The Short Story Review (No. IV)

“Dusk,” by Saki (H.H. Munro) – From “The Complete Saki,” by Saki – Section: “Beats and Super-Beasts.”

“Dusk,” is a story by Saki which is the pseudonym of Hector Hugh Munro, who is considered a master of the short story. Most of which satirise the entire Edwardian Era and its culture. His witty and sarcastic tales with the paint stroke of the macabre. “Dusk,” is not like the other tales that I have read by Saki. It does not have the humour; however this also shows Saki’s versatility. With working nights, I see three things in the sky. At the beginning of my shift I see the sunset, and the eventual sunset. During the near end of my shift I see the sunrise. The title of this short story (“Dusk,”) which is what attracted me to it in the first place. There is something about this time. This time of change. Children have already headed in doors for a night of washing up, watching some television with their parents, and then heading to bed. The dogs can be heard crying out and howling. The sidewalks appear less populated. Lights are on, illuminating the streets, unnaturally. Their pale orange glow reflected dully in the pavement, and the sidewalks. Shadows are cast in the alleys. Shifting and scurrying dancing in the lights. The tiniest moth becomes a large bat. People even start to change. More people can seen in a state of amiss, or in a sense of unassembled appearances.

“Dusk,” by Saki is just about that. About the people that crawl out of their homes, their situations, and take up residence in park benches, that once upon a time earlier that day had rested the buttocks of a mother watching her child, play in the park, or an elderly lady dressed up as if to go a church service, or a wedding, and in some cases a funeral; who waited for a bus. These benches would soon in time become the spots where the vagrants, the disposed, the stressed, and the hopeless swimming in despair took up residence.

There is a lushness to the prose of “Dusk,” by Saki. Also a very tightly controlled plot, and manoeuvre throughout the entire short work. This is the strength of the short story form. Some authors like Saki and Yasunari Kawabata (the Nobel Laureate of Literature nineteen-sixty eight) are able to work the wonderful short story form. Just reading a Saki short story is tightly plotted, tightly controlled, and tightly done. It moves like any story, or novel would. At least in the traditional sense. It follows a beginning, a climax and an end.

When we are young – or at least when I was young; we are taught that every story must have a problem. Now in such a young mind a “problem,” can be something so grandeur. Not to mention that stories sometimes have the most grandeur problems. A magical ring that a giant eye wishes to have in order to enslave the world. A magical man who wishes to live forever (out of fear of death,) and have complete control over the world. Stopping a countdown to doomsday. These conflicts are of the most exaggerated and large scaled. However this is what is primarily thought of as a typical “climax,” or what a “climax,” should be. However in a short story form, the climax cannot always be so simple, and so easily spotted. Sometimes it must be something else. Something different, something smaller. Like small conflicts of life itself. The misplacement of keys; or getting soap in your eyes, or not having butter or milk for breakfast. These are the conflicts that may be used in a shorter story.

Dusk is the tale of those that come out at night. Escape their predicaments. Their hopeless situations. One of these situations is a man traveling or visiting London – presumably from somewhere else in the country, maybe another city. He explains how he went to check into the hotel that he had hoped to be staying in, only to find it had been torn down. The cab driver then told him of another place he could go and visit, that was nearby. But the young man’s unfortunates were not about to stop there. He went down to a chemist’s shop to buy some soap. He does not like to use the soap that is supplied in hotel rooms. However upon getting the soap the man had since become lost, and does not have much money and is in need of some good charity. All this is relayed to the narrator of the story, who quickly spots a falseness though to it as well. The fact is the young man might as well be lying – there is no soap, and so the young man quickly leaves. However the narrator finds the box of soap on the ground and quickly chases the young man, and gives him some money and then departs back to where he was perched before, only to have another man come by and say that he has lost a box of soap. It’s a story of judging circumstances at face value. There is always going to be mistakes, and rewards for good deeds. But the time of Dusk is really what Saki writes about in this story. A time when things in the city change. When different groups of people emerge from the holes, of the landscape. Almost as if the city itself works on night shift and day shifts, and the switch comes at dusk.

“Yuriko,” by Yasunari Kawabata the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight – From “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories.”

The short story Yuriko by Yasunari Kawabata (the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight) is a different piece of work by the author. It’s more of a fable then his other works. “Yuriko,” (which means “lily child,”) is a tale about being someone else because you adore or love them. The title character (Yuriko) always tried to be someone else, since she was young. When she was young her friend (she found) was most adorable when her hands and ear lobes were red from the cold. So she would soak her hands in cold water before she went to school, and then splash some cold water on her ear lobes, so she could be adorable like her friend. When she married she did everything her husband did. She wore thick rimmed glasses. She did not apply make up to her face. She dressed like him, and even walked with that slight bounce (I always though it looked rather arrogant,) that men usually walk in. Her husband forbade her to do such things.

Yuriko explains though why she does what she does: “—it’s just too lonely when the person i love and I are different.”

Yuriko then falls in love with God. When she prays to God to show him or herself, clearly replied from the sky or heavens or universe, and told Yuriko that she shall become a lily and love everything. So Yuriko is turned into a lily.

The entire way this story was written is in a light-hearted sense. Not light-hearted in the sense of comedy, but just the way the fabulist story is portrayed. How the one who wished to be the one she cares about, finally becomes a lily and loves everything. I can only think and assume this is what an Italo Calvino story feels like after reading it. It just leaves you with a sense of alright that was nice, feeling.
“When It’s Human Instead of When It’s Dog,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section: “Reasons to Live.”

I quite enjoyed this short story by Amy Hempel a lot. This is where the neatly well crafted sentences work to her advantage, of the story she wishes to tell. Sentences no matter how well crafted they are must be, able to fit together like pieces in a puzzle. Consider the entire concept of any piece of writing like a puzzle in that sense. That every word, and every sentence, is a piece of a large puzzle. The finished product which is the story itself is the finished puzzle. All the pieces neatly placed together. However some stories or novels will leave parts missing. Done correctly this works. If it is not done correctly it is a complete mess. When this is done, then the reader is supposed to fit the missing pieces with the information they have, together. However this does not always work. In Amy Hempel’s story “When It’s Human Instead of When It’s Dog,” is done precisely with the concept of the puzzle piece. Every sentences works accordingly to the precision to the story itself. It is a truly touching story. Lately I appear to have been in a really touching mood, and touching stories, seem to amuse and entertain me. Much like “Pool Nights,” last line really touched me last time. So has this story in all its way shape and form. There is something about Amy Hempel’s world, that in some way or another, one almost feels like they are inhabiting the same space as the characters.

Mrs. Hatano (I presume is an immigrant) who cleans a house, and makes dinner or supper and in return receives forty dollars for her services. Now this may sound boring but is not really boring at all. Amy Hempel has been said to write in the minimalist literary style – not quite to the extreme that the Nobel Laureate in nineteen-sixty nine Samuel Beckett wrote in his later years, but in a more precise way. It’s more or less these splinters of the mundane or superficiality of someone’s reality and life. Not a whole lot though is revealed about Mrs. Hatano’s life. All we know is she cleans the house, and makes dinner for a man by the title the Mr., and someone else by the title the Mrs. As the reader learns the Mrs., was never well. Presumably ill as the story progresses. But Mrs. Hatano tries her best to avoid such a personal feeling, and moves on with her usual routine. When she first arrives at the house no one is home, and she goes to kitchen, grabs a piece of paper – the kind of note pad paper people may have by their telephones to take down a message; and writes down dinner options for the Mr. She then moves upstairs where she does light dusting according to her schedule, and vacuum. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she finds a room that is usually locked. Upon entering she lights a lamp, and though it is claimed it is not in her nature to pry, she reads a sympathy card. By this time the Mr., has returned home, and decides to help Mrs. Hatano with the bed. Which has been stripped and new linen, waiting to be placed. It is then declared that the Mr., stares into the bedding. Life continues on though for Mrs. Hatano, as she continues her routine. There is a real sense of detachment to the way she holds herself and interacts with the Mr., and the events that have befallen the household.

Mrs. Hatano though is in one way or another tossed into the circumstances of the household. When she discovers a stain, that she remarks look like a piece of geography on a large map, she tries to clean it. Though all attempts fail. She makes calls to others; she knows to see if they know how to get rid of the stain. Though no such luck. It becomes clear now that the enigmatic Mrs., has since passed away. As Mrs. Hatano finishes her cleaning the Mr., passes by the stain which now looks like a body outlined at a crime scene. The Mr., retreats up stairs. Mrs. Hatano grabs the forty dollars, and replaces a five dollar back, because she could not get the stain out.
Reading just a simple outline or summary of a story is not the same as actually reading the story my dear gentle reader I do promise you that. There is something about Amy Hempel’s story “When It’s Human Instead of When It’s Dog,” is incredible. Something that struck a heart string. Plucked it and made it vibrate. The vibrations like the saddest little violin song, that could resonate throughout my body. The vibrations just pulsating throughout. Though in a vulnerable situation with starting work at night, one might be a bit vulnerable to such emotional things. But it still was a story that hit home for me. A story that just places recognition on oneself to say that: “yes I am human. I feel emotions.”

“Deep-Holes,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness.”

When I first read “Deep-Holes,” by Alice Munro I for some odd reason or another, thought of “Death of a Salesman,” a play that I hated reading. For a few reasons, plays should be performed not read, like a short story or a novel. Oh well, I suppose some people get a good kick out of making people read plays. Especially plays that are just really boring, and quite frankly influenced by the political feeling of the era, to the point of just disgusting. I mean in no way shape or form am I all for capitalism, nor am I the person who would run around and scream communism is the way comrade, either. But it is quite obvious that the writer Arthur Miller, was pro-communist; something that was quite popular of his era. In fact being pro-communist was something fashionable as Kingsley Amis said, about his communist party membership. Other famous writers noted for their communist sympathies which have since dissolved for whatever reason are Doris Lessing the Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and seven, Italo Calvino (it should be noted that he lived under Fascist Italy,) Jean-Paul Sartre (though embraced Marxism never did join the communist party, and denied the Nobel Prize for Literature which is why he is not named a Laureate,) Simone de Beauvoir (though she may or may not have been like her friend and lover Sartre and may have embraced Marxist ideologies; she certainly was a feminist, but may not have joined the communist party,) Elfriede Jelinek the Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and four, Iris Murdoch (she joined for ‘religious,’ reasons). Any how the entire story of the relationship between the father and son in the play by Arthur Miller “Death of a Salesman,” was something that was depicted in “Deep-Holes,” by Alice Munro – that being said any story that has a father or son relationship can be compared to any one or another. But in this case the father and son relationship in Alice Munro’s story “Deep-Holes,”

Things start of rather normal. Much like all of other Alice Munro’s stories in this collection of stories. However beneath the surface of the idyll, and normality of life, the very earth may give way and shatter all around. The normal picnic of this family has a certain sense of something wrong to it. There is just an undercurrent of something wrong within the family. The way the husband looks away when his wife Sally, breasts feed their infant child Savanna. The way the father treats his children – but it does certainly become apparent to me that he singles out Kent more. Perhaps there will always be a sense of complexity to the relationships of fathers and sons. The relationship between Kent and his father Alex could be seen as the complete down fall of the family itself.

It’s hard to say or why it had happened – though the experience that Kent had experienced when he fell down one of the holes in the ground of where the family was picnicking when he was younger that lead to his own unravelling and undoing. The split from the family. The absolute search for something that he may never find. There is something about this story; something that just felt off at sometime or another. The entire gratefulness, the appreciation, the gratitude, that Kent bestows upon his father, all seem out of place, and the way they are brushed off by his father. Just like how Alex pushes off the entire ordeal as nothing. As if loving his son, Kent is torture. He scoffs off the fact the, that he saved his sons life when fell into one of the “Deep-Holes,” that the family picnicked at. Yet the dynamics within the family changed considerably. Kent appeared to have gained his father’s approval and perhaps pride, in his high school years when he (Kent) studies the sciences. The harder sciences. Alex himself is a scientist a geologist in fact. Then all of a sudden the family dynamics shifted once again. Kent disappeared from college. He disappeared from his family. He left without a word. The relationship between the family and their now estranged son Kent gradually becomes worst and deepens considerably.

In fact the entire relationship – though Kent surely protests against such a word, especially with his family that he may or may not despise. It is odd though. This almost normal family – all families have issues that is part of life; just split apart. Could Kent blame his situation on his piss poor relationship with his father Alex? Could he blame it on the fact that he could have died when he fell down the whole himself, and was saved by his father? They could all be answers. But what is odd in some other way or another, is that they are never answered. Sometimes one can suppose in some way or another, whether or not they want to admit it, nothing truly ties up nicely. The relationship that Kent has – or the resentment of a relationship that he once had, and now refuses to have, are never answered. His brother and sister (Peter and Savanna) are both successful people. Even his mother Sally, has an interest in geology. We cannot choose our parents. We don’t get to choose our children. As much as we hate to admit they are both a part of us, and also individuals, completely unique on their own. The successfulness of her other two children, and the comfortable life she lived with her husband Alex, are all contradicted in her son Kent. Who if one were to ask me in some way or another, is simply running away from something, or searching for something he will most likely never find. Kent’s lifestyle, his resentment, and maybe slight subtle anger and hatred, all in some way or another, also affect his mother, who is not entirely sure how to deal with him, and his lifestyle. It is a challenge that she as a modern woman faces, and may and most likely will have to cope with.

“Incubus: Or The Impossibility of Self- Determination as to Desire,” by Will Self – From: “Grey Area”

“Incubus,” or if one prefers to call it: “The Impossibility of Self-Determination as to Desire,” – was first commissioned by publishing house Serpent’s Tail for their anthology titled “Seduction.” Serpent’s Tail used to be an independent publisher (or may still be considered a independent publishing house) was bought out by Profile Books in two thousand and seven. Serpents Tail is an interesting publishing house, in a few ways. It is noted for publishing predominantly publishing left wing or center leaning political oriented novels. It is also noted for its translations, of European crime fiction. It is also the publisher (I think before she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature of two thousand and three) of Elfriede Jelinek, not to mention another Nobel Prize Laureate in Literature, of nineteen-ninety four and the second Japanese author have been awarded the prize Kenzaburō Ōe, whose prose much like Elfriede Jelinek lean towards the left. But interesting enough Serpents Tail also publishes an authors who in my opinion is not left leaning, because of her life ruled under the dictatorship of the Romanian Communist Party and the larger Union of Soviet Socialists Republics. Herta Muller the Nobel Laureate of Literature of two-thousand and nine. Though her prose could be seen as a bit centrist in a political spectrum. However her novels predominantly deal with the power and fear and terror of communism – which is somewhat interesting because Elfriede Jelinek the Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and four was a member of the communist party for many years. Serpent’s Tail is also noted for publishing some of the more risqué and more transgressive fiction.

The entire story of “Incubus,” or if one prefers to call it: “The Impossibility of Self-Determination as to Desire,” – is about a philosophy professor and his research assistant, that he has, and how he wishes to seduce her. The funny part about the entire story is that the entire seduction, takes place in some sex-worshiping Christian cult. If one were to ask me this professor should be more interested in occult and teaching the occult rather than philosophy. Or perhaps one would consider the occult a form of philosophy. I mean if the entire New Age ideologies get their own way they would consider their rather quack theories a form of philosophy – though I care to disagree.

In all this entire story is quite strange. An interesting concept is taken so far, and in typical Will Self fashion is exaggerated and blown over in that same surreal fashion. It’s all been done; it appears in the past few stories beforehand. After a while, this over blown way things are done, that is typical (or so it appears) in Will Self’s stories becomes, a bit repetitious and cease to lose that sparkle, and the charm that was once held, becomes lost.

So is the case with this story, and was the case with the last story. When an author begins to repeat themselves over and over again, or their writing style becomes so predictable, then they cease to hold the interest of the reader. Which is why a author should always keep being fresh and write about something different, always, or else they are just writing the same book with slight variations over and over again.


“Blow it,” by Patricia Highsmith – From: “The Selected Stories of Patricia Highsmith”

I shall certainly confess it, that I find Patricia Highsmith a much more interesting person then I do her work. I find the misanthropic, reclusive, pessimistic, sultry, bitter, turbulent writer and her life, far more interesting than I date to admit I find her work. Her home country of America rejected her, throughout her life. Many would not know in her life time who she was, as a writer, but she was quite popular in Europe. Regarded by most as a crime writer, and the grandmother and trendsetter of the psychological thriller, in Patricia Highsmith’s time, she broke all the rules of crime fiction and noir literature. She made her own rules. She wrote about how she saw the world around her. A world deprived of logic, reason, and meaning. Not everyone paid their dues. Not everyone paid for the crime they may or may not have committed. Private detectives, police officers, homicide detectives – anyone whose job it is to catch the criminal or to solve the crime is incompetent and inadequate in any attempt to solve the crimes or murders that are committed. It is no wonder that Patricia Highsmith was ignored by her home country. She refused to play by the rules. For the rules themselves, were useless to Patricia Highsmith. Why try and make order and a world full of random events, and has no order itself. This explains why murder in Patricia Highsmith’s stories and novels, works more like a reaction, then anything else. There does not necessarily have to have much of a meaning to any meaning at all behind it. It just happens. An extreme emotional response. Why in the traditional noir and crime fiction, murder is something planned. Planned by someone evil; this bad person then is to be hunted down by the troubled private investigator, who has relationship problems and a less then happy emotional state of well being; then justice is served. Not in Patricia Highsmith’s world. Never in Patricia Highsmith’s world.

“Blow it,” by Patricia Highsmith was a bit different then the other stories that I have read by Patricia Highsmith. It delves into the more mundane. I much prefer this rather than the hurried quickness of getting to the murder, that can happen in her short stories, and sometimes the bits of information that are left out like one characters knowledge, about something, and no real explanation for how the character could have gotten the knowledge. It is further more appropriate then Patricia Highsmith’s sketches or attempts at what would now be known as flash fiction – her “Little Tales of Misogyny,” were just not that good if one asks me. To write in such a restrictive and restraining style takes much practice and restraint, something I don’t think Patricia Highsmith had, to write such fiction. Let’s face the facts, that is something that she cannot do. Yasunari Kawabata the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight could pull it off – in fact he said the true essence of work can be found in his “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories.” Amy Hempel, one of the writers of the nineteen eighties short story Renaissance in America, who prefers the title “miniaturist,” to the term “minimalist,” which is best to describe Samuel Beckett the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty nine; however Samuel Beckett if anything is he would be considered (in my most humblest of opinions anyway) avant-garde.

“Blow It,” is a bit creepy and a bit different, then her other work. Far more subtle and I quite like that. A reader can always tell when something is being forced, and at times Patricia Highsmith’s fiction, has a sense of being forced. “Blow It,” reminds me somewhat of the other story that I quite enjoyed by Patricia Highsmith “Broken Glass.”