All the doors and windows of the big house were open, but there were no signs of life, not even a barking dog. He went around the side of the house to the pool and saw that the Levys had only recently left.
Glasses and bottles and dishes of nuts were on a table at the deep end, where there was a bathhouse or gazebo, hung with Japanese lanterns. After swimming the pool, he got himself a glass and poured a drink. It was his fourth or fifth drink, and he had swum nearly half the length of the Lucinda River.
He felt tired, clean, and pleased at that moment to be alone, pleased with everything. It would storm. The stand of cumulus cloud—that city—had risen and darkened, and while he sat there, he heard thunder. The de Havilland trainer was still circling overhead, and it seemed to Ned that he could almost hear the pilot laugh with pleasure in the afternoon; but when there was another peal of thunder, he took off for home.
A train whistle blew, and he wondered what time it had gotten to be. He thought of the station where, at that hour, a waiter, his tuxedo concealed by a raincoat, a dwarf with some flowers wrapped in newspaper, and a woman who had been crying would be waiting for the local.
From the crown of an oak at his back, there was a fine noise of rushing water, as if a spigot there had been turned on.
Then the noise of fountains came from the crowns of all the tall trees. Why did he love storms? What was the meaning of his excitement when the front door sprang open and the rain wind fled rudely up the stairs?
Why had the simple task of shutting the windows of an old house seemed fitting and urgent? Why did the first watery notes of a storm wind have for him the unmistakable sound of good news, cheer, glad tidings? There was an explosion, a smell of cordite, and rain lashed the Japanese lanterns that Mrs.
Levy had bought in Kyoto the year before last, or was it the year before that? The rain had cooled the air and he shivered. The force of the wind had stripped a maple of its red and yellow leaves and scattered them over the grass and the water.
Since it was midsummer, the tree must be blighted, and yet he felt a sadness at this sign of autumn. Had the Pasterns sold their horses or gone away for the summer and put them out to board? He seemed to remember having heard something about the Pasterns and their horses, but the memory was unclear.
This breach in his chain of water disappointed him absurdly, and he felt like an explorer who is seeking a torrential headwater and finds a dead stream. He was disappointed and mystified. It was common enough to go away for the summer, but people never drained their pools. The Welchers had definitely gone away. The pool furniture was folded, stacked, and covered with a tarpaulin. The bathhouse was locked.
When had he last heard from the Welchers—when, that is, had he and Lucinda last regretted an invitation to dine with them? It seemed only a week or so ago. Was his memory failing, or had he so disciplined it in the repression of unpleasant facts that he had damaged his sense of the truth? In the distance he heard the sound of a tennis game.
This cheered him, cleared away all his apprehensions, and let him regard the overcast sky and the cold air with indifference. This was the day that Neddy Merrill swam across the county. That was the day! He started off then for his most difficult portage. Had you gone for a Sunday-afternoon ride that day, you might have seen him, close to naked, standing on the shoulder of Route , waiting for a chance to cross.
You might have wondered if he was the victim of foul play, or had his car broken down, or was he merely a fool? Standing barefoot in the deposits of the highway beer cans, rags, and blowout patches, exposed to all kinds of ridicule, he seemed pitiful. He had known when he started that this was a part of his journey—it had been on his imaginary maps—but, confronted with the lines of traffic worming through the summery light, he found himself unprepared.
He was laughed at, jeered at, a beer can was thrown at him, and he had no dignity or humor to bring to the situation. He had signed nothing, vowed nothing, pledged nothing—not even to himself. Why, believing as he did that all human obduracy was susceptible to common sense, was he unable to turn back? Why was he determined to complete his journey, even if it meant putting his life in danger? At what point had this prank, this joke, this piece of horseplay become serious?
In the space of an hour, more or less, he had covered a distance that made his return impossible. An old man, tooling down the highway at fifteen miles an hour, let him get to the middle of the road, where there was a grass divider. Here he was exposed to the ridicule of the northbound traffic, but after ten or fifteen minutes he was able to cross. From here he had only a short walk to the Recreation Center at the edge of the village of Lancaster, where there were some handball courts and a public pool.
It stank of chlorine and looked to him like a sink. A pair of lifeguards in a pair of towers blew police whistles at what seemed to be regular intervals, and abused the swimmers through a public-address system.
He dove, scowling with distaste, into the chlorine, and had to swim with his head above water to avoid collisions, but even so he was bumped into, splashed, and jostled. They had no way of pursuing him, and he went through the reek of sun-tan oil and chlorine, out through the hurricane fence and past the handball courts. Crossing the road, he entered the wooded part of the Halloran estate. The woods were not cleared, and the footing was treacherous and difficult, until he reached the lawn and the clipped beech hedge that encircled the pool.
By March the school was quiet again. The new history teacher taught dates. Everyone carefully forgot about Laura Driscoll. John Cheever stands on the platform of a railway station.
While giving his reasons for leaving school, Mr. I was left outside and there was no spring. I did not want to go in again. I would not have gone in again for anything. I was sorry, but I was not sorry over the fact that I had gone out. I was sorry that the outside and the inside could not have been open to one another.
I was sorry that there were roofs on the classrooms and trousers on the legs of the instructors to insulate their contacts.
I was not sorry that I had left school. I was sorry that I left for the reasons that I did. Maybe its walls felt too suffocating. I am sure when Mr. If you did the opposite like Laura Driscoll or Miss Jean Brodie you were bound to be fired from school.
Leaving because you are angry and frustrated is different. It is not a good thing to do. It is bad for everyone. The headmaster and faculty were doing what they were supposed to do.
It was just a preparatory school trying to please the colleges. A school that was doing everything the colleges asked it to do. It was not the fault of the school at all. It was the fault of the system—the non-educational system, the college-preparatory system. That was what made the school so useless. I am sure your wise and discerning mind will agree per cent with what he writes. We are swimming in prosperity and our President is the best president in the world. We have larger apples and better cotton and faster and more beautiful machines.
This makes us the greatest country in the world. Unemployment is a myth. Dissatisfaction is a fable. In preparatory school America is beautiful. It is the gem of the ocean and it is too bad. It is bad because people believe it all. Because they become indifferent. Because they marry and reproduce and vote and they know nothing. Because the tempered newspaper keeps its eyes ceilingwards and does not see the dirty floor.
Because all they know is the tempered newspaper. Read and enjoy and energize your grey cells. People call me Nutty. View all 12 comments. Oct 14, Vit Babenco rated it it was amazing. John Cheever is an unarguable master of short stories and an incomparable singer of suburbs.
The Swimmer is probably his best, my favourable and one of the best ever. In order to write a review I reread it today for the fourth time. Looking overhead he saw that the stars had come out, but why should he seem to see Andromeda, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia? What had become of the constellations of midsummer? He began to cry.
View all 3 comments. May 12, Thomas rated it liked it Shelves: read-for-college. I agree with the central message of this short story, I just found its delivery boring. Yes, perpetual suburbia and unfulfilling wealth and meaningless pleasantries can take a toll on one's health. John Cheever portrays the dullness of Neddy Merrill's life as he swims throughout the story. But, by doing so with no change of pace, Cheever makes his own story dull, delivering a solid piece of symbolism and a lackluster work of writing.
Another story that satisfies the mind but fails to reach the h I agree with the central message of this short story, I just found its delivery boring. Another story that satisfies the mind but fails to reach the heart.
View 2 comments. Sep 15, Vivian rated it really liked it Shelves: odyssey , library. A twisted little tale of heartache. Powerful, as all good short stories should be, this is a wonderful ride from the halcyon days of endless summer through autumn and winter. I can taste the gin and tonic on my lips, so perfect a summer drink that fades from glory in the crispness of chillier days.
In many ways this reminded me of The Great Gatsby. View all 7 comments. Aug 13, Hannah rated it it was amazing. Cheever wrote and published the Swimmer when alcohol had started to take over his life, which ultimately led to the destruction of many personal and professional relationships.
He was barely functioning, suicidal, made drunken scenes in public. Eventually, he checked himself into rehab and stayed sober through AA. I really enjoyed this short story and the eloquence and humor with which Cheever described the characters.
At the beginning I, of course, trusted Neddy, the narrator, with his descript Cheever wrote and published the Swimmer when alcohol had started to take over his life, which ultimately led to the destruction of many personal and professional relationships.
At the beginning I, of course, trusted Neddy, the narrator, with his description of his neighbors and suburbia. It was only at the end of Neddy's visit at the Biswanger's that I realized he must be an unreliable narrator, and that his social standing, as well as his life, had possibly changed. The behavior of Mrs Biswanger and the bartender emphasize this. The reader, however, starts to ponder whether she might be talking about Neddy.
This suspicion is strengthened when Neddy arrives at his ex-mistress' house and she tells him that she won't lend him anymore money. Neddy's physical strength is fading and he eventually makes it to his own house. He finds the door locked and the house dark and fallen into disrepair, yet he still seems confused.
It is only when he looks through the windows and sees his house empty that he realizes that his life must have changed for the worse. By this time the reader has fully grasped the sad truth of Neddy's life and drawn possible parallels to Cheever's life and alcoholism. Shelves: waste-of-trees , he-wrote-it , duped-by-the-blurb , short-stories. For a long while, the reader might very well assume Neddy is just an oddball or drunk.
His style is clear and straightforward, and he nicely set each scene. This no doubt was purposeful as he wanted the focus to be on each pool. Final verdict: a limp short story entirely worth skipping. Oct 25, Steven Godin rated it it was amazing Shelves: america-canada , short-stories.
There are short stories and there are very short stories, a story that only seems to last a matter of a few minutes. How can a story really be covered in next to no time?
Pure gold in under 20 pages. May 26, Mafalda added it. Read for class. Oct 18, Dave Schaafsma rated it it was amazing Shelves: fictionth-century , short-stories. I read all his Collected Stories at one point, but saw on Hoopla I could hear Cheever himself read his masterpiece, so listened right away. Cheever was a chronicler of the suburbs, of suburban alienation and alcohol and despair. That is what you can still see when you fly over plenty of suburbs in this country: swimming pools, one symbol of Having Made It.
Well-cleaned, shimmering, but typically empty. This absurd stunt is something the martini crowd might find mildly amusing. That Ned, what a character. And he thinks of himself as special, as original.
Apr 23, A. Dawes rated it it was amazing Shelves: short-stories. A superb story in the abstract or surreal world. A man 'swims' home from a friend's pool party, by hopping into suburban pools and doing laps on the way home. His superficial surface identity of happiness is gradually washed away. View all 11 comments. Aug 25, Annelies rated it really liked it Shelves: non-contemporary-american , modern-classics.
Ever since I read Roger Deakin's 'Waterlog' I wanted to read 'the swimmer' as Deakin mentions it as a great inspiration for his Waterlog. Waterlog is sublime, what I missed in Cheever's 'the swimmer'. This is not to say that I find 'the swimmer' one of Cheevers better stories. Cheever has the New York high-society and them of the surrounding areas often as subject.
This is also here the case. It's rather a discripture of swimming trough their pools than swimming in nature's rivers that is the su Ever since I read Roger Deakin's 'Waterlog' I wanted to read 'the swimmer' as Deakin mentions it as a great inspiration for his Waterlog.
It's rather a discripture of swimming trough their pools than swimming in nature's rivers that is the subject here. As for the rating I cannot make out a 3 or a 4 star.
As seen from Cheevers point of writing I rather give it a 4. Dec 25, Pickle. This will linger - sucks you down with dark undercurrents involving class, the meaning of leisure,sport and determination, isolation in crowds, vague past life acquaintances ordered by the state of their pools, banalities of the everyday, humiliation ageing and deterioration, alcohol.
A great escape, also preferencing wet o This will linger - sucks you down with dark undercurrents involving class, the meaning of leisure,sport and determination, isolation in crowds, vague past life acquaintances ordered by the state of their pools, banalities of the everyday, humiliation ageing and deterioration, alcohol.
A great escape, also preferencing wet over dry land: also my own young experiences of fenland dyke swimming, the magical immersion of being lower than the earth - and utterly a part of it. Aug 25, Bill rated it liked it. A pretty good little short audio. I have heard of Cheever before, but never thought to read listen any of his stuff until I ran across this one on sale. Glad I picked it up. The premise was very good and the story was well executed.
Ned is not running away from his problems. In and out of the water, over hedges, thru cocktail parties, across the freeway and into the approaching storm. He just wants to get back to his family. One swimming pool at a time. I would be inte A pretty good little short audio. I would be interested to read a longer work from this author. I had to read this after seeing the film starring Burt Lancaster. John Cheever gives us the 'flipside' of the American dream - asking what is to be done when the angel of capatalism points flaming sword in the direction of banishment, out of the garden of 'upper-middle-classdom'.
The idea of 'swimming' back home is wonderful after suspension of disbelief: one could argue that the swimmer, Ned Merrill, has lived as particulate solution in this suspension. As Ned swims his way home through the poo I had to read this after seeing the film starring Burt Lancaster. As Ned swims his way home through the pools of his neighbors the horrific beauty of a 'sun globe' world that has been smashed is now clear; and Ned must walk home with bare feet bleeding.
Jan 19, Eliza rated it liked it Shelves: fiction , average , 3-stars , short-story , reviewed. This had some great imagery and quotes! Otherwise, the story was pretty bland, unfortunately. Nov 07, Yasaman rated it it was amazing Shelves: 20th-cent-lit. Depending on what you've expected out of your fancy little invention - called your life - you're affected by your experience. And here's the nasty little huge? There is a feeling of a more act- ive version of "Silent Snow, Sec- cret Snow.
Post a Comment. Friday, May 18, The Swimmer. This selection is used by permission. To photocopy and distribute this selection for classroom use, please contact the Copyright Clearance Center. Labels: John Cheever. Email This BlogThis! May 21, at AM Bob Stauffer said
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