing boat, and hauled aboard. The deer lies on the bottom of the small craft, almost catatonic with terror. When the boat nears shore, the deer jumps and swims back out to sea, still terrified, swims to . . . well, to certain death? A new future? Kesey can’t tell us, he can just ask. In Sometimes a Great Notion, he asks what kind of future is possible when we have run out of country and are down to felling the last trees. The choice presented is between a brutal individualism that we all secretly love, but can no longer afford, and a dreary collectivism that stills our heart when we even think about it. What do we do when we know but cannot act, see but cannot move?
    Jesus, sometimes this feeling gets so bad we need a little war just to perk ourselves up. In Sometimes a Great Notion the head of the hell-for-leather Stamper clan is old Henry, an eighty-year-old man who refuses to give in. He is the best part of ourselves and the worst part of ourselves. He is our war against the land, our mindless pursuit of the work at hand so that we do not have to wonder why we are doing this work.
    Henry Stamper says:
    The trucks! The cats! The yarders! I say more power to ’em. Booger these peckerwoods always talkin’ about the good old days. Let me tell you there weren’t nothin’ good about the good old days but for free Indian nooky. An’ that was all. Far as workin’, loggin’ , it was bust your bleedin’ ass from dark to dark an’ maybe you fall three trees. Three trees! An’ any snotnosed kid nowadays could lop all three of ’em over in half an hour with a Homelite. No sir. Good old days the booger! The good old days didn’t hardly make a dent in the shade. If you went to cut you a piece you can see out in these goddam hills you better get out there with the best thing man can make. Listen: Evenwrite an’ all his crap about automation . . . he talk like you gotta go easy on