“The Philanthropist and The Happy Cat,” by Saki (H.H. Munro) – From: “The Complete Saki,” by Saki (H.H. Munro) – Section “Beats and Super-Beats,”
As the poverty and the working class, the atrocious ridiculous time of the Victorian era, and the rise of socialism during this time, was for Charles Dickens; the leisurely martini sipping, high class, and rather languid era of the golden afternoon of jolly old England before the tragedies of World War I came around and afterwards came the rise of modernist literature of Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, Marcel Proust, and at the time of his life and death the underappreciated and now appreciated author D.H. Lawrence. Saki however came before modernism, and his satirical and sometimes grotesquely bizarre stories, show a different side of the early twentieth century that the modernist authors had portrayed in their own fiction. Saki’s work portrays an at ease life – well an pseudo-at ease life; because planning a party and the guests, and all other odds and ends of the upper class, does take time, and it does take a considerable lot of work. Yet Saki presents a much different view, then that of Charles Dickens, and that of Virginia Woolf. Saki presents a much different world view indeed. A much more relaxed England.
This particular story amused because of Saki’s way of writing. I think the term “fairy godmother business,” as a way of discussing the matter of philanthropy was rather interesting. In fact somewhat comical, way of discussing the entire matter of philanthropy itself. A form of self-esteem booster. A way of feeling good about one’s self, by doing some form of charity work, and improving someone else’s life. However for poor Jocantha Bessbury, her attempts and philanthropy on the nice young man she had seen called Bertie – who has very nicely brushed hair, and knows which tie to match what he is wearing, and probably works as a clerk at some warehouse. However all of her attempts at grabbing the man’s attention had provided to be futile.
You see Gentle Reader there are always certain unwritten rules no matter where we go. Certain etiquette, a form of behaviour; no matter where we go there is something there that must be done in order to maintain this sense of order – if not, by all human laws and nature there would be anarchy! What would happen if people did not dress up in their best casual yet nice clothes, when they went to clubs? What would happen, indeed? Such anarchy would run rampet in the clubs, in the grocery stores (no swearing – at least not too loud), it would be just chaos. Just utter chaos – at least which is what the human side of us all tells us. It all tells us without these unwritten laws, these unwritten ways of manners, are what are appropriate, that there would be chaos. Such is also the rules of this tea house, which Jocantha our philanthropist goes to. You see one does not just randomly start conversation with a person that they do not know. One must make some form of arrangement in order to start the conversation. Such as can the one person barrow some sugar; or some cream, and so on and so forth. These are the rules – even if the tea house is a bit of a frugal tea house, but they must be obeyed – especially by the people of a more “high society.”
The ending though perhaps is my favourite. The contentness of the cat who has just ate a drowsy sparrow, and now resting himself in his corner, content with himself, and what he has done. Compared to the attempt of philanthropy by Jocantha.
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“Autumn Rain,” by Yasunari Kawabata (The Nobel Laureate of Literature of nineteen-sixty eight) – From “Palm-of-The-Hand Stories,” by Yasunari Kawabata
Autumn is my favourite time of year. The cold air. The earlier nights and dusk. The look of things. In summer everything is a haze, a buzzing enjoyment of activity, and the sun really clouds everything around the scenery. In winter everything is still. Nothing appears to move. Everything is in a perpetual state of being frozen in frost or ice. Though the snowflakes fall or blizzard outside, everything still has the feeling of being stuck. Never changing, never ending, just stuck. Spring everything is in a thick site of mud, and life blooming, and bugs starting to come out. Winter freezing away. It’s certainly my least favourite season. But then there is autumn. The crisp feeling of everything starting to be frozen in that same state that winter brings, but the light of summer still penetrates that unwelcoming feeling of winters claws of being trapped in a snow globe – never moving, never changing, just the same scene, same day. The changing colours. The rustling of the leaves, as they scurry down the street. The bonfires, the pumpkins, and Halloween of course – which has become rather commercialized, and parents now worrying about their children, and the sick perverts of people. But Autumn still remains my favourite season.
The opening lines and scenes of this story. The descriptive power, and beauty of it all, are what make it so much more worthwhile for me. When I first read this story, back in winter, during a rather dreadful time of life when, a family member had passed away – I read it in a daze, in a chair, by a lamp, which looked kind of like an old oil lamp with some slight variations. Certainly an antique I am sure, but it had a modern twist to it. It looked old, but was actually newer – a mixture of classical oil lamps with the current abundance of electricity and light bulbs. The whole switch in how to turn the entire lamp on was probably my favourite part of the whole lamp – next to the beautifully well painted flowers on the translucent glass white glass of the lamp; the switch of the lamp, was like any other knob. You know those short little sticks, with the round head, with the little ribs or crevices, marked in them. They feel like the rumble strips on the road, only your finger and thumb is the car. Anyhow, one cold night, I sat there in the chair; the house sound asleep, only the wind rustling outside, blowing up snow like a giant sneeze blowing dust away; or a person spreading ashes; I read this story. I admit it was the title that first grabbed my attention of this story. Away I had gone and flipped to this story, and once I read the following passage(s) there was a realization that I was not going to turn back.
“Deep in my soul I saw a vision of fire falling on mountains red with autumn leaves.
Actually, it was in a valley that I saw it. The valley was deep. The mountains stood high on each side of the riverbank. I could not see the sky above unless I looked straight up. The sky was still blue, but it was tinged with dusk.
The same tinge lay on the white stones of the valley. Did the silence of the autumn colours all around me fill my body, making me feel the dusk early? The valley river flowed a deep indigo; when my eyes marvelled that the autumn leaves did not reflect in the deep colour of the river, I noticed fire falling into the water.
It did not seem as if the fire rain or fire dust were falling; it merely glittered above the water. But surely it was falling; the little bits of fire fell into the indigo water and vanished. I could not see the fire as it fell in front of the mountains because of the red leaves on the mountain trees. So I looked up to check the sky above the mountains and saw small bits of fire falling at a surprising rate. Perhaps because the bits of fire were moving, the narrow strip of sky looked more like a river flowing between the banks formed by the mountain ridges.
Night fell, and this was the vision I had as I dozed off inside an express train bound for Kyoto.”
It should be noted – which I was going to say “I guess it should be noted,” but the word “guess,” is such a despicable world. It is not a concrete word, and though if anything I do appreciate neutrality and greyness; when it comes to language, there is a need, and a desire for concrete use of words, there is no need for words like “guess,” or “apparently,” et cetera (unless of course circumstances arise; then in which case the words maybe appropriate) it either is or it is not. Anyhow, I started reading “Palm-of-The Hand Stories,” before I read any of Kawabata’s novels. For the reason that Yasunari Kawabata himself had stated that he thought the entire concept or essence of his art could be found in these short stories, rather than his novels. Which to a degree is true. However both of Yasunari Kawabata’s novels and his stories both have their own strong points. In Yasunari Kawabata’s “Palm-of-The Hand Stories,” the reader can see just how great his condensation skills are, and how they can work to his advantage. His lyrical abilities shine though, and his impressionistic scenes, and making large life events, into smaller moments.
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“Free Radicals,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness,” by Alice Munro
This certainly will be one of my favourite stories by Alice Munro, if one asks me. There is something in each of these dark little jewels of these stories. Everything starts out normal enough. Everything is just going fine to be honest, for the most part – well that is debatable in this story; nothing is ever going fine when ones husband or wife or partner or beloved dies. Anyhow – each story sets off normal so far. There is something in this story for instance in which it starts off. Yes the husband has died. But everything that goes on after his death is all but normal. The ever disgusting “sympathy,” that people shower you with – you hate it when you get it, but you feel so unloved without it – at least that is what I have been told; I despise it either way. I absolutely despise people telling me “oh so sorry that happened,” just the word “sorry that happened,” or “sorry for your loss,” is just so disgusting. It is so false. Just that sickening though of “so sorry,” makes me vomit just a little bit in my mouth.
There is a real sense of dark humour in this story as well. Much different then Alice Munro’s first story in this collection “Dimensions,” which didn’t have much humour to it. It had more of a matter of fact way of speaking of the entire events that had folded around the main character. The husband and his murder. The therapy sessions. Almost as if the main character is just wandering through the events of the present in such a absent minded manner or so cold and distant that she no longer feels or cares – though she does, because in the waiting room of the therapists office, those Christian’s or Jehovah Witnesses – either way some religious group; had given her a religious pamphlet. Though she didn’t say anything. Her hands were shaking. She certainly could feel emotion. I think one of the main contrasts about the main character in “Dimensions,” and the main character in “Free Radicals,” is how they are dealing with the present circumstances. “Dimensions,” moves through everything with a cold, and unemotional look to the world, and the past. While the main character of “Free Radicals,” looks at everything with a smirk, and very interesting sense of humour.
“As soon as she got on with the arrangements, of course, all but the tried and true had fallen away. The cheapest box, into the ground immediately, no ceremony of any kind. The undertaker had suggested that this might be against the law, but she and Rich had had had their facts straight. They’d got their information almost a year before, when the diagnosis of her cancer became final.
“How was I to know he’d steal my thunder?” she’d said.”
Though of course, the main character admits that she would only be able to talk about this with her closest of friends. Once again one would have to face it, those people who always say “I’m so sorry,” (for whatever reason) would certainly not be able to stomach such a squeamish remark from the widow, whose cancer is in remission.
“People had not expected a traditional service, but they had looked forward to some kind of contemporary affair. Celebrating the life. Playing his favorite music, holding hands together, telling stories that praised Rich while touching humorously on his quirks and forgivable faults.
The sort of thing that Rich had said made him puke.”
Rich obviously belongs in my family then – they have all said the same thing. Well that is the contemporary affair part anyway. Where they say that they do not want a funeral. Just cremate them, and then have a nice private family ceremony where everyone gets together. So more or less, they still want the crying, playing their favorite music and talking about forgivable and favorite faults.
However the story has it contemporary affairs as well. The main character of “Free Radicals,” is not the first wife of her husband Rich. In fact she is his second wife – Bett is his first wife who now lives in Arizona. She used to work at the registry office at the university at which Rich taught Medieval Literature. To love and to hold until death do us part did not work for the first marriage. But worked for the second wife for sure.
Things get really strange for our main character. One morning it got hot out and decided to air the house out but a young man is standing on the front porch. Who says he is there to check the fuse box. Which for the reader sounds odd – but then again we are not entirely sure if it is true or not. But things get even stranger for our new guests. He says he is diabetic, and asks if she can make him something to eat. She agrees, though for the reader it still appears odd. A diabetic should no to keep themselves, fed, when they are hungry and all that. But our main character doesn’t appear to mind. But the behavior becomes odder. Breaking a plate. Cutting himself, and then ordering her around.
Eventually he himself tells her a little story. A story that prompts her to tell her own story which he believes is true, but in her case ends up to be quite false. In the end all turns out well. At least for her that is. Though nothing really changes. Her husband is still dead. Her cancer is still in remission. Nothing really changed. Everything stayed practically the same.
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“The Harvest,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section: “At The Gates of The Animal Kingdom.”
This story by Amy Hempel is a great one. I first actually came across it, while reading the introduction of her volume of all her collection of her stories title “The Collected Stories,” which was written by Rick Moody – an author that Amy Hempel has influenced. In fact my first superficial connection with Rick Moody was a movie directed by Ang Lee (the director the horribly slow paced and rather boring cowboy gay romance drama love story “Brokeback Mountain.”) titled “The Ice Storm,” which was a neat and rather interesting movie. Though I suspect the book would even be better. Movies tend to focus only on very superficial moments; they can never really grab the entire detail that the word of a book can. That also speaking an author can do a whole lot more, with a book then a direction can with a movie. Speaking of “The Ice Storm,” by Rick Moody, if memory serves correct – and it does not always serve correct the novel “The Ice Storm,” was Rick Moody’s break into the literary scene. Though it has often been said he has not been able to top that novel.
In his introduction, Rick Moody makes it most important, to make a note of Amy Hempel’s well crafted sentences. This is something that any reviewer will discuss, about Amy Hempel’s sentences, even I have. For her sentences, work to her advantage. They, work like the headlines of a news paper story or article, making sure to grab the attention with bold words and action words (“Man Killed,” blah, blah; or “streaker chases woman in park!” and so on.) the stories make sure to grab the attention of all the readers or any reader. But the sentences, now that I have read enough of Amy Hempel’s work, are minor to her other more important great abilities that she has shown over the course of the stories that I have read and reviewed, and the ones that I have read on my own and not reviewed (and maybe not review, to enjoy my own pleasures). One my favourite part about reading an Amy Hempel story is for her power and control over atmosphere, and tone.
There is something in each one of the stories that has a classical tragedy feel to it. Yet there is still a great sense of the present; with eerie circumstances to it all. Just simple references like wishing to mix coke and rye drinks, and drinking them on the beach. Yet the circumstances to all these problems, are absolutely normal. The situations are all themselves, something that is acquired during life. Anyone who has lived into adulthood, or continues to live well into their prime of life and slow decay of life, knows the interesting and sometimes small subtle challenges we all face daily. Sometimes these challenges are from the past. Each one of Amy Hempel’s stories (so far) have a narrator – first person; and each one appears to be a loner who is salvaging what is left of their life. In the story “The Harvest,” the narrator (a female) has a car accident – but be warned this is not the traditional or simple story of the accident and what happened afterwards. In fact it’s a story, being told, by the narrator who reflects on the story itself, where the exaggerations of the fiction have come, and the real truth behind the story merge, and become the actual story. Try not to let this take away any merit the story has. The entire self-reflective style of the story is quite wonderful, not a gimmick or some post-modernism twist or attempt at cleverness; it works in the story. For even though the story is self-reflective, and is telling what appears to be two stories in some way or another it feels like it is telling three stories. The story with the exaggerations; the story and how it really happened, and then the story about how stories come and shape and form, and how truth and fiction, become a stretch of the same basis, but one is a bit more entertaining than the other.
Such is the way the story goes at times. The narrator was in a car accident, and had severely damaged her leg. The damage required just over three hundred stitches; but the narrator tells the story of about four hundred stitches. One day, the narrator went to the beach, and removed the bandage, and waded into the surf. A little boy had asked her if a shark had done that to her leg. The narrator confirms that, that summer there were many sightings of great white sharks around that around the coast. But the narrator also lies about what had happened to her leg, and says yes that a shark had done it. Now for some odd reason or another, keep wondering about that passage, I can’t help but wonder why the narrator would say that. Is it so the little boy would not be afraid of swimming because of the sharks? Is the narrator really that altruistic? Is there a feeling of shame in the fact that the damage was done by a car accident – oh what a correction by a man who hit the motorcycle that the narrator and her date were going on (the narrator did admit that she lied because of the fact that the syllables of motorbike just were not going to work in the story, and therefore car was more appropriate.) but then again, there is no real reason for having shame, of damage done by someone else. That would just be irrational behaviour; then again there is a lot of irrational behaviour for this narrator as well. However the psychiatrist did point out that, it was a common sensation or feeling.
“I watched this on television, and because it was my doctor, and because hospital patients are self-absorbed, and because I was drugged, I thought the surgeon was talking about me. I thought that he was saying, “Well, she’s dead. I’m announcing it to her in bed.”
But as the psychiatrist had explained to our narrator that, the entire feeling of thinking of being dead and not realizing they are alive is really quite normal in her circumstances.
In all Amy Hempel’s fragment storytelling. Well manicured and formed sentences, all help the tone and atmosphere of her eerie stories, about life, after unfortunate circumstances. About picking up the bits and pieces of a destroyed life, and moving on from there. Maybe that is why Amy Hempel’s first collection was titled “Reasons to Live,” and I do remember reading or seeing or hearing somewhere (who can ever remember) that she is quite interested in how people keep living when such accidents or circumstances, and keep living and moving on.
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“I Despise Your Life,” by Patricia Highsmith – From “The Selected Stories for Patricia Highsmith,” – Section “The Black House.”
In Patricia Highsmith’s short story “I Despise Your Life,” from her later collection of short stories titled “The Black House,” we see a more mature author at work. This short story was much better done then some previous stories that have been read and reviewed by this author. There is still some common Highsmith tools at work in this story, but it came off as less illusionary or less of someone’s dark murderous fantasy or hallucination like prose, it came off as a bit more darkly realistic. It explores the relationship between the free loading, twenty year old Ralph and his wealthy father Steve. Ralph has this dream. A dream that all young people have; but this dream is usually quite unattainable or rather is rather unrealistic. Hobbies are fine. Writing is a hobby for myself. Reading is also a hobby. With the internet, I have been able to share my hobby of reading and writing, with others. Ralph’s little hobby of playing in a band, is a bit – one could say; or rather I would say; out of hand. Ralph and his friends are not the most responsible people. They have this concept or this dream of playing in a band – well they are part of a band. But there only dream is to play in a band, make records and life like the bands and all the other musicians they idolize and listen to. There appears to be no other real attempt at making this dream come true. The band and Ralph’s interests besides music and dreaming of being a band, and making it in the “big time,” is what appears to me is drinking, sleeping around, and doing drugs. Though they do practice, their instruments, and band playing and all that fun stuff, but other than that, there is no real attempt at realizing their dream. None of them – besides two if memory serves correct; has a real job; and the one only teaches piano, and the other teaches guitar. The others of this fine little group, more or less from what Patricia Highsmith hinted at – or otherwise bluntly stated more or less, just ask for hand outs or help from their parents.
At the beginning of the story we are introduced to exactly what kind of character Ralph is. The snobbish, spoiled rich boy. The world owes him for his own services. The world owes him for the fact that his band has not been succeeding. His father owes him everything. Everyone owes him something. Rather than Ralph taking the responsibility of the other way around, and find himself an actual paying job. As far as his father is concerned – though it is not outright admitted; you can dream whatever you want, you can wish whatever you want, but first and foremost you have to pay your dues to society, just like everyone else.
The meeting with his father at the beginning of the story goes sour – as one could expect. Ralph’s father Steve simply states that he cannot keep supporting his son, and tells him to grow up and start acting like an adult. All of this drives Ralph mad. His father is wealthy. As his son Ralph feels injustice towards his father. His father who is well off, should help pay for his rent. His father who is wealthy should pay for everything. However that is not how the world works, and Steve (Ralph’s father) would rather his son learn the value of a dollar, at least now of all ages, before it gets far to worst. Ralph however refuses to listen to his father’s reasoning, and leaves.
All of this reminds me of Doris Lessing’s Nobel Laureate in Literature of two thousand and seven, characters. These characters who feel they are entitled to everything and anything. Yet despise their middle class upbringing and their parents – but have no problem asking for a hand out here and there, from the very people they despise. Much like Doris Lessing’s characters in “The Good Terrorist,” the characters of Patricia Highsmith’s short story “I Despise Your Life,” are nothing short of self-indulgent, irresponsible, band playing, drug abusing young people who have yet to grow up; and one would doubt if they ever would. These are all the common similarities that Doris Lessing’s characters and Patricia Highsmith’s characters, but in the details they end there. Patricia Highsmith’s characters have no interest in politics and make no attempt at even caring about politics. But other than that, both sets of characters are self-indulgent, lazy dreamers, who only dream of becoming a big band, and playing in the big leagues with other musicians, but once again there is no attempt at making any real dream come true.
After the encounter with his father Steve, Ralph goes back to life – where the reader is introduced to the disgusting creatures that he lives with. The other miscreants who neither care, or make any attempts at being contributing members of society. It is here a plan to have a rent party where people pay to come into “the dump,” (Ralph and co’s apartment) and that the people who come and pay the fee will, help them pay for their rent. It is at this time, that Ralph has the odd idea of inviting his father to this party. A stupid idea really. Who invites their father to a party where who knows what might happen. Around a bunch of young hip people. Surely a bad idea. And of course it was.
Steve ends up leaving, and Ralph – in a daze of confusion, Ralph slits his own wrists. From their he is taken to a hospital, bandaged up, and is given a five hundred dollar bill – which comes off as more of a death sentence. Once again it all goes around in a circle. Ralph must ask for another hand out from his father. it all went in a circle. Everything went in a circle. Much like life goes around in circles.
This story by Patricia Highsmith was enjoyable. It was a nice change from the usual Patricia Highsmith with the irrational and almost reaction of murder. It was a different change of pace, to see Patricia Highsmith, write about the relationship of father and son. It is a much more human side of Patricia Highsmith’s writing, its different approach to the same trade and stock but a much more different way of looking at it, and a different outcome and a much more softer side, with a bit more bitter outlook but also shows Patricia Highsmith at her more refined years, as a writer.
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“Grey Area,” By Will Self – From “Grey Area,” by Will Self
Before the short stories by Patricia Highsmith and Will Self are replaced by other writers, it had appeared most appropriate to read “Grey Area,” the titled story of this short story collection.
Will Self has an overreaching and rather extensive imagination. However this sometimes makes these postmodern short stories dethatched, disconnected, and otherwise rather difficult to enjoy. At least for me that is. There is no real sense of trying to make the unbelievable or the impossible even the most remotely believable or possible. Though Will Self’s imagination is certainly his greatest strength and asset but also his worst weakness and largest fault. His imagination and ability to use that imagination in odd and surreal ways, often at times, make his stories rather difficult to enjoy or follow. For some people they may be able to enjoy Will Self’s work, his novels and short stories, but his postmodern absurdity and surrealism, does not always appear to be on the right track. It always becomes a bit too much – as if Will Self’s work, in the absurd does not really have much of a point of reference in the real world, or a realistic image at times, to really grab on to, as a reader and able to hold onto like a life preserver, in this strange postmodern grey world. Unlike Samuel Beckett’s meaningless and almost nihilistic work, where nothing happens, and yet everything happens all at once. Where everything is absurd, but is more or less, realistic in senses, but is more in tuned towards characters behaviours – such as one who sucks on a carrot; or another who has sucking stones; and another who ties himself to a rocking chair and fly’s back and forth (or something like that – have yet to read “Murphy.”) Where as Will Self’s work is more attuned to the outside world. The exterior world, around the people, and the individuals, the postmodern world that they either helped create and where not even aware of how they even participated in such an event; and now how they survive in a world of flashing advertisements, corporate situations and environments, a general sense of sterility. The sense of a loss of the natural world, and a sense of one losing their own humanity.
As one reader on a website (“goodreads,” if memory serves correct) had pointed out, Will Self has a great way of coming up with idea’s. However with these short stories that I have read, there does not appear to be any story line.
“A beautiful collection of Nathaniel West-ish tales which manage to combine the quirky stylistic devices which we know and love from The Quantity Theory of Insanity ... with a chilling moral diagnosis of all that is wrong with our society,” Financial Times.
The above quote from the Financial Times is an accurate description to a degree. I would not call this collection at all beautiful and stylistically speaking, there was not much varying degree’s between stories, and since I have not read a novel by Will Self, I certainly cannot say that I could vouch for the fact that the stories and his novels share any stylistic similarity.
(From bostonphoenix.com)
“Rudyard Kipling wrote about colonial India, Joseph Conrad wrote about central Africa, and Isaac Asimov wrote about deep space. Will Self writes about Purley, Croydon, and other outposts of lower-to-middle-middle-class London. He imposes his skewed vision upon the ordinary, with a resulting surrealism all the more extraordinary for its origins.”
When reading such reviews and such descriptions (a link for the above bostonphoenix.com article will be posted later) it’s hard not to see what the buzz is about the author, and yet there is nothing Will Self could do to live up to this praise, in this particular case. These stories felt more out of place, and just a waste of time, then it would be to try and breathe air while sinking to the bottom of the ocean. It is truly a particular pity. However Will Self has his readership – I cannot be included amongst them, but it was nice to give him a try.
http://www.bostonphoenix.com/alt1/archive/books/reviews/03-96/WILL_SELF.html
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