Nothing Gold Can Stay: A Memoir by Walter Sullivan (deceased)

By Walter Sullivan (deceased)

  In his enduring fiction and feedback, Walter Sullivan has invited readers to percentage the innovations of a penetrating, modern intellect. Now he turns his pen on his personal lifestyles to forge a stirring memoir that fondly recounts the lifetime of the brain.             From early life in Nineteen Twenties Nashville, the place his father died 3 months after he used to be born, to the halls of Vanderbilt collage, the place he taught artistic writing for greater than fifty years, Sullivan recollects key episodes in his life—often pausing to examine why a few stories of possible trivial occasions persist whereas others, likely extra vital, have pale from view.  As witness to a chain of social and cultural moments, Sullivan passes on his sharp observations approximately melancholy and struggle, southern renascence and civil rights. He additionally contains energetic anecdotes and sharp personality sketches, with personalities starting from his grandmother “Chigger” and Sally Fudge—who had lived throughout the Civil conflict and was once acknowledged to wait the funerals of individuals she didn’t know—to Mrs. Gertrude Vanderbilt, with whose eccentricities he occasionally needed to contend. Readers will find a treasure trove of insights, as Sullivan’s perspectives of educational existence are complemented by way of remembrances of vital writers: John Crowe Ransom, Robert Lowell, Eudora Welty, Robert Penn Warren, James Dickey, Flannery O’Connor, and a number of others, mixing the formal and generic in a method befitting a lingering southernness. He additionally recollects his surprise at being branded a racist through Kingsley Amis and addresses problems with race in academia and southern culture. Throughout his profession, he sees himself as a dad or mum of misplaced factors, carrying on with to educate an appreciation of literature within the face of encroaching post-structuralism and political correctness.             Laced with humor whereas preserving a profound seriousness approximately what rather concerns in lifestyles, not anything Gold Can remain is a full of life narrative of a lifestyles good lived that may appeal any reader attracted to American society in the course of and after the nice melancholy. Graced with emotional coherence completed through a virtually ironic tone that's sustained from first sentence to final, it's a ebook within which a uncommon author considers his world—and his personal mortality—and leaves us richer for it.

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It seems strange to me now that we could have known as much as we did about the fighting in France, the bombing of England, the preparations for war that were being made in our own country and still think of ourselves as 44 Nothing Gold Can Stay separate from all of it. Or rather, not think, but simply drift along entranced by our own callow emotions. I read the newspapers that told of battles and of death and destruction, but like most of my contemporaries, in my imagination, war was still what I had seen in films, heroic action, the deaths of others, but never your own death, never the pain that might precede it.

We had bicycles, and we were free to roam to Shelby Park and sometimes to Mr. Pickett’s farm, which was on Neely’s Bend Road near Madison. Mr. Pickett was our scoutmaster, a bachelor who lived with his parents in a spacious old house on what I now suppose was a small farm, but it seemed large to us, as well as almost inexhaustibly interesting. Unlike Uncle Ben’s farms at Decherd, there was no pigpen here, but there were cows and a big garden and a large cornfield. Best of all, the Pickett farm bordered the Cumberland River, and there were flat-bottomed boats that we could take across the river.

Mr. Lipscomb punished both of the miscreants. They had to lean over and get swatted with a paddle bigger than the one Mr. Sweeney used on hands. They said this was a painful experience, and they had their revenge on me for having missed it. A day or two later, when school was out and we were crossing Gallatin Pike, they began to yell at Duke. ” they said. “Hey, Duke! ” It was true. I was still wearing my hat, and I escaped because Duke couldn’t stop directing traffic to chase me. At first it seemed to me that I faced a dilemma.

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