ENGL 4310

The thing I couldn’t get past in That Tree was the unusual point of view. (It almost seems like a ridiculously redundant thing to fixate on, no?) But especially after class on Tuesday, I couldn’t help but wonder what Porter intended for us to take from knowing the story we’re hearing is being told to another man in a bar. We are essentially taking the place of the eavesdropper. (Again, wit the eavesdropping, Chelsea? Have you no respect for personal privacy?) So does that alter the way we are supposed to view the story? Does that mean maybe we should think of the story as being embellished by camaraderie and a bit of alcohol?

There are indications that we, as readers, are overhearing a story in the first few pages, but the first solid omniscient thing we see happen is on page 68. This one-sentence paragraph follows an ellipsis trailing off from a reverie of the journalist defending Miriam to his second wife. It says, “They both jumped nervously at an explosion in the street, the backfire of an automobile.”

To me, this felt like, in film, the camera finally pulling away from the close-up shot of someone telling a story to reveal where the story-teller is and who he’s really with.

So another tired type of question: what’s the significance of the journalist being called “the journalist”? Frequently, Porter’s and O’Connor’s characters bare monikers that aren’t names so much as titles. The Misfit, the Grandmother, the Old Woman for O’Connor. Then we have He, the journalist, the unnamed couple in Rope, the main character in Theft… and that’s really all I can think of right now, but you get my point.

The characters that have no direct names are frequently referred to by what seems to be the most noteworthy thing about them. He is “He” because he isn’t treated like a person, and people have names. The Misfit doesn’t have a name, because the most defining or important thing about him is that he was/is a rogue. In That Tree, the journalist is not given the moniker of “the poet” or “the husband/boyfriend” or “the father”—he’s not even “the deadbeat” or “the cheating jerk.” He is the journalist.

So, I think we need to take not that he is the journalist and work on how that reflects on his character. We are hearing his story as it’s being reported to someone. Miriam (who is named) comes back to him because of his writing. He found a passion in writing, as we discover through his interaction with the sausage-man in the purple suit.

Anyway, I’ve wanted from where I started. So how do we perceive this story by knowing we’re hearing a story from a journalist who is telling his tale (the one we’re hearing) to a comrade? The journalist even acknowledges story-telling techniques. On page 78 we read:

“Now he had done it. He smoothed out the letter he had been turning in his hands and stroked it as if it were a cat. He said, ‘I’ve been working up to the climax all this time. you know, good old surprise technique. Now then, get ready.’

“Miriam had written to him after these five years, asking him to take her back.”

Even though we have a narrator, the journalist narrates, too. So what’s the deal? What’s the point? Why aren’t we just hearing it from the journalist directly? Why do we step out of him and have omniscience sometimes?

P.S. There is a really wonderful poem by Richard Siken entitled Boot Theory that you should read if you feel so inclined. It's really wonderful. At that link, it's the second to last poem on the page. Also, the typesetting is definitely not correct, but I can't find a copy on the internet that is, and I feel weird creating one with copywrite and such. But it's really a wonderful poem. (Did I say that yet?) It's not related to O'Connor or Porter; In that poem Richard Siken uses the line, "A man walks into a bar and says:"