It's rare when I go through a contemporary short story collection where I'm not flipping forward to find where the blissful end is—you can't wait to finish these stories, and you also don't really want to leave them. On the whole, the stories are, dare I say, remarkable fun. Which is weird because woven throughout are dire dystopian undertones, one of which is the disintegration of language and expression. I'm gonna read this one again. Four stars.
"Winesburg, Ohio" by Sherwood Anderson (1919)
Oh dear, where to begin ... (1) I can't explain why, but knowing little about the book beforehand you're kind of expecting "The Wonder Years". Instead, almost off the bat, you kind of get something more akin to a David Lynch film; (2) How does this series of short character pieces somehow work as a unified whole? It's a little hard to tell: the book seems to deemphasize proper literary form in favor of the author's intuitive, almost arbitrary whims, like a chef who arrives at their final dish by taste and taste alone; (3) A recurring image is of a character inexplicably, breathlessly running away—what's interesting about the book is the image of America it paints as something that's free and enormous and wide open and full of possibility, but at the same time chokingly restrictive and smothering, in a deeply unfathomable way; (4) It's a short, 200+ page book. But I found the individual stories so uncomfortably intense, the book turned out to be a surprisingly slow read; (5) While the diverse character studies don't always 100 percent ring true all of the time, the revelation of people's private lives and personal logics as being somewhat bizarre, somewhat inexplicable, and more than a little believable in its nonsense is piercingly perceptive—early on, the book declares, we each decide to follow a truth, and we each age into truth-molded grotesques who perhaps learn too late that maybe we had it all wrong all along; (6) Personally, did the book in spots make me think about my own embarrassments, make me feel a tinge of horror in the pit of my stomach over my own past behavior? Yes; (7) Once again, I feel I should reiterate: if you're expecting "Our Town", THIS IS CERTAINLY NO "OUR TOWN"; (8) Upon finishing, out loud, I remarked to myself, "That was a wonderful book!" You know what's thrilling in a novel? When you're not sure how the author is going to stick the landing after a turbulent flight but somehow they manage, even as you deplane feeling weak-kneed and naggingly unsettled—My god, you think, even if we all survive it's likely none of us are ever going to be okay. Four stars.
"Washington Square" by Henry James (1880)
If the name Henry James conjures thoughts of baroque, infinitely tangential clauses, miniscule type, brick-sized binding, and a crochet of psychological threads, Washington Square is kind of like his 200-page "pop novel". You get the same deeply human characterization—be it an unusually plain and awkward debutante, an extremely intelligent, plainspoken, vindictive bastard, or an emotion-besotted, meddling sweetheart—but it feels more like fun and less like a highly detailed owner's manual for the human heart (not like these manuals are unenjoyable reads on their own, mind you, they're just much more effortful.) Washington Square is the psychologically deep Henry James we all know and love, except it's fun. I couldn't put it down. Four stars.
"Transit" by Rachel Cusk (2016)
The first time I read this book was in the middle of last week. And I found it maddening, confusing, impossible, and pedantic but I finished it. The second was over the past couple days when I found it delightful, engrossing, fascinating, and insightful. Both are right and neither are right and if you can get over how oddly profound and thoughtful every single character seems to be about their own lives, this might all start to make sense. But you'd still be wrong. Four stars.
"The Wide Net and Other Stories" by Eudora Welty (1943)
One way to describe it is to say this book is full of the kinds of short stories they'd force you to read in school—they reek of a high school library. Another way is, it's as if the artsy fartsy kid you knew who dabbled in mythology and the supernatural and was fond of speaking in cryptic tones ended up getting pretty good at the technical aspects of writing. Yet another way, I guess, is if Flannery O'Connor actually attempted to do what William Faulkner did (according to O'Connor, she wouldn't even dare to compete with him.) Or maybe James Joyce is a better analogue. Regardless, I wouldn't go so far to say the collection is bad, but I will say that I intensely hate it. Mainly for the "it feels like the stories I was forced to read in school part." One star.
"The Sellout" by Paul Beatty (2015)
Reads like a mainstream movie. One with a personality-less protagonist, satire that alternates between sharp and sloppy, jokes that tend to hit you over the head like a hammer, and one that grows more tiring as you approach the climax. If I hadn't already read Black No More (1931), which treads similar waters, I probably wouldn't demand more than the one laugh-out-loud moment it gave me. And if I hadn't just finished a Faulkner novel, I probably would find the metaphors and analogies here completely serviceable. Two stars.
"The Neon Wilderness" by Nelson Algren (1947)
I can't tell if stories about low-lifes, drunks, petty criminals, gamblers, brawlers, down-and-out Polacks, prostitutes, Dagos who refer to themselves as Dagos, liars, strippers, and general good-for-nothing ragamuffins are inherently boring, or whether Algren's writing style makes their lives feel boring (they all seem to speak in the exact same clipped, late night Chicago slang, to the point where it all grows cartoonish; outside of that, sometimes the narrator launches into odd, out-of-place poetic flourishes; and even outside of that, the characters' names all have an odd, Aaron Sorkin-like plasticity to them.) A lot has been made about how Algren focused on the lives of people who tend to get overlooked. At the same time, a criminal who doesn't think about much besides committing crimes, and a gambler who doesn't think about much besides gambling, for instance, really aren't all that interesting, no matter how eventful their lives are on the surface, no matter how much blood gets spilled. Maybe the reason all these lives are overlooked in literature isn't because us privileged straights prefer to avert our eyes away from the shadowed corners of the city. Maybe it's because the lives you find there, at the heart of it, sound really fucking boring. Which, again, might be entirely Algren's fault. One star.
"The Man Who Loved Children" by Christina Stead (1940)
I can't remember the last time I became angry when something pulled me away from reading a book. I also can't remember the last time I got through 500 pages and just said, "Wow," out loud to myself upon closing it. If I were you, I would read this book. Four stars.*
*Perhaps the book didn't do well because the title is kind of bad, though once you get through enough pages the title starts to feel quite fitting.
"The Leaning Tower and Other Stories" by Katherine Anne Porter (1944)
It's so odd with her. "Ship of Fools" was her first novel, after several decades of highly lauded work. It was so highly anticipated, even by haughty critic types, that it became the best selling book of 1962. And critics seem to agree: "Ship of Fools" is probably one of the worst novels ever published—Katherine Anne Porter has this weird habit of producing astonishing work and then, just when goodwill reaches its highest point, just completely shitting the bed. Aside from the very last pages, she actually doesn't do that here: I thought these highly unusual, winding stories were all really quite good—even when you're spending page after page sort of lost in the brambles, when you arrive at the clearing you usually find that oddly drawn path was actually well worth it. I thought "The Old Order," about a southern family that straddled emancipation, was probably one of the best short stories I've ever read. "Holiday," about a very traditional large German farm family in Texas, started out like an anthropological study and ended with a very affecting human truth. "The Leaning Tower," about a young American painter in Berlin, had one of the better drawn "drunk scenes" I've come across. "The Downward Path to Wisdom," about a confused little boy battered by swirling family drama, was written in a way that took you back to your own young, confused state. And "A Day's Work," about an unhappy Irish couple living in New York City, was a great urban story about screwing over and being screwed—the stories go all over the place and highlight very different people and yet, until the final pages, you never really sense an odd-sounding note. If there was someone who just absolutely nailed the nuts-and-bolts craft of writing better than anyone, I'd say it's Katherine Anne Porter. It's weird that we've largely forgotten her. But I guess it's easy to overlook someone who knows how to, say, construct a solidly built table in favor of someone who had the sense of showmanship to build a bigger, flashier, more ornate one. It's too bad, really. Five stars.
"The Lady with the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904" by Anton Chekhov, Translated by Ronald Wilks (2002)
Well, the first sign things were amiss is that whenever a lower class character would pop up, they'd adopt a cockney British accent. Then I compared one short passage with the Pevear and Volokhonsky translations: you get the sense that things are bit too cleaned up, a bit too smoothed out, some of the oddball magic seems to have been sucked out. Basically, and I'm not 100% certain, I think this Wilks translation might be really bad—I've seen "angular Russian enthusiasm" translated through "logical British reserve" before and along the way something gets severely corrupted. I picked this one up because it contains two stories that are difficult to find elsewhere, but it's a shame that due to the branding (Penguin Books) this is probably one of the more popular Chekhov translations out there. And I was wondering how people could mistake him for being a strict, hardcore realist when it's clear to me that Chekhov is very much an impressionist author. Find the Pevear and Volokhonsky versions. They get the nuances right. Chekhov's artistry is all in the nuances. One star.
"The Golden Apples" by Eudora Welty (1949)
There's a reason this novel/short story cycle is largely forgotten, and I think it's due to its avant garde nature—Ever hear of the Russian Formalists? One of their theories was that art should make the familiar, unfamiliar, so you can look at the familiar again with fresh, naive eyes. Welty does this CONSTANTLY: off-center metaphors, angular clauses, time shifts, prismatic perspectives, flights of fancy, a flood of characters, description that teeters into the bizarre—presumably to make this story of one generation of neighbors in a small southern town seem grand, even as nothing extraordinary ever really happens. Now don't get me wrong, I think Welty is a remarkably skilled writer, and she pulls off the avant garde quite well, in the technical sense. It's just fucking irritating: even as I found some of the characters very affecting (the best relationship is between a piano teacher and her student) I simply couldn't wait to finish this god damn book; in fact, that it's all somewhat difficult to process made that speedy desire all the more frustrating. That all that is at service to a story, seemingly, about people who feel a desperate need to go somewhere but can't figure out for the life of them where that is, unfortunately, in the end, feels naggingly unsatisfying. To say the book doesn't wield a unique sort of magic would be a lie. To say that Welty knows how to use the avant garde in a Faulkner-esque way that intrigues more than it frustrates would also be a lie. Two stars.
"The Fun Parts" by Sam Lipsyte (2013)
To be honest, I picked up this book expecting to run into "what NOT to do" as far as humor in literature goes. And I think I wildly succeeded. (Something tells me though, if you were in your 20s and it was the early 2010s, you would absolutely love this book. Unfortunately, it is not the 2010s, and virtually everything you like while you're in your 20s ages into humiliating garbage.) One star.
"The End of Me" by Alfred Hayes (1968)
Of the three books in this unofficial "aging Jewish male writer stumbles into an unusual romance" trilogy, this one had the most plot complications, and therefore was the most engrossing, but also the most predictable. It's your typical "Sad old man suffers enormous failure, flees to his hometown, tries to recapture youth, or any sort of feeling for that matter, by stealing his nephew's girlfriend, fails miserably" plot. (Is that common? I don't know, it felt common to me.) I'm up and down about a lot of the elements in this book—I liked the depiction of 1960s New York City; I was a bit bored with the sad old writer routine; his prose poetic style didn't step over itself except for a couple glaringly obnoxious places; I liked how he wrote twentysomethings, though I liked the girlfriend who was far too adept with wearing teasing masques of confidence more and thought the temperamental poet boyfriend a caricature. Yet it hung together. If the other two books were probably great books held back by some unraveling thread, this was a somewhat bland one that had undeniably solid stitching. Did you know Alfred Hayes wrote "Joe Hill"? I didn't know where to put that so I thought I would put that here. Three stars.
"The Day of the Locust" by Nathanael West (1939)
As far as books about Los Angeles go, this genuinely FEELS like LA. From the setting to the characters to the situations to the way the sky is often described like paint. Which is noteworthy because it makes an (ultimately) heavy-handed point about how the dream of Hollywood, California, is really quite bleak (I know there are a lot of "LA is actually bleak" stories, just know in this case I don't use the word "bleak" lightly—the 1975 film version is often described as a disguised horror movie.) For LA in the 30s, this too feels accurate: a stage mom boasts about how she's following a raw diet while sucking her adorable child actor son bone dry. Strangely, a lot of it reminded me of life in your twenties, full of unmoored people seeking big dreams but really only finding stunning boredom, a boredom that can somehow teeter into either soulful magnanimity or senseless violence depending on the day. It's really quite a good book. And that's because it's more than about Hollywood, it's really about boredom and how it makes us behave, set in a town built to be the ultimate antidote to American boredom (is the solution also the source of the problem?) It's also well written, it's compelling (in some parts, it's actually too much to handle), it's truthful, it's weird, parts of it had me howling with laughter, and parts of it were horrifying. It really ranks among the best books no one has ever read (Christina Stead is also on that list.) That combination Miss Lonelyhearts/The Day of the Locust book? You should really pick it up. Sidenote: there's a character in the novel named Homer Simpson. And the reason The Simpsons only contains one reference to this in its 30-odd years is because, in the novel, Homer Simpson murders an 8-year-old child, coldly and cruelly, stomping on their now lifeless body again and again and again and again and again, and then again and again and again, right in front of a huge crowd of people. Four stars.
"The Complete Short Novels" by Anton Chekhov, Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (2004)
So Chekhov only wrote one full-length novel, which I've never heard anyone talk about. The rest were short stories and novellas. This contains all five of his 100-page-long-or-so novellas: The Steppe, The Duel, The Story of an Unknown Man, Three Years, and My Life: A Provincial's Story. And the most noteworthy thing about Chekhov's writing is that his depiction of human behavior is so well observed very little of it feels dated, even over a hundred years on, traversing language, country, and several political revolutions (comparatively, Tao Lin's 2000s output feels HELLA DATED.) Story (1) is a loosely plotted coming-of-age story; (2) is inspired by the concept of natural selection; (3) involves a revolutionary assassin; (4) is a fucked-up romance; and (5) is a hive of volatile twentysomethings. (1) and (5) are oddly plotted, and therefore, somewhat tedious. (2), (3), and (4) are riveting reads from beginning to end. All of them feature characters so objectively true to life, it kind of makes the people you see on TV (and even most of the characters you come across in books, and also many of the people you meet in New York City) look crassly, offensively, two-dimensional. None of them, however, can smack you in the face like some of his 6-page-long short stories can. Is that something to hold against him and his longer works? No, I guess not—judging by how rarely you see dramatically strong stories where no one quite knows what they're doing, where nobody's right and nobody's wrong, where winning may not mean progress and where losing may not mean defeat, even after decades of successive, ever-accumulating stories, Chekhov's writings remain stunningly singular works. Four stars.
"The Company She Keeps" by Mary McCarthy (1942)
Early on, I was thrilled: I've never read a novel—nor even seen a story—about a professional woman navigating 1930s New York City alone before. And it opens on an intimate look at a woman who's cheating on her husband. “Cruel and Barbarous Treatment” is surprisingly frank, surprisingly honest (this woman seems to really enjoy “the spectacle”, the show of it all, because it puts her in the director's seat) and is the story that turned me onto the novel. It contains no dialogue, which is actually really refreshing. Refreshing, that is, until you realize most of the rest of the book is written the exact same way. As the vignettes move onto less and less interesting subjects (notably ones that don't focus on our Margaret Sargent), most of which involve the 1930s socialist intellectual scene, the steady drumbeat of exposition told in the exact same sharply-written style grows rather tiresome, like that funny person you meet at a party who excites at first, but can't seem to ever go beyond one tiring note. Of the six vignettes, only two of them are worth reading (and one of them is about a 1930s Trumpian schemer.) But “Cruel and Barbarous Treatment” is such a great story, and the novel's subject matter: an intelligent woman who restlessly, compulsively?, moves from one affair to another without much shame is so unique (all the socialism stuff?; meh) it salvages the book. Two stars.
"The Bride of the Innisfallen and Other Stories" by Eudora Welty (1955)
I think I hate Eudora Welty. I suppose I should clarify: I think I hate Eudora Welty's work. And it's not because I think she's a bad writer. In the past I've spoken about how her stories can seem old-fashioned, and about how a reader can feel they're jumping through a whole host of challenging hoops for nothing. Perhaps maybe I can equate her stories to a game of chess: each character seems to serve a specific function, and each piece moves around the board, stiffly, according to their assigned function, interacting with other pieces/functions in different ways to achieve a certain goal. Now, even though each piece may be meticulously hand carved and striking in appearance, and the board may be handsomely colored and designed, and the collisions of pieces may be somewhat inventive, the last thing you ever want recounted to you is the full picture of the ins and outs of a particular chess game, even a thrilling one. I guess what I'm saying is, the stories—with the shared theme of journeys into the unknown—don't ever feel alive to me. You can say Greek mythology essentially takes on a "chess game" form, but with one key exception: there was one captivating, unpredictable human being in there running amok, upsetting everybody's clockwork function (Odysseus actually makes an appearance here but, perhaps unsurprisingly, he comes across as boring.) Even in the most interesting story, "No Place for You, My Love," about two strangers who decide to venture south of New Orleans on a whim, the evocative and lengthy descriptions of that very unusual, very swampy, bug-clouded world eventually begin to reek of dried paint, and the people begin to feel plasticine. Eudora Welty was such a skilled writer, it's possible that this is exactly what she wanted her work to feel like: not a flowing filmreel of ongoing life, but a past rendered in swirling, melodramatic oils that's been framed and encased in protective glass. That's entirely possible. But if I die and find out that the world of death smells exactly like dried paint, I wouldn't at all be surprised. One star.
"The Bear" by William Faulkner (1942)
Is this novella worth talking about, considering it's really a part of the larger novel "Go Down, Moses"? Maybe. I'll start by saying it feels like a somewhat straightforward and pleasant five-chapter adolescent adventure story, except for Chapter 4 where, seemingly, Faulkner COMPLETELY LOSES HIS MIND. Fortunately, at this point the main character is kind of losing his mind as well, trying to justify walking away from a major inheritance, which he does by compressing all of his family's history, and southern racial history, and all of American history, and all of Earth's history, and all of mankind's existence, and all of God's intentions, into one singular thought (I suppose if this were simply a story about killing a legendary bear we wouldn't still be talking about it.) Needless to say, this chapter gave me a headache—apparently, a radical compression of time and experience involves a 60-page chapter made up of only 15 sentences (or so) and the identities of scores of characters, across generations, somehow being merged and confused (if you imagine that the wilderness, the bear's home, can be considered an everlasting cycle of chaos, birth, death, and destruction, all happening simultaneously, without reward or reason, the past never being past, then you can sort of see Faulkner's unique stylistic choices here.) Is it possible for one man to exit this endless morass of recycled sin, committed by every single person on earth, committed by every single family on earth, committed by every single race on earth? Well, you can say an awful lot of contradicting things about this story—loaded, intertwining symbols are pretty much ripe for the picking in this one—but it's noteworthy to me that our overthinking, idealistic main character in the end, despite plotting the only escape he could think of, achieves absolutely nothing but near paralysis (the symbol he becomes instead is also of note.) If anything, the problem with this story is that the characters feel so symbolic, it's difficult to relate to them as people, though I also suspect that was Faulkner's intent: "Don't focus on the people, focus on the enormous ideas! Gahd!" But! Is it a good read? Yeah. It is. It's a really good read, in fact. Especially if you like getting mad. Three stars.
"The Ambassadors" by Henry James (1903)
Just how difficult is it to read Henry James? Apparently, Chapters 28 and 29 were accidentally reversed in an early printing, and not one person noticed this discrepancy over the course of the next 40 years. How would I describe the experience myself? Well, it's not necessarily that he's fond of obnoxiously syllabic words, or winding endless sentences, or disorienting modernist tricks, cheap manipulations of time; it's more like James surrounds you with a very straight, very embroidered narrative that's so thickly layered, so densely detailed, and so intricately and so tightly and so deliberately woven that the only way to fully comprehend what you're reading is to betray such psychic stores of concentration and energy that, especially nowadays, but even back then, even among esteemed, unfairly or not, literary scholars, very few sensible people are willing to surrender such intimate sensitivities (his own, similarly intellectually entangled, brother urged him to dumb things down for the sake of the people.) If you happen to lapse, to break, to absently trip, it's rather easy to find yourself mindlessly scanning over a very long series of words, only to regain clarity after losing what feels like roughly fifty or so logical threads over the course of one blessed paragraph. I get the sense that this one is underread—I'm not sure telling you that this is the story of a nice guy from Massachusetts who gets sent to Paris to retrieve his fiancé's son is enough to communicate the novel's immense, entrenching charms. I'm not sure it conveys just how thick, billowed, and silvered is the undulating, turgid, entrancing cloud of story that builds atop this milquetoast logline. It doesn't convey how strikingly deep and tangled it gets concerning the psychology of human relationships and personality. And it, moreover, doesn't tell you how splendidly fun the novel actually is—at heart it's basically a detective story, featuring the world's sweetest, least cunning, most well intentioned, most idealistically forgiving sleuth, a not wholly unfrivolous man named Lambert Strether, a man I would rank among literature's greatest protagonists, but for silently selfish reasons. Which is to say, for reasons I somewhat intimately understand, the book is a difficult sell. I can't even begin to think of how I could sell the people on this book (especially since I feel I could point to any given sentence on any given page, ask even the smartest person I know to explain to me what said sentence is attempting to say, and permit them the breathing room and time to fully cogitate its proper and very well considered intentions—a demanding ask; what I'll say in James's defense is that, unlike most difficult writers I know, I really don't think the guy is merely "showing off" his intellect—I think he merely wanted to give the people the best story he thought he possibly could.) I would argue, more than any writer I've ever been fortunate to come across, Henry James tried to show the people the sheer heights of what we, as a collective people, are capable of achieving, disregarding sheer luck, as a lowly, hopeless, simple, yearning, deeply confused, deeply lost, deeply deluded lot. So I think I'll just leave it there, for all of the people. Five stars.
"The Adventures of Kavalier & Clay" by Michael Chabon (2000)
If I read the one-page summary of this novel, I probably would have been equally as satisfied. Two stars.