Rereading Shirley Hazzard’s The Transit of Venus (1980), I found it difficult to adjust to her elliptical, portentous narrative style. After a few pages, however, something clicked, and I realized I was reading a master work: indirect but smoothly and intelligently told, with compelling characters and gorgeous prose.
In brief scenes densely packed with revealing detail and irony, the novel covers the lives of two Australian sisters, Caroline (or “Caro”) and Grace, orphaned as girls in 1938, who embark upon their romantic lives when they arrive in London, all grown up, some years after the end of World War II.
Caro receives the lion’s share of the novel’s attention—Hazzard clearly prefers her self-possession and independence of mind. She is pursued throughout the book (and her life) by an astronomer named Ted Tice, who, like Hazzard, idolizes Caro. She doesn’t reciprocate his passion, and most of the book is about love affairs with two other men; yet Ted is nothing if not constant, and he meets her from time to time, still hoping.
I have to stop a moment, though, and observe that the problem with this sort of summary—the problem with the summary of any novel—is that it typically fails to convey the book’s unique attractions. Because Transit is primarily concerned with the romantic lives of its characters, you may have concluded that I’ve latched on to some early species of “chick lit.” Hardly. In fact, it’s a tragedy, though the ending is so oblique that readers sometimes miss it.
Fortunately, you don’t have to take my recommendation on faith: you can fire up the Complete New Yorker and see for yourself. Hazzard published four excerpts from Transit in The New Yorker: “A Long Story Short” (July 26, 1976), “A Crush on Doctor Dance” (September 26, 1977; hilariously categorized under “dance” in the CNY), “Something You’ll Remember Always” (September 17, 1979), and “She Will Make You Very Happy” (November 26, 1979).
As a set, these four stories work remarkably well. “Something You’ll Remember Always” does a marvelously economical job of showing Grace and Caro’s childhood; Grace is courted by Christian Thrale in “She Will Make You Very Happy”; years after they marry, Christian has an affair with a secretary in his office, which he ends with brutal coldness, as we learn in “A Long Story Short”; and then Grace herself, unaware of Christian’s affair, falls in love with the family pediatrician in “A Crush on Doctor Dance,” though the good doctor’s principles and her own timidity conspire to keep their relationship unconsummated and brief.
To give you a sense of Hazzard’s gifts, I offer this passage from “Something You’ll Remember Always.” It begins with a verse that refers to the reversal of the seasons between England in the northern hemisphere and Australia in the southern: spring starts in September. Hazzard goes on:

You might recite it in Elocution class, but could hardly have it in English Poetry. It was as if the poet had deliberately taken the losing, and the Australian side…. What was natural was hedgerows, hawthorn, skylarks, the chaffinch on the orchard bough. You had never seen these but believed in them with perfect faith. As you believed, also, in the damp, deciduous, and rightful seasons of English literature and in lawns of emerald velours, or in flowers that could only be grown in Australia when the drought broke and with top-dressing. Literature had not simply made these things true. It had placed Australia in perpetual, flagrant violation of reality.

In that single paragraph, Hazzard captures the attitudes of two societies, English and Australian. But this is a story that is at least partly about the transference of cultural hegemony from Britain to America. So things are changing. Before World War II, little girls in Australia might sing,

Come down to Kew in lilac-time
(it isn’t far from London!)

But then the war arrives, bringing with it American soldiers (who “could not provide history, of which they were almost as destitute as the Australians”) and plastic gimcracks:

It was the first encounter with calculated uselessness…. The natural accoutrements of their lives were now seen to have been essentials—serviceable, workaday—in contrast to these hard, high-colored, unblinking objects that announced, though brittle enough, the indestructibility of infinite repetition….

Never did they dream, fingering those toys and even being, in a rather grownup way, amused by them, that they were handling fateful signals of the future.

It was not long after this that the girls began to wave their unformed hips and to chant about Chattanooga and the San Fernando Valley. Sang, from the antipodes, about being down in Havana and down Mexico way. Down was no longer down to Kew. The power of Kew was passing like an empire.

Definitely not fluff.

Also introduced in “Something You’ll Remember Always,” is Dora, Caro and Grace’s half-sister. Twenty-two when the death of their parents thrusts the two younger girls into her care, she is gradually revealed to be narcissistic and emotionally draining. “Keeping up emotional appearances,” Hazzard writes, “they were learning to appease and watch out for her. Dora’s flaring responses to error might now be feared, or any kindling of her enchafed spirit.”
“Enchafed spirit”—what an amazing phrase. But there’s more:

She said she could do away with herself. Or she could disappear. Who would care, what would it matter. They flung themselves on her in terror, Dora don’t die, Dora don’t disappear. No, she was adamant: it was the only way.
How often, often, she drew upon this inexhaustible reserve of her own death, regenerated over and over by the horror she inspired by showing others the very brink. It was from their ashen fear that she rose, every time, a phoenix. Each such borrowing from death gave her a new lease on life.

And that’s Dora, perfectly drawn with a touch of irony. When Grace’s future husband, Christian, meets Dora in “She Will Make You Very Happy,” he observes to himself, “She was one of those persons who will squeeze into the same partition of a revolving door with you, on the pretext of causing less trouble.” Zing!
Christian, in turn, is given little quarter. A methodical young bureaucrat, he makes an uncharacteristically impetuous decision to attend a concert, where he meets Grace and makes a date to call on her. When he arrives, Caro is there as well.

He found these women uncommonly self-possessed for their situation. They seemed scarcely conscious of being Australians in a furnished flat. He would have liked them to be more impressed by his having come, and instead caught himself living up to what he thought might be their standards and hoping they would not guess the effort incurred. Quickness came back to him like a neglected talent summoned in an emergency: as if he rose in trepidation to a platform and cleared his throat to sing.

Christian’s snobbery is evident; the scene comes alive, however, because the sisters are sure of their dignity. So sure, in fact, that he can’t play the lordly Englishman, deigning to call on the colonials. It galls him a little that they’ve not made special preparations for his visit. “A room where there had been expectation would have conveyed the fact—by a tension of plumped cushions and placed magazines, a vacancy from unseemly objects bundled out of sight; by suspense slowly dwindling in the curtains.” But he is not in such a room.

Still, he can’t help who he is, and he manages only to tone down his condescension, rather than stifle it altogether. Momentarily, he realizes that “he was the one in need of rescue, that Grace might easily do better than take up with him…. But health was hard to maintain: self-importance flickered up like fever.”
And there you’ve got Christian.
These are fine, believable characters, caught and held in Hazzard’s exquisite prose. To enjoy them yourself, I strongly recommend you find her book. But these four stories make an excellent introduction.

The latest installment of our column about New Yorker fiction, past and present, by writer and editor Benjamin Chambers.
In her review of Ha Jin’s story “The House Behind a Weeping Cherry,” which appeared in the April 7 issue of The New Yorker (TNY), Sarah of the blog Sarah Writes says that the story, although written in English, “successfully captures the inflections of translation, and replicates translators’ reliance on stock expressions to replace untranslatable idioms.”
She finds this aspect of the story “distracting,” but that’s neither here nor there, as her comments immediately brought to mind a different language problem that’s been on mind lately as I read each week’s story in TNY: translations from the British.
Anyone who grew up on a hefty diet of P.G. Wodehouse and English detective fiction would have no trouble with Tessa Hadley’s “Friendly Fire,” for example, which appeared in the February 4 issue of TNY. When Hadley’s characters take “a fag break” while talking on their “mobiles,” put their “kit in the boot” of their cars, run around like “mad things,” or own homes on what used to be a “council estate,” you know what’s meant.
Less often, however, does one happen by the old family hearth in a story to find characters sitting by “the Aga,” or stove, as in John Burnside’s “The Bell Ringer,” which appeared in the March 17 issue, or discover a woman contemplating—along with flower arranging and foreign language classes—joining The Women’s Institute (a voluntary organization that helps educate and mobilize women on political issues) or Toc H. (Even Burnside’s protagonist wasn’t sure what Toc H was. Turns out it’s a Christian service club “committed to building a fairer society.” No mention of whether it approves of clootie dumpling.)
If you’re unhip, as I am, phrases in Hari Kunzru’s “Raj, Bohemian,” from the March 10 issue of TNY, might throw you completely. Kunzru’s narrator sneers at the “trendies—fashion kids who tried too hard, perennially hoping to get hosed down by the paps or interviewed about their hair.”
Hosed down by the—eh? Come again? I finally figured out this was just a cute way of saying they wanted their picture taken by paparazzi. That usage may not be peculiarly British, but no matter: half a page later, I found the genuine article. When the narrator is asked to an exclusive party, his friends and acquaintances want him to get them in the door, but he turns them down. Why? “It was a rule, an unofficial rule: no liggers and no hangers-on.”
”Liggers”? Huh? It took a little bit of digging, but I finally discovered that in Brit usage, a “ligger” is someone who crashes a party. Who knew?
And if you were wondering about those “two Traveller kids” racing buggies out near the airport in Roddy Doyle’s “The Dog,” in the November 5, 2007, issue, your curiosity might be somewhat allayed when you learn that the Travellers are a roving people, known in the vernacular as Gypsies.
All this British vocabulary might make some American readers feel a bit like outsiders. Not to worry—apparently, that feeling is a national characteristic. Check out this gem from Burnside’s “The Bell-Ringer,” so perfectly keyed to skewer American readers of TNY that I half-wondered if he inserted it after his story was accepted: “Harley was always polite with her, in the way that Americans are: doggedly courteous and, at the same time, utterly remote, like the landing party in an old episode of ‘Star Trek,’ curious and well-meaning and occasionally bewildered, but sworn not to interfere in the everyday life of their hosts.”
No need for a translation there, I shouldn’t think, wot?

The latest installment of a new column on New Yorker fiction, past and present, by writer and editor Benjamin Chambers.
It occurred to me that it would be fun to do occasional posts on fiction that appeared in The New Yorker 50 years ago. To start off, I simply did a quick scan of The Complete New Yorker (CNY) for fiction published in 1958, and son of a gun, I came up with a winner right away: Michael J. Arlen’s delightful “Are We Losing the Novel Race?” from April 19, 1958. (This particular Arlen, by the way, is not to be confused with his father, the popular Armenian writer mentioned in one of the earliest issues of TNY, who later made the cover of Time.)
“Novel Race” deftly and briefly satirizes domestic fears, post-Sputnik, that America was falling behind the Soviets—in this case, in the length of its novels. And even though I wouldn’t classify the piece as fiction, really, its winning, jaunty tone and well-deserved jab at Ayn Rand make it worth digging up.
In case you’re curious, here are a few other notable writers published in TNY in 1958: John Cheever, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Frank O’Connor, S.J. Perelman, Penelope Mortimer, William Maxwell, Robert Graves, Nadine Gordimer, V.S. Pritchett, Peter Taylor, and Elizabeth Taylor (no, not that one, the other one). Familiar names there, definitely.
Some folks I didn’t recognize (though perhaps they were well-known in literary households then): Dean Doner, Kim Yong Ik, Parke Cummings, and Florence Codman. I look forward to digging in and reporting back. In fact, I think I’ll do a similar scan of fiction from 25 years ago, too. Stay tuned.

The latest installment of a new column on New Yorker fiction, past and present, by writer and editor Benjamin Chambers.
Worried that the short story’s dead? Naah. For proof, check out this stinging rebuttal.
Following The New Yorker’s excellent fiction podcast? In June 2007, Edwidge Danticat talked with TNY fiction editor Deborah Treisman about Junot Díaz’s story, “How to Date a Brown Girl (Black Girl, White Girl, or Halfie)” following a reading done by Díaz himself. I can’t swear there’s a connection, but this week, Danticat and Díaz took home awards from the National Book Critics Circle for their latest books. (So did TNY critic Alex Ross; Joan Acocella was a runner-up. Click here for a complete list of winners and nominees.)
The really big news, though, was the demolition derby won by Louise Erdrich. Haven’t heard about it? Of course you haven’t. It’s happening right here, right now—an Emdashes exclusive!
Erdrich’s story, “The Reptile Garden,” which appeared in the January 29, 2008 issue, reminded me how much I like her writing. So I checked to see if I could find other stories of hers in The Complete New Yorker (CNY), and ran across “Demolition.”
Then I searched CNY using the keyword “demolition,” and came up with a grand total of four stories. Here they are, in chronological order: Thomas Meehan, “The Red Alert,” published February 7, 1959; William Gaddis, “Szyrk v. Village of Tatamount et al.,” published October 12, 1987; Haruki Murakami, “The Elephant Vanishes,” published November 18, 1991; and of course Louise Erdrich, Demolition, from December 25, 2006.
Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought, to read them as a group? And voilà! I had myself a demolition derby. Which is a pretty good metaphor for trying to read them together, as it turns out, because these four stories have little in common—and are even, from an aesthetic point of view, in violent opposition.
To begin with, we’ve got Thomas Meehan’s quiet story of a 12-year-old’s brief stint volunteering as a Civil Defense messenger in New York during World War II. (I suspect it’s actually memoir, miscategorized in CNY’s index. I am rapidly becoming an authority on CNY index miscategorization.) The piece gently pokes fun at the eagerness of the boy, and the adult Civil Defense volunteers, to play a role of importance in the war. The narrator initially reports for messages to Mr. Feldman, the owner of the town’s hardware store, who greets the narrator “wearing a black leather jacket, and around his neck was a long white scarf, of the type affected by movie directors and R.A.F. pilots. His Civil Defense helmet was tilted at a sharp angle over one eye … and a cigarette was dangling from one side of his mouth.”
What’s demolished? The boy’s slick new bicycle, with which he was to deliver messages that never in any case materialize. Mr. Feldman backs over the bike during a red alert. The boy, undaunted, makes his way on foot to the main message center and is put to work serving coffee and doughnuts to the Fire Department’s Ladies Auxiliary, who, “inexplicably, were … discussing sugar rationing and meat substitutes.”
Next to Meehan’s staid memoir, we have William Gaddis’s sharp, ironic, “Szyrk v. Village of Tatamount et. al.,” written in the form of a legal brief. The inciting incident—young boy’s dog gets trapped in monumental abstract steel sculpture, firemen are summoned with torches to get him out, and the artist sues to protect his work—shows up in Gaddis’s 1976 masterpiece, JR, and became central to his shrill 1994 novel, A Frolic of His Own. “Szyrk” bristles with erudition and dry jokes—for example, the judge, dealing with the plaintiff’s claim for monetary damages, observes that the dog’s owner and the Village of Tantamount will have to pay them if any are owed, “since, as in the question posed by the Merchant of Venice (I, iii, 122), ‘Hath a dog money?’ the answer must be that it does not.” Even so, as with all satire, the pleasures here are wintry ones. (Demolition comes into play only as an abstract possibility, if the firemen get their way and destroy the sculpture to save the trapped pooch.)
Set against both Meehan’s tame realism and Gaddis’s comically absurd satire is “The Elephant Vanishes,” by Haruki Murakami, the only author under discussion whom I can imagine being happy at a real demolition derby. The story is trademark Murakami, in that it’s a fantastic story told matter-of-factly, and the result is unsettling. In the first half, the narrator concentrates almost tediously on how the elephant came to be where it was, and the aftermath of its disappearance.
Only in the second half, when he tells the story to a young woman he’s flirting with, do we learn that he was the last person, aside from the keeper, to see the elephant before it disappeared. We also learn that it might have vanished by growing small enough to shrug off the iron ring that bound its leg and then slip between the bars of its cage.
What’s not clear is whether we can trust the narrator’s perception (he doubts it himself), but the only way the elephant’s disappearance can be explained is to accept the impossible, a recognition that has subtly affected him. “Some kind of balance inside of me has broken down since the elephant affair,” he says, “and maybe that causes external phenomena to strike my eye in a strange way.” Telling the story to the young woman, for example, turns out to be a mistake, for its strangeness casts a pall over their attraction, and he never sees her again.
Meehan might have enjoyed Murakami’s story, being the author of the hilarious “Yma Dream” from February 24, 1962. (It’s best heard aloud; you can watch Anne Bancroft perform it here.) But Gaddis would’ve had no patience with the stubborn fantasy at the heart of “The Elephant Vanishes.” Still, Gaddis is famously difficult to read, which is something he shares with Murakami. Anne Keesey published an interview with Murakami in The Oregonian, in 2002, in which she reported,

It’s tempting to try to assign specific meaning to Murakami’s odder images. What is the meaning of the sheep in The Wild Sheep Chase? What is the underwater volcano in The Second Bakery Attack? What is the flatiron in Landscape with Flatiron? But perhaps sheep, volcano and iron cannot be decoded in that way. These images may be the irreducible coin of Murakami’s individual imagination, not symbols of something else …

Murakami responded to a question about the meaning of the underwater volcano by saying, “Don’t you see a volcano in your mind when you get hungry? I do.”

Which makes me think Murakami knows a thing or two about conversation-stoppers.
Last to the derby comes Louise Erdrich, with the hypnotic “Demolition.” Neither strictly realistic nor fantastic, it straddles the line between Meehan and Murakami, with a touch of Gaddis’s impishness. Online commenters seem to have liked “Demolition” when it was published, but nobody said why, or what they thought it was about. Which was hardly surprising. As with Murakami generally, “Demolition” seems to operate just beyond the normal range of human apprehension, yet it still resonates after you put it down, even days later.
At first, though, it’s hard to take seriously. The narrator and his girlfriend, C., have “trouble with hunger while making love,” so C., who is a “great believer in the restorative powers of milk and honey,” regularly squirts honey into his mouth and then wipes him down (!) with the milk. On one occasion, the narrator, who is still in high school, smells of sour milk when he runs into his father. To cover up his clandestine affair with the much-older C., he tells dad that he’s gotten a job in a creamery, which his father mishears as “cemetery.” So the boy naturally gets a job in the cemetery. (Wouldn’t you?)
Retelling it like this makes the joke seemed labored and the story logic weak, but it actually works fine in Erdrich’s hands—just as the symbols she’s scattered throughout the story that could seem heavy-handed are actually…just right. Some examples: the story takes place in Pluto, South Dakota; the young narrator operates the town cemetery; he reads Marcus Aurelius (famous for his thoughts on the finality of death and the comparative insignificance of worldly affairs), yet finds fault with Aurelius and other philosophers of the ancient world because “they didn’t give enough due weight to human sexual love”; and he loves gardening (and bees love him).
So, let’s sum up. We’ve got Pluto plus boss of cemetery plus lots of sex plus bees. Thanatos? Check! Eros? Check! When Erdrich reaches for symbols, she doesn’t go for the subtle ones in the tasteful, unobtrusive box. Nope, her hand strays to the industrial-strength can of in-your-face whoop-ass. Yet it works.
The narrator is not really lord of the underworld, of course; his little world is not immune to change. (“Only the dead,” he observes at one point, are “at equilibrium.”) His lover, C., attempts to end their obsessive sexual relationship by marrying Ted, a housing developer who specializes in stripping and (you saw this coming) demolishing old buildings and houses. The narrator hates Ted, of course, not only for interrupting his relationship with C., but because Ted is an agent of a kind of death: he strips beautiful old buildings of their best parts and then replaces them with the ugliest buildings in town.
His dislike is ironic, because in other respects he loves the cycles of existence. Gardening is one expression of this, and he’s picked “the universe is transformation” as his epitaph. He’s also remarkably undismayed by his lover’s signs of age:

I watched C’s hair change from a sun-stroked blond to a dark wavy mass that vibrated against her neck as she lay beside me or swayed on top of me or held me from beneath. Gray strands and shoots arched from her side part back into a loose topknot. Her hair turned back to sunny blond, as she began to touch it up. She clipped it short. By that time, its silken lustre had dulled. I saw her eyes go from a direct blue, the shade of willowware china, to a washed-out sea-glass color … I saw her skin freckle, her throat loosen, her teeth chip, her lips crease. Only her bones did not change; their admirable structure stayed sharp and resonant, fitting marvelously beneath her nervous skin. I witnessed these changes and was reassured about my own.

That last line suggests he’s not inhuman; he fears death like the rest of us. Similarly, he has great affection for the old house he lives in, and feels its loss as a physical thing when, eventually, it is destroyed by Ted in the course of the story. Nonetheless, he greets the larger demolitions of existence—the gradual extinction of youth, of desire, of the passing years—with equanimity and even a degree of satisfaction.
C., by contrast, has always felt that age and decay should blunt his desire for her, and she eventually does manage to break off their affair. Indeed, she confronts him at the story’s end with her age-ruined, “elderly” body, hoping to force him to admit that she was right. But he is still drawn to her, and she retreats in confusion.
Does sex rule? No. The story is called, “Demolition,” after all, and it ends with this dark image: “The bees were busy in the graveyard right now, filling the skulls with white combs and the coffins with sweet black honey.” With this image, Erdrich effortlessly unites sex and death (which we tend to conceive of in opposition), fruitfulness with timelessness.
It’s a poet’s move, that, and flawless: Meehan, Gaddis, and Murakami must retire from the field, their serviceable vehicles irrefutably, um, demolished.

The fourth installment of a new column on New Yorker fiction, past and present, by writer and editor Benjamin Chambers.
I’m threatening to become a walking Department of Amplification. In my first post, I erred about Updike’s unmatched output for The New Yorker, and I just remembered that Deborah Eisenberg introduced me to the works of Alice Munro (50 stories in TNY, through April 2007) and—much more significantly for my own later reading—Mavis Gallant, short story writer nonpareil, which contradicts my recollection about Jean Stafford in my second post. Oh well.
I expect to say more in the future about why Gallant (114 short stories in TNY) deserves to be compared, as she has been, to Chekhov and James, but right now, I’ve got an even better treat in store for you: seeing and hearing her do that herself.
Thanks to a post from Andrew Saikali over on The Millions, you can take a peek at this brief, abruptly truncated 1988 interview with Gallant in Aurora.
Through Saikali, I also learned about an audio interview Gallant did recently for Canadian radio, now available for download. In it, you can hear Gallant read from her story, “The Moslem Wife” (published in TNY, August 23, 1976), talk about a crooked agent who was publishing her stories in TNY and pocketing the proceeds, and more. (By coincidence, Deborah Eisenberg’s interview for the same show the week prior is also available on the same page.)
No time to listen to the full hour? You can also get shorter fragments from the interview and an appreciation by one of my favorite Canadian short story writers, Lisa Moore. Or you can hear Antonya Nelson read Gallant’s 1960 story, “When We Were Nearly Young” over at newyorker.com. Still not enough for you? Rattling Books has 11 hours of Gallant’s fiction on CD. I’d jump on it.
Gallant, who is Canadian, has lived in and written about France for decades—which conveniently puts me in mind of TNY’s incomparable Adam Gopnik (359 pieces in TNY through April 2007, of which four were short stories), who has also written so charmingly about France. Only a few days ago, he was interviewed in San Franciso—a half hour of this wide-ranging conversation is now available at the always fascinating Fora.TV.
Though I was glad to learn what Gopnik looks like, there’s nothing visual about the interview otherwise—treat it like an audio interview, and let it roll while you do your deep knee bends or whatever it is you do while listening to podcasts. But do check it out: you’ll be glad you did.

The second installment of a new column on New Yorker fiction, past and present, by writer and editor Benjamin Chambers.
Stories Discussed: Jean Stafford’s “In the Zoo,” published September 19, 1953; “The Shorn Lamb,” published January 24, 1953; “The Liberation,” published May 30, 1953; and “Children are Bored on Sundays,” published February 21, 1948.
When Martin recently posted the contents of some old anthologies of fiction from The New Yorker, I saw a lot of familiar stories, but none so welcome as Jean Stafford’s “In the Zoo.”
I first read it 20 years ago in graduate school, where New Yorker author Deborah Eisenberg was a visiting professor and put it on the reading list. Unlike the other stories on that list, the Stafford story stayed with me, and now that I’ve re-read it, I can see why. It doesn’t glitter like a diamond, but it’s tough enough to cut glass.
For such a short story, “In the Zoo” has a very long opening and denouement. At first, I found myself impatient with the opening paragraphs’ slow pan over various animals in the Denver Zoo, but the setup works, thematically and dramatically, giving the piece the capacious feel of a much longer work. It’s a mark of Stafford’s precise verbal economy that she can do this. Look how neatly she characterizes Mrs. Placer, the woman who takes in the narrator of the story and her sister Daisy during the Depression, after their parents have died:

If a child with braces on her teeth came to play with us, she was, according to Gran [Mrs. Placer], slyly lording it over us because our teeth were crooked, but there was no money to have them straightened. And what could be the meaning of being asked to come for supper at the doctor’s house? Were the doctor and his la-di-da New York wife and those pert girls with their solid gold barrettes and their Shetland pony going to shame her poor darlings? Or shame their poor Gran by making them sorry to come home to the plain but honest life that was all she could provide for them?

The way Stafford catches and mocks Mrs. Placer’s voice is impressive. But even as we smile at this Dickensian grotesque (to borrow a Stafford phrase), we sense her malevolence clearly enough that we’re not surprised when the narrator concludes, “Steeped in these mists of accusation and hidden plots and double meanings, Daisy and I grew up like worms.” Worms!

The girls’ one happiness is visiting Mr. Murphy, a kindly drunk with a small menagerie who does “nothing all day long but drink bathtub gin in rickeys and play solitaire and smile to himself and talk to his animals.” One day, he surprises them with the gift of a stray puppy, half-Lab, half-collie. The girls convince Mrs. Placer to let them take the dog in, and for a while it is their playful, well-trained pal.

Mrs. Placer intervenes, however, in the molding of the dog’s character and very quickly transforms him into a vicious bully, loyal only to her. The girls, heartbroken, turn to Mr. Murphy, who, it turns out, has something of a vicious temper. Roused from his nodding, alcoholic stupor by the harm Mrs. Placer has done to the sweet dog he gave the girls, he goes to confront her in one brief, shattering high noon.

In life, there’s rarely an easy escape after a climactic confrontation, and neither is one vouchsafed the girls in this story. They grow to adulthood under Mrs. Placer’s roof, their spirits virtually broken; the denouement makes clear that, though they are well into middle age, they have not recovered from her insidious influence, and never will.
For all that, though, “In the Zoo” is not grim at all, merely sad, and comic. Its ironic, confident tone makes it almost sprightly at times; nonetheless, when you’ve finished, you know you’ve been through something.
Stafford published two other stories in TNY in 1953, “The Shorn Lamb,” and “The Liberation,” so I figured I’d read them as well, along with “Children are Bored on Sundays” from 1948, which, I happen to know thanks to Martin, was a Best American Short Stories pick, as well as the first story Stafford published in TNY.
The focal character of “The Shorn Lamb” is Hannah, a five-year-old girl whose father has just cut off her beautiful golden hair so that she now looks like a boy. There is no action in the story proper: the little girl listens to her mother tell the whole sordid tale to her sister, and it is through this conversation and the accompanying summary that we learn of the war between Hannah’s parents.
Hannah’s haircut, we realize, is both an indirect way for her father to attack her mother (who has beautiful hair of her own), and to sever her mother’s relationship with an artist, a man who has been painting a portrait of mother and daughter. (Mysteriously, Hannah’s haircut makes it impossible to ever continue the portrait.)
The harshness of the conflict between the parents is well-drawn, but Hannah is a clumsy and cloying medium for portraying it. The first Monday after her haircut, she’s left at home as usual while her older siblings are taken to school. She waves to them as they leave, calling, “Goodbye dearest Janie and Johnny and Andy and Hughie!” And when she overhears her mother say, “I’m very anti-man, today,” she repeats to herself, “What is antiman?” Ick.
The emotional violence perpetrated on Hannah by her parents, however, seems to be a preoccupation of Stafford’s, at least judging from the four stories under discussion. It’s the central dynamic of “In the Zoo,” of course, as well as “The Shorn Lamb,” and it shows up again in “The Liberation.”
“The Liberation” concerns the plight of Polly, a thirty-year-old teacher of German who still lives at home with her bossy aunt and uncle, who would like nothing better than to keep her there. She is largely content with her dull, constricted life until a surprise marriage proposal offers her a chance of escape. Steeling herself to tell her aunt and uncle that she will be getting married and leaving them, she prepares for a contest she fears she cannot win. Her victory is quick, however, though placed in jeopardy at the last moment by the news that her fiancé has died (conveniently for the author). I won’t spoil the story’s eventual resolution, but I will say I found it unconvincing.
Stafford’s troubles with making “The Liberation” work might have had to do with her doubts that people can ever fully escape the tyranny of others. Certainly, “In the Zoo” argues otherwise, and “Children are Bored on Sundays,” similarly, is a case study in how an adult free of her parents’ control suffers from exclusion and disparagement by her peers.
The story’s protagonist, Emma, is a young woman recovering from an emotional breakdown brought on by the pressure of trying to fit in with an intellectual coterie. Dividing the world between “rubes” and intellectuals, she is fully at home with neither, and the unkindness of the latter has, apparently, turned her into a basket case.
When she finally feels strong enough again to venture out to a museum, she quite naturally runs into one of the intellectual set, Alfred Eisenburg, the sight of whom disturbs her fragile equilibrium. (Personally, I was much more startled by Salvador Dalí, who turns up a couple of times in the crowd of museum-goers.) Alfred, however, is also the worse for wear, and he and Emma go off for a drink together, relieved for the moment of the burden of being, as Stafford says, “grownups.” (Respite, in Stafford’s world, means escape from the meanness of others, and can only be, like childhood, temporary.)
The problem is, the conflict is finally too abstract, and the story never quite real—the tone too arch for us to find the reasons for Emma’s breakdown completely believable (indeed, it’s not clear whether we’re meant to find Emma sympathetic or to laugh at her simplicity and frailty). If there’s tragedy or comedy here, it’s unrealized.
“Zoo,” however, delivers. Only in this story does the conflict occur on stage, so to speak, with clear, comprehensible stakes. And its classical proportions serve it well, for while the violence of the collision between Mr. Murphy and Mrs. Placer makes the story remarkable, it needs the subsequent fate of the girls in later life—the long, unending denouement—to give it such lasting weight. Look it up, by all means.