Graves knew that from the beginning. It’s one reason his
book has endured, still in print as a hardback from Knopf (Random House) after
more than fifty years.
I celebrate this reality, but the aspect of Graves’s work
that has stayed with me is his voice, his presence on the page. I read a
blogger today who called that sonorous, supple voice “antiquated.” That River
book, he said, might not be published today.
What a reductive comment--reductive, not of the book, but of
the human spirit that animates publishing. Of our spirit as readers.
Great writing unrolls across the page according to a rhythm
that resounds in a place far older and deeper than the thin layer of dopamine
receptors activated by one’s most recent Twitter fix. Great writing allows time
for the meaning of the words to strike the heart. It allows time for thought that’s
contemplative, not reactive--the type of thought that forms character.
John’s writing does this. It also confirms that you are the
kind of person capable of both thought and character. If writing can have
gravitas, John’s does, as he did in person along with a leonine grace. My
husband says that everyone wanted to be John’s friend, and moreover, known to
be his friend. Being his friend felt like an accolade, a confirmation of some
profound quality in one’s own self.
That opportunity is now gone, but his voice rolls on. His voice is the river.
