“A Smile Outside the Night Stall,” by Yasunari Kawabata Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight – From “Palm-of-the-Hand Stories,”
This is certainly a short story review of transitions. This will be last short story to be review, by Yasunari Kawabata Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight. It has been an enjoyable ride with this author. His short fiction is as compelling and deep as his longer works. The slightest movements, of the muted stories, speak volumes of the characters emotions and their secrets. I’ll remember the awkwardness of the two children of “The Rainy Station,” and the (assumed) tuberculosis sufferer in “Glass.” The defiant face of a young girl whose image stuck with the man from “The Young Lady of Suruga.” The beautiful description of autumn in the mountain. The description of the fiery leaves falling down gently and wistfully, on to a indigo river surely is one of my favourite stories of “Palm-of-the-Hand Stories,” and that story “Autumn Rain,” shows Yasunari Kawabata’s depth in the short fiction form, and his ability to miniaturize the smallest of moments and most important moments, that can be expressed into the great depths of a novel. But instead of doing that, Yasunari Kawabata, speaks through the short story form with the greatness of the novel. Some authors would need pages and pages to express the depth and the emotion of some of these fleeting moments, which Yasunari Kawabata captures so beautifully in his psychological analysis, but he himself knows that in his art of making the greatest work the smallest, is truly in essence the power of the written form.
Yet, I’ve reviewed enough stories, and find myself growing tired of them. After a while, the stories start to bleed into each other, and soon enough they start to become more and more, and more, like the other ones. Yurkio starts to become another characters name – and before I know it, I get both of them mixed up. The riding clothes of one story, soon finds itself, in a lavatory across from a funeral home. It has just become time to place this book its best of terms at the end of its rented space here on the “Short Story Review.”
“A Smile Outside the Night Stall,” is a nice way to end this review of this particular collection of short stories. As a child I’d love fireworks. What a special treat they were. I still don’t mind going to a firework show. Just last year alone, I had gone and seen global fest, and it proved to be a spectacular show, of the fireworks of different countries, doing such a unique and brilliant show of colour, music, and of course to everyone else’s delight I am sure as well, the explosion and loud noise. Yet it is the way those beautiful fireworks, that lit up the sky that made it so spectacular. Every colour, every specific shell, was carefully chosen to give off an intended effect. Spirals, and stars and pinwheels. Last year alone I saw the great beautiful use of what they call a waterfall. It looks like at first just a cord or a string attached to two poles – kind of like a laundry line in many ways; and then when ignited beautiful white sparks shimmer and shine down. Like a beautiful array of shoot stairs, all gently falling down to earth, and disintegrating to dust. There where windmills. It was just a site to see. Then at the end of the show with the smoke lying across the slough or the “pond,” as they called it – was covered in smoke. Just the thought of some lights or some fireworks sparkling in the shroud of the smoke from the explosion would certainly would be a nice way to end the show.
Every Canada as well, fireworks are placed throughout the country. As is the fourth of July in the states – where you also eat a hot dog. The way the man and the firecracker girl in this story act though reminds me of a time, when I was younger, watching fireworks – and I saw a young woman and a young man huddled on a blanket not far from us. I can’t remember where we were that Canada day – in my mind it looks a lot like a camp ground – but I can’t quite put the place, it doesn’t matter; yet I remember that young couple kissing. Not a full out erotic switching of one’s salvia, but just a quick peck as they sat there half laying down half sitting up on the blanket on that hill, looking at the fireworks. A big burst of red and green ignited their faces, as they made their quick little peck. But just the playful way those two acted as they kissed, reminded me of the firecracker girl and the young man with the clog.
It has been a pleasure to review this collection of short stories, by the first Japanese Nobel Prize winning author. His Japan is not like the modern day Japan of crowded subways, perverted men who greedily watch Japanese school girls – it is not a place of air pollution warnings, or cram exams or the desire and need to study so hard that they puke up blood! It is not also a place that is overtly taken over by the western idea’s either. But it is a strong nation. A nation that is both in many ways a place of serene beauty. Not yet taken over of materialism, and yet very native to its own past, and still gently opening up to the western world. With that premise Yasunari Kawabata in these stories – probes the minds of the Japanese people – just like has done so in his longer works; and he shows what makes the people of Japan so unique and their culture so power and delicate, yet also so very much so universal to the rest of the world in the human experience as a whole.
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“A Riddle,” by Antonio Tabucchi – From “Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,”
When discussing the story “A Riddle,” in his brief introduction, Antonio Tabucchi discusses the fact that the story itself, has unfortunately come out as a version that betrays the original concept or version that he wanted to write. It is the longest short story to date that I have had the pleasure of reading by Antonio Tabucchi. The fact that the author himself, feels rather disappointed in the way the story turns out, as if ashamed that the original version itself, has somewhere down the line been compromised, is becoming (in my opinion and observation) of a personality trait of the author. Continually he shoves aside his own talents at writing, and sees them as the work of a hack, or not as grand as the masters he himself admires. Constantly he apologizes in all modesty that borderlines shyness. However quite the opposite is true. Antonio Tabucchi has written one amazing story, with “A Riddle.” Whether or not the author himself has any interest in cars and the repair of cars, he certainly has the details and mechanics of how it all works to be expertly placed in this story creating a very defined sense of reality, that it actually works that way. Such details are important. If one decides to write about kitchen work or how to cook (in a fictional sense) or just place it as a scene in a novel or a story; they should acquaint themselves with the smallest and slightest of details in order to place a sense of authenticity on the story.
To concern the story itself, it is a story that is recounting the tale of a man and his love affair with a woman who calls herself the Countess of Terrail and her name is Miriam, and the fact that she needs someone to drive her to Biarretz because someone is trying to kill her. Most writers or amateur writers, or writers who write popular fiction or fiction that focus solely on some very defined rules of writing – one of the most common rules that separate these authors from authors that I myself, would consider literary masters or masters of the literary writing form, versus simply writing something; is that action is very important, to the very development of the story and the characters that it is the sole focus. However it should be noted, that action in a story is very important. To write simply about a single leaf falling from a tree in poetic use of words and symbolic meaning, it becomes very sluggish and would eventually lose the reader’s attention. People crave action. Action in a story is what gives it momentum. However to focus simply on the action and use it as the development of character and the story or novel as a whole, really jeopardizes the story, as it falls simply to predictably and cliché. In this case however, Antonio Tabucchi writes about, more than just the fact that someone is trying to kill Miriam Countess of Terrail, but also focuses on Proust (his driver) luxury cars, the beauty of the French countryside as well. The story itself is a puzzle of course, about the final fate of Miriam, but it does not focus specifically on the chase and then the ambiguity of what will then happen to her.
This is what makes the stories of Antonio Tabucchi work layered, complex and intriguing to read – and in my case, why I enjoy it so much. The way it works though appears almost, by magic how the events unfold. Which at times causes one to wonder, is life just full of these ambiguities and coincidences that make up the human experience? In the stories of Antonio Tabucchi one can certainly say yes. For if his characters were living people, they would testify that life is anything but made up on the building blocks of coincidences, which lead to the human experience as whole.
The Bugatti Royale and the elephant, that sat on tap of the radiator cap, and the relationship between Marcel Proust and his driver/mechanic/and secretary Alfred Agostinelli who would become the model for the character Albertine in Marcel Proust’s major work of the twentieth century – all of these items (and people) become symbols in this short story. The relationship between the narrator and Miriam, at times feels (and felt like) it was based off of the relationship between Marcel Proust and his driver Alfred Agostinelli.
Full of symbolism as well. The car itself is described as taking on a feminine figure. When given the car to repair, the elephant – the iconic elephant that sat on each of the cars, made by Rembrandt Bugatti an Italian sculptor, whose bronze statues of exotic animals – panthers, lions, elephants are amongst his most popular work; is missing. But is replaced with a wooden one – though it is still not the same. However it can be speculated that the wooden elephant is a symbol of an lover, unable to completely satisfy the other mutual partner. Many other aspects of the story itself could be deconstructed, and lead to the speculation of it being a symbol of some sort.
In the end, it was a beautiful story, about luxury cars, a discussion of Marcel Proust, and the love of lovers, and the beauty of the French countryside. It was just a nice journey. Antonio Tabucchi truly presents that age and era of time that has since long since past – yet it is certainly described with such wistful nostalgia and wonder. Now all one can do to get close to that kind of era is the Barrett Jackson auction or a car show. Yet once upon a time, the world of luxury cars and wistful love was, just like it was described here. It certainly struck a chord with me personally.
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“Nabo,” by Gabriel García Márquez the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-eighty two – From “Leaf Storm: and Other Stories.”
It certainly is, a short story review of partings and changes. This is the first collection of short stories read by the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-eighty two. Next month he will back with a new collection of short stories “Strange Pilgrims,” but the collection of “Leaf Storm,” is now coming to an end with its final story “Nabo,”.
All (to most) of the stories by Gabriel Garcia Márquez work is by far always layered, and uses a sense of magic and mystery to often convey the exotic locations of South America, and often uses the idiosyncrasies of South American culture: sombreros, siestas, a devotion to the religious prudent catholic faith, and traditional folklore, are all used and presented in the fiction of Gabriel García Márquez. “Leaf Storm,” my first longer form of fiction that I have read by Gabriel Garcia Márquez shows his effect of layering his work.
Told from multiple perspectives, in a short time frame, about a outsider and stranger – a doctor; is told from the perspectives of the ageing colonel, his daughter Isabel and the grandson and son of the former and later, characters. Each one muses on the doctor, and the past occurrence of the events, that have lead to the dramatic beginning of the story and why the general consensus of the town of Macondo, is to let the social outcast doctor die in the house on the corner in which he himself has become a prisoner too.
Much of the stories rally around the same concept. Allowing for a distortion of time, and often allowing one to see how the characters move to and fro throughout the flow of the time of the story. “Nabo,” is one of those stories. The main character “Nabo,” was kicked in the head by a horse. Yet when he was supposed to die, he doesn’t. Instead he sleeps. Sleeps for days and then weeks, then the weeks become months, and month after month become year after year.
However he is dead, and much like the doctor in “Leaf Storm,” he becomes a prisoner in the barn in which he died in by the savage skittish creature, which had so willingly kicked him in the head. However the people keep feeding him. Three times a day he eats the food they bring – and consequently makes the angels wait.
This wasn’t my favourite story of this collection. To be honest, all the stories of this collection are rather dense, and compact, and require a lot of attention and concentration, and on a Saturday afternoon, heading into the evening, I don’t think I really had it in me, and probably was why it led me to really think, that maybe it wasn’t the best story.
The compact and multi layering of each story would probably work best in larger, formats – even longer stories; and would feel so dense and in need of concentration. However in the end it was a neat little modern fable. Something that all of the stories have had in the end. A neat modern fable of South America.
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“Ice Lake,” by Peter Stamm – From “In Strange Gardens: and Other Stories,”
This is the first story I have read by Peter Stamm. It’s written in minimalist prose, which brings to mind, a river or a small creek running uninterrupted. Yet the mood of each story can be placed more on a down pour or monotonous rainy day – or snowy empty winter dusk. The characters in this story of “Ice Lake,” are emotionally stunted and immature. However, it’s an interesting tale, of unexplored relationships, the youthful mistakes we all make and their consequences. It’s an interesting story of a summer evening, and a swim in the warmth of a lake, and how it turned to tragedy.
I’m not sure what to make of this first story, which I have read by Peter Stamm. This story felt a little bit too short, which didn’t allow for a great depth in the characterization. The emotion is not clearly seen in this story. Even the actions of the characters, which are guided by the emotion of the characters, obviously don’t appear to be all that infused with the emotion of the characters.
Just like when the main character decided not to change into his bathing suit, because Stefanie herself, did not have one. Obviously beneath the murky depths of their unclear emotion, there are moments, when like the main character kicks up a bit of mud from the bottom of the lack that a chill of the clear cooler waters can be felt – so can the clearer more underlying emotions of the characters.
However still because of the length of the story there is no real sense of clarity of the emotions of the characters. Melancholy or the stifling feeling of lack of emotion, their actions appear crude, and nonsensical. When Urs commits suicide, or accidentally dies – I cannot say I felt a great sense of sadness or character involvement in it. Then again, the criticism of the fact of the matter would be that if I did, it would have been sentimental and overtly sensational.
In many ways Peter Stamm, is avoiding sentimentality all together with this story – which is a good move, but in the process he has created wooden characters, whose actions are just as wooden and have no real reason behind them. If Peter Stamm, would have given some prior information about the relationship between the main character/narrator, and Stefanie, as well as the relationship between Stefanie and Urs, their actions would appear to have more reason behind them, and there would be a better understanding between the relationships of the characters.
I certainly however do give my props off to Peter Stamm, for creating a very interesting atmosphere. The tales are melancholic but not to the point where you could care less if they lived or died. However Peter Stamm, created the opposite effect with this story, because rather than caring if they lived or died one is trying to understand who these enigmatic characters are. They are not cardboard cut outs; they are just difficult to understand characters. Shadows of themselves. The author did not provide enough light on the character, or on their relationship with one another.
Yet even though the emotion is muted, it certainly does give each of us who have lived, a life, that sense of those youthful days. When mistakes happen. To which we all make mistakes. How those warm summer evenings of bonfires, and pleasure and a bit of drinking turn to take a sometimes different turn. It’s a story reminiscent of the sweet days of youth, and the tragedies of youth, and mistakes that arise in those long since faded days.
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“The Pinball King,” by Ersi Sotiropoulos – From “Landscape with the Dog: and Other Stories,”
Recently in a conversation with a friend of mine, we somehow got onto the conversation of plot in a story or in writing at least, the importance or at times the lack thereof plot. Yes plot is, important. In school, the teacher always told us when writing a story or when dissecting story, there were three parts to it. There was the opening, the rising action or conflict and the descent of the conflict or action which therefore lead to the last part of the story, the conclusion. Well of course, that is a very nice, and dandy, but it’s not a universal truth. If my experience in reading has shown anything it has shown that rules are not universal. There are consequences when breaking some of the rules for sure – for example, if one steals a loaf of bread, they may get a long lecture or talking to or a fine; and as my mother used to tell me, in some countries, you would lose your hand. However breaking the rules of writing fiction is a lot different. One does not go to jail. They do not get their hand chopped off. No electric chair. No outrageous fine. In fact breaking the rules of writing fiction can be a breath of fresh air.
One does not necessarily need plot or character. Authors through the years have proven that. In fact many authors have done away with the conventions of the novel or the short story form to take it to new and unexplored territories. Authors like James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and Samuel Beckett, did such things. Even contemporary authors also continue in that vein. The now deceased Harold Pinter in his plays, had minimal plot and story and yet explored much. Yasunari Kawabata both in his novels and his stories focused greatly on the characters minds, and their experiences.
“The Pinball King,” by the Greek author Ersi Sotiropoulos has done away with the plot of the short story, which works quite well with the short story, but may be more of a mess with a novel. With a novel, plot is the underlying glue that keeps the novel all together. It keeps the characters constrained, it keeps the action in check, it also keeps a sense of organization in place. While with a short story, it’s short and constrained already. Plot can be done away with all together. With a short story, the author can actually focus on character experience. Movements are more sporadic. The characters, are less directed, and move less and just aimlessly float or wander. Their experience is like the human experience – purposeless. Yet somehow there is that tugs and pulls and it keeps one going through the story.
In the case of Ersi Sotiropoulos the driving force of her prose is imagery. The images of the otherwise naked prose are the story needs to keep it propelling forward, and keep it compelling t to the reader. The images speak much of the characters. Much like the rat in “The Pinball King,” who is spotted on the stairway, to which becomes the metaphor of the brother and sister of the story – and there otherwise explored and ambiguous, not to mention complicated relationship. Yet there are no answers. No neat conclusions. In many ways, no real beginning. No middle. No ending either. In the end all one has are just wonderings, and images. This leads the readers to come to find out their own take or interpretation of the story – if by chance there was any at all.
On the surface, “The Pinball King,” the story focuses on two pairs of brother and sister. There is the Italian brother and sister Ugo and Erica. Then there are the Greek brother and sister – the sister being the narrator of the story. It starts with the pair heading out to the archeological hot spot and tourist attraction of Delphi. Yet they miss their turn. What ends is them meeting up with a hunchbacked, rotten teeth goat herder, who takes them to his home. There the wife feeds them, and the husband (the goatherder) drinks with them. Yet as it goes, the company heads off once again. Back to a motel, where they stay again. It feels like mountains are said in this story. Yet without the clear definition of the story, one is left to wonder what the mountains that are said really mean. What is the complicated relationship between the brother and sister really mean or have to do with the story as a whole – and then comes the real question: what was the meaning of the story at all? But in the end, for me it proved to be a compelling read.
Yet in the end one can certainly see that in a short story, there does not need to be a real sense of plot. Not a real defined sense of plot. While in a novel a slight plot – a sense of action going on even in the background can be the most important thing, which keeps the reader interested and keeps them moving. As one of my many English teachers told me – “You can write a novel, with the most beautiful language of a leaf falling from a tree. But no one would read it. People crave action. Action moves the story.” This might be why this story works. There is no action parse but there are images. These quick vignettes and images, quickly substitute in my opinion, replace the action of a story. The replace the feeling of action that might be needed – it causes the illusion of action, and in some ways keeps the story moving forward. This allows for the reader to become engaged in the story more so then they would if the reader where just reading lengthy (even though beautiful) descriptions of otherwise pointless and plot(less) story. The compelling images, naked prose, and character experience are what moves this story.
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“(Autumn) The Lunchbox,” by Italo Calvino – From “Marcovaldo or The Seasons in The City,”
It looks to be spring here now. First time, it feels like that spring has come – and most of the snow has melted away, in March. With every spring and every summer, to every autumn and winter it always feels like the sensation of the new season is overdue. That as it comes to visit, as the earth slowly spins on its axis, it’s a welcome change. Right now outside it looks like early spring has arrived. The snow has but all melted, yet there is still bits of ice covering the ice in a few spots, usually protected from the sun. The grass is brown, and crunches underneath ones foot. The trees are still bare, having yet to bud. Outside looks more like autumn, then spring. Yet one can certainly tell it is spring because of the mud that has seeped from the cold frozen ground.
However if you are, a butterfly right now particularly and specifically Mormon fritillaries, the early warm weather, and the melting snow of the Colorado Rockies is killing off the flowers, and the food source of this butterfly. All because of global warming. This is of course just another case of the devastating effects of global warming, if of course it exists. Motorcycle enthusiasts or people who own a motorcycle in general, are out riding around enjoying the freedom they gain from a nice Sunday drive on a motorbike. Of course as others have stated, there might be a few more accidents, involving motorbikes lately because people aren’t looking out for them, so early in the year. In other words early spring equals early deaths for motorcyclists.
In Italo Calvino’s collection of stories “Marcovaldo or The Seasons in The City,” the main character Marcovaldo, has only a few interests at heart, it would appear. Those interests primarily being nature and at times the exploitation of nature for his own selfish whims, how to make money and food. The later being the one of most interest in this story. Have you parents ever said “eat your vegetables or tomatoes or horse meat (or some other hated food), because there are starving children in Africa (or China I got that one too),”? Admittedly such a comments would be seen as rude, political insensitive, and politically incorrect in contemporary western civilization, however if you were lucky enough to live back in the days of riding in the back of a pickup truck and no one screamed how dangerous it was, or that your parents swore in front of you, and suburbia was still in its infancy stages – life appeared rather normal.
The same could be said to Marcovaldo who loves the sausage his wife seems to have bought him and his family, yet hates the turnips. The shifty vegetable that he finds in his lunchbox every time he unscrews it, and finds to his delightful disappointment that there waiting for him in his lunch box is cold sausage and cold turnips from the supper of the night before.
Of course one time he finds to his delight a child, who wants to sausage and turnips rather, then the food he himself is given – which he calls “brains,” – often a childish way of speaking of their food. The community hall for instance, had many such places during Halloween where young children can go through a maze blindfolded and feel bodily organs like eyeballs, and brains, and intestines – which happen to be food like meat balls, and spaghetti and other odds and ends. So the fact that this child calls his own meal brains is not something unusual as it is his own way of just simply, proving to himself that the food that sits in front of him is disgusting and it is inhumane treatment to ask him to eat the food. Yet spotting Marcovaldo who also shares the same views of his sausage and turnips they decide to trade.
However fate always has a ironic and sardonic way of smiling down on Marcovaldo with a cruel grin, this trade will end bad for him as it always does, and once again Marcovaldo is left with the bittersweet, realization that it could be worst – he could be a starving child in Africa or China and that he should enjoy sausage and turnips.
