The Short Story Review (No. I)

“Reginald,” by Saki – From “The Complete Saki,” by Saki

There certainly is a reason why Saki – born Hector Hugh Munro; is often compared to Oscar Wilde. His way of finely judged narratives know just when and where to make the punch, and when to tell a joke. The eponymous character of Saki’s story “Reginald,” is the kind of person that someone such as myself, would find great similarities with. The character Reginald takes great delight in this story in popping the pleasant balloon of a garden party’s atmosphere. Convinced by the unnamed narrator, to go to the party, Reginald agrees – after some convincing, the character goes. However it’s most interesting because, the unnamed narrator will soon learn that convincing Reginald to go was much more of a mistake then he can apologize for.

This is the kind of character, who enjoys sitting back, and watching a house burn while everyone else is running around, trying to put it out. Instead of going to grab some water, this kind of person, grabs a bag of marshmallows, and cooks them over the house engulfed in flames.

One cannot help but wonder, if Reginald shares some traits with his creator? Saki was born in the late eighteen-hundreds of the Victorian Era, and witnessed the full blown counter-balance of the Edwardian Era. It’s a wonder if Saki was satirising the lingering attempts at keeping Victorian Era morality in its place in society, or if he mocked the ideas of the Edwardian Era, which were surely shocking to the older generations with a flamboyant king.

Maybe Saki was just poking fun at both the contradicting Era’s. Picture the Victorian Era a time of the corset, rigid clothes, and in my opinion very stuck up people. The Edwardian Era then came along and pretty much abandoned all the previous concepts of the Victorian Era. The restrictive, bear trap corsets were forced to be modified in the Edwardian Era, when the upper class took a much more interest in the leisure sports – and after a while the everyday wear of the corsets were abandoned. Saki certainly has a view of human nature. In this particular story his septic view of the high class society is certainly something of the mock of his less then heroic protagonist heroes. Then again, protagonists of comedic sketches, vignette, short stories, novellas, and novels, from my knowledge are not the knight in shining arm. Truly in this case the protagonist of the story “Reginald,” (also named Reginald) is the kind of man who is not only perverse, self-absorbed, politically incorrect, impolite, and above all else free in his ways of not following the correct way of aspects of life – especially at a garden party.

These kinds of stories would be seen in today’s world would be seen as greatly politically incorrect – well he is quite politically incorrect, however as a reader, I don’t recall ever reading anything comical that is politically correct or even watching any stand-up comedian who every said anything that didn’t piss someone off. Saki certainly is one of those authors that would piss off the modern person, who was a devote person who believed in the idea’s and teachings of being politically correct. Saki may be seen by maybe seen as “Reactionary,” by many in his time, but I think he was a comic genius and quite hilarious who has quite the memorable quotes I’m sure, that would both shock, offend, and make one laugh.

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“Umbrella,” by Yasunari Kawabata. From “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories,” by Yasunari Kawabata.

There are stories, that the titles grab the attention of the reader, with curiosity. “Umbrella,” for me, is one of those stories. Its title seemed so normal and strange, that I decided to read it. There are other odder named stories in this collection, like: “A Saw and Childbirth,” and “The Incident of the Dead Face.” Yet “Umbrella,” was a more interesting story to read first and foremost. When reading and looking through short story collections, the reader is playing a game of darts in the dark. Sometimes the dart hits, and sometimes it misses the board completely.

For some reason or another, this story brings back such reminisces of bitter sweet memories. Memories of a time that has passed away and cannot be regained. But instead it is admired. It’s like a photograph itself. And in this case this memory of mine is a memory of a particular photograph. There was a photograph that was kept on the fridge many, many years ago. Probably after a childhood eye surgery that has not particularly changed much in the quality of this life. The photograph was held in place, by a magnet. In the shape of a dinosaur perhaps – there was a lot of dinosaur items in our house when my childhood self was roaming around; or was it the old (now since fallen into disrepair) butterfly magnet? Either way, it was one of those two magnets, and it held this simple little square developed photograph (this was before digital cameras) and on that photo is a little girl, and a little boy, asleep on a bus. Their purple and green wind breaks of spring done up. Their little feet with their little snow boats did not even touch the floor of the school bus. Their little heads resting half way between each other, as they slept.

“Umbrella,” by Yasunari Kawabata gives me much of that same impression. That memory from the depths of my own memory slowly comes to. Rising out of the inky dark tar pits of my disorganized mental filling cabinet.

“Umbrella,” by Yasunari Kawabata also concerns two children. A boy and a girl. Who are going to go get their photograph taken, because the boy’s father in civil service is being transferred. As Yasunari Kawabata writes it becomes apparent, that both of the children feel a great deal of affection for each other. Though both are too shy to make any pass or take action on these feelings, and are unable to truly live up to those feelings.

There is something about Yasunari Kawabata’s writing that I just enjoy to read. There is the beautiful subtle beauty to his prose. Every word is a whisper. Every sentence as haunting as the last. Each sentence performs so well, together in the story, and also individually. You cannot read a review of one of Yasunari Kawabata’s book without reading how much praise he has for his lyrical writing. Read any review about Yasunari Kawabata’s novels and one will certainly find his lyrical abilities being praised.

From the short story “Umbrella,”:

“The spring rain was not enough to make things wet. It was almost as light as fog, just enough to moisten the skin lightly.”

Perhaps not the best example, but such descriptions are found throughout Yasunari Kawabata’s work. Light as mist, that just thinly describe the world around it but not in such detail, that it becomes over barring. Yasunari Kawabata then describes the world, little bit by little bit, and the emotional undercurrents that happen in the story.

“The boy could not offer to hold the umbrella, and the girl could not bring herself to hand it to him. somehow the road now was different from the one that had brought them to the photographer’s. The two had suddenly become adults. They returned home feeling as though they were a married couple --- if only aver this incident with the umbrella.”

Which is quite true. That photograph has since disappeared somewhere. Maybe in a photo album or maybe it has been picked up by the wind. No matter the little boy in the photograph and the little girl in the photograph are also faced with the same dilemma that the two characters in Yasunari Kawabata’s story “Umbrella,” have been faced with. They have gone down separate roads. They have parted ways. This is what makes Yasunari Kawabata’s story so touching. Is that it hits in a memory somewhere else. Like good literature should.

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“Dimensions,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness,” by Alice Munro

I remember seeing Alice Munro on youtube in conversation with Diana Athill. This little woman, reminded me of my great grandmother – who passed away earlier this year, in January. This soft spoken elegant and wise woman (though Miss Munro may disagree with me on that) sat there in that chair. Her soft eyes, just comfortable and scanning the crowd. One does need to confess certain things. As a Canadian and hopeful want to be writer; there are a few Canadian writers that are just godlike. One of them of course being is Margaret Atwood. Then there is Robertson Davies. But the dear, sweet and humble not to mention modest author Alice Munro, is also one of them. Her latest collection “Too Much Happiness,” is one of the short story collections that has been chosen for this experiment on the blog. All three of these Canadian authors have also been noted for having a very strong sense of identity with a genre much like William Faulkner’s “Southern Gothic.” Except in the case of Robertson Davies, Margaret Atwood, and of course Alice Munro, it is renamed “Southern Ontario Gothic.”

Reading “Dimensions,” the first story in the collection “Too Much Happiness,” one gets a certain feeling or understanding of what “Southern Ontario Gothic,” is. But make no mistake. Make no mistake indeed; this short story is not something of pulp fiction, or sensationalism or borderline sentimentalism. In fact this story has no supernatural effect at all in it. There are no ghosts, spectres or will-o'-the-wisps running around in thick wintery shadow like forests. No creaking house that with a long and ark family history. But do not be fooled. Though Alice Munro has tossed out these supernatural elements, the eerie feeling that something is not right can certainly be seen.

The tone of this short story is muted, in a lot of emotion. There is, certainly a lot of feelings of emotional awkwardness. The kind of emotional awkwardness that one would expect to find when placed in a strange situation. It’s like watching a dark little eight legged nightmare of a spider, scurrying across the tiled floor in the kitchen, and yet one finds themselves to paralyzed to move or take some transgressive action towards the creature’s life. Certainly the reason for the emotional coldness is explained, eventually but the leading up to the explanation – which for some who like a lot of action, would be seen as anti-climatic but for me it was a great touching way of writing; is what is the greatest part of the story. The minute details of the mundane life of the main character – past and present; are what makes this short story quite interesting to me. Alice Munro short story – the first short story that I have read by her; is not melodramatic or even boring in its details of the life of the character. Describing the game of the third bus as the main character Doree played by reading the signs – advertising, street, monster signs et cetera; Miss Munro describes how the character can get different words from one single word. Using many examples like the word “Coffee,” for instance.

For some this detail may be annoying; yet for me, it becomes more an interest, because it allows a glimpse into the character’s psyche. No one just sits anywhere thinking of nothing, or vacantly starring out of the window vacantly. Allowing the character to play this game, or thinking of certain mundane details like, what needs to be picked up grocery wise, or what should the character have for dinner. Such details are important to me, like descriptions, and a beautiful unique style, but also plot. Miss Alice Munro delivers that quite nicely.

The style and work of this story takes place in the present and the past. There certainly is a feeling of uneasiness. Something had happened. Something from the distant past? Something fort the not so distant past? But there is a feeling that something had certainly happened. That much can be distinguished by the main characters visits to another character by the name of Mrs. Sands. These visits are not visits of friendship though. They are business like, and there is a feeling that something besides having idle chit chat over coffee is being discussed. It becomes apparent that Mrs. Sands is a therapist.

Things don’t end there either. There is also the odd and something not quite right about him man in the present and the man in past, who goes by the name of Lloyd. Not mention the warm hearted and friendly character Maggie of the past. But also the enigmatic characters Sasha, Barbara Ann, and Dimitri. Yet they all come together eventually. As if they are all stuck in the same house or motel, in different rooms – past and present; and Doree the chamber maid caters to them all. Finally they all come together. The past and the present though presented in non-chronological order, finally comes together slowly and disturbingly. But Miss Munro does not present it in a shocking or disgusting manner. The entire situation and how the main character Doree deals with it just happens. Just like life, the pieces will forever remain broken. No matter of gluing or fixing or putting back together will change that. All that happens is the characters move on with their lives. Doree seeks the help or takes the help that is given to her. But she will forever be that broken, and muted emotional creature.

A first story by Alice Munro and there is no disappointment in expectations, which were held. Then again, even if there were no expectations or high expectations or low expectations would it have really mattered? Alice Munro writes in a simple, clear and detailed language. As England has the Nobel Laureate for Literature of 2007 Doris Lessing, Canada has the great and spectacular author of the short fiction form, of Alice Munro. Though what is truly envious is just how simple and effortless her writing is. Oh to have talent.

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“Tonight is a Favor to Holly,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section: “Reasons to Live.”

Amy Hempel is one of the remaining authors of the 1980’s, who wrote in the “American Short Story Renaissance,” that was headed by (probably unofficially) by Raymond Carver. Amy Hempel has influenced such authors as Rick Moody author of the novel “Ice Storm,” which was then turned into a movie directed by Ang Lee; and also influenced the author Chuck Palahniuk, the author of the 1990’s cult phenomenon “Fight Club,” which was later adapted into a film directed by David Fincher. She’s in good company so far.

“Tonight is a Favor to Holly,” is the second story in the collection’s first section “Reasons to Live,” and the reason why this particular story was chosen over the first one, was based on the length of the two. The longer the story the more there is to work with. Which is why “Tonight is a Favor to Holly,” was chosen.

The New York Times, had an interesting article titled “New Voices and Old Values,” which presents an interesting look into some fiction – and in this case Amy Hempels. These age old drama’s of the personal characteristics of the woman, shows the changing times, and the alienation and isolation that comes with old values in a much more different and contemporary world.

Once upon a time – that never sounds good does it? – Neither does that other age old starter that many elderly people use: when I was your age. But thinking back on those times, there was a certain difference in their lives, quality, experience et cetera. Women were expected to get pregnant and have children, and raise families. Men were expected to have jobs, make money and provide food for the family. But that had all changed. That had all changed indeed. Women are now in work force. Women are high ranking politicians, and business executives. It is not unheard of to hear that men are stay at home dads.

Amy Hempel’s “Tonight is a Favor to Holly,” particularly strikes a chord on the harp of my entire being (talk about pretentious and sentimental!). For some reason as the reader, I identify myself with Holly. The situation is not entirely hopeless, but it is not full of a lot of hope. There is just a sense that it is a reality. But what’s the point of trying to change that reality, when the next reality could very well be the same, or even a more unsettling thought much worst. It’s not particularly depressing it just becomes a fact of life. The fact that, things just somehow unravelled around the seams, so quietly and slowly that by the time, one notices what is happening, it is far too late to try and stop it.

To describe the mood of this story, its most fitting to say it’s very “grey.” It is subtle and even casually depressing. Events just happen, and all the characters can do is react to them as they come. Then find the best plausible not to mention costly solution.

One particular part of this story struck a very interesting chord. Oh the vibrations still makes my skin fill up with gooseflesh. I’m sure to an onlooker my skin looks like the uncooked, turkey sitting in the cold water of the sink on Christmas day or thanksgiving.

“My job fits right in. I do nothing, it pays nothing but – you guessed it – it’s better than nothing.”

This entire line short, simple, but very impacting describes the story quite well. It is not the best reality. In fact it is not a particularly likeable reality, but the reality of the situation, is that it is better than nothing. That kind of hopeless optimism that just paints the entire story grey. The beach; in which their beach house which both the narrator and Holly rent, becomes grey. The sunsets become dull and emotionless. Everything just becomes a grey reality. A fact of life. A form of abandonment of trying to make any difference in their lives. All forms of youthful arrogance drained like their empty Coke and rum mixed drinks, which they sip as they sit on the beach.

When the characters house is damaged in a mud slide, forcing them to move to the beach house which they wish to leave, there is just a sense of them thinking to themselves: “it’s just temporary,” the kind of acceptance and apathy towards the fact that any hopeful youthful idealism that once had been had, has set into the sand like the sun has set in the horizon. Yet it is not a nihilistic story. There is certainly a feeling of hopelessness but Amy Hempel delivers another fact of reality. A fact of life. The characters just move on. It is all they can do. They just change lanes, and move on towards something that is better.

Reading a story that parallels your life. That touches the moment in which one finds themselves in that exact situation, there certainly is a sense of one is not alone. But it doesn’t change the situation. The grey hopeless optimism remains. The reality sits in the reflection and stares back. Yet all anyone can do is really just change lanes.

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“Between the Conceits,” by Will Self – From “Grey Area,” by Will Self.

Will Self, is the bad boy of English Literature. His short stories and novels are known for their grotesque, fantastical, and satirical elements. “Between the Conceits,” is certainly of no exception to this. Certainly it is grotesque in some manner. Fantastical yes. Satirical, was a bit lost on me. Then again, the modern humour of the world is sometimes usually lost on me.

There are eight people in London, declares the unnamed narrator. Who however quickly takes the remark back, and explains in depth what he – that is I am to assume it is a male; what exactly he means by their only being eight people in London. This is quite interesting isn’t it? There are eight people in London who matter – then the rest just don’t.

The unnamed narrator describes this thoroughly and quite extremely really. He describes the game of chess or go – as he describes it; and the political motivations and deceptions, that each of these eight people (himself included) play in order to maintain some form of power, or show some goal or to know everything; maybe to have some order; other the act on some ferocious religious concept; and yet maybe they are just doing the best they can, for the good of the people. It is a hard call. Partly because this narrator is not a reliable narrator at all.

Though the narrator does state in the first page of this story: “I can declare with some authority that there simply isn’t a snobbish bone in my entire body.” This is quite a contradiction truly, because this unnamed narrator speaks with slight bit arrogance in his voice. The narrator has mere contempt for another one of the eight people by the name of Dooley. Not to mention he does look down on another set of characters by the name of the Bollam sisters. Not to mention that I don’t doubt there are a bit of jealousy with the other character Lechmere. The reason why there maybe some jealousy with the other character Lechmere, is because there certainly is a sense of resent on how the character Lechmere is left quite a bit of money, and apparently lives quite happily, while the narrator is stuck in his own house, taking care of his mother who is pushing on ninety.

There is a love interest with Lady Bob. There is the neutral Purves, who has an almost obsessive desire for a sense of order and practicality as long as there is sentience. The analytical Recorder who is more of an enigma then his name suggests. Then there is the unnamed narrator, whose motives and political standings are as unknown to me as they were at the beginning of the story.

This story to me is something to look at it in an entirely different way. Say there are these eight people in London. Surely one such as myself is not suggesting there are not these eight people in London. Far from it to be exact. But let’s say these three people, are acquaintances, friends, co-workers, love interest, and neighbours of the unnamed narrator.

Now imagine the narrator, so bored with the triviality of his life. He takes care of his mother who is going into her nineties. His entire life is taking care of her. He empties her bed pan – as he states quite firmly there is plenty of that to be done. The narrator then finds some form of relief from the depressing realities of life, by thinking of himself being one of these eight people. A person who pushes and pulls, on the strings of the marionettes of his “people,” that his hands and fingers influence their life.

Truly there is a certain sense of pity for the narrator. A lonely man – considerably old as well; who lives almost in gentle poverty. Whose meals come from “meals on wheels.” Whose most purposeful task in life is emptying the bed pans of his mother. For some reason or another the narrator becomes quite a depressive character. A character of quite pity, yet the way he acts and talks completely gives one the reluctance to give him any sense of pity at all. He is arrogant despite what he says. His nose is quite happily placed up in the air.

Yet there still is a sense of pity given to him. Because his so trivial. It is so meaningless. And pathetic, that his deranged mind, must come up with this fantastical idea that his one of these chosen eight who is play a game of go or chess. That he has the power to influence his people, just the like the other seven have their own people to manipulate. A sad character indeed. But what is worst is he is unlikable, which is part of the charm.

This is my first story that I have read by Will Self. It shows his grotesque elements for sure. It shows his fantastical elements also. There is quite a bit of ironic situations in it. Being honest I look forward to see what Will Self will produce next, in his next story that I read.

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“The Dancer,” by Patricia Highsmith – From “The Selected Stories of Patricia Highsmith,” by Patricia Highsmith – Section: “Little Tales of Misogyny.”

What can be said about Patricia Highsmith. Bitter? Acidic and sour? Rude? Misanthropic? One starts to wonder if there is any pleasant compliment to be said about Patricia Highsmith as a person. Her work also shows a general similarity to her views of the world around her. The world to Patricia Highsmith was a grossly disgusting place. Everything is double natured. The beautiful lovely manicured lawns, and the white picket fences, are all secretly serving some darker purpose. Like impaling your neighbour on the nice white sharpened tips of the fence. While the meat pie that can be smelt cooling on the windowsill, is secretly your neighbour’s cat. The unfortunate accident that happened with Mr. Jones car actually was no accident at all. His wife discovered that he was having an affair and so she cut his breaks. This is the world of Patricia Highsmith. Where everything nice and neatly tied up, truly has a much more sinister side to it.

“Little Tales of Misogyny,” has what got Patricia Highsmith called a “misogynist,” – when really it would have been much more appropriate to call Patricia Highsmith a misanthropic. She despises both genders equally.

“The Dancer,” by Patricia Highsmith is a very short and very simple tale. It however does miss the point entirely. Whatever the point was. Now I hate to leave off with a sour note, with a story that didn’t say tickle my fancy. I am also too tired to go find another one to read and review.

Some authors are great with their short fiction. Yasunari Kawabata himself had stated that the essence of his art was not in his longer novels, but more in his shorter form of fiction. His sparse impressionistic scenes. Alice Munro knows how to work with the short story format. Her work depicts the psychology and lives of woman, effortlessly. Saki in his comical and wonderfully funny works is considered a master of the short form of fiction. Amy Hempel also provides a great exemplary practitioner of the short story. Yet Patricia Highsmith’s work – at least this collection, falls short, of what is expected. Maybe it is this collection. Maybe it is the length. But it falls short. There is nothing there really. Nothing at all. There is no real characterization, psychological insight, absolutely nothing. And yet it provides her own world vision on woman.

How Claudette withholds sex from her dancing partner Rodolphe to wet his appetite. Yet she is s quick to jump into bed with other men. Clients who watch their show, and other patrons. Claudette is the image of what Patricia Highsmith saw in woman. Nothing but sexual appeal. I say this from reading (still reading) the biography of Patricia Highsmith by Joan Schenkar. In some ways or another, the dance – rather deadly really; that both the characters perform, is kind of a symbol for the dance that Patricia Highsmith herself performed for those women that she loved, and utterly despised. It’s the dance of sexually charged sadomasochistic performance, which mixed love with her absolute engulfing hatred for others.

Though a terrible story in some ways, it is certainly an interesting glimpse into Patricia Highsmith’s mind. But I would not take it too seriously, really when stating that it is an interesting look into Patricia Highsmith’s mind. When one analyzes stories and paintings and tries to find a piece of the person who created it, they don’t actually find them. Just find themselves, in some way or another, or their own interpretation of what they think the author is like.

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Well Gentle Reader, the first “Short Story Review,” is done. I do hope you enjoy it. It is an interesting way to end the blogs of April of 2011. Tune in, sometime in May hopefully to see the next round reviewed.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
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