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.

The first installment of a new column on New Yorker fiction, past and present, by writer and editor Benjamin Chambers.
Stories discussed: John Updike’s “Outage,” published January 7, 2008, and “Friends From Philadelphia,” published October 30, 1954; E. L. Doctorow’s “Wakefield,” published January 14, 2008; and T. Coraghessan Boyle’s “Ash Monday,” published January 21, 2008.
To say I’m looking forward to exploring fiction from The New Yorker and sharing my finds with Emdashes readers would be to practice a degree of understatement only the British are really good at, so I’ll just say I’m like a kid in a candy store.
I’ve been having so much fun running through the halls of The Complete New Yorker that I didn’t think I’d start off with recent stories, but here I am, doing just that. When I read the first three stories published in 2008, I found the resonances among them irresistible. (For those of you who haven’t gotten to these yet, there are plot spoilers below.)
Of the three writers I’m reviewing, Updike is the senior man, at least in terms of New Yorker numbers. According to The Complete New Yorker index, which is currently updated through April 2007, Doctorow has had five stories in The New Yorker, beginning in 1997; Boyle has had 17 since 1993. Updike has published 168 stories in The New Yorker over 53 years. (I presume this makes Updike the all-time front-runner in terms of sheer volume, and now that The New Yorker seems to lean on individual contributors a bit less, no one’s likely to catch up to him. While he’s averaged three stories a year, he published nine stories in The New Yorker in 1959, and eight in 1961.)
Considering Updike’s eminence, then, I thought it only appropriate to go back and read “Friends From Philadelphia,” his first story in The New Yorker, published in 1954. “Friends” is about a 15-year-old boy named—surprise!—John, who enlists the help of his neighbors, the Lutzes, to buy wine for him so that his parents can entertain the aforementioned friends. The story’s primary focus is on the kindness of Mr. Lutz, who uses his open-handed generosity to bludgeon the boy with his comparative wealth.
What I found most interesting about the story, however, was that it’s practically a museum of outdated public health policy. Mrs. Lutz smokes like a chimney and allows her teenage daughter to do the same if she wishes (John smokes too, of course); it’s John who is sent by his parents to pick up the wine, though only 15 (he’s foiled when a “new man” at the store requires “written permission” from his parents); Mr. Lutz drives around drunk, protected only by Mrs. Lutz’s mild admonition to “drive carefully”; and Mr. Lutz allows John to drive his new car, though John has little idea how to operate it, as it’s so new that it has “automatic shift, fluid transmission,” and—neat!—turn signals.
“Outage,” Updike’s first New Yorker story this year, is a simpler tale of how a power outage signals (or causes) a temporary interruption in social mores in a suburban New England community. Brad Morris, who works from home while his wife manages a boutique, ventures out after a storm long enough to hook up with a married neighbor he’s seen around at “cocktail parties or zoning-appeals-board meetings.” Well, almost hook up. The power comes back on, and with it, a bit too tidily, their consciences. It won’t do at all, really.
Oddly enough, Doctorow’s “Wakefield” also features a power outage in the opening paragraphs. It’s a largely incidental one, except for its putative effect on the title character’s state of mind—which turns out to be what the story’s really about, because Wakefield, after a spat with his wife, decides to hide out in the attic above the family garage…for a year. Though he has money and credit cards (he’s a lawyer), he sets himself the test of living entirely on what he can scrounge in the garbage while watching jealously over his wife as she deals with the police and the solicitude of neighbors, (eventually) vacations with their daughters, and begins to date again.
The predictable reappearance of a minor character spurs Wakefield’s eventual decision to return to the civilized world, and the story ends with a weak joke. Of the three stories from 2008, this is unquestionably the best written, partly because Wakefield is the most complex character, but that isn’t saying a lot. (Incidentally, don’t miss the podcast of Doctorow reading and discussing John O’Hara’s 1943 story “Graven Image.”)
While Updike and Doctorow’s stories both concern the suspension of normal social rules, Boyle’s story, “Ash Monday,” features thirteen-year-old Dill, who has very personal power outages—moments of inattention, “as if he’d gone outside of himself…another kind of absence that was so usual he hardly noticed it.” Of these three, Boyle’s story—which has the flattest characters and the most exposed machinery—has, surprisingly, the most affecting emotional core.
At one point, Dill asks his mother which church their family belongs to, and eventually observes, “We’re not anything, are we?” It’s the saddest and most deeply felt moment in any of the three stories, because it’s clear he’s talking about much more than what church they belong to: he’s talking about their broken stove, their anonymity, his “piece-of-shit” Camry, and their dead-end, rootless, piece-of-shit lives.
But “Ash Monday” is also the cheapest story of the three—not only do all the characters seem right out of Central Casting (a fault shared, to a degree, with “Outage”), the plotting leaves something to be desired. Dill’s outages of attention are Boyle’s heavy-handed way of trying to make the reader think Dill will be responsible for setting the canyon on fire—oh, didn’t I mention that? Yes, it’s one of those stories, where the curtain lifts, you’ve got a teenage boy standing by a grill with a can of gasoline, the “hot breath” of the Santa Ana winds nosing about the place, and a title that guarantees that baby’s gonna burn, baby, burn.
But as in a cheesy detective story, the true firebug isn’t introduced until the very end; and however much that character hates the setting, the torching is seemingly entirely unmotivated. One wonders why it matters—the point seems to be that it doesn’t. Which is an unrewarding place from which to start or finish a story.
No matter, though; every writer has creative brown-outs like these. We just need to wait a bit, and they’ll get the juice back on.