There I was my first year of grad school, and up stands Dennis Covington, and he bow-legged steps to the podium to read. One passage or another from his Salvation on Sand Mountain. It could’ve been the ISBN number. First word out of his mouth, I was transfixed. Transformed. I didn’t know the real power of words until I heard him. Before, I was flicking at them, watching them spin on the table. But the moment I heard Covington, it all changed. Words became, suddenly, gold, razors, the breath of God. For me at least, they’ll never go back to what I once misunderstood them to be.
We stayed in touch. Once, he called me a good writer and a good man. That’ll never leave me. He strolled into Syria when they were dropping barrel bombs. Just to know the people a little better. When Putin kicked off his wee tussle in Ukraine, I wanted to go over there. To see, to write. So, we talked about how writers must see with their own eyes. Reportage is not enough, could never be. The most mangled corpse, the brightest sunrise. I learned from Dennis that the teeming world is booze and writers are the alcoholics. But he also reminded me that I have a family and conflict journalists get killed sometimes.
His honesty startled me. He was completely satisfied with unresolved tension. Read any of his essays for The American Scholar for proof. He could sit still whilst Heaven yanked on one arm and Hell the other. He’d want to know both anyway.
The National Book Award swung and missed in 1995. Salvation on Sand Mountain defines the American literary tradition in the same way McCarthy’s stuff does and Cather’s stuff, and Steinbeck and Proulx. It’s gonzo, but instead of huffing hipster near-death experiences, Covington’s magnum opus exhales a man who boldly holds onto opposing conclusions. About himself, people, God. Hell, the book once moved me to visit the church down there.
Here’s to Dennis Covington. His power, brilliance, honesty, goodness. May I write as one forever in his debt.
Hear, hear! Good essay