Author’s note: “Weekend Short” is a weekly profile of a short story. Additional analysis by the readership is encouraged in the comments section.
Welcome to the waning hours of the weekend!
Apologies for the delay. My grandpa’s funeral occurred this past week, and it wasn’t until this afternoon that writing held any interest.
Today’s story is Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral.” Published in 1983, it is undoubtedly modern in its sensibilities — reflected in the narrator’s indolence and selfishness. The plot is simple: A blind man, for whom the narrator’s wife worked for a time and who has since corresponded with her for years, visits the married couple’s home. The narrator is uneasy, struggling with envy while harboring disgust at the blind man’s condition.
You can read “Cathedral” here.
Assuming you’ve finished the story, let’s consider. Reading through, I realized I myself have shared the narrator’s odious view concerning the handicapped — albeit I was a kindergartner.
Eric was a classmate. He was born with a heart condition that made him weak and frail; he had thick glasses and a runny nose; he was ugly and mean. Worse, he was allowed liberties that none of the other kids were granted. I hated him. I hated how the teachers gave him unearned attention. I hated how adults in sports would go easy on him. I hated how he lorded his being six years old over us when the rest of us were five — to kindergartners, a few months of seniority is a status one cannot overcome through alternative merit. From the way he held pencils (with all five fingers) to the way his awkward gait (lurching), his presence was repugnant. I resented his existence; he was “wrong” to a five-year-old’s sensibilities.
My spitefulness was so intense that I remember opting against taking communion one night at church, because I knew I “harbored hatred in my heart” — the black mass of a child’s emotions runs far ahead of his physical stature, it must be said.
Eric died at the age of 24 after years of living in hospital rooms. I can only be ashamed at the animus I held for him when we were young. There is no lower thing than to despise those whose bodies already reject them.
When reading the narrator’s thoughts, we can see my childish prejudice lurk behind the eyes of a grown man. He’s indiscriminate, offended by his wife’s correction and former lovers; by the blind man’s touch; by his own inability to describe beautiful things. Our narrator is a degenerate materialist — drunk, stoned, and stupid. The events of the story wash over him as he stews in discontent. It takes a blind man to show him “something” — a word repeated 28 times in the story.
Carver describes the uncharity of the effortlessly whole and hale so well, it sickens the soul.
Speaking of everyone looking for something, here’s Pomplamoose’s mashup of “Sweet Dreams” by Eurythmics and “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes:
Author’s note: If there’s a short story you’d like to see discussed in the coming weeks, please send your suggestion to label@nationalreview.com.