Butcher’s Crossing is the most flawed, the most peculiar, and the most exuberant of Williams’ three mature novels (he disowned a first novel, which I have not read). Unlike the near-perfect tenors of the academic novel Stoner and Augustus, Butcher’s Crossing sees some significant shifts in tone over the course of the book. All three novels are Bildungsromans, but here Williams also attempts to tell the story of the decline of the American West as well. That is why, unlike the other two novels, it is not titled after the main character but the frontier town which provides the settings for the bookends of the novel.
Will Andrews is a Harvard student who, inspired by Emerson, drops out to find himself in the great West. After arriving in Butcher’s Crossing, he funds a hunting expedition to a distant valley in Colorado where a great herd of buffalo still remain, most of the other herds having already been hunted down and killed for hides. He is naive and for a time it seems he could be easily scammed, but the leader of the expedition, Miller, is serious, and after Andrews has a slight dalliance with a whore-with-a-heart-of-gold, they set out with two other grizzled men.
So the ground for an archetypal post-western has been laid, and the themes follow those that would be used (and overused) by Cormac McCarthy, Once Upon a Time in the West, and, of course, Stan Ridgway and Wall of Voodoo:
harshly awakened by the sound of six rounds of light caliber rifle fire followed minutes later by the booming of nine rounds from a heavier rifle, but you can’t close off the wilderness. he heard the snick of a rifle bolt and found himself staring down the muzzle of a weapon held by a drunken liquor store owner. “there’s a conflict,” he said. “there’s a conflict between land and people…the people have to go. they’ve come all the way out here to make mining claims, to do automobile body work, to gamble, to take pictures, to not have to do laundry, to own a mini-bike, to have their own cb radios and air conditioning, good plumbing for sure, and to sell time/life books and to work in a deli, to have some chili every morning and maybe…maybe to own their own gas stations again and to take drugs and have some crazy sex, but above all, above all to have a fair shake, to get a piece of the rock and a slice of the pie and to spit out the window of your car and not have the wind blow it back in your face.”
“Call of the West”
And that does somewhat mimic the arc in the book. Things get immediately dire as they have trouble finding water, and less than a third of the way into the book, things do seem to be shaping up for a sheer hellishness. But they find the water and the valley, and soon enough they are hunting (i.e., massacring in large numbers) buffalo. There is a sustained, 40-page description of the early days of the hunt that may be the most focused setpiece Williams ever wrote, and the turning point in Andrews’ character.
It came to him that he had turned away from the buffalo not because of a womanish nausea at blood and stench and spilling gut; it came to him that he had sickened and turned away because of his shock at seeing the buffalo, a few moments before proud and noble and full of the dignity of life, now stark and helpless, a length of inert meat, divested of itself, or his notion of its self, swinging grotesquely, mockingly, before him. It was not itself; or it was not that self that he had imagined it to be. That self was murdered; and in that murder he had felt the destruction of something within him, and he had not been able to face it. So he had turned away.
Such introspection is comparatively rare in the novel. Extensive and careful description is more common, but when it comes like it does here, it is strikingly abstract and visceral simultaneously. I don’t know if the effect is quite successful (thought it beats Cormac any day), but it’s certainly unusual. Williams resists any broad judgments of character. If Andrews is losing his humanity, then “humanity” is not an absolute value. He is freed from this sort of condescension towards the whore that he felt earlier in Butcher’s Crossing:
He saw her as a poor, ignorant victim of her time and place, betrayed by certain artificialities of conduct, thrust from a great mechanical world upon this bare plateau of existence that fronted the wilderness. He thought of Schneider, who had caught her arm and spoken coarsely to her; and he imagined vaguely the humiliations she had schooled herself to endure. A revulsion against the world rose up within him, and he could taste it in his throat.
Much, much later, after returning to Butcher’s Crossing, Andrews thinks back to this very moment and excoriates his younger self for his callow snobbery.
But returning to the plot: after the first day, things become blurry. They continue killing and skinning thousands of buffalo, and Miller, the expert guide and hunter, really wants to kill them all, even if it means leaving hundreds of skins to bring back to following spring. Unfortunately, it starts to snow, and they are stranded in the valley between the mountains all winter long.
As with the scenes where they nearly die of thirst, this would seem to be another potential hell, an existential misery. But Williams pulls back from this desolate Bresson scenario to aim more at The Wages of Fear, and six months of surely excruciating boredom pass fairly quickly without any Shining-like incidents. (In terms of page count, they pass more quickly than that first day of hunting.) I do think that this points to a fundamental stoicism in Williams’ work: for Augustus, Stoner, and Andrews, the hell comes from without, not from within. Events, not ennui, shape character.
Spring comes and they head back, and the book shifts again. Butcher’s Crossing has been transformed and ravaged by the end of the buffalo hide market, and Andrews’ growth is overshadowed by Miller’s desperate attempts to cope with the extinction of his chosen life from which he draws his pride. But the threads unravel; Williams can’t quite make Miller’s collapse mesh with Andrews’ development because Andrews does not learn anything new from it. Rather, Andrews finally does sleep with Francine, the whore from earlier, in a scene where Williams’ writing falls into the floridness described by Pynchon in critiquing his own first published story:
You’ll notice that toward the end of the story, some kind of sexual encounter appears to take place, though you’d never know it from the text. The language suddenly gets too fancy to read. Maybe this wasn’t only my own adolescent nervousness about sex…Even the American soft-core pornography available in those days went to absurdly symbolic lengths to avoid describing sex.
Thomas Pynchon, Introduction to Slow Learner
And in general, Williams’ writing is a little too lush and artful in Butcher’s Crossing, lacking the architectural precision of the later two novels. He is still a wonderful writer, but one is more conscious of him making an effort.
Butcher’s Crossing is a novel of discrete sections, and the ways they do and don’t fit together outline the refinements that Williams would make to his fictive approach. (Reading early work after later work, as I did with Thomas Bernhard’s “Walking”, sometimes helps to illuminate the best parts of the early work more vividly.) Williams abandoned the larger societal picture after this novel to focus on a single character and his milieu, and I suspect he found fault with the dual-pronged nature of Butcher’s Crossing as well. But he also abandoned the idea of the setpiece. It’s understandable, but based on that hunting section, he could have been a master at it. (He also learned how to write female characters; the women of Stoner are far more convincing than the one-dimensional Francine.)
But what of the greater themes of the book? I still think that Williams is pretty cagey about making statements and that the book requires that the author and the reader do not judge Miller and his kind too harshly. The West drives him and others to nihilism (explicitly voiced by a hide trader late in the book), but is this a fundamental truth, a consequence of their ravaging of the land, or just the aftermath of the extinction of their way of life? I do not see a definite answer. We do know that Andrews is changed, even if we don’t know quite what he becomes, and that is the heart of the book.
16 December 2009 at 11:12
This summer I read Oakley Hall’s Warlock and William’s Stoner back to back (in that order). It was an interesting juxtaposition, but one that left Williams looking much the worse craftsman, probably for the reasons that you identify: he tries to write both a Bildungsroman and an expose of the myth of the American West. Hall, in Warlock, concentrates pretty much entirely on the latter: once you’ve been introduced to his characters, their opinions and actions are pretty much predictable, and the tragedy that unfolds has a mechanistic quality; it doesn’t have to teach anyone anything.
I am glad to hear that Williams’ later novels don’t suffer the same conflicts in narrative aims; I have Stoner (in an old University of Missouri Press edition), and look forward to reading it.
17 December 2009 at 09:03
Erratum: University of Arkansas Press
18 December 2009 at 17:26
‘And in general, Williams’ writing is a little too lush and artful in Butcher’s Crossing, lacking the architectural precision of the later two novels.’
Now I understand why I disagree with your (incredibly well written and compelling) reviews so often: I will always prefer lush and artful over precision and thus why I love Gene Wolfe, Aira, Cormac McCarthy (you really think Butcher’s Crossing is better than the Blood Meridian?), etc.
18 December 2009 at 20:58
McCarthy’s prose is lush? More like choppy, masculine buckshot.
19 December 2009 at 14:13
In Suttree, Blood Meridian, and parts of The Border Trilogy, and perhaps especially The Orchard Keeper I would say Yes. If all you have read is The Road or No Country for Old Men I would say you are right. Of course ‘choppy, masculine buckshot’ is hard for me to actually respond to because I can see the choppy and I can see the masculine, but when I hear that sentence I think of DeLillo, not a writer whose influences on his major works are most clearly Faulkner, Joyce, and Lowry.
19 December 2009 at 17:21
“I will always prefer lush and artful over precision”
There is no reason artful and precise ought to be mutually exclusive. Precision means being exacting enough with an artwork to successfully bring off an intended effect. I fail to see what is “artful” about failing in that mission.
I’m not equating precision here with restraint or artfulness with energy. A photorealist painter is not superior to Kandinsky just because it looks more exact by the most banal grading criteria. Kandinsky is very precise in his energy. Good Faulkner is very precise. A writer such as Aira sins not because he is too artful but because he is too lazy to perfect his language and his ideas beyond that inchoate first draft.
I do agree that McCarthy has written some marvelous pages.
19 December 2009 at 18:10
I only even brought up Aira, Wolfe, and McCarthy because they have been negatively assessed in various ways in the blog, Aira for lack of clarity in style, Wolfe for lack of narrative clarity. McCarthy wasn’t directly critiqued anywhere except for being negatively compared to John Williams. I was just trying to articulate that the reason some of the statements in the blog failed to resonate with me is that I don’t mind an imprecise work either stylistically, structurally, or plot wise. As long as the writing is, well, lush and artful, which, although you don’t, I often do associate with a lack of restraint and with energy, I am very forgiving. Which, I guess, isn’t a very useful statement to make, I do admit.