There,	in	the	Shadows: The	Grace	of	Art	in	A	River	Runs	Through	It "Any	man	any	artist,	as	Nietzsche	or	Cezanne	would	say	climbs	the	stairway	in	the	tower	of	his perfection	at	the	cost	of	a	struggle	with	a	duende	not	with	an	angel,	as	some	have	maintained,	or	with his	muse.	This	fundamental	distinction	must	be	kept	in	mind	if	the	root	of	a	work	of	art	is	to	be	grasped." Frederico	Garcia	Lorca Don	Michael	Hudson King	College One more summer is closing quickly, and one more summer I have not made my annual pilgrimage to	Montana. I live in the south	again,	happily this time,	and it is	well-nigh	September,	and even	though	the	days	are	hot	and	muggy	these	very	same	days	betray	certain	changes	to	come.	The	air is a bit drier, almost crisp; the bitter black walnuts are thumping the ground like some mad god thumping	the	earth;	the	days	are	growing	shorter	and	darker;	and	yet,	the	leaves	on	some	of	the	trees are stirring belly side up sending out silvery flickerings even as twilight sets in. Maybe that is why Montana	is	on	my	mind	or,	rather,	why	Norman	Maclean	is.	I	come	back	to	him	every	August	whether	I make it to	Montana	or	not.	Since	the	summer	of	1995	off	and	on I	have	been	fishing	a	section	of the Blackfoot	River	that	I	will	not	divulge,	but	suffice	it	to	say	that	I	am	one	of	the	luckiest	men	on	the	face of	this	earth	if	for	no	other	reason	than	I	discovered	Maclean	early	on,	and	in	so	doing,	I	found	a	river and	a	way	to	bring	grace	and	art	to	my	life.	But	I	have	also	learned	that	with	that	river	comes	riffle	and deep	pool, the	dance	of light	and shadow.	Norman	Maclean	understood this,	never let	go	of it, and I think	it	was	his	brother,	Paul	the	so-called	"prodigal"	son,	who	taught	him	this. In	many	ways, I don't know	why I come back to	Maclean every year around late August. Of course, this is the time to fish in	Montana, but	my summer is almost	over, and the	new semester	of teaching is staring	me in the face. I think	A River speaks to	me as "deep speaks to deep." Reading Maclean the first time	blew a hole right through	me and altered	my consciousness and called	me to something	missing	in	my	life. I	have	to	agree	with	Pete	Dexter	that	the	first	time	reading	Maclean's	A River	Runs	Through	It	was	stunning	and	moving:	"It	(A	River)	is	about	not	understanding	what	you	love, about	not	being	able	to	help.	It	is	the	truest	story	I	ever	read;	it	might	be	the	best	written.	And	to	this 2 day	it	won't	leave	me	alone"	(Dexter,	88).	I	concur.	Maclean	continues	to	speak	to	me	and	teach	me- especially	now	that	I	am	older,	and	my	own	shadows	and	their	mysteries	are	increasing. How	do	we	answer	the	questions	that	don't	have	answers?	How	do	we	understand	those	places in	our lives that	we	will	never comprehend?	As	we	get	older, can	we	dispel the	dark	places,	or	even, should	we? I	would	agree	with	Wendell	Berry's	assessment that	Maclean,	as	opposed to	Hemingway,	will fish into the	paradox, the	metaphorical	canyon;	he	will step into the	dark	shadows	of the	river	or the "dark swamp." "'Big Two-Hearted River' seems to me, then, to be a triumph of style in its pure or purifying	sense:	the	ability	to	isolate	those	parts	of	experience	of	which	one	can	confidently	take	charge. It	does	not	go	into	the	dark	swamps	because	it	does	not	know	how	it	will	act	when	it	gets	there" (Berry, 65-66). Even	more,	I	would	add	that	Maclean	does	not	wrap	the	tragedy	(ies)	of	his	narrative	into	a	tidy package.	Norman gently but persistently refuses to bring some kind of final closure or answer to his younger	brother's	death; and	yet,	Norman	does	not let go	of	his search for	understanding.1	Why is it that	the	beautiful	and	graceful	fly	fisherman	dies	an	early	and	brutal	death?	The	grace	of	Paul's	fishing does not match the tragedy of the world. "That Paul seeks answers in fishing leaves his brother wondering	about	the	questions	being	asked.	Somewhere	in	Paul's	shadowy	inner	world	is	chaos	that	the four-count	rhythm	of	casting	has	not	disciplined,	a	hell	that	grace	has	not	transformed"	(Simonson,	152, emphasis	mine).	Yes,	what	questions	does	the	prodigal	ask? Wendell Berry's wonderful little essay rightly teases out the classic(al) trajectory of tragedy within	this	story,	a	story	about	the	"relentlessness	of	tragedy"	but	then	he	softens	the	blow	by	naming Paul	a	"failure"	and	"compulsive	gambler"	and	then	without	missing	a	beat	theologizes	this	story:	"But the	relentlessness	of	the	tragedy	is	redeemed	by	the	persistence	of	grace"	(Berry,	68).	It	is	at	this	point that my own reading of Berry stutters to a halt. Reading Maclean's novel and reading his metadiscourses,	one	can	plainly	see	that	Paul's	death	is	"relentless"	all	the	way	to	Norman's	last	words:	"I	am haunted	by	waters."	But	what	do	we	make	of this "persistent"	grace?	Mr.	Berry is	accurate to	center upon	grace,	but	my	question	is,	"What	grace	persists?"	As	I	read	and	re-read	A	River	Runs	Through	It,	I do	not,	perhaps	cannot,	see	the	grace	in	Paul's	death.	Nor	do	I	think	Maclean	did	either.	We	see	grace	in Paul's	mastery	of	the	fly	rod	and	the	river,	and	we	see	grace in	Maclean's	artistry	of	words.	Are	these graces	enough?	Must	we	"redeem"	Paul's	death,	or	do	we	admit	that	perhaps	the	closest	we	will	ever get	to	grace	is	the	beauty	of	artistic	expression	be	it	with	a	rod	or	a	pen? Maclean's "little	novella" is at first a "love	poem to	his family"	and	a search for	answers that Maclean	knows	will	never	be	found.	Maclean	mentions	this	many	times	in	both	speech	and	writing	in	his later years. As	he	discusses	his	own	particular art in	A	River	Runs	Through It for	his	Wallace Stegner lecture, he speaks	of his brother's death.	Maclean	has just reviewed the	process	of Paul reading and 1	I	think	Hesford	recognizes	this	point	but	then	also	removes	the	tension:	"It	is	Maclean's	brother	Paul	who	comes to	embody	the	beautiful.	He	may	be	a	doomed	sinner	in	the	judgment	of	the	world	and	the	judgment	of	his father's	congregation,	but	in	the	eyes	of	both	father	and	brother	he	seems	redeemed	by	his	beautiful	fishing"	(38). Notice	Hesford's	word	"seems."	And	then	further,	"Paul	could	enjoy	God	by	perfecting	his	chosen	art,	even	while, as	a	natural	man,	he	entangled	himself	in	affairs	and	in	gambling	debts"	(38),	emphasis	mine). 3 fishing	the	water	with	perfection	and	then	landing	the	big,	his	last,	fish.	"I	also	wanted	toward	the	end for	him	to	fade	away	as	a	body	and	become	as	befitted	a	master	fisherman:	just	an	abstract	in	the	art	of fishing	in	the	most	climactic	act	of	the	art-landing	a	big	fish"	(McFarland	and	Nichols,	33). And	then	in typical	Maclean	style-with	few	words-he	speaks	of	his	brother's	death.	"I	will read	now	the	next	to last	scene	of	the	story,	and	I	will	say	not	a	word	about	the	last	scene,	his	death.	If	there	is	any	art	to	it, let it remain hidden and be buried with him" (McFarland and Nichols, 33). A decade earlier, in his lecture	at	the	Institute	of	the	Rockies,	Norman	persists:	"Paramount	is	asking	for	an	option	to	put	this story into film, and I have made a requirement that they must not change it from a tragedy about someone	you	loved	and	did	not	understand	and	could	not	help"	(McFarland	and	Nichols,	74). The	narrative	is	about	a	beautiful	man	who	found	his	own	rhythm,	partly,	mostly,	to	use	Berry's expression, because Paul was "inflexibly self-ruled." If we listen "carefully" we hear a fundamental disagreement between father and son woven throughout the novel. Even to the end, Mclean the Aristotelian	disagrees	with	his	Presbyterian	father.	No	doubt	both	author	and	narrator love	his father, but	he	will	differ	mightily	nonetheless	to	the	very	end. "My	father	asked	me	a	series	of	questions	that suddenly	made	me	wonder	whether	I	understood	even	my	father	whom	I	felt	closer	to	than	any	man	I have	even	known.	'You	like	to	tell	true	stories,	don't	you?'	he	asked,	and	I	answered,	'Yes,	I like	to	tell stories	that	are	true.'	"	(103-104).	We	miss	the	shadow	on	this	one.	I	know	this	is	dangerous,	but	I	think we	need	to	look	at	what	he	says	and	what	he	does	not	say. I have to come to recognize that naming something or someone "tragic," "broken," or "prodigal" comes far too	easy, and this kind	of	naming is really	about something	else. The tragic, the broken,	the	prodigal	simultaneously	unnerve	us	in	our	comfortable	worlds	and	yet	somehow	comfort	us that	we	are	not	such.	This	is,	I	think,	crucial	to	understanding	Maclean.	To	read	some	literary	critics	of	A River,	Paul	is	a	tragic	figure	who	is	"beautiful"	yes,	but	in	the	end,	damned. But	was	Paul	a	tragic	figure to	Norman	and	his	father? We	know	without	a	doubt	even	as	we	begin	Maclean's	novel	that	things	are	going	to	end	badly. He	lets	us	in	on	that	one	right	away:	"He	was	never	'my	kid	brother.'	He	was	a	master	of	an	art.	He	did not	want	any	big	brother	advice	or	money	or	help,	and,	in	the	end,	I	could	not	help	him"	(6). "The	boy was very angry, and there has never been a doubt in my mind that the boy would have taken the Episcopalian	money"	(5).	Notice	that	Maclean	who	lives	and	dies	by	economy	of	words	says	twice:	"the boy." But	Maclean	goes	on	to	add	in	the	very	next	paragraph:	"I	knew	already	(Paul	is	still	a	boy)	that	he was	going	to	be	a	master	with	a	rod.	He	had	those	extra	things	besides	fine	training-genius,	luck,	and plenty	of	self-confidence"	(5).	If	we	were	to	use	the	father's	calculus	stated	in	the	very	beginning,	Paul did	find	grace	and	art	and	rhythm	even	more	than	the	father	and	the	brother.	But	Paul	found	his	own way.	"Long	ago,	he	had	gone	far	beyond	my	father's	wrist	casting,	although	his	right	wrist	was	always	so important	that it	had	become	larger	than	his left.	His	right	arm,	which	our	father	had	kept	tied	to	the side	to	emphasize	the	wrist,	shot	out	of	his	shirt	as	if	it	were	engineered,	and	it,	too,	was	larger	than	his left	arm"	(21).	The	prodigal	becomes	the	prodigy. Paul	wasn't	tragic	in	the	sense	that	he	was	a	failure-Neal,	Norman's	hapless	brother-in-law	was a	failure	and	embarrassment.	No,	Paul	was	unruly	and	inscrutable,	and	I	think	it	was	his	understanding 4 and	mastery that finally did	him in and	not	his foolishness.	What	does a	beautiful	man	do in a nasty world	populated	by	beastly	men	and	women	who	have	not	bothered	to	learn	and	follow	a	code?2	Paul's death was tragic. I think we could call his death an "ultimate tragedy" to use the essayist George Steiner's	phrase.	Paul's	death	is	juxtaposed	against	one	who	was	so	beautiful	and	so	masterful,	and	he actually	saw	things	that	most	men	could	not	see.	Paul	knows	what	his	father	knows	but	eventually	he surpasses	his	father,	his	mentor.	Paul's	tragedy	is	promethean-he	will	reach	great	heights	and	descend accordingly: "the	halo	of	himself	was	always there	and	always	disappearing, as if he	were candlelight flickering	about	three	inches	from	himself"	(20).	Paul,	the	"shadow	caster"	is	not	a	damned	failure,	even though his death left his family to grapple and grieve with not only his death, but the death of a beautiful	man.	On	the	other	hand,	his	life	and	art	were	anything	but	tragic.	This	to	me	seems	to	be	the haunting irony in the novel and the narrator's questions. "Its (A River's) narrator is working his way through	problems	within	the	context	of	a	finely	realized	outer	scene	that	is	the	setting	for	the	triumphs of	the	brother	who is	both	the	subject	of	the	story's	panegyrics	and	the	main	source	of	the	narrator's internal	difficulties"	(Ford,	1993).	As	a	counterpoint	to	brother	Paul,	Norman's	erstwhile	brother-in-law, Neal,	was	one	of those	men	who faked	beauty	and rhythm	because	he	did	not	or could	not take the time	to	follow	the	Presbyterian	father's	code:	"My	father	was	very	sure	about	certain	matters	pertaining to the	universe.	To	him,	all good things-trout	as	well	as	eternal salvation-come	by	grace	and	grace comes	by	art	and	art	does	not	come	easy"	(4).	Throughout	the	novel,	Maclean	uses	a	literary	device	to bring	this	to	light.	Time	and	again	Paul's	beauty	will	be	juxtaposed	with	the	ugliness	of	life	whether	it	is Paul's	choosing	or	not. The	first time	we	see	this juxtaposition is	when	Norman	drives	down	to	Helena	to	retrieve	his brother	and	girlfriend	from	jail.	The	couple	lands	there	because	of	a	drunken	brawl	the	night	before.	At this	point	in	the	novella,	Norman	has	just	finished	his	elegiac	portrayal	of	Paul's	shadow	casting	over	the fast	water in the canyon.	Maclean shows	us this gorgeous image through the	eyes	of the "woman in overalls" who stopped on the river bank and "marveled" at Paul's fishing. "She kept watching while groping	behind	her	to	smooth	out	some	pine	needles	to	sit	on.	'My,	my!'	she	said.	Her	husband	stopped and	stood	and	said,	'Jesus.'	Every	now	and	then	he	said,	'Jesus'"	(22).	And	then	immediately	we	see	Paul in	a	different shade.	The	phone	call from	the	police	station	awakes	Norman	as	he	"ascended through rivers	mists and	molecules	until I awoke catching the telephone" (23).	Norman	makes	his	way to the station	to	retrieve	the	couple	from	jail.	Yet	he	does	not	diminish	them	in	their	beauty-he	the	master with	a	rod	and	she	a	prodigy	on	the	dance	floor,	"she	was	as	beautiful	a	dancer	as	he	was	a	fly	caster" (26).	This	image	clashes	with	the	image	he	sees	now.	He	finds	them	drunk,	hung	over,	smelling	"worse than the jail" (26).	Are these characters elegiac	or tragic?	How	does	one rectify the shimmering river with	the	dank	cell?	With juxtaposition	and	paradox	Maclean	makes	his	point	that light	brings	shadow; and	yet,	the	shadows	enhance	the	light. 2	In	one	of	the	major	scenes	of	the	story,	Paul	and	Norman	take	Old	Rawhide	and	Neal	home	after	they	had	fallen asleep	near	the	river	and	sunburned	themselves	badly.	Norman	gives	us	Paul's	code	in	the	following	description: "It	was	the	bastard	in	the	back	seat	without	any	underwear	that	he	(Paul)	hated.	The	bastard	who	had	ruined	most of	our	summer	fishing.	The	bait-fishing	bastard.	The	bait-fishing	bastard	who	had	violated	everything	that	our father	had	taught	us	about	fishing	by	bringing	a	whore	and	a	coffee	can	of	worms	but	not	a	rod.	The	bait-fishing bastard	who	had	screwed	his	whore	in	the	middle	of	our	family	river.	And	after	drinking	our	beer"	(72). 5 But	there	is	a	more	subtle	image	here.	Paul's	hand-his	casting	hand.	"He	(Paul)	was	standing	in front of a	window, but he could not have been looking out of it, because there	was a heavy screen between	the	bars,	and	he	could	not	have	seen	me	because	his	enlarged	casting	hand	was	over	his	face. Were it	not for the lasting	compassion I felt for	his	hand, I	might	have	doubted	afterwards that I	had seen	him"	(25).	The	hand,	his	glorious	hand,	would	now	shadow	his	face	from	his	brother	much	like	an actor's	mask	in	some	Greek	tragedy.	Paul	cannot	see	his	brother,	and	now	Paul	stands	in	a	far	different light	looking	out	a	window	he	cannot	look	out.	In	this	shadow	he	cannot	see	the	light,	and	he	cannot	see his	brother	who	loves	him.	Is	this	Promethean	tragedy	or	the	inanity	of	Antigone?	Is	this	a	beautiful	man who	just	ended	up	a	drunk	and	squandered	his	mastery? We	have	to	remember	how,	exactly,	Paul	and his "half-breed Indian" girlfriend landed in jail. They enter a restaurant and a customer makes a derogatory, racist	comment.	Paul	proceeds	to loosen	a few	of	his teeth	and	sends	him	across	a table. The	big	beautiful	hand	impulsively,	naturally	brought	street	justice	to	some	stupid	bastard	who	deserved a	dental	adjustment.	Perhaps	this	is	Paul's	flaw,	his	hubris,	his	hamartia.	He	has	mastered	the	art	of	the beautiful	and	refuses	to	live	in	a	world	of	ugly	bastards,	and	so	he	impulsively	casts	his	oversized	fist	into the	face	of	stupidity.	"I	(Norman)	was	tough	by	being	the	product	of	tough	establishments-the	United States Forest Service and logging camps. Paul was tough by thinking he was tougher than any establishment"	(7).	This	will	be	Paul's	demise-perhaps-	but	we	the	readers,	not	even	his	own	family, know	exactly	why	Paul	was	beaten	to	death.	Did	he	die	because	of	a	drunken	brawl,	an	unpaid	gambling debt,	or	did	he	ruffle	the	feathers	of	an	establishment? We	already	know	Paul	sees	the	absurdity	of	any establishment	be it	marriage, racism, the corporate	world, and	he	will not join	or	participate.	Did	his demise	come	by	the	hands	of	folly	or	inflexibility?	Maclean	does	not	tell	us	and	leaves	us	with	this	gap	in the	narrative. Much	has	been	made	of	the	conversation	between	Norman	and	his	father	on	the	riverbank	as they watch Paul catch his great, but last fish. Ironically, the Presbyterian father who	most assuredly believes in	predestination	not	only	knows	that	Paul is	beautiful,	but	also	knows	that	Paul	understands something	Norman	does	not.	This	fact	remains	one	of	the	most	troubling	aspects	of	the	narrative,	but	if we	tease	this	out,	we	might	get	closer	to	understanding	what	Norman	is	saying. "What	have	you	been	reading?"	I	asked.	"A	book,"	he	said.	It	was	on	the	ground on	the	other	side	of	him.	So	I	would	not	have	to	bother	to	look	over	his	knees	to	see	it, he	said,	"A	good	book." Then he told	me, "In the part I	was reading it says that the	Word	was in the beginning,	and	that's	right.	I	used	to	think	water	was	first,	but	if	you	listen	carefully	you will	hear	that	the	words	are	underneath	the	water." "That's	because	you	are	a	preacher first	and then	a fisherman," I told	him. "If you	ask	Paul,	he	will	tell	you	that	the	words	are	formed	out	of	the	water." "No,"	my father	said,	"you	are	not listening	carefully.	The	water runs	over the words.	Paul	will	tell	you	the	same	thing.	Where	is	Paul	anyway?"	(95-96) To use a word	my southern grandmother would say, I have been "studying" this	mysterious interchange between the responsible, Aristotelian Norman and the somewhat neo-Platonic, 6 Presbyterian	pastor.	One	cannot	help	but	think	of	the	great	parable	most	people	call	the	prodigal	son	in the	Gospel	of	Luke.	Norman	is	the	responsible	son	who	stays	home	on	the	farm,	though	Norman	does not	begrudge	his	brother	but	is	dazzled	by	his	mastery	and	loves	him	also.	One	would	think	that	Norman would	agree	with the father, the very stylish	and	disciplined teacher.	But	no, it is Paul, the supposed "prodigal,"	"failure,"	and	"damned"	who	understands	something	his	father	understands.	For	a	very	long time	now,	I	have	been	asking	the	question,	"What	did	Paul	know	that	Norman	did	not?" I	think	this is the	reason	why	I	return	annually.	How	could	the	one	who	drank	too	much,	was	behind	in	the	big	stud poker game, the one	who	was a pugilist outside of his family know something that Norman did not know?	Do	tell-what	could	a	prodigal	tell	the	responsible?	And	what	is	it	that	he	knew?	Are	there	any clues	in	the	text? You	ask	certain	theologians	which	character	they	think	comprehends	the	light	of	truth,	and	the answer	is	simple:	the	responsible	one,	the	one	who	obeys	and	surrenders	to	the	establishment	of	God- submits	to	religion	and	its	virtuosos.	That	one	understands	the	truth.	But	the	deviant,	the	miscreant,	the self-actualized	is	blind	and	rushing	toward	damnation.	Maclean	takes	this	assumption	head-on.	Norman is at	odds	with	both	his father	and	brother.	He cannot see	what	Paul sees, and	he	disagrees	with	his father. "That's	because you	are	a	preacher first and then	a fisherman."	Norman, the	Aristotelian, the naturalist and scientist, knows that the world came first-not the word. And yet, he is still missing something	that	Paul	could	"tell"	Norman.	"The	young	Maclean	feels	his	father	is	biased	because	he	lives by	words,	and	thinks	Paul,	a	man	of	action,	who	lives	most	fully	when	fishing	the	water,	will	support	the liberal,	empiricist,	naturalistic	position	he	himself	apparently	holds.	The	father	thinks	not"	(Hesford,	44). I	think,	though,	as	Norman's	life	and	novel	come	to	a	close,	he	will	finally	join	his	father	and	Paul	in	this understanding.	I	do	think	there	is	a	clue	there	in	Norman's	tight	prose. There	is	a	hint-one	right	before	Paul's	elegiac,	last	scene.	Paul	and	Norman	are	fishing	after	the disastrous	day	with	Neal.	The	two	brothers	fish	together	to	wipe	that	last	day	with	Neal	off	the	books. Neither one is catching fish-not even the	master Paul. And then Paul begins to hook into fish and Norman	does	not.	We	have	seen	this	earlier	in	the	novel	when	Norman	is	hesitant	to	fish,	in	particular	to roll	cast, in	front	of	his	brother.	No	doubt	Norman	is	a	fine	fisherman,	but	he is fishing	with	a	master. Norman,	though,	is	studying	his	problem	very	carefully	and	the	best	he	can.	Paul	wades	the	river	toward Norman	to	get	a	fly.	"My	big	question	by	the	time	he	got	to	me	was,	'Are	they	biting	on	some	aquatic insect	in	a	larval	or	nymph	stage	or	are	they	biting	on	a	drowned	fly?'	"	(92).	Don't	forget	that	Norman and	Paul	are	dry	fly	fishermen	which	means	they	are	accustomed	to	fishing	on	top	of	the	water	in	what is	called	the	"dun	stage"	of	the	fly.	But	the	fish	are	taking	flies	underneath	and	unseen.	Paul	figured	this out,	and	Maclean	slows	the	action	down	to	give	us	a	detailed	account. He	gave	me	a	pat	on	the	back	and	one	of	George's	No.	2	Yellow	Hackles	with	a feather	wing.	He	said,	"They	are	feeding	on	drowned	yellow	stone	flies." I	asked	him,	"How	did	you	think	that	out?" He	thought	back	on	what	had	happened like	a	reporter.	He	started	to	answer, shook	his	head	when	he	found	he	was	wrong,	and	then	started	out	again.	"All	there	is	to thinking,"	he	said,	"is	seeing	something	noticeable	which	makes	you	see	something	you weren't	noticing	which	makes	you	see	something	that	isn't	even	visible." 7 I	said	to	my	brother,	"Give	me	a	cigarette	and	say	what	you	mean."	(92) It is the errant brother who sees what is not seen, sees what cannot be seen and feels the contours	of	the	shadows.	He	understands	that	a	shadow,	though,	still-just	a	shadow, is	real	and	very much	there,	and	he	brings	metronomic	discipline	to	the	rod	and in	so	doing	he	brings	beauty,	and	he discovers rhythm in the rod and on the river. Paul knows grace and redemption and art-even his predestinarian	father	said	so.	Perhaps	Paul	sees	the	darkness	related	to	light	and	the	shadows	resident and	necessary	within truth.	We	can't say	here,	but father	and	older	brother	confess that the	younger son knows something. I cannot help but think of Heidegger here and his obsession with truth- aletheia-	and	it	means	an	uncovering	which	of	course	means	the	very	thing	we	are	talking	about,	that which we are looking at, is covered and concealed. So, to Heidegger, every truth reveals and simultaneously	the	very	same	truth	conceals.	I	like	this	because	every	truth	promises	to	shine	a	light	in the	darkness. There	appears	to	be	no	meaning	to	Paul's	death-it	is	truly	absurd	and	a	grief	for	the	family	that will	reside	in	their	minds	until	their	own	deaths.	One	can	tell	that	Norman	never	recovered.	Nor	did	his father	and	mother.	And	so,	yes,	there	is	sin	and	grace,	hubris	and	redemption	in	A	River,	but	there	is	also the	sheer	insanity,	even	banality	of	a	brother's	death	that	we	are	left	to	live	with.	And	no	sacrament	or sentiment	will	even	come	close.	This	is	the	passion	of	the	novel-A	River	stares	unspeakable	grief	in	the face	and	moves	far	beyond	sacrament	and	sentiment-Lorca's	"sacrament	of	the	angel	and	sentiment	of the	muse."	Looking	at	what	is	not	there-peering	into	the	shadows	and,	by	seeing	what	is	not	there,	one sees what is there. Duende. Darkness does not impede or diminish, or worse, destroy great art-it compels and completes great art delivering us from a banal world of kitschy, easy answers. Cheap answers	lie	about	the	shadows	and	betray	the	darkness.	Great	art	is	born	out	of	attempting	to	answer persistent	questions that	will	not be	answered. In	Maclean's	words, "It's	not fly fishing if you	are	not searching for	answers to	questions" (43). Ironically,	any	easy	wrap-up	of	A	River apes the	pretentious and lost brother-in-law	Neal	who approached life and relationships	with something glib.	Norman	will take questions, questions as old as humankind, questions	with unseen answers, and he	will	weave a masterful	work	of	fiction. At	this	point	I	don't	want	to	communicate	that	one	does	not	have	to	be	deviant	or	prodigal	to see	the	darkness,	to	feel	the	shadow.	However,	darkness	and	shadow	approach	every	human	being,	and we do	well to understand as best we can. The shadows come early and persistent for Paul, but the shadows	are coming for father and	older	brother too. Even	as	Norman	and	his father sit high	on the bank and watch Paul fish his last time in the full light of the day, soon both father and son will be enveloped in the approaching shadows. "In the slanting sun of late afternoon the shadows of great branches reached from across the river, and the trees took the river into their arms. The shadows continued	up	the	bank,	until	they	included	us"	(102).	The	shadows	embrace	Paul	immediately	after	his glorious	and	last	moment	in	the	sun,	yes,	but	the	shadows	are	coming	for	the	responsible	brother	and the	Presbyterian father too.	Responsibility	and	religion	will	not,	cannot	hide	the	darkness-it	can	only pretend	that the	darkness is	not	really there.	Norman	will	have	none	of the	pretense	and	so	he	holds 8 fast	to	the	shadows.	And	yet	there	is	great	art	here	in	his	words,	and	we	have	learned	from	Norman's father	that	where	there	is	art,	there	we	will	find	grace	also. Of course, we are not talking about the darkness of a religious leader abusing a child, or a government oppressing its populace, or a Hitler committing genocide or a Stalin starving an entire people.	No,	this	is	not	the	darkness	of	Paul	and	Norman.	True	stories	are	obsessed	with	"truth"	whereas stories that	are true	are	haunted	by love. Paul and	Norman's shadows	are vulnerable.	This is a tragic story	that	admits	to	the	deep	questions	of	life	and	then	the	final	fading	away	of	the	body.	Moreover,	it also	pulses	with	the	human	possibility	of loving	in	the	ruins.	We	can	create,	even	master	the	beautiful even if just for	a few	moments, and	most importantly,	we	create in the face	of	death.	Paul's life	and death are not the tragedy-everyone dies and passes away in one form or another. His death is a tragedy	not necessarily because	he	dies an early, violent death, but rather that	which is noble about him,	that	which	is	"beautiful"	casts	him	into	his	inevitable	demise.	As	much	as	Paul	joins	the	rhythm	of the universe when he fishes, even to an almost godlike statue, he will also join the rhythm of the universe in	his	death.	He	will rage	against	a	world	full	of	racist	bastards	and	corpulent	bait fisherman, and	he	will	find	some	strong	sense	of	identity,	but	never	refuge,	in	his	family.	"Whether	his	is	original	sin or flawed	pride,	he is	unable to	accept succor from	any source	outside	himself" (Blew,	200).	Norman tells	us	time	and	again	that	Paul	did	not	want	help;	he	refused	to	find	refuge	in	anyone	but	himself. Eventually and ineluctably, society, the establishment, is going to beat the hell out of this beautiful	yet	implacable	man.	Because	he	is	a	master	trained	by	a	master,	he	sees	what	others	cannot see. If	Neal	conforms	and	acquiesces to the	moment	and	society's	expectations then	he is truly	blind, and	in	the	end	one	who	evokes	pity,	and	Nietzsche	reminds	us	that	pity	is	rife	with	the	inauthentic,	and those	we	pity	we	actually	despise.	Norman	does	not	pity	his	brother	nor	does	he	look	down	on	him	even though	Paul is	younger.	Paul	sees	what is	not	there,	the	shadows,	and	in	so	doing	he	understands	the rhythm	of the	universe-the	dance	of light and	dark, shine and shadow. It is interesting to	note that Norman,	who	in	his	own	right is	a	master	fly	fisherman,	will	not	propel	himself into	the	fast	waters	or the	deep	canyons.	Paul	not	only	sees	what	most	untrained	eyes	do	not	see-he	will	even	dare	to	wade where	few	would	ever	wade.	He	fishes	into	the	canyons-into	the	dark	and	dangerous	places. Let us not forget the scene of the father and Norman watching Paul catch his last fish. Just before, the father reads the	Greek	New	Testament	and	the	Gospel	of John in	particular.	Undoubtedly Maclean	references	"In	the	beginning	was	the	word"	of	John	1:1.	But	we	cannot	forget	the	rest	of	that passage.	"Everything	came	into	being	through	the	word,	and	without	him	(the	word)	nothing	came	into being.	That	which	came	into	being	was	life,	and	the	life	was	the	light	of	humanity.	The	light	shines	in	the darkness, and the darkness did not understand, comprehend, appropriate, overcome it" (John 1:3-5, translation	mine). The	Greek	word	I	have	given	multiple	translations	is,	of	course,	a	word	of	paramount importance, but equally mysterious in its exact meaning. The word is katalambano (καταλαμβανω) which can	mean appropriate, comprehend, understand and in extra-biblical	writings the	word	can	even	take	on	the	connotations	of	"visit"	someone	or	"arrest"	a	lawbreaker. And yet, Norman the author and Norman the narrator do not end the story in pieces and fragments-"eventually,	all	things	merge	into	one"	(104).	It	may	not	be	a	true	story.	But	it	is	a	story	that 9 is true.	At the	end	of	his life and	now	at the	end	of	his story	he fishes in the "Arctic	half-light	of the canyon." Fishing now is what Berry calls a "solitary rite," but Norman also calls it a	memorial to his family, and	he fishes to remember	and join the rhythm	of the	universe the	only	way	he can	now-in memory	and	ritual.	"Now	nearly	all those I loved	and	did	not	understand	when	I	was	young	are	dead, but I still reach	out to them" (104). They	are	gone forever, and	yet	he still reaches	out to them.	And Norman, still, and rightly in my opinion, remains the naturalist and the Aristotelian, but he also understands	what	his	brother,	long	gone	now,	knew	early	on:	"Under	the	rocks	are	the	words,	and	some of the	words are theirs.' (104) The	words do come first, but as opposed to the Presbyterian father's Word,	the	words	belong	to	his	family,	his	loved	ones,	his	brother	Paul.	"Not	the	Word,	but	the	words" (Hesford,	45).	Truth,	according	to	Norman,	does	not	solely	bask	in	the	light	of	day,	but	is	also	concealed in	the	darkness	and	under	the	rocks.	Yes,	the	light	will	shine	a	light	into	the	darkness,	but	the	darkness will	not	comprehend	it,	and	the	darkness	will	not	disappear. Very early in the novel, Norman as he thinks about how to help his brother, alludes to that "Arctic	half-light" resident	within	every	bright light.	He is	driving	across the	Montana	mountains	after retrieving	his	brother	from	jail,	and	as	he	drives	in	the	early	dawn	Norman	searches	for	answers.	The	sun is	on	the	rise	but light	and	shadow	vary	dramatically	as	Norman	drives	over	pass	and	through	canyon. "Sunrise	is	the	time	to	feel	that	you	will	be	able	to	find	out	how	to	help	somebody	close	to	you	who	you think	needs	help	even	if	he	doesn't	think	so.	At	sunrise	everything	is	luminous	but	not	clear"	(28).	In	A River,	a	story	that	is	true	finds	its	"truth"	there,	in	the	shadows	too.	It is luminous,	but	it	will	never	be clear. And so I return again and again, every year, to this little novel because for me, it leaves the darkness	alone. It is	one	of	those	"classic"	stories	where	the	darkness	shadows	the light,	and	the light cannot	comprehend	it. Works	Cited Berry,	Wendell.	"Style	and	Grace."	In	What	Are	People	For?	(New	York:	North	Point	Press,	1990):	64-70. Blew,	Mary	Clearman.	"Mo-nah-se-tah,	the	Whore,	and	the	Three	Scottish	Women,"	in	Norman Maclean.	McFarland	and	Nichols,	eds.	(1988):	190-200. Butler,	Douglas	R.	"Norman	Maclean's	'A	River	Runs	Through	It':	Word,	Water,	and	Text."	Critique	33 (Winter	1992):	263-73. Dexter,	Pete.	"The	Old	Man	and	the	River."	Esquire	95	(June	1981):	86,	88-89,	91. Ford,	James	E.	"When	'life...becomes	literature':	The	Neo-Aristotelian	Poetics	of	Norman	Maclean's 'A	River	Runs	Through	It'."	Studies	in	Short	Fiction	30	(Fall	1993): Hesford,	Walter.	"Fishing	for	the	Words	of	Life:	'A	River	Runs	Through	it'."	Rocky	Mountain	Review	of Language	and	Literature	34	(Winter	1980):	33-45. Lorca,	Fredrico	Garcia.	Theory	and	Play	of	the	Duende.	Trans.	A.	S.	Kline. http://www.stjohnstheatre.org/files/LorcaDuendepdf.pdf.	(2004). Maclean,	Norman.	A	River	Runs	Through	It	and	Other	Stories.	Chicago:	University	of	Chicago	Press,	1976. Maclean,	Norman.	"The	Hidden	Art	of	a	Good	Story:	Wallace	Stegner	Lecture,"	in	Norman	Maclean. McFarland	and	Nichols,	eds.	(1988):	23-38. 10 Maclean,	Norman.	"Montana	Memory:	Talk	at	the	Institute	of	the	Rockies,"	in	Norman	Maclean. McFarland	and	Nichols,	eds.	(1988):	68-74. McFarland,	Ron	and	Hugh	Nichols,	eds.	Norman	Maclean.	(Lewiston,	Id.:	Confluence	Press,	1988). Simonson,	Harold	P.	"Norman	Maclean's	Two-Hearted	River."	Western	American	Literature	17	(August 1982):	149-55.