When I was in high school I used to leave classes and cafeterias to read in the library, which had a
When I was in high school I used to leave classes and cafeterias to read in the library, which had a number of old American short story anthologies that I would go through without ever making note of authors or titles – I thought that these pieces of information were fluff, and I didn’t want the recognition of a familiar name to alter the way I chose to read something. This is the reason why after reading “The Killers” I thought for a good two months that John Steinbeck had written it.Nowadays I give titles a little more credence but still try to avoid names and the biases contained therein. What I’ve learned from my brief stint in a literary scene is that no one else does this, people blithely allow biases to transform everything into everything else, from shit to gold, gold to shit. It’s difficult to feel bad for a dying medium when those at the helm are so short-sighted, and it’s why I read the books that outlasted this clutter. The books that outlast the clutter and have stood the test of time are more trustworthy than those which stood the test of an editor who is publishing you for reasons related to fuckery.Anyway, I digress. I mention my time in the libraries because I remember, aside from “The Lottery,” of course, having read some of these stories without having any interest in the fact that they were written by Ms. Jackson. “The Renegade,” a story about a decent lady realizing that her wayward dog has sealed its fate, is one I’ve read before; the same with “Charles” and “The Tooth.” They are stories that have become more appreciable as a more mature, less stupid idiot.Most of the stories are transfixed on one character, and this very singular and narrow lens makes the characters feel lonely. They go places and interact with people, but these interactions are small burps in comparison to their thoughts and actions when by themselves. Some of the endings come off as predictable. Some of the ideas for stories feel not completely recognized – “A Fine Old Firm,” a story of two mothers whose sons meet overseas during World War II, was such a great idea, so fucking juicy, and that it weighs in at three or four pages is disappointing.But these are great stories. Sturdy, interesting. What Ms. Jackson lacks in breaking stylistic ground she makes up for in mastery. I’m hungover, end transmission. -- source link
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