Hello
Gentle Reader
Short
stories are one of the most versatile forms of prose. Short stories can move
between condensed novels; probing a characters life by what is stated within
the story and hinting at how the character had got there via what is hinted at
off screen. Alice Munro (Nobel Laureate and Contemporary Master of the Short
Story), had shown how the short story can move back and forth through time.
Alice Munro had shown that the short story can move beyond its length
limitations, and can rival even the novel. So for those that would often
digress, that the short story is not as comprehensive as the novel – as in: the
reader enters the characters life for a slice of life moment only to leave
after a few pages; Alice Munro had shown the short story can move beyond this
stereotypical perspective of its limitations, and can discuss a character in a
constrained time frame, without the details of a novel, being explicitly
discussed. Though despite this the short story still has its detractors; but it
should be noted that the short story has progressed beyond its juvenile prejudices
and has become a serious form of writing; whose successful compatriots and
champions in the past include: Kafka, Chekhov, and Kawabata to name a new few.
Flash
fiction, has begun to gain momentum as its own genre, as a short story format.
Its prose is condescend into the essential essences of a short story, all
compressed into a neat little package, that glitters like an iridescent insect,
in the jungles of the literary world. Yet personally I have found flash
fiction, has yet to crawl under my skin and give me the correct sting to force
me to take note of it. Perhaps this is because flash fictions main goal is
still to tell a story, just in a more economical space. The use of language is
not all that extraordinary in moments, when flash fiction has been digested. It
was plain and straightforward. The comparison of flash fiction to poetry is
clinically overused. If the two forms have anything in common, it is simply the
requirement to say the most with the fewest words and space utilized. Other
than that the two forms are completely separate from each other. Two entities
that exist on two different planes of existence: poetry also air bound its
correspondence; and flash fiction buzzing back and forth between the leaves.
Vignettes
on the other hand are a little more peculiar. If the short story begins to
float towards the realm of poetry, vignettes become the exemplary examples.
Vignettes – in the literary format – become windows in which readers pass by
briefly and in those moments, are able to catch a glimpse of quiet dramas that
unfold behind the window panes, presented by the writer. They are
impressionistic, poetic, and sharply focused; but before one knows it the end
has come. There is no resolution and no plot or story in the traditional sense
to be seen or heard of. With a vignette, the reader casually strolls by, peers
into the life of another for a glance; and then it abruptly ends. For those
that often see the short story format, as a format that one cannot immerse
themselves in, then a collection of vignettes like “Stone Tree,” by the Icelandic
poet and prose writer Gyrðir Elíasson, will only solidify this dissociation
from the short story, and become further alienated by it. Yet the vignette shows how the short story is
able to let go of its earthly attachments, be impressionistic and poetic, and
offer thoughts on moments only glanced by.
Gyrðir
Elíasson is one of Iceland’s great contemporary writers. He is well known for
his poetry, novellas and short stories – which he often refers to as vignettes.
In two-thousand and eleven, he won the Nordic Councils Prize for Literature,
for his collection of short stories: “Milli trjánna” roughly translated into
English as: “Between the Trees,” with the citation: “for stylistically
outstanding literary art which depicts inner and outer threats in dialogue with
world literature.” Elíasson’s debut was a collection of poetry titled: “Black
and White Suspenders.” This debut was noted by some for its lack of following
the political tones of the poetry being produced at the time. Rather Elíasson’s
poems were compact and disciplined. They were constructed by simple images, or
depicted carefully planned word games. The themes of his poetry were often
loneliness and isolation – themes which can be seen in his prose. His
figurative language as he discusses his isolation and confinement can move
between aggression and mischievous misrepresentation. It is this unorthodox and
paradoxical nature of misrepresentation of sensibility allows Elíasson’s own
brand of humour to show through; though often this is overlooked by the cold
prose, which depicts a landscape of isolation. Yet company and contact can
always be found in books. Many of Elíasson’s short stories, feature writers
(solitary creatures) and book lovers; who are both haunted by the books they
plan on writing, and the books they are reading.
“Stone
Tree,” is a collection of 25 vignettes (though the book refers to it as a
collection of short stories) ending at one-hundred and sixteen pages long. In
other words: the works presented within this collection are incredibly short. Yet
despite their length, when they are at their best, they showcase a moment of
beauty, and communicate that idea exquisitely. When they falter, they appear
undeveloped. Yet overall the collection was enjoyed and savoured.
A
co-worker spotted “Stone Tree,” sitting on the table, of our shared lunch room,
and quickly picked up the book, and flipped to the short story which was book
marked. The short story was: “Book After Book.” My co-worker read the following
out loud:
“He
closed his eyes and tried not to think, but books hovered like sinister birds
in his imagination, flapping their black covers, ruffling their white pages
like breast-feathers. He managed to ward off this image, but now lines of
poetry began to seep into his thoughts, some no better than the others he had
read beside the bathroom cabinet.”
My
co-worker ended this, by laughing. He asked: “is that an accurate depiction of
what it is like to be bibliophile? Books become birds, that flap overhead, and
poetry seeps into one’s mind?” – For some reason, this particular co-worker
believes that I am a bibliophile, and often sees this enjoyment and love books,
as some form of financial affliction, without practical needs. For him reading
something that serves no inherent purpose is all but a waste of time and money.
When we had first met, we often asked each other questions about each other.
When I had informed him, that I read books; he asked what kind. He expected a
typical answer: murder mystery, crime, fantasy, science fiction. Yet he was
shocked to be informed that I enjoyed reading works that had been translated
into fiction. Over the course of our time, when we worked together, he would
often attempt to read one of my books. He found “The Hunger Angel,” to be
morbid and depressing; and all the others to be wrought with confusion. He has
told me, that what he reads (how much I do not know) is often articles or
non-fiction and: “serves a purpose.” Yet at the end of the day we agree to
disagree on the matter, and do not bring it up. This being said, Bibliophile
seems to have spread through my work place like a mould as of late.
“Book
After Book,” was one of the stranger works in this collection of short stories.
The entire story is a quick scene in a man’s life, which enjoys and loves
books. But is haunted by them, rather than finding them comforting. The books
that crowd this man’s dwelling divert from angels into distorted harpies, which
screech at him. Though what about, is not known; and why these books haunt him
is not elucidated upon either.
“The
Piano,” is a better example of what Gyrðir Elíasson is more traditional short
story, in this collection. In it a piano is delivered to a home, where the
father is determined to teach his son the piano; who is disgusted by the
thought of learning the piano. Yet rebellion is taken in a violent act of
vandalism and left there. Those who do not enjoy the short story format will
quickly point to the ending as a reason why they do not like the short story as
a literary form. It does not wrap up cleanly, making sure that each thread is
tied perfectly in place. It ends just as conflict is about to begin! For those
who admire this move; it simply resonates, how the vignette is just a glimpse
into the private dramas of the lives of others. It allows us to quickly
observe, and move along in order not to bear witness to the events that are
bound to unfold, in some manner or another.
My
person favourite story from this collection is: “A World Alone.” The back of
the book calls this collection is a study of self-exile. “A World Alone,” is a bleak and stark
depiction of a world completely abandoned and alone; and brings to mind the
often solitary sentence we pass on ourselves referred to as ‘self-exile.’ The
short story itself is split into five parts. Throughout the entire story one
reads a depiction of a world, completely abandoned:
“He
turned up a short side street and from there into the main street, where the
old petrol station stood. The tanks were dented and the hoses lay looped and
coiled in the slick of oil on the forecourt, like eels in the black mud of a
swamp. Something had happened to this town since he was last there in the
summer sunshine, the time he threw the ball back to the little girl. There were
no cars at the petrol station either. The entrance to the garage shop stood
open, the door had gone, and there was no sign of life.”
Immediately
the scene is set. The entire has been abandoned and left to rot in its own
desolate wasteland. Yet it is juxtaposed with the faintest glimmers of life and
a summer long ago, when the town thrived and was once inhabited. Throughout reading
the entire short story, I wondered if this was some apocalyptic piece. Yet,
that would almost appear to be a over exaggeration of the short story. Everyone
has been through such places. Abandoned towns; or backwater rural communities,
that look less and less inhabited, and whatever does surely must be deranged,
demented, or rabid. Perhaps it was a meditation on the relentless push forward
by time; and then upon reaching the end, I am still left uncertain about the
story; considering the reference to “Fahrenheit 451,” and the fact that the
book itself was placed at the bottom of the pile of books evidence of an
attempted book burning. Still it happened to show Elíasson at a fine moment, a
moment where he can describe the terrible present – the isolation and
loneliness; and juxtapose it with the past, through faint memories and
recollections.
This
collection of short stories will certainly not be to the taste of the masses –
as my co-worker said after reading the short story “Book After Book,”: “I didn’t
like it.” . It’s a peculiar book, with a unique writing style utilized by the
writer. It is not clean cut or typical writing for the short story format. Yet
it often probes with great interest the human condition, via quick glances
through the windows of individuals and their private moments of despair, their
quiet dramas, and their small actions of rebellion. Gyrðir Elíasson is a breath
of fresh air, as a writer in the short story genre. He is not a flash fiction
writer; but not a compressed novelist either. Rather he is a wanderer, who
catches glimpses of odd little scenes, and constructs stories around them. He
is not a neat and tidy writer. His stories appear ambiguous, and do not
elucidate any farther then necessary and sometimes not at all. Yet despite his
cold and detached feeling of his prose; Elíasson is a remarkable writer. He may
appear relentless which some stating he needs more comic relief – or comic
relief period – would appear to be out of place for the work that has been
chosen for this work. Though his work does have comic relief in them; it was
just to seem that this particular collection lacks either those works or
perhaps the context in order for the reader to understand it. Nonetheless a
wonderful book, that I thoroughly enjoyed, and plan on dipping into time and
time again.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
