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"Rip', Cheever's last lover, whose real name is Max Zimmer, co-operated with Bailey on the book, and described to him his relationship with the older writer in painful detail, presenting himself as a poor and desperate young man with no other place to go but his patron's bed (Max, who comes from a Mormon background and is now married with children, had been a student of Cheever's, and longed to be published). But there is one obvious reason for this. It's certainly true that Bailey, though both a devoted admirer of Cheever's writing and a compassionate biographer, does not present the end as jubilant his late Cheever is, in some ways, as imprisoned as his early Cheever. "For me, the end of his life is triumphant. But she wonders about its diminuendo ending: the chapters which cover the last seven years of his life when, against all the odds, he dried out.
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Susan loves the book she thinks Bailey's version of her father is truthful and unflinching, and that it captures him in some essential way. And then, I didn't know how much gay activity there'd been…" My memory only kicked in when he came home from the war. It sounds narcissistic to say so but I found it fascinating. OK, I thought: there's nothing too awful about me. "I'm ashamed to say that I used the 'find Susan' method of reading it, first off. "When I first got the manuscript, I did so electronically," says Susan. Bailey's book is almost 700 pages long, and so tirelessly detailed, even Cheever's children have found surprises within its tidy bulk. Now, nearly two decades on, there is Cheever: A Life by Blake Bailey, previously the biographer of another suburban drunk, Richard Yates (a coincidence: before their move to Ossining, the Cheevers rented a house in which Yates had also once lived).
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Was ever a man's outward appearance so at odds with his inward condition? His friend John Updike thought not, and shook his head sadly at this psychic chasm, hoping against hope that Cheever's fiction, with its startling glimmers of optimism, its sense always of moving towards the light, would somehow prevail. His image as the poet of suburbia – the Ovid of Ossining, Time magazine called him – was thus dealt a possibly mortal blow, the moments of darkness in his stories now taking on new menace the moments of grace, a sudden emptiness. The pain, the loneliness, the secrecy, the shame: Cheever, an imposter in his own life, turned self-loathing into an art form. The journals contain some of the best sentences Cheever ever wrote, but, my God, they are horrifying. Finally, in 1990, Cheever's journals, which run to some 4 million words, were auctioned by the family, and extracts published in the New Yorker, and in a single volume. Next came a volume of Cheever's letters, edited by Susan's brother, Benjamin, who wrote in his introduction of how difficult it had been to discover the extent of his father's homosexuality, and then coolly thanked the composer Ned Rorem for revealing that "for my father, orgasm was always accompanied by a vision of sunshine, or flowers". The book confessed the extent of her father's alcoholism, and gently noted his bisexuality in the last years of his life, she wrote, he had found love, of a kind, with a young man she called Rip. Susan came first, with her memoir, Home Before Dark (1984), written to disable the bomb of an unauthorised biography. His life has been nothing if not picked over. But in the years after his death a stream of revelations about his life poured into the public domain, muddying the blue-bright waters of his legacy with distressing efficiency. How could she not be? John Cheever died in 1982, at the height of his fame as the bestselling, Pulitzer prize-winning author of five novels and some of the most brilliant short stories ever published. Of course, she is more than prepared for my questions. "Wait till you see the house! This beautiful building that is now the ugliest place on earth. I have this weird family worship." She peers determinedly through the misted windscreen. "Oh, yes," she says, when I mention this. Rather to my amazement, she is enjoying our talk, which is all about her father, John Cheever, the great American writer. Barely have we left the city than I notice that her face is suffused with a warm, proprietorial glow. Susan, who is 65, begins our journey with the slightly ragged air of one who has packed for a long trip a little too fast her ultimate destination is Bennington College, Vermont, where she teaches non-fiction writing. We are going to visit the stone-ended Dutch Colonial she lived in as a teenager, a house her 90-year-old mother, Mary, still miraculously inhabits. O n a damp and unseasonably cold summer morning, Susan Cheever and I leave her apartment in New York and drive to Ossining, in Westchester County.