There’s no better occasion than a midsummer Sunday to revisit a classic story that begins, “It was one of those midsummer Sundays.” In “The Swimmer,” John Cheever’s celebrated New Yorker story from 1964, a middle-aged father named Neddy Merrill decides to leave a suburban pool party by “swimming” home. More precisely, he’ll make the eight-mile journey on foot, stopping to float, freestyle, and skinny-dip his way across all the back-yard pools he encounters en route, many of them belonging to friends. “In his mind he saw, with a cartographer’s eye, a string of swimming pools, a quasi-subterranean stream that curved across the county,” Cheever writes. “The day was beautiful, and it seemed to him that a long swim might enlarge and celebrate its beauty.” The idea seems whimsical, but, as with many a Cheever tale, first impressions can be deceiving. Neddy discovers that crossing a stretch of highway, clad only in a swimsuit, isn’t terribly fun; some of his pool-owning acquaintances turn out to be less than pleased to see him. “The Swimmer” comes to a famously ambiguous end—rewardingly for the reader, and probably less so for Neddy. For the author, “The Swimmer” concluded with some of the highest honors in literature: a Pulitzer Prize, a National Book Award, and a National Book Critics Circle Award for the collection in which it eventually appeared. |
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