Coffee With Friends
A conversation on craft between McCrae, Call, Jauss, McMurtry, and me
I watched the final installment of the original Harry Potter film franchise with my daughter last night. We’ve seen it many times, so I allowed my mind to drift in and out of the story and land on or, more accurately, begin to hover around a conversation I was having with a few of my friends in my head. In the scene, Potter has been killed and is in the white-washed train station—a troped interstitially celestial hub where the decedent protagonist (in this case, Potter) must choose between returning to an earthly (wizarding) form and the continuation of a fraught-filled struggle against evil or passing on to the next realm of existence, having done enough to purchase one’s ticket (assuming we’re keeping with the train station metaphor). Potter discovers his mentor, Professor Dumbledore, killed similarly through an act of self-sacrifice, has waited there patiently for his young protégé to help Potter make the correct decision. Potter asks Dumbledore toward the end of their time together if the train station and their conversation—all the white-washed interstitial stuff—is real or simply in his head. Dumbledore’s response snatched me from hovering and fastened me in reality. A sort of reality. “Of course it’s happening inside our head, Harry,” Dumbledore tells him. “Why should that mean it’s not real?” (01:36:13)
I felt less silly hearing those words, which is good, because I do feel a little silly sometimes, when I think about my friendship with Captains Augustus McCrae and Woodrow F. Call. The famous Texas Rangers are, after all, fictional men whose lives are tangibly and literally, lived and lost on the page. But does Tangibility+Literality=Objectivity? Does it mean they’re any less real? I say T+L≠O. Of course, there are some scientists or physicists (or fundamentalist fanatics stricken with selective imagination) somewhere that would argue the point, but who has time for the likes of these people and their supposed objectivity when so much of our existence is, necessarily, objectively subjective.
So, I messaged David Jauss on the socials, mailed McMurtry a letter, and sent August McCrae and Woodrow Call a telegram (Augustus hadn’t lost his leg yet, so he could still ride back to Texas), inviting them all over for breakfast, with coffee and homemade buttermilk biscuits, deer sausage (since I know how fond Augustus is of smart pigs, and didn’t think Woodrow would mind) and some banana bread my wife made yesterday. To my surprise they all accepted, and we had coffee this morning. It was in my head, of course, my breakfast with friends, but why should that mean it’s not real?
The subject of our conversation was derivative of another of Jauss’ examinations on the craft of writing fiction in his essay collection, Words Made Flesh: The Craft of Fiction, complimented by an exploration of Lamb’s take on Impressionism in literature (59). And finally, examples of Impressionism in the literary lives of Augustus and Call. I considered including a transcript of our conversation in this essay, but reconsidered when I realized how many pages that would extend this work. What I’ll do instead is share some of the points we agreed on, maybe one we do not, and in doing so, argue that Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove uses moments of Impressionism to heighten the objective correlation between sensory detail and the character’s emotions, and in doing so, “render” an emotional response from the reader equal to that of the character (Jauss, 59). In short, to make the character’s emotions both known-to and real-for the reader. Of note, that part was tricky over breakfast—discussing Augustus’ and Call’s existence as characters with them. Luckily for me, neither found the conversation rude, as they won’t tolerate rudeness in a man (McMurtry, 665). It helped that Augustus is starved of robust philosophical discussion, so he enjoys one, especially when it rubs against his vanity, and Call thinks Gus is one hell of a character anyway, so he didn’t mind that I kept Gus so engaged (McMurtry, 654).
Lamb argues that “No other author... made the impressionist depiction of the objective into the aesthetic dogma that Hemingway did. Nor has any other writer ever put that principle into practice as rigorously” (Jauss, 60). While I don’t think McMurtry even attempts to challenge the assertion, Lonesome Dove is still brimming with Impressionism. Once such example follows the death of the Hat Creek Cattle Company’s scout, Deets, a black man who’d served under Captain Call and “Mr. Gus” for decades (McMurtry, 717).
When he’s killed by a starving Indian brave, following a series of missed verbal and bodily communications, Call and Gus transport his body back to their camp, but not before a brief exchange beside Deets’ lifeless body, in which Call expresses guilt for not doing something sooner—that is, not shooting the Indian before he ran a lance through Deets’ heart—and Gus replies that he’d rather not think about the many things they should have done for Deets over the years (718). The reader immediately understands the dynamic of their relationship. Deets was loyal, dependable, and an invaluable, albeit unacknowledged, member of the outfit. What’s more, he was their friend, subordinate or not. There’s more than an inkling of emotion in the passage, but if the exchange between the two Rangers is a seed, then Call’s actions when they return to camp is water, delivered by way of Impressionistic, concrete detail.
Gus explains when Call is finished with his work that the men should go look at the wooden grave marker Call carved for Deets because Gus has never seen him go to such pains over burying a man, friend or not. McMurtry writes, “Captain Call had carved the words deeply into the rough board so that the wind and sand couldn’t quickly rub them out” (723). The one sentence succinctly informs the reader about Gus’ and Call’s emotions but does so with concrete, Impressionistic details.
First, the words in the marker are carved “deeply,” and the board is “rough,” and the environment is full of “wind and sand” (McMurtry, 723). Willa Cather or Stephen Crane might argue the latter half of the sentence is less rendering and more reportage and therefore leaning away from Impressionism and toward Expressionism (Jauss, 63). However, if one considers the wind and sand, and even how quickly the words might be rubbed out, I think there is a strong case for them to be qualified as concrete, sensory details and examples of Impressionism that builds upon the objective correlation and emotions of the characters in the moment.
A clearer example, though connected, immediately follows the aforementioned. McMurtry chooses to include Call’s inscription in the text. It’s typeset just as Call would have actually carved it in the wood.
JOSH DEETS
SERVED WITH ME 30 YEARS. FOUGHT IN 21 ENGAGEMENTS WITH THE COMMANCHE AND KIOWA. CHEERFUL IN ALL WEATHERS, NEVER SHERKED A TASK. SPLENDID BEHAVIOR.
Though not every word is rendering or a concrete sensory detail, the whole, as it is presented in epistolary form, certainly is. The reader gleans from the inscription’s inclusion in the text what Call believes is important in a man. The inscription expounds on a list of those attributes, in a matter-of-fact way, characterized by Deets: the length of time they served together; number of engagements, and against whom they fought; Deets’ general disposition, regardless of circumstance; and, as if that information doesn’t garner an idea of the man well enough, Call also includes Deets’ general behavior and work ethic.
McMurtry offers the reader one more example of how powerful objective correlation can be by way of an Impressionistic rendering of Augustus’ response to reading the inscription. “Augustus took something out of his pocket. It was the medal the Governor of Texas had given him for service on the border... Augustus made a loop of the ribbon and put the loop over the grave board and tied it tightly” (McMurtry, 723).
In these two brief passages, the reader learns that Captain Augustus McCrae, a man famous for his talking, said more with his actions than he could with words, and that Captain Woodrow F. Call, a man known for his action, said more words than he ever did about any other person in his life. Both facts are telling and increase the emotional connection between the reader and the characters in ways abstract language could not.
In Lonesome Dove’s sequel, Streets of Laredo, McMurtry picks up the narrative with Woodrow F. Call, now retired from rangering, failed as a cattleman, and basically alone in the world, but making a living as a bounty hunter. Critics of the novel point out two aspects most frequently as flaws. First, McMurtry seems bent on killing everyone off. This is poorly supported criticism. After all, many beloved characters die in Lonesome Dove, and McMurtry explores in great detail the hazards of the West. Furthermore, years and years have passed since Agustus and Call attempted to be the first cattlemen in Montana. The second criticism holds more water. McMurtry employs Impressionism and far too much conveyance of “what the character sees without explanation or comment,” which requires strenuous effort on the part of any reader to suspend his or her disbelief and remain in the story (Jauss, 59).
The greatest example comes about two thirds of the way through the novel, after Call, aged and more careless than will do while hunting a particularly cunning and violent antagonist, is shot several times with a large caliber rifle. McMurtry describes in exhaustive detail the large quantity of blood Call loses over many hours, before he convinces Lorena to amputate one of his legs with a knife that’s been chipped on a rock to give it a serrated, saw-like cutting edge.
She cut... The flesh cut, but the bone was unyielding. She sawed and sawed, but it seemed she was only scraping the bone. The Captain was bleeding heavily again... She began to saw with both hands, bearing down on the knife as hard as she could. Blood ran so thick she couldn’t see the groove where she had the knife... She sawed on and on...The leg was off.
Lorena becomes so exhausted that when she’s done, she sits for an hour watching him bleed profusely but doesn’t apply a bandage to stop the bleeding (McMurtry, 439). Furthermore, Call, who had the sense to instruct her how to turn the knife into a saw and where to cut, failed to instruct her on the importance of a tourniquet or how to fashion and apply one. And this goes on for pages. It is almost entirely concrete sensory details—Impressionism—and the only people not pulled out of the narrative as a result of such bold, underlined, and italicized details are Call and Lorena. A little Expressionism and abstraction could have gone a long way toward crafting a more compelling, emotive experience.
So, McMurtry and Jauss and McCrae and Call and I had breakfast. In my head, as I’ve said, but a very real breakfast, nonetheless. And we chewed the cud. And we discussed our love of The Great State of Texas. And we discussed the joys of a beautiful woman’s company (well, Gus and I did). And we discussed craft, and how McMurtry’s employment of Impressionism in his literature might have served his narrative better. But mostly, we discussed where McMurtry used Impressionism to strengthen an objective correlation between the sensory details of his narrative and the emotional connection between the characters and the many, many readers who already love them. Semper Fidelis.
Editorial Note: This essay was originally submitted to my faculty advisor as part of my MFA program at Vermont College of Fine Arts on March 19th, 2025. Images have been included after the fact. The arguments I make in this essay are mine and mine alone. My opinions? Well, they’re mine too.
I reference David Jauss in this essay quite a lot. For some context, my program requires, in part, a short critical essay or, more accurately (and as you can likely tell), a craft essay in lieu of a traditionally accepted critical analysis of literature. We are encouraged to push boundaries and “get creative” with these craft essays—to have fun! And boy, did I. I’ve had fun reading Jauss’ work, chewing on his ideas and trying to implement them in my own writing, and I’ve had fun incorporating them (best I can) in my craft essays.
I was introduced to Jauss’ work as part of my required reading on craft but have read beyond what was required. It’s hard to explain the effect he’s had on my writing, and in such a short time too. I feel like I’m barely holding on to the threads Jauss has laid before us, so I hope this essay isn’t too off the mark he’s intended.
For more information about Jauss and his work, please visit his website at www.DavidJauss.com. And if you’re an English or English Literature teacher, writer, critic, or just interested in the craft of writing, you simply MUST read his latest works, Words Made Flesh: The Craft of Fiction (Press 53, 2024) and Alone With All That Could Happen: On Writing Fiction (Press 53, 2008).
A list of works cited follows:
- Jauss, David. “The Art of Description.” Words Made Flesh: The Craft of Fiction, First ed., Press 53, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, 2022, pp. 57-68.
- McMurtry, Larry. Lonesome Dove. Simon & Schuster, New York, New York, 1985.
- McMurtry, Larry. Streets of Laredo. Simon & Schuster, New York, New York, 1993.
- Yates, David, director. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2. Warner Bros, 2011. 01:36:14
Links where you can read the articles by Angela Shaw and Bob Lee follow:
- What Dumbledore’s Last Harry Potter Lines Meant (& How They Tipped Harry Off, by Angela Shaw, 2023.
- Augustus, Woodrow & Me, by Bob Lee, 2008.
Nice really cool