Wading Through Norman Maclean's River

Why I'll Probably Re-Read This Book

Years ago (we’re talking last century!) a friend recommended a novel written by E. Annie Proulx called The Shipping News. I will always read a book when a friend I respect recommends it, and I did read this one. But I admit, it was a bit of a slog. I remember wondering more than once why I continued reading it. But all I could think was, a friend I respect recommended it. So I soldiered on. Eventually I finished the book. 

 

But here’s the weird thing. By the time I reached the end of the novel, I was oddly moved. I remember thinking, as if it had never occurred to me the entire time I was reading, “Ohhh . . . it’s a love story.” 

I had a similar experience when I finished A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean, though for a different reason. It’s the oddest book I’ve ever read in that not only does it have no chapter breaks, it literally has no breaks at all. You know how some novels separate sections within a chapter by an extra space? So if you’re reading a long chapter but aren’t able to complete it in one sitting, you may reach that internal break knowing it’s a logical place to pause, even if you’re not finished with that chapter? That’s what I mean by no breaks at all, let alone no chapter breaks. The entire book is literally only one chapter. I’ve never experienced anything like that while reading. 

In that regard, A River Runs Through It is probably a book that should be read in one sitting. Since for a variety of reasons that scenario is not realistic for me, I ended up taking a few weeks to finish the book. My habit of penciling in the spot where I’d stopped reading and then resuming the next day was trickier in this book since there are neither section nor chapter breaks: consequently, I’d usually end up re-reading a paragraph or two before the spot I’d marked in order to re-capture the thread. 

Also, unlike other novels, A River Runs Through It, though referred to as a novella, is, in fact, autobiographical. In that regard, the book lacks the traditional narrative pattern of a novel: there’s no clear beginning-middle-end plot line, no distinct rising action/climax/falling action/denouement that you get when reading a novel. So, there’s a bit of a mismatch between the words on the page (autobiographical) and the expectations of the reader (fictional). At least, there was for me.

In a nutshell, here’s the book: 

Setting: Montana. 

Main Characters: the author himself, his preacher father, his alcoholic brother

Minor Characters: his brother’s wife, his brother’s brother-in-law 

Key Events: fly fishing in one particular river 

Minor Events: Rather than me summarizing, here's a helpful synopsis.

And that pretty much sums it up. There’s not much tension—as mentioned above, no dramatic rising action, at least, not until literally the last few pages. With the exception of getting his brother out of jail once, there’s really not much drama. And the most dramatic part of the story is literally not even discussed. Rather, it’s mentioned in passing. Almost as an afterthought. 

Re-reading my own description, I have to say, it’s not really a book that’s easy to recommend. 

And yet…I do. And I will read it again. Much like my experience reading The Shipping News—reading a book I wasn’t quite getting—I got to the end of A River Runs Through It and had a similar reaction. “Ohhh . . . it’s a love story.” 

But, it's also the writing. The prose. At times funny, at other times breathtakingly lovely. The author hints at a tragedy but doesn’t dwell on it. It’s truly the most understated event in the book. Yet it’s the saddest. Have I mentioned the incredible details about fly fishing? Even if you know nothing about this sport, the author has you baited and hooked. These three men (father and sons) were masterful fishermen. But the best among them was the author's brother. The final pages are of the author and his elderly father watching from the riverbank as the brother battled a monster trout. Ordinary event. Extraordinary prose. 

A River Runs Through It is a book that should be read more than once. Hopefully, my next read will be in one sitting.

Who is Entitled to Privacy?

I've been thinking about death and fame in the aftermath of another celebrity's passing. Though her family has requested privacy, I'm sure we'll start to hear more about the cause of Diane Keaton's death soon. Rumors of her declining health are already beginning to trickle out. 

Does knowing how someone died matter? Whenever a well-known figure dies and the family requests privacy, I find myself struggling with this question. If a person down the street, who I may know by name but am otherwise not involved with personally, suddenly dies, I may feel sadness or empathy, but I'm certainly not entitled to the details of their passing. 

But when a celebrity suddenly dies? The word "entitled" may be too strong, but there is a sense that loss of privacy comes with the territory. This is a person who long ago made a kind of bargain with fame. The benefits of fame may be many, but the costs are often high. One of the costs is privacy. And when a celebrity's cause of death isn't disclosed, questions and speculations are inevitable. 

Anyway, whatever the cause, it's looking more and more as if she had a complicated end. 

May she rest in peace.

****

Diane Keaton January 5, 1946 - October 11, 2025

Taking a Moment to Personify Death

Out of respect for the passing of Robert Redford, Perry and I watched an old episode of Twilight Zone (Season 3, Episode 16) called "Nothing in the Dark," in which Redford was cast as the personification of Death. It first aired in January of 1962. 

Even though I knew ahead of time who he was and what he represented, I watched the story unfold with a bit of anxiety. I wasn't sure how the elderly woman—who for years had been living her life in seclusion behind locked doors, terrified of meeting Death in person—would react when she finally recognized who she had invited inside her house. 

If someone reading this post hasn't watched the episode (we hadn't, so it was new to us), I won't go into many details. But I did want to comment on one aspect of Redford's character (named Harold Beldon). Though his character was kind, gentle, even vulnerable, knowing who he was and why he was there, I kept waiting for him to become evil or bad. Like a demon in disguise. 

When that never happened, when, like a gentleman, he offered the woman his arm for her to take as he escorted her out the door, I realized I was conflating two things unfairly: death and demons. But this episode seems to be suggesting that death, in and of itself, is not evil. Death did not enter her house to hurt her. He entered to escort her to the next life.

I won't bother to explore spiritual or Biblical questions about the afterlife, or faith in God, or sin or hell. Rather, I prefer to stay focused on what this one little 30-minute Twilight Zone episode seemed to be exploring: Death seems terrifying to those of us who are clinging desperately to this life, breathing in and out and living day to day. But what if it's not so terrifying? What if it's simply just the next step?

Anyway, not that I don't want to keep on breathing and living day to day. But these are the thoughts that came to mind this morning. And I was reminded of this lovely poem by Emily Dickinson, who also took a moment to personify Death.

Reflections on the Craft of Teaching Writing

"Skyrocketing tuition has turned students into paying customers 

who expect to be praised, not challenged.”

~Solveig Lucia Gold and Joshua T. Katz 

Some years ago, I was on the community college campus where I taught, walking to the library or something. I remember stopping briefly to say hi to a student I knew. Just as I started to walk away, another student approached me, and after apologizing for interrupting, introduced herself as a former student. 

"You probably don't remember me," she began (I didn't), "but I took your English 100 class years ago. I just wanted to thank you. You kicked our butts." 

I remember laughing out loud and thanking her for saying hello. 

Best compliment I've ever received. 

I taught English Composition (both transfer and non-transfer level) as an adjunct professor for a little over 20 years at a local community college. Prior to that, I taught Grammar and Composition for about 10 years to a combined 7th and 8th grade class at a private Christian school in Escondido. 

That adds up to maybe a little over 30 years of my life devoted to the craft of teaching writing. During those years, it's safe to say I read and commented on every submitted paper, both rough drafts and final submissions. 

It didn't hurt that in both scenarios I was a part-time instructor, nor that in both scenarios, class size was relatively small compared to most public schools. But when it comes to teaching writing, I honestly don't know any shortcut. 

Reading student papers, providing personal, concrete, substantial feedback, designing reasonably clear rubrics for grading, is time consuming. But to me, it’s the only way students can learn the craft of writing. I don’t know how full-time teachers or professors do it. 

At the college level, I gave out quite lot of Ds and Fs, particularly at the beginning of each semester. Most students learn pretty quickly what they can and can’t get away with and adjust accordingly or drop the class. 

As semesters progressed, the grades were mostly Cs. This grade often meant the paper was rote, unimaginative, repetitive, or otherwise lacking in originality and freshness. Lower grades reflected more glaring problems having to do with structure, or sentence level issues, or failure to meet the basic requirements of the assignment. 

A and B papers were rare, but you knew them when you saw them. You could hear the writer’s voice. You knew they’d been well-taught even before they arrived in your classroom. As writers, they could only get better from this point forward. Teaching at the college level, you’d think this should be the rule rather than the exception. Alas . . . 

As for those D and F papers, I often allowed students to re-submit failing papers, as long as they included for final grading all previous drafts and preparatory notes (from what I understand, not all professors do this). If the re-submitted paper looked essentially the same, the grade stayed the same. On the other hand, if a student was willing to work with me, listen to my comments, demonstrate integrity in the effort of the rewriting task, then I felt obligated to respect the effort and adjust my grades accordingly. 

In my way of thinking, this is what writers do. It's hard work, writing. “You kicked our butts.” 

I read articles like the one I read in the Wall Street Journal (link below), and I worry about what's going on in today's classrooms. I worry about kids in grade school, junior high, college, kids raised in a world of technology, immersed in an academic environment of easy access to information and the reductive influence of artificial intelligence. 

I worry about students who may end up in schools like those described in the article below, where instructors don’t seem to have the time or incentive to insist students master a craft that seems to be at risk of vanishing. 

And yes. I worry about children I know. Some still too young for the classroom. My children’s children.

I hope it's not too late to turn this ship around.

***

America Needs Tough Grading, by Solveig Lucia Gold and Joshua T. Katz (September 2, 2025, Wall Street Journal)

A Poem about Passings

Passings

how sad

the passing of time

and with it

the passing of those

we love 

eem/September 2022