The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

The young Carson McCullers could write, and draw characters, but an idea that would be spirited and worthwhile as a literary short story or novella becomes excruciating when drawn out to novel length. The well-named The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (the title comes from a turn-of-the-century Scottish poem) is a long, plotless display of earnest literary noodling; a collection of benign, banal and bracing interactions between a handful of characters in a town in the American South in the 1930s.

The book swirls the interactions of four characters (only one of whom, the young girl Mick Kelly, is memorable) around a fifth: a pleasant, placid deaf-mute named John Singer. Each of the four are strangely drawn to this man for reasons they don't show more know, only that he has some quality; he is "thoughtful and composed", with "gentle eyes" (pg. 87). He understands them intuitively, they think, but part of the author's aim here seems to be that they are projecting; they each describe "the mute as he [or she] wished him to be" (pg. 197) and fail to realise that this man is reluctant to communicate in kind. He doesn't unburden himself on them as they do on him, and while they are each wrapped up in their own dramas – the novel's title leading us to believe they are the directionless and lonely hunters – it eventually becomes apparent that John Singer is the loneliest and the most burdened. "She likes music," Singer writes of Mick Kelly in a letter to the one (unreciprocated) friendship he tries to cultivate. "I wish I knew what it is she hears. She knows I am deaf but she thinks I know about music." (pg. 190)

Now, McCullers' book is one of those where this sort of literary architecture only becomes clear after you have finished it, and perhaps studied it. It is a noble theme, and McCullers is sometimes a bit too aware of the nobility, overegging the portentousness of her prose (particularly the internal monologues of the characters) and the earnest sentimentality of the interactions. The totemic role of John Singer is an unsteady device; some have compared him to Christ, the gentle man who redeemed others by taking on their burden, but the device isn't seamless enough to overcome the reader's doubts about it. In uncharitable moments, I wondered whether Singer could be considered a rare white incarnation of the 'magic Negro' trope. A lot of goodwill is lost throughout the novel by the fact it doesn't seem to be going anywhere; even more is lost when the book descends into a tedious preachiness about race and socialism.

Some reviewers have compared the book to Steinbeck (perhaps in part because of the overt socialism), but this comparison doesn't sit well with me. Their writing styles are similar (though McCullers has none of the humour that Steinbeck deployed in, for example, Cannery Row), but in truth Steinbeck never used his characters as pawns in the way McCullers does (at least not as clumsily: the characters in East of Eden could be considered pieces placed on a chessboard). A more suitable comparison might be Faulkner, because of the Southern meandering, but I've not read enough of Faulkner to be able to state this with any conviction.

Perhaps the best way to conceptualise my disappointment in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is to place it in a trifecta with Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird and Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Three female writers drawing characters from 1930s America and delivering a sense of humanity with warmth and homespun prose. But the Lee-Smith-McCullers triangle is isosceles rather than equilateral, and McCullers' novel is by far the least of the three. The other two are just a class above in delivering character, theme and, most importantly, depth. Too much of McCullers' book feels unearned – Singer's enigmatic qualities, his fondness for Antonapoulos, the other four characters' fondness for him – whereas the other two books can resist any sort of critical harrying. The comparison shows that, competent as it is, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter's play for literary greatness fell rather short. show less

This could easily have been published as a collection of short stories, all taking place in the same small town and with a few overlapping characters or scenes. But I love it in this form—it’s richer, and more interesting. These characters do more than just occasionally bump into each other; they continually touch each others’ lives, often without even realizing it themselves. The metaphor of a tapestry, while overused, certainly fits.

It’s a unique structure—revolving somewhat around the twin stars of Singer & Mick, but truly an ensemble piece. For such a long list of characters—Singer, Mick, Blount, Dr. Copeland, Biff, even smaller characters like Portia, Harry Minowitz, or Bubber—not only are they filled out as show more characters, but their relationships to other characters are fully drawn and textured as well. Overall, despite many inner monologues and narrative explorations of private lives, for me it is those relationships that drive this book. For a novel that is so often described with terms like “loneliness” and “isolation,” each of these characters is powerfully drawn to others. The really remarkable thing that McCullers explores, though, is how all those connections fail to produce a true community. Clearly the author intends us to take this unnamed town as a kind of Everytown (“Say, what kind of a place is this town?” “Ordinary.”), it didn’t ever really resonate that way with me. It feels like a constructed world, but rich in detail and compelling to watch.

McCullers’ prose is a pleasure to read. It’s not flashy, but has a worn-in feeling. It reminds me of a well-seasoned baseball mitt. There is no stiffness or restriction; I get the clear sense that this is the result of patient work and rework, until it’s comfortable and easy. The result is an immersive quality that I really enjoyed. show less

I have to admit that I was initially a bit underwhelmed by this highly acclaimed novel. That has to do with personal circumstances: 2 of our 4 children are deaf, so I know that world a bit. McCullers' image of John Singer, the central character she systematically describes as "deaf-mute," doesn't quite match the image of truly deaf people, at least not today's (it would lead me too far to explain why). Hence initially I regularly was annoyed by that incorrect image.
But I soon realized that I had to distance myself from that: clearly McCullers was not interested in giving an accurate picture of the deaf community. In this novel, John Singer functions as a compositional hub to explore four other characters: the good-hearted bartender Biff show more Brannon, the ideologically fanatical Jack Bounty, the black doctor Benedict Copeland, and the boyish girl Mick Kelly. To their own surprise, they each see in the (obviously) taciturn Singer a point of contact to pour out their hearts, someone who understands everything. In this way, McCullers knows how to deepen the tragic side of each of these figures, ingeniously touching on a lot of themes: the race issue, the gender issue (quite remarkable for a 1940 novel!), the classic coming-of- age and midlife themes, the role of ideology in tackling injustice, and so on. That is impressive for a debut by a 23-year-old writer.
But of course, it is above all the central theme that sticks: the fundamental loneliness of every individual. In that regard, the title of this novel leaves nothing to the imagination: each of the 5 main characters almost continuously bumps into the tragedy of the human condition, not being understood, being powerless against the facts of life, not really being able to communicate, etc. And in that respect, I understand McCullers' choice of the deaf John Singer as the pivotal character a little bit better. Towards the end of the story, it even turns out that behind this character lies an even greater human tragedy than with the others.
This is a slow, thoughtfully written novel, which may no longer match the pace and dynamism typical of today's literature. For example, the story only really picks up a little past halfway. But the ending that McCullers is working towards is absolutely confrontational and haunting, I don't want to compromise on that. Only, the characters she presents – and I'm not just talking about the slightly too angelic John Singer – are just a little too much of a caricature. The fanatic Jack Bounty, for example, is drawn as the restless communist ideologue whose activism inevitably ends in frustration drowned in a large amount of alcohol. All in all, I found the layered Biff Brannon and the endearing Mick Kelly most appealing. And then, of course, I should certainly mention that the pages in which Dr. Copeland describes the condition of the black community are among the most impressive of this novel. show less

I'm dumbfounded that this book was written by a 23 year old. It seems incomprehensible that someone so young could lay bare the truth of life for what it really is for so many people, peeling back the layers of the human soul like an onion until all that is found at it's centre is labour and love.

It is this sense of truth that makes this novel so compelling. McCullers takes human emotions to another dimension, slowly chipping away at the facades of her characters until finally the ice breaks and we're staring into the dark depths of their very souls.

The novel is written around five key characters, each fighting their own personal and social battles but bound by the common cords of loneliness, a search for truth, and ultimately show more shattered dreams.

There is Blount, the drunk stranger in town who's consistently angry and frustrated that he cannot get the truth of the evils of capitalism understood by enough people to make a difference. Dr. Copeland, the black doctor, is driven so fervently by his perpetual anger at the injustice of the treatment of coloured people by whites that he cannot get past his own children's passive acceptance of their degraded position in society. Mick, a young teenage girl from an impoverished family has an energised hunger for a life on a higher plain dominated by music, but cannot escape the realities of being cornered by the reality of her family's economic position. Biff, the enigmatic restaurant owner, quietly observes and tries to unravel the puzzle of the others, whilst his own personal life is complicated, unsatiated and compartmentalised. Finally, there is Mr. Singer, the deaf mute who underpins the other four. Patient and non-judgemental, the other characters and town at large are drawn to his quiet understanding and thoughtfulness, concluding that because he cannot answer them he must be of one mind with them. It is sadly ironic that despite becoming the most loved and trusted of all the characters, he is the most profoundly lonely, with others seeking continually self-solace from him without ever once considering if they bring anything to him.

It is impossible not to be touched by this book. Despite being a little slow in places, it silently creeps over you, and by the end you feel as if someone has removed the blinkers and you're squinting at the world in a whole new light.

Having said that, it's not necessarily going to be a personal favourite, but it's sheer literary brilliance is of much more importance than my personal preferences.

4.5 stars for an unrivalled truthful examination of human nature. show less

“ ‘All I can say is this: The world is full of meanness and evil. Huh! Three fourths of this globe is in a state of war or oppression. The liars and fiends are united and the men Who know are isolated and without defence. But! But if you was to ask me to point out the most uncivilized area on the face of this globe I would point here [...]”

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is a work of true craftsmanship. The characters are well-appointed, the relationships between them are well structured. The themes and issues picked up by the book are not only conveyed in sympathetic manner, the fact that they are conveyed at all is an act of both foresight and courage.

The fact that Carson McCullers was only 23 when she wrote the book is astounding show more – and humbling.

McCullers throws us into the sweltering heat of summer in a small town in Georgia, where Mick Kelly is a tomboy on the cusp of growing up. One of things that set Mick apart from the other people around her is a love for music.

We also get to meet Mr Singer, a mute, who owns a radio, keeps himself to himself and focuses his life on his one friend – Mr Antonapoulos. This chosen retreat from society, from the people in the town has the remarkable consequence that the townspeople attribute Mr Singer with all sorts of rumours.

In a way, the character of Mr Singer, reminded me much of Brian in Monty Python’s story – where people would mistake the main character for the messiah and project their expectations on him.

Mr Singer really is the centre character that holds the story together. Through him we also meet Biff, the owner of the local all night cafe/bar, Jake, whose desire for social change leaves him mostly drunk, and Dr. Copeland.

Each of the characters has a story that is revealed. Each has hopes and dreams. Each is a representation of different minority groups of the time and at the time that the book was written. We are confronted with the violence against African Americans, the struggle of artistic young people who are pressured into mundane jobs, the idealists who are despairing over the lack of change.

The major turning point in the novel comes with the death of one of the characters. For the past few days I have been wondering if that death was meant to symbolise Nietzsche’s aphorism that God was dead. And in a way, this event does come close to it but that would presuppose that the events that follow this turning point were caused by or in any way influenced by that death. However, they are not. What follows the death of that character is merely the unravelling of the inevitable. In a way I understood this as a joke. As if to say, whether or not there is a God has no relevance on the suffering that is caused by humanity.

I did not love reading this book. I regard The Heart is a Lonely Hunter as a great and clever book, but it did not enjoy the act of reading as much as I hoped. For all its fabulous structure and courageous stances, I was not gripped by the writing. It is slow, languid, and perfectly at home in its southern setting, in contrast to which I am more at home with the few passages that contrast this.

“The silence in the room was deep as the night itself. Biff stood transfixed, lost in his meditations. Then suddenly he felt a quickening in him. His heart turned and he leaned his back against the counter for support. For in a swift radiance of illumination he saw a glimpse of human struggle and of valour. Of the endless fluid passage of humanity through endless time. And of those who labour and of those who – one word – love. His soul expanded. But for a moment only.” show less

What a fantastic book! I could write whole essays about this book and its presentation of the failure of American capitalism, the failure of interpersonal relationships, the tendency towards self-delusion, the death of the dream, the effects of trauma and intergenerational trauma, etc etc. It is terrifying that McCullers was only 23 when this book was published and yet the quality of the prose are way beyond anything I could have done at 23 (indeed, could do now I expect). Often described as 'southern gothic', for me this book is a literary version of 'socialist realism' - every word in its right place, revealing the cold realities of a brutal system that grinds to dust almost every man and woman. What a terrible time to be alive - show more American poverty worse than serfdom, fascism winning power in Europe, and Stalin's brutal purges systematically liquidating those who had already brought down one tyrant. show less

Well, that was eviscerating. I am not sure that should not be my whole review, but I will say a bit more.

I know that Faulkner is considered to be the Dean of Southern Despair, but I would argue that Carson McCullers' depictiion of hollowness seems more honest and both more personal and somehow more universal than Faulkner's. When her people soldier on in the face of despair it somehow seems a less noble option than ending it all. It feels like they are chickens running around with their heads cut off. Already dead but beholden to their reflexes and maybe a dab of muscle memory. There is a discussion to be had about this topic, but it would be spoiler-laden, and I don't want to go there. It would be a hell of a book club discussion.

An show more extraordinary novel improbably written by a woman in her early 20s (she was 23 when it was published.) Read it if you want to be reminded of the power of literature. Don't read it if you want to feel good.

One note -- I read this on my Kindle, but in the last 1/3 switched off between text and audio. The audiobook is read by Cherry Jones, and it is exceptionally good. I am still glad I read this, the language is too good to not spend time with, but I think when I feel the need to be gutted again I will listen to the whole on audiobook. show less