By Heart is a series in which authors share and discuss their all-time favorite passages in literature.
A book's pleasure is strangely contingent upon one's context. A paragraph scanned on the subway and swept aside with a yawn can thrill you on the sofa later that same day. Or a cherished novel, revisited years later, can seem to have grown cold, the fire gone out of its prose. Even meaning can morph and shift: That book you loved in college, the one about youthful passion and the road ahead, seems later about the older, more mature characters you overlooked on the first read.
Then there are the books you live with—that seem to grow in step with you, that take on new layers of complexity as one's own world broadens with time. This is Anthony Marra's relationship to Jesus' Son, Denis Johnson's classic collection of half-dreamed junky epistles. As a younger man, the closing sentence of "Car Crash While Hitchhiking" taught Marra to shun Proustian excess for gut-punching brevity. Today, it seems to him a different sort of revelation.
Anthony Marra is a Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University. His debut novel, A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, released today, revolves around a hospital in Chechnya as the remote nation is torn by brutal war twice in 10 years. In 2012, Marra was awarded a Whiting Writers' Award for emerging writers.
Anthony Marra: "Car Crash While Hitchhiking," the first piece in Denis Johnson's legendary Jesus' Son, contains so many quotable lines the entire story could find its way into Bartlett's. It's a brief story—eight and a half wide-margined, 14-point font pages in my edition—but it contains more stunning images, more high and low notes, than any eight and a half pages I've read before or since.
It begins with a series of ellipses: "A salesman who shared his liquor and steered while sleeping...A Cherokee filled with bourbon...A VW no more than a bubble of hashish fumes, captained by a college student...And a family from Marshalltown who head-onned and killed forever a man driving west out of Bethany, Missouri..." At the end of the trail of periods is our narrator, Fuckhead, an itinerant clairvoyant busy turning his liver into a Superfund site as he searches for some upward path from spiritual destitution. The story he tells is straightfoward. He is waiting by the side of the road in the rain when the family from Marshalltown picks him up. "You are the ones," he thinks as he climbs into the backseat of their car, knowing through drug and alcohol-enhanced powers of prophecy that they will get in a car crash. Sure enough, they quickly get into an accident that leaves Fuckhead to wander through the wreckage with an unscathed baby.
Of the many lines I love in this story, it is the last line—"And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you"—that I think back to most often. There are more poignant moments in the story (such as when the wife of the driver realizes he is dead: "She shrieked as I imagined an eagle would shriek. It felt wonderful to be alive to hear it! I've gone looking for that feeling everywhere"). But it is the last line, when Fuckhead addresses the reader directly, that has stayed with me because more than any other line I can think of, its meaning has repeatedly changed as I have changed over the years.