PAULA WHYMAN

I'm a latecomer to James Salter's work, having just recently read and been bowled over by his novel, A Sport and a Pastime. It was published in 1967, and I expected it to seem quaint and dated. In short, it's not. Its exploration of a love affair between an American man and a French girl is probably the best narrative of "good" sex that I've read. Because face it, most of the sex one finds in novels these days is "bad" sex. You know the difference; I don't need to explain that. And when there is good sex (particularly if it's at all explicit), it's often badly written to the point of being cringe-inducing--even by the best writers. So...I humbly suggest Salter's book as a primer for those who are preparing to attempt a scene of that kind in their own fiction.

A volume of Salter's correspondence with longtime friend Robert Phelps, Memorable Days: The Selected Letters of James Salter and Robert Phelps, edited by John McIntyre, will be out this month from Counterpoint Press. Although I don't read literary correspondence all that often, what I've seen so far of these letters has led me to believe I'm missing out. In addition to which this kind of exchange may soon become a relic.

Robert Phelps, a fiction writer, literary biographer, and writing professor, sent an adoring letter to Salter after reading A Sport and a Pastime, and so began an affair of friendship that lasted until Phelps' death. Excerpts from the letters have appeared in The American Scholar.

In their letters, the two men commiserate about everything from travel to bad reviews. (On reviewers, Salter reminds Phelps that "they are not the only readers, they are the paid readers." Something to keep in mind.)

What interests me most are their references to the creative process. Richard Ford is quoted in The American Scholar as saying that Salter "writes American sentences better than anybody writing today." In which case, it's gratifying to know that writers like Salter can have days like the rest of us:

"I'm still at work, disheartened, on the final chapter of my book...It still eludes me...Somewhere in all that boring clay is the shape I'm looking for." Later, he describes a play he's working on: "I don't know anything about it yet except there are parts I don't detest."

I think I can get on board for that, writing a passage that I don't detest.

Phelps says that if every writer has his given form..."I sometimes think mine is the footnote....I think I am an annotator. The story exists for the scribbled notes in the margin."

Salter, on the other hand, loves "the infinities, the endlessness..." He will clearly always find something new to say, or a new way of saying it. "We must consume whole worlds to write a single sentence and yet we never use up a part of what is available."

I can't help being struck by the likelihood that this type of relationship may never again be immortalized and made public this way. Unless of course you're a person who saves emails (intentionally--not just to avoid cleaning out the inbox), and (even less likely) you're corresponding with a person who writes emails that are worth saving.

For further insight and reflections on Robert Phelps, see this essay, written by Derek Alger, a long-time student of his and editor of Pif, the online literary magazine.

To: Manager, Independence Federal Savings Bank, Friendship Heights, Md.

Dear Sir,

Today, I stopped into your bank after a nearby appointment, because I was out of quarters for parking meters. I park in a place that requires a lot of quarters. I could have gone to my own bank, but your bank was right there, and my bank wasn't.

To be frank, I was hesitant to stop at your bank for this purpose, because I did so once before, and although I was the only customer in the branch, the process was slower than waiting for Metro on a Sunday, and I probably could have driven to my own bank, bought quarters, parked and arrived at my office in the time that it took to get two rolls of quarters in your branch. However, there I was, right in front of your bank, and there I was, out of quarters, so... I thought to give it another chance. Everyone has an off day now and then.

But it was not to be. As soon as I walked in, you asked my purpose, and when I stated it (to buy some quarters), you asked if I had an account at your bank. I do not. However, this is the kind of goodwill behavior that encourages people to become customers. As in, 'Gee, they were so nice when I asked for quarters. When I open that new account, I'll take a look at their interest rates.'

But as I said, it was not to be. You told me that you charge customers a fee to give them quarters. Really? I said. That's odd. Why would you do that?

Because it's a way for the bank to make money, you said.

Oh. Okay, but the usual way for a bank to make money is by giving customers a loan and charging them interest. A loan is when the bank gives the customer money, and the customer doesn't give the bank any money at first, until later when the customer gives them a lot.

In this case, on the other hand, the customer gives the bank a $20 bill, and the bank gives the customer twenty dollars back, in the form of quarters. Note that the customer has given the bank THE EXACT SAME AMOUNT OF MONEY the bank then gives the customer. In fact, it's as if the exchange never took place. Unless of course there is a run on quarters, and the bank runs low, which I've never seen happen. Although, in a town of parking meters, this is a distinct possibility.

Now, it is entirely possible that you just don't like me, that you didn't feel like getting the quarters, that you were busy with much more important banklike business (because again, I was the only customer in the room), or maybe you were just having a bad day. There might be great things about your bank, as in, the coffee might be really tasty. (I saw it there, but I didn't take any. I was only there for quarters.) But I will never know any of this because I am unlikely to ever become a customer at your bank.

In the end, I left your bank and drove to my bank. When I told the tellers there what happened at your bank, they both exclaimed, Huh? and their faces contorted into an expression like the kind you'd get if you drank some very bitter coffee. (I'm not saying the coffee in your branch is bitter; like I said, I didn't even try it.)

I hope that the next time someone comes into your branch looking to exchange money for money, you will perhaps see this transaction in a different light, as a customer relations opportunity. I will, however, stick with my bank, because I like that the tellers there make funny faces when the situation warrants.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

C.W.

It's not often that I'm moved enough to write a letter to a newspaper, but when I read about the motive behind an increase in local parking fees, I couldn't stop myself. It just happened. Because when absurd "logic" presents itself for ridicule on a silver platter, it's awfully hard to say, oh, yeah, thanks, I'll swallow that. So, yes, I wrote my first letter to our local newspaper, the Gazette, in response to the local planners' contention that slightly higher parking fees will discourage people from driving to work here, rather than taking Metro. You see, less traffic is needed in order to pretend we aren't maxed out in infrastructure, and then more buildings can be built. Which will result in more traffic. You get the picture.

You can read the letter online: "Bethesda 'Plan' Is More Like Fantasy." If you're lucky enough to live here, you can also find it in the print edition that's delivered today.

Dear Officer K--,

I am also the kind of person who gets annoyed when people are late. Is their time more important than mine? If we say 7pm for dinner, I will expect guests to arrive by 7:15. If you show up at 7:45, I may well view that as inconsiderate. So please know, Officer K--, I wish we were all prompt. The world would be a more thoughtful place.

However, if I invite you to dinner for 7pm, and you show up at 7pm on the nose, well, that's a little freaky. I might start to think that you actually arrived earlier, and that you were waiting outside my house for, say, 30 minutes, looking at your watch every few minutes, just to make sure. Maybe you were merely checking out the landscaping. Gazing in the windows to see if we'd done any repainting in the living room. Checking our mailbox. Taking notes. Which reminds me, the envelope containing my phone bill was torn at the corner. I'm sure you had nothing to do with that, though. But Officer K--, the singing, that was a bit much. Do you know what I mean? It's very flattering, don't get me wrong, and I have no critical skills in this area, and I always enjoyed "Some Enchanted Evening," I just never heard a rendition quite like yours, with the bullhorn, and the standard-issue revolver. So, show up early, that's fine. But please, no singing, and no shooting into the air. We have plenty of starlings around so that's really not what's bothering me about it. I think the cat made off with the carcass anyway. I never did find it. But, please understand, when you show up in the morning and kneel behind the forsythia with your binoculars, it weirds out the neighbors.

Thank you!