“Must fame be a part of greatness?” That question is posed by Nedra Berland, one of the characters in James Salter’s 1975 novel Light Years. If the answer is yes – and there is much evidence to suggest Salter himself believed this to be the case – then greatness eluded the American writer, who died on Friday in Sag Harbor, New York, at the age of ninety. To the small coterie of devotees who devoured Salter’s limited, but pristine output, however, his greatness was a given, regardless of how many copies of his books he sold.
Nedra’s question is quoted by Nick Paumgarten in a long profile of Salter that appeared in The New Yorker in April 2013, on the occasion of the publication of All That Is, the author’s first novel in thirty-four years. It would be his last.
Salter did not publish prodigiously, taking his time to hone his works to diamond-like precision. Paumgarten quotes the author Richard Ford as saying, “It is an article of faith among readers of fiction that James Salter writes American sentences better than anyone writing today.” That devotion to his craft resulted in a small output of books that rank among the finest in postwar American literature.
Salter’s two most famous works are Light Years and his 1967 novel A Sport and a Pastime. In his introduction to the FSG Classics edition of that novel, Reynolds Price writes, “[T]he book I find between the covers of A Sport and a Pastime is as nearly perfect a narrative as I’ve encountered in English-language letters, a more brilliant and heartbreaking portrayal of young sexual intoxication than I’ve found elsewhere, and an unbroken exercise of prose that leaves me proud of my native language and of a fearless man who labored to lay it out with such useful opulence.”
The word “fearless” is not idly chosen: The New York Times states that Salter’s original publisher, Harper, shied away from the book, saying it contained “more than the normal amount of sex.” George Plimpton, the editor of The Paris Review, liked the manuscript, however, and interceded to have it placed with Doubleday. The resulting publication paved the way for writers like Philip Roth and John Updike, who felt freer to engage in more explicit examinations of sexual relationships and situations in their fiction.
Salter was like Roth in another way: he plumbed his personal life and experiences for material to use in his fiction. Paumgarten tells of Salter leaving his publisher’s office having just picked up a copy of Light Years, a novel about infidelity and the dissolution of a marriage, and running into a longtime friend, to whom he gave the book. Upon reading it, the friend realized that the couple in the book were modelled on her and her husband. A Sport and a Pastime finds its genesis in notebooks Salter kept while travelling in France. Says Paumgarten, “The novel is an Alhambra of narcissism and self-erasure.”
Though he may not have achieved the kind of renown he desired in his life, his few novels and collections of stories are likely to live on, thanks to a small but dedicated group of readers for whom he marked a pinnacle of style and technique in twentieth century American letters.
In life you need friends and a good place to live. He had friends, both in and out of publishing. He knew people and was known by them. Malcolm Pearson, his former roommate, came to the city with his wife, Anthea, and often their daughter to go to the museums or visit a gallery whose owner he knew. Malcolm had become older. He disapproved of things, he walked with a cane. Am I becoming old, Bowman wondered? It was something he rarely thought about. He had never been particularly young, or to put it another way, he had been young for a long time and now was at his true age, old enough for civilized comforts and not too old for the primal ones. – All That Is
The more clearly one sees this world, the more one is obliged to pretend it does not exist. – A Sport and a Pastime
From The Gates of Paradise: The Anthology of Erotic Short Fiction
Taiwanese writer Li Ang is most famous for her 1983 novella The Butcher’s Wife; her novels and stories address issues of gender politics in China, casting a critical light on a society that represses and curtails women’s desires and renders women subservient to the dominant patriarchal dictates. The 1987 story “Curvaceous Dolls” is a strange, dreamlike tale about a woman’s psychosexual struggles in the face of sanctioned attitudes toward female sexuality that are utterly incapable of fulfilling her in any meaningful way.
From the opening sentence of the story it is clearly implied that the woman has homosexual impulses: “She had yearned for a doll – a curvaceous doll – ever since she was a little girl.” The word “doll” is of course a slang term for a woman, and if there were any question as to what “curvaceous” might refer to, the story clarifies this in short order.
The woman is obsessed with female breasts. This obsession has its origins in childhood; when she was a girl, her mother died, and she has since developed an association between the motherly act of breastfeeding and a sense of security and sanctuary. This idea is largely repressed in her during the early stages of her adulthood: she marries her husband and is attracted by the “solace and warmth” she finds when leaning into his chest. Her epiphany occurs on a bus ride to a doctor her husband has convinced her to see because of troubling dreams the woman has been having. On the crowded bus, someone brushes up against the woman:
Glancing up, she saw a pair of full breasts, whose drooping outline she could make out under the woman’s blouse. Her interest aroused, she began to paint a series of mental pictures, imagining the breasts as having nipples like overripe strawberries oozing liquid, as though waiting for the greedy mouth of a child. Suddenly, she felt a powerful urge to lean up against those full breasts, which were sure to be warm and comforting, and could offer her the sanctuary she needed.
The “sanctuary she needed” is, importantly, something her husband cannot provide any longer. The woman has become estranged from her husband as a result of his derisive response to her story about a makeshift doll she fashioned for herself as a child – an early and failed attempt to supply herself with the “curvaceous doll” she desires. There is a certain irony in the fact that her husband is the instrument by which the woman begins to explore her own innate desires: it is his disparaging laughter that prompts her disturbed sleep, and it is his insistence that she visit a doctor that results in her revelation on the public transit bus.
As her reveries deepen, she remembers two other dolls – one of clay and one of wood – with ever more realistic carved breasts; she recalls suckling the artificial female forms as an early means of acting out her innermost impulses. In the early part of the story, the woman remains conflicted about her desires and will not commit to leaving her husband. Instead, she fantasizes about the possibility of him growing breasts that she can nuzzle in the way she did her mother’s as a child, and those of the dolls as she developed sexually.
The story is broken into two parts; in the second part, the woman abandons her fantasy about her husband growing breasts in favour of a determination to have a baby, which she can suckle herself. Her idea is that the feel of a child’s fondling hands and voracious mouth on her nipples will take the place of her own desire to do likewise to someone else. Significantly, the reverie about her husband developing breasts and the impulse to bear a child both buy into the patriarchal social structure: both require the husband as the central agent of their fulfillment.
This unconscious realization perhaps lies behind the dreams the woman starts having about a sort of demonic figure with fangs and pale green eyes – easily the story’s most puzzling aspect. Though it is likely that the pale green eyes – “filled with cruelty and the destructive lust of a wild animal” and that leave her feeling “defiled” – are representative of the repressive societal structures that refuse to allow her the freedom to indulge her desires in her own way and according to her own rules.
By the end of the story, she has decided to return to her childhood home, against her husband’s wishes, to pursue whatever it is she is in need of. Having made her decision, the story provides yet another bizarre fantasy, but in this one there are objects resembling “two dead breasts” that rub up against her and a meandering stream of clammy white liquid that approaches her mouth but that she refuses to swallow. Earlier scenes in the story have focused on the symbolic importance of mother’s milk to the woman; here the fact that she imagines dead breasts and refuses to swallow the liquid might perhaps indicate that she has abandoned her subconscious torment and is willing to pursue her desires in the light of day. The clammy white liquid could also be associated symbolically with semen; her refusal to ingest it a repudiation of her husband and all the things he stands for.
Li Ang’s story is Freudian and somewhat surreal in its approach: the dreamlike aspects remain oblique and resistant to easy explication. What is clear is that by the end of the story the woman has found a way out of the stifling societal strictures she has been suffering under. “Work hard at it, no matter how long it takes and someday it will happen to you,” her husband tells her. “Maybe,” she thinks in response, “but not if I go about it your way. I have to do it my own way.”
From You Think That’s Bad
“One of my great subjects over the years,” says Jim Shepard, “great in terms of just volume, has been complicity with power and complicity with evil. … I don’t think I ever will write something from the point of view of Hitler, or Himmler, or something like that. But the guy who enables Himmler …”
Writing about history’s monsters is something that captures a part of the author’s imagination, but doing so in a straightforward way seems unsatisfying, in part because it lets the reader off the hook. “If I write about Himmler,” Shepard says, “I leave the reader in a very comfortable position, because the reader says, wow, what an evil guy. If I write about somebody who helps Himmler, I hope that I’m leaving the reader in a position of going, well, actually, that enabling is something that sounds familiar to me as well, because I happen to know of some things that happened that I didn’t do anything to try to stop.”
This is at once a statement of artistic intent, and an explanation of one of the key strategies Shepard employs in “Classical Scenes of Farewell,” an excoriating story featuring Gilles de Rais, a fifteenth century soldier in the French army who fought with Joan of Arc and was later executed as a child murderer. Crucially, the story is not centred on de Rais, but on one of his manservants, Etienne Corillaut, who goes by Poitou (the nickname is a region in France, but also refers more specifically to a kind of donkey bred there). By filtering the narrative through Poitou’s first-person perspective, Shepard paradoxically humanizes it, thereby rendering the events in the story all the more horrifying.
To tell the story of de Rais’ exploits would be monstrous, but his career as a murderer – think the Marquis de Sade crossed with Clifford Olson – was so outrageous, so extraordinary, that it readily affords the reader a safe distance: there is no way any sane person could possibly identify with de Rais as a character or find any empathy for his actions. However, by using a young man from a poor family – someone much easier for a reader to understand and empathize with – as a kind of tour guide through hell, Shepard forces a pang of recognition on the reader; the manifest discomfort in the story comes from a realization of just how apparently normal Poitou appears. If he is capable of abetting de Rais’ crimes, then by extension, and given the right circumstances, so might anyone be.
The story is structured as a confession, written by Poitou on the eve before he is to be executed along with Henriet, another of de Rais’ accomplices. “I am now twenty-two years of age,” Poitou writes, “and here acknowledge to the best of my abilities the reasons for those acts that have made this name along with my master’s the object of hatred throughout the region.” But, Poitou doesn’t stop there:
I here also address the questions that my kinsmen hear from every stable hand, every innkeeper, every farmer in his field: What transpired in his mind that allowed a young person to have acted in such a manner and then to have lived apparently untroubled among his fellows? What enabled him to have stepped forward into the sunlight and Nature’s bounty for six years of such iniquity?
In other words, Poitou – and by extension Shepard – wants his readers to understand him, to comprehend the reasons behind his active participation in absolutely horrific activities. Shepard does not spare the reader the horror: the scenes depicting de Rais’ crimes are explicit and highly disturbing, but they are not in any way gratuitous or pornographic; the violence in the story – some of it sexual violence – is unacceptable and frankly difficult to handle, but this is surely the point. What Shepard is interested in is a confrontation with evil, and a reckoning with the forces in the world that allow it not only to exist, but to flourish.
The opening scene depicts Poitou’s childhood on his family’s “tumbledown farm,” a place his mother believed to be “serried and tumid with devils.” These are the supernatural devils of early Christendom; when Poitou encounters an actual, flesh-and-blood devil in the person of de Rais, we note the disconnection between the Church’s notion of evil and evil as it actually exists in the world. Shepard ironically portrays de Rais as a highly devout man; he tells the Inquisitor who condemns him to death that before his sentence is carried out he wants to be reincorporated into the Church from which he has been excommunicated.
The backdrop to the story is of course France in the 1600s – a period in which the country had been ravaged by war and strife, and the gap between the wealthy, titled nobility and the dirt poor was astounding. “Each of [de Rais’] castles,” Poitou states, “was thronged about by children made homeless by a hundred years of war and brigandage, begging where they could and stealing where they couldn’t.” The rampant social inequality and class-based misery provides a waiting flock of forgotten children from which de Rais may choose his victims. De Rais is a manifestation of pure evil, but the story at least strongly implies that it was the social conditions in France – conditions that in some ways closely mirror our own in the second decade of the 21st century – that allowed him to continue killing unchecked.
Shepard is fond of quoting Flannery O’Connor’s assertion that the fiction writer’s focus is the action grace in the territory of the devil. There is no grace to be found in “Classical Scenes of Farewell,” though Pitou’s final words are an imprecation to God that the fires that burn him and Henriet alive may serve to cleanse them of their sins: “And God will come to know our secrets. At our immolation He’ll appear to us and pour His gold out at our feet. And His grace that we kicked away will become like a tower on which we might stand. And His grace will raise us to such a height that we might glimpse the men we aspired to be. And His grace like the heat of the sun will burn away the men we have become.”
The great Japanese film director Akira Kurosawa claimed that being an artist means never averting your eyes. In telling the story of Gilles de Rais’ deluded manservant, Shepard resolutely refuses to avert his eyes. “Classical Scenes of Farewell” is a bold attempt to reckon with the nature of evil in history and, by extension, the evil that exists all around us in the present. That we as readers so easily recognize our own society – to say nothing of ourselves – in the pages of the story is perhaps its most disturbing and agonizing aspect.
“My wife has said about me that I’m the only person she knows who would take a history of the guillotine to the beach.”
American novelist and short story writer Jim Shepard’s choice of beach reading says quite a bit about the kind of author he is. It also testifies to the twin poles that animate his fiction.
Shepard is possessed of a voracious, roving imagination that seems equally at home on the killing fields of the French Revolution or the Second World War and onstage with The Who. So capacious is his imaginative empathy that he is capable of projecting himself inside the Hindenburg and offering a cogent explanation for what caused the famous disaster, all while telling a tender love story featuring two homosexual engineers and transforming the whole thing into a metaphor for the twentieth century’s failed aspirations in the areas of national and technological mastery.
But the fact that Shepard would read about the guillotine on the beach is equally significant. He feels comfortable writing about the heaviest of themes – the Holocaust, the Columbine school massacre – one moment, but the next will find him telling a story about the Creature from the Black Lagoon. From the point of view of the creature. Or doing a story about mental illness, filtered through the eyes of a narrator who, as a boy in the 1960s, was obsessed with collecting Topps’ Mars Attacks! trading cards.
“You’ve probably put your finger on how my own personal aesthetic works,” says Shepard about the short story “Mars Attacks.” “I don’t sit down at my desk and say, it’s time to tackle mental illness. What I’m doing is going, you know what would be great? To write about those cards. And that’s my way of talking myself into dealing with difficult emotional issues.”
If there is a unifying theme to Shepard’s diverse output, it can probably be found in the realm of “difficult emotional issues,” particularly those that manifest in extreme situations.
Shepard’s new novel, The Book of Aron, locates itself at the centre of one of the most extreme places in history: the Warsaw ghetto under the Nazis. It takes up the story of Janusz Korczak, the Jewish doctor and educational reformer who set up an orphanage inside the walls of the Jewish ghetto. Importantly for Shepard, however, Korczak is not the novel’s protagonist, but rather a secondary figure. The protagonist is the eponymous Aron, a child who learns to live by his wits – smuggling, colluding, and doing pretty much anything he has to in order to survive – before winding up in the care of the saintly Korczak.
“I was dealing with the kind of figure that normally doesn’t get narrated,” Shepard says of his approach to the novel. “One of the insidious things about a lot of Holocaust narratives is the way they choose figures that are quite extraordinary.”
Shepard cites Thomas Keneally’s novel Schindler’s List and The Diary of Anne Frank as books that fall into this category, and offers a tacit rebuke to critics such as Geraldine Brooks, whose recent New York Times review of The Book of Aron questioned why the story wasn’t narrated from Korczak’s perspective. Reading Frank’s diary, Shepard posits, it’s impossible not to be astounded by the intelligence and empathic rumination that infuses the writing of such a young girl. “And it’s one short step from that to, you know, the Holocaust was a terrible thing because it killed Anne Frank,” Shepard says. “I thought, what about those people nobody valued, what about those people who got swept away. And, you know, all those people in the background of all the newsreels. I very much like that worm’s eye view, that sense that nobody cares about my protagonist but me.”
Brooks also points out that in order for Shepard to inhabit Aron’s consciousness, he must forgo numerous writerly flourishes, such as lush vocabulary and metaphor. She suggests this is a risky proposition for an author, but it is in fact simply another characteristic of Shepard’s writing. For all its diversity in terms of subject, Shepard’s fiction – be it novels or stories – is notable for its concision, its ruthless paring away of anything extraneous. “I’m really attracted to leanness,” Shepard says, while at the same time acknowledging, “I don’t think that’s a mainstream, readerly pleasure.”
Shepard suggests that Anthony Doerr’s Pulitzer Prize winner, All the Light We Cannot See, offers an example of a book that resides at the other end of the spectrum from The Book of Aron. “Tony’s book is 500, 600 pages, and it reads pretty quickly, and readers feel like, I got my money’s worth there. [Whereas] mine is a shuttered, streamlined little thing.”
While Shepard’s attachment to sparseness is apparently engrained in his makeup, he is cognizant of the mainstream limitations inherent in this approach. “I recognize that in fact it’s not what I would call a good business decision,” he says. “I think the big canvas not only attracts more readers, but it feels self-consciously more important. It’s big in both senses of the word.”
And though it would be difficult to deny the evident ambition in Shepard’s range of output and his ability to inhabit an apparently endless variety of different characters convincingly, this is not the kind of ambition that calls attention to itself and wins prizes. “I’d be miserable if I didn’t think my work was ambitious,” Shepard says. “I think my work is extraordinarily ambitious, but I think you have to be a certain kind of reader to understand that. When you get a 700-page novel that is explicitly talking about the rights of man, even falling down the stairs you would think this is an ambitious book. So, it’s much more signposted.”
Those signposts don’t exist in the realm of short fiction, which is a genre Shepard continues returning to, in part because of his affinity for leanness, and in part because he enjoys “the guerilla aspect” of the form. “There’s a lot of what I call furniture moving in novel writing that I get quite impatient with. I love the idea that you hit the ground running.”
Of course, the very fact the writer hits the ground running, covers a brief distance, then stops is precisely one of the aspects of the short form that turns readers off. Shepard readily acknowledges that readers feel they don’t have time with a short story to make the kind of emotional investment that a novel affords, which is one reason stories are paradoxically unpopular in an age of constant distraction and short attention spans.
“One of the other things that’s operating that I think publishers forget,” Shepard continues, “is short stories seem very close in the reader’s mind to medicine. It’s very close to poetry. Or Literature with a capital ‘L.’ [Readers] think, this is going to be a little bit more oblique, this is going to be a little bit more difficult, a little bit more modernist, and I’m going to feel a little stupid, maybe, and who needs it?”
That said, one other signature facet of Shepard’s writing – the novels and, especially, the stories – is a staunch refusal to dumb itself down, a tactic that seems almost counterintuitive in our current anti-intellectual climate. “I always trust my readers to infer way more than other writers do,” Shepard says.
That is a large investment of trust, given the relative difficulty of Shepard’s fiction. It feels in some ways as though the title of the author’s National Book Award–nominated 2007 story collection, Like You’d Understand, Anyway is a rebuke to the culture at large. “One of my students told her mother that I had a new collection out,” Shepard recalls. “And her mother said, ‘Oh, what’s it called? Maybe I’ll get it.’ And the student said, ‘Like You’d Understand, Anyway.‘ And the mother said, ‘Well, I might!'”
Yet for all its intellectual rigour, for all the evident research and erudition that goes into the work, it is the emotional connection that sparks Shepard’s fiction. Absent that emotional trigger, the author says he would not be able to find a way into the work. Returning to Shepard’s preferred beach reading, it is not the history of the French Terror itself, horrendously compelling though it may be, that provokes a story. It is always something much more specific, and more resonant.
In the case of “Sans Farine,” which is included in Like You’d Understand, Anyway, it was a detail about a hereditary executioner – “That already interests me: how do you get that job? How did a family end up with that?” – who complained to one of the French monarchs that his clothes were wearing out too quickly on account of all the blood they were becoming saturated with. “And I thought, what kind of a person complains about that? And in what way? The idea that you would be so good at self-pity that even as a mass murderer, you would think that you were the one beset … That I felt like I could relate to emotionally.”
The kind of miniaturism contained in this attitude is not to suggest that even Shepard is immune to feeling intimidated by the scope of his ongoing project. “The hubris involved with what I’m doing a lot of the time is fairly staggering,” Shepard says. “To me, anyway.” One of the reasons the author gives for defaulting to the first person in the majority of his work is that it is one way of tackling the hubris head on. “I was trying to write years ago about Aeschylus and I was trying to do so in a detached third person and it was a miserable failure. And finally I got so upset with myself that I thought, you know what, just head on: if you can’t finish a sentence that begins, ‘I am Aeschylus,’ then you should just stop doing it.”
31 Days of Stories 2015, Day 27: “The Angle of Horror” by Cristina Fernandez Cubas; Emily Davis, trans.
From A Thousand Forests in One Acorn: An Anthology of Spanish-Language Fiction
“Cristina Fernández Cubas is part of the lineage of female writers with a special gift for the short story,” writes Valerie Miles, editor of the anthology A Thousand Forests in One Acorn. “Far from more popular forms,” Miles continues, “Fernández Cubas stuck, from the beginning, to the genre of the short story to show her vision of the world: an estranged look in the face of the thing that reality, so alien and changeable, presents on a daily basis.”
In her own introduction to the selections reproduced in the anthology, Fernández Cubas writes, “For a long time, the short story wasn’t highly respected in Spain. Or, wrongly, it was considered an apprenticeship, a stepping-stone to the novel.” One might add that this phenomenon is not unique to Spain; Canadian publishers, looking at the dismal sales figures for short-story collections, frequently sign debuts on the understanding that the follow-up will be a novel, and their hearts tend to sink when an established veteran (at least one whose surname isn’t Munro) turns in a short-fiction manuscript as their next book.
Fernández Cubas elaborates on the relatively depressed state of the short story as a fictional genre, and the possible reasons for this:
If I were to reread the interviews I did in 1980, when I published my first book, I imagine I would be surprised by two things: the insistence on asking me when I was going to write a novel, and my stubbornness (of which I’m more than proud) in defending the short story and making it clear that it is a genre in and of itself. … And I’ll mention something that lots of people overlook and that might clarify the reason the short story still isn’t as popular and as widespread as the novel. The reader. The marvelous reader of stories. An accomplice. Because it’s a very special reader who appreciates intensity more than length, who isn’t lazy, and above all – contrary to what people believe – who isn’t hurried. A reader who doesn’t mind going back to the beginning if something isn’t entirely clear, who doesn’t mind meditating a while upon reaching the end. In sum, an active reader.
Fernández Cubas concludes that “there are more and more readers like that” and “there are more and more writers cultivating the genre. Now there are a lot of us. And that suggests that the short story is in excellent health.” The second part of her assertion – that writers continue to focus on short fiction – is true enough, though the success of the genre at the cash register, at least in North America, would argue against the genre’s health, at least relative to the novel or other robust genres, such as memoir or cookbooks.
And part of the reason for this has to be, as Fernández Cubas posits, the difficulty stories present for the reader. It is frequently assumed that because stories are short, they are therefore easy to consume, but precisely the opposite is true in the vast majority of cases. Stories are more closely related to poetry than to the novel, and they make many of the same demands on a reader. The concentration of language, far from allowing a casual perusal, means that a reader must remain attentive to every word, because every word is working toward what Poe referred to as the single effect the story is attempting to create. And stories are often more mysterious than novels: their meanings are more difficult to tease out, and their tactics – what is left out is frequently as important as, if not more important than, what gets put in – make demands that readers are not always comfortable with.
Certainly Fernández Cubas herself is a demanding writer. “The Angle of Horror” borrows tropes from genre fiction, but is more closely aligned with a kind of metaphysical writing, a philosophical interrogation of the nature of existence, and a meditation on death as a part of the human condition. “I like to move in everyday scenarios,” the author says, “where, suddenly, a disruptive element barges in. I don’t know if it can be considered a ‘fantastic’ technique, or if, on the contrary, it constitutes something just as real as life itself.”
The disruptive element in “The Angle of Horror” follows on the return of Carlos to his family home after an extended stay in Brighton. Carlos returns on September 2 (Fernández Cubas is very specific about the date), and he appears a “little skinnier, quite a bit taller, and much paler.” He immediately locks himself in his room and refuses to emerge except for meals. His mother thinks that he has fallen in love and is feeling pangs of separation, but his sister, Julia, thinks there must be more to his strange condition.
Fernández Cubas calls “The Angle of Horror” one of her coldest stories, but says that “it’s also the best reflection of my poetics, of the importance I give to something so inseparable from the genre as perspective. In ‘The Angle of Horror’ everything is perspective.” She means this quite literally. When Julia finally gets Carlos to confide in her, he confesses that when he returned, he was struck by something uncanny to do with the family home; because of “some strange gift or curse” he is able to see the home “from an unusual angle,” which he characterizes as “a strange angle that horrifies [him] but doesn’t stop being real.”
Two elements of perspective are at work here: on the level of the story, there is the literal element of the “angle” that Carlos sees, a tilt or fracture that appears frightening but completely real and inexplicable. But there is also the technical matter of perspective in the story’s narration. Significantly, the story is not told from the perspective of Carlos, but at one remove, from Julia’s point of view. This provides a kind of psychic distance, and allows the reader a stand-in, someone who experiences Carlos’s existential terror from the outside. Julia acts as the reader’s surrogate, which allows Fernández Cubas to pull a bait-and-switch in the final stages of the story, implicating the reader in the story’s philosophical implications.
“The Angle of Horror” is an example of the difficulty stories can pose, but it is also an example of how much a talented writer can cram into a brief space. The story may appear on the surface to be a simple tale of existential dread – the author cites Poe and Kafka as influences – but there is much more going on at the level of implication, which is ultimately what makes the story so unsettling. It is not what happens to Carlos that disturbs us when we’ve finished reading. It is what has happened to us.
From The Stories of John Cheever
Philip Roth called John Cheever “an enchanted realist,” which is an inspired way of thinking about one of the twentieth century’s great chroniclers of the American suburbs. Cheever’s stories seem at first glance to be models of verisimilitude, though scratch a bit deeper and an abundant strangeness starts to appear. The allusive final line in “A Country Husband” – an otherwise straightforward work of naturalism – hints floridly at the world of Hannibal and his army: “Then it is dark; it is a night where kings in golden suits ride elephants over the mountains.” An earlier story, “The Enormous Radio,” contains uncanny aspects that align it almost with Poe’s tales of the unnatural.
It is these elements of Cheever’s work that appeal to the Irish writer Anne Enright. Speaking on The New Yorker’s fiction podcast series, Enright talks about the way Cheever and his contemporaries were able to write in a naturalistic manner, but what happened on the page was not required to be tethered to our understanding of reality. “It is the dreamlike, metaphorical nature of the story that really calls to me. Because it’s a terrible thing to ask a writer to limit their words to life itself.”
The story to which Enright is referring is “The Swimmer,” from Cheever’s mid-career. It was first published in The New Yorker in 1964, and released as a feature film four years later, with Burt Lancaster in the title role. One of Cheever’s most famous – and most frequently anthologized – stories, “The Swimmer” starts off plainly enough, with Neddy Merrill attending a midsummer party at the house of Donald and Helen Westerhazy. At some point during the afternoon, Ned realizes that the swimming pools in the suburban backyards form a “quasi-subterranean stream that curved across the county”; by using these pools, and taking “a dogleg to the southwest,” he could actually swim home.
This he sets out to do, and it is here that the story abandons much of its realism for something more frankly dreamlike (to use Enright’s preferred term).
In its early stages, “The Swimmer” focuses insistently on Ned’s youthful virility. While being “far from young,” Ned nevertheless retains “the especial slenderness of youth” and is still prone to exuberances such as sliding down the banister in his house. At the story’s opening, he has been swimming in the Westerhazy’s pool, and is pictured “breathing deeply, stertorously as if he could gulp into his lungs the components of that moment, the heat of the sun, the intenseness of his pleasure,” which all “seemed to flow into his chest.” Ned’s potency and athleticism are inextricable features of his self-worth: “He had an inexplicable contempt for men who did not hurl themselves into pools.”
It is equally significant that Cheever insists on the time of year as being midsummer at the story’s start; as the tale progresses, and Ned proceeds further on in his swim home, the time of year shifts forward inexplicably, with midsummer giving way to autumn. “Leaves were falling down around him and he smelled wood smoke on the wind,” we are told at a later point in the story. “Who would be burning wood at this time of year?” Still later, Ned smells chrysanthemums or marigolds, “some stubborn autumnal fragrance,” and notices the constellations that appear in the sky have shifted to those visible in the fall.
Coincident with this perceptible but inexplicable shift in the season is a rapid depletion of Ned’s own strength and stamina. The more pools he visits, the weaker he becomes, until he is finally unable to hoist himself out of the water and onto the ground by his arms and is forced to use the pool ladder instead. “The swim was too much for his strength,” he thinks at one point, “but how could he have guessed this, sliding down the banister that morning and sitting in the Westerhazy’s sun?”
How, indeed? And how is a reader to respond to these uncanny happenings, to say nothing of the fact that events seem to have occurred around Ned without his being aware of them, including the sale of his house and a friend’s abdominal operation. “Was he losing his memory,” Cheever writes, “had his gift for concealing painful facts let him forget that he had sold his house, that his children were in trouble, that his friend had been ill?” The eerie discomfort in the story is a result of there being no incontestable explanation for what transpires to Ned, though it would seem that his journey home by water takes him forward not just in space but also in time, stripping him of all the benchmarks by which he has located his identity: his physical prowess, his family, his home.
Also – and, this being a Cheever story, significantly – his social status. Ned is, at the story’s outset, a vain man, and his vanity is manifested in a blithe contempt for those he considers to inhabit a lower social echelon than he does. As he proceeds in his journey, he is startled to attend a party at the home of a putatively less-well-heeled couple where he is treated rudely, first by the hostess, next (horrors!) by the bartender. He then attends the home of an ex-mistress, with whom he assumes he retains the upper hand; she also treats him with disdain.
“The wonderful thing about the sting in the tail of this story,” says Enright, ” … is that you don’t quite know what it is. It stings, but you don’t know what bit you.” Cheever himself compared this story to the myth of Narcissus, who famously drowned (in a different kind of pool) while gazing at his own reflection. In the final scene of Cheever’s tale, with Ned beating futilely on the door of his empty and abandoned house, we feel a kind of death, in that our hero has lost everything that he has held dear; his own vanity has somehow caused his downfall. But how, precisely, this occurs is left tantalizingly unclear. The anti-realist aspects of the story were sufficient to turn off numerous readers in Cheever’s own day; more than half a century later, the story has lost none of its power to puzzle and provoke.
From The Woman Who Borrowed Memories: Selected Stories
Tove Jansson was in her fifties before she began writing stories and novels for adults. A prodigiously talented visual artist, Jansson gained international fame for her cartoon series about the Moomins, a family of hippopotamus-like creatures that appeared in comics and books for children. The appeal of the Moomins is enduring; in 2014, to celebrate the centenary of Jansson’s birth, the Quebec publisher Drawn + Quarterly brought out a deluxe edition of the collected comics, and a hand-drawn animated film based on the characters, Moomins on the Riviera, was released.
So popular are Jansson’s creations for children, readers often forget that she was equally adept at writing for adults. Jansson turned to novels and short stories after becoming uncomfortable with the fame and attention her cartoon creations brought. As Lauren Groff writes in the introduction to the New York Review Books edition of Jansson’s selected stories, “She began to long for the isolation of her hungry early years, when her art was hers alone and she didn’t have to answer the thousands of letters sent every year from her young fans or live under the pressure of producing a weekly comic strip.”
The longing for isolation was not incidental for the author, who sought out a series of retreats on the Pellinki archipelago, where she had spent much time with her family as a child. According to the Tove Jansson Virtual Museum, the author scouted several locations in the region, eventually building a cottage on the rocky island of Klovharu. Though Jansson harboured “dreams of a hermit’s life,” her fame worked against her, drawing tourists to her island refuge. Though the Tove Jansson Virtual Museum notes that the author eventually found ways to “balance out periods of socializing with time spent working alone,” the tension between a desire for solitude and the pressures of being a public figure never entirely dissipated.
The pangs of interrupted solitude are at the heart of Jansson’s story “The Squirrel,” about (perhaps unsurprisingly) a woman of a certain age living alone on an island who craves both isolation and at least a small amount of human connection. (She flies into a terror when she spies a boat full of people approaching her island redoubt, then admits to crushing disappointment upon realizing they are not coming to visit her, but are merely scouting good fishing spots in the area.) The woman’s daily life is thrown into disarray when she encounters a visitor to the island: a squirrel that has apparently washed up on a piece of driftwood.
Jansson’s story takes up the relationship between the woman and the squirrel, but this is not the kind of human versus nature story that will be immediately familiar to North American readers. Jansson’s story is much quieter and more contemplative than anything one might find in the work of, say, Jack London or Farley Mowat. Nothing much happens in the story – there is no plot to speak of – and the interaction between the squirrel and the woman is based as much in the latter’s psychology as in anything external. Nor is the squirrel anthropomorphized to any degree. Devotees of the Moomins who anticipate a loveable, huggable rodent will be sorely disappointed.
This is central to Jansson’s point in the story, a work one can easily imagine was written in part as a response to the popularity the Moomins had engendered. The woman becomes fascinated with her visitor, but retains a healthy distance, not wanting to disturb it or frighten it away. She becomes distraught when she thinks she has inadvertently destroyed its nest and sets about finding a new home for it. She feeds it each morning, hoping that the animal might decide to remain on the island for the winter. Her interest in the squirrel becomes stronger, bordering on obsessive, but ends badly when the woman forgets the distance that exists in nature between humans and feral animals.
Like the man in the white suit in Diego Marani’s story “The Man Who Missed Trains,” the squirrel represents an interloper, a figure of disturbance throwing the established order out of balance. Prior to the squirrel’s arrival, the woman’s routine was set and rigid, but it becomes increasingly contingent as the story progresses. Only her daily dose of Madeira remains sacrosanct. Jansson uses the word “ritual” to describe the devotion to order and regularity the woman observes; this word is also applied to the relationship (such as it is) that develops between the woman and the squirrel. Importantly, though, this word is evoked following a key encounter between the two, the one time the squirrel ventures inside the woman’s cabin.
The squirrel attacks the woman after breaking her Madeira bottle; following this scene, Jansson tells us that “none of their rituals changed” – the woman continues to feed the squirrel each day, but the squirrel responds with “contempt,” and with “an indifference that didn’t stoop to revenge.” This indifference infuriates the woman, as does the disorder that has resulted from the squirrel’s presence: “The lack of order was because she no longer had the Madeira to divide the day into proper periods and make them clear and easy.”
The squirrel’s departure is as abrupt as its arrival, and tinged with irony: though she has left it several pieces of driftwood to float away on should it choose, it hops on the woman’s own boat which has come unmoored, leaving the woman effectively stranded on the island. The squirrel serves as an instrument of self-recognition for the woman, who becomes cognizant of her own loneliness and dissatisfaction with her self-imposed exile; following the attack in the cabin, the woman decides to rearrange her books, putting the ones she likes on the top shelves and the others at the bottom, but she can’t find any that she likes. Routine, it would appear, has solidified into a grinding sameness that to this point had been wholly internalized by the woman.
After the squirrel departs on the woman’s boat, she feels an “elated relief” because she no longer needs to concern herself with anyone or anything else. “All decisions had been taken from her.” She also recognizes that with the disappearance of the squirrel, “everything was radically altered.” After viewing the squirrel floating away on her boat, she drops her flashlight in the water: “It did not go out, it stayed on as it sank along the side of the rock face, a smaller and smaller vanishing light that illuminated quick glimpses of a ghostly brown landscape with moving shadows, and then there was nothing but darkness.”
The concluding sections of “The Squirrel” tilt in a direction Groff identifies in her introduction: the note of “terror that is the animating spirit for most of these stories.” The woman has been left alone once again – the pressures and antagonisms of the outside world have been banished from her – but she is also stranded without means of escape from the island, incapable even of accessing the mainland to purchase supplies, and without the Madeira that gave her world order. The recognition of her complete isolation seems to perversely energize the woman: she once again takes up the writing she had abandoned, and in the penultimate moment is seen at her kitchen table, writing “rapidly.”
The appearance in the story’s final line of a single human on the island’s boat beach might serve as a spark of hope for some compromise between the woman’s need for solitude and her desire for companionship, but even here Jansson remains ambiguous. The final sentence in the story is a precise replica of its opening sentence, except that the word “person” is substituted for the word “squirrel.” Whether this indicates the beginning of a cycle that will also end in abandonment and disappointment is unclear.
31 Days of Stories 2015, Day 23: “The Man Who Missed Trains” by Diego Marani; Elizabeth Harris, trans.
From Best European Fiction 2015
The best stories have something ineffable at their heart, some element of mystery or uncertainty that prompts a reader to question or re-evaluate his or her presuppositions and attitudes. Stories ask questions; rarely do they provide simple, prepackaged answers.
Italian novelist Diego Marani’s story “The Man Who Missed Trains” contains elements of what might be considered speculative fiction, but at its core it is a philosophical meditation on time and mortality, and our human relationship to the physical world we inhabit. At bottom, the story questions our notions of eternity.
The central incident in Marani’s narrative – the mysterious disappearance, as if into thin air, of an express train running from Crotone to Ferrara – does not even occur until halfway through the story. The preceding half is effectively set-up, but is nevertheless essential to Marani’s method, which involves careful modulation of the psychic distance between the narrative and the reader.
To this end, the story is narrated in the first-person, but the narrator is not the active agent in the events that transpire. When the story opens, our narrator is employed as a server at the café in the Ferrara train station. In his position he is able to act as the quintessential observer, watching the commuters and other travellers who pass through on their various ways to other destinations. Marani presents the narrator as a romantic who closely associates train travel with the state of being in love:
I suffered in train stations, but I reveled in them, too, in their gratifying confusion. Maybe it’s my fate to always take the train when I’m in love. When I’m lost in the memory of someone’s face or I don’t even know I’m in love yet – it’s just a feeling. This is why I gladly accepted my position in the snack bar overlooking Track One: to see this miraculous, enchanting world close up and fool myself into thinking I could understand it, and so avoid it.
The language here is telling. The world of the train station is “miraculous” and “enchanting,” and the narrator hopes to “fool [himself] into thinking [he] could understand it.” From the very opening passages, Marani creates a mood that is tinged by the uncanny, by notions of magic and the ethereal. Significantly, the narrator considers the station to offer a confusion that is “gratifying”: he is not someone closed to the possibilities of mystery and the intangible.
The story hinges on the appearance of an interloper, Zlatko, a mysterious stranger of Eastern European origin who speaks Italian with an Hispanic accent and is clad from head to toe in a brilliant white suit. Zlatko is the titular character, whose talent (if one can call it that) is missing trains, a notion that may sound comical, but that Marani uses as a springboard for some fairly heady philosophical rumination:
Taking a train is automatic; anyone can do it. Nothing’s required, you just show up on time, buy your ticket, and drink your coffee while you wait for the train to roll in. After you’ve found your seat in a car, every minute’s exactly like the next. The departure’s over before it begins. But missing a train is just one precise moment. Arrive a moment too soon or a moment too late and you’ve missed the point. A moment too soon, you haven’t missed the train at all; a moment too late, the train’s already gone. And you can’t miss a train if it’s already gone. Missing a train also means renouncing everything that could come with that train; it means sidestepping one life and choosing another. Every train’s a journey, and every journey’s a place, and we’re never the same from one moment to the next.
What Marani does with the second half of his story essentially involves taking these abstruse philosophical ideas and actualizing them. When the 754 Crotone express disappears, the citizens of Ferrara literally miss it: it does not show up for another twenty years, by which time the passengers have all aged precipitously. Marani includes genre elements – about different realms of time that move at varying speeds and the possibility of these realms colliding – but his core concerns remain the same.
It is equally significant that the bulk of the story’s action occurs twenty years in the past. Marani paints a picture of an idealized time in which romantic notions of train travel and adventure were still possible; when the 754 express rematerializes in the present, its passengers are wrinkled, dessicated husks, emblematic of an age that has had all the life and vitality sucked out of it. This, in fact, is what Zlatko offered, as much as entertainment for the local drunks and vagrants: possibility.
The final scene of the story has the narrator contemplating the past through the prism of a denuded and degraded present. “[T]hese days, trains don’t have door handles,” the narrator mourns, thinking of the impossibility of brushing one’s fingers against the handle of a train’s door as it pulls out of the station just ahead of one. “They’re convoys of washing machines with blind windows, and they don’t go anywhere at all.” What modernity offers in efficiency and sleekness, it loses in wonder. Twenty years on, the passengers on the 754 express train have turned to dust, and the narrator is left alone, longing to “escape somewhere far away from this time without poetry.”
“Disorienting” is perhaps the best word to describe the fiction of Amelia Gray. It’s a word novelist and story writer Lindsay Hunter uses to characterize Gray’s work, which Hunter says “makes you feel like you’ve been shot out of a cannon.” Indeed, there is an abiding strangeness to Gray’s stories that is not easily sloughed off or reckoned with; no matter the reader’s background or predilections, the territory Gray traverses will almost certainly appear unfamiliar and weird.
In part this is due to her subject matter. “House Heart,” for example, features a couple who essentially kidnap a prostitute and imprison her in the ductwork of their house. The brief story “Date Night” features a bizarrely Grand Guignol scene in a restaurant that includes a woman ripping off her own breasts and another emasculating a man and tossing his severed penis into a bowl of soup. “Fifty Ways to Eat Your Lover” provides a catalogue of exactly what its title suggests: “When he asks you to marry him, panfry his foreskin.”
The story “Labyrinth,” which first appeared in The New Yorker, is less extreme than these, but no less strange in its own way, and representative of one of Gray’s key tactics: it leaves its reader alone, without context or explanation for the events that transpire. We know the basics of what happens, but have few hints as to why. “Labyrinth” provides a bit more in the way of character motivation than, say, “House Heart,” in which the couple’s impetus for locking up the prostitute remains dizzyingly obscure. Here, the first person narrator, Jim, is provided with a sketchy backstory that offers a rationale for his actions and serves to situate him in a kind of mock-heroic mode.
The story takes place at a country jamboree somewhere in the U.S. Every year, Dale, one of the town residents, puts on a fair to raise money for the local fire department. The central feature of this fair is always the elaborate corn maze that Dale carves into his field, an attraction complex enough to entice teenagers and “hardcore maze-runners.”
On this particular occasion, Dale tells his guests he has created not a maze, but a labyrinth, the difference being in “the fact that the path is unicursal, not multicursal. There’s only one road, and it leads to one place.” The other distinction, according to Dale, is that the labyrinth “is known to possess magic.” He elaborates on precisely what he means by this: “Some say that once you find the center, you discover the one thing you desire most in the world. Others claim that God sits beyond the last bend. Individuals must learn for themselves.”
What Jim finds at the centre of the labyrinth extends his association with classical heroism, specifically with Theseus in Greek mythology, who entered the labyrinth and slew the Minotaur. Jim’s need to establish his bravery stems from an incident the previous year in which an errant cigarette lit a hayride on fire and Jim, like a crazed George Costanza, fled the scene, eventually to be discovered cowering and (we are led to believe) having pissed his pants, a source of huge amusement for the townspeople. What Jim most desires, that is, what he expects to find at the centre of the labyrinth, is a demonstration of courage for the people who have mocked him – proof that, in the words of one of fairgoer, “He’s got balls.”
Doing this will, of course, necessitate a confrontation with the monster, something that occurs at the very end of the story. Here Gray pulls back, disallowing access to what transpires; we do not know whether Jim survives or emerges from the labyrinth victorious, though the fact that he narrates the story in the first person (and the implied association with the hero of Greek myth) suggests that perhaps he does.
What is clear is that Gray is adapting and incorporating elements of classical mythology into a contemporary story while giving them a modern spin. Jim is required to carry an unwieldy trivet with him into the labyrinth; Dale tells him that the trivet is the Phaistos Disk, a disputed Bronze Age archeological relic. “According to mythology,” says the website World Mysteries.com, “Phaistos was the seat of king Radamanthis, brother of king Minos.” It was Minos who angered the gods by refusing to sacrifice a majestic bull, resulting in the birth of the Minotaur – the progeny of the bull and Minos’s wife. The Minotaur was held captive in a labyrinth created by Daedalus and fed the blood of victims who were sacrificed to the monster.
Gray layers mythological resonance onto her tale, explicitly with the Phaistos Disk and the presence of the labyrinth itself, and implicitly through allusive details scattered throughout the story. Toward the end, one of the townspeople breaks out a guitar and sings the “origin story” of Jim: “Born to a rancher just a little west of here / Jim raised his head and never cowered out of fear.” This is a clear comic debasement of the Greek chorus. It also flies in the face of what we know about Jim, who was subject to ridicule precisely because he did cower in fear following the incident on the hayride. At one point as Jim navigates the labyrinth, he overhears the townspeople talking outside: “They were telling stories of my heroism and bravery, of underwater rescue and diplomacy – tales I couldn’t remember being a part of, though surely I was involved in some way, if so many recalled them so fondly.”
As is typical with Gray, the disconnect here is not fully explicated; the author prefers a kind of impressionistic approach that leaves the reader to make the important connections for herself. The labyrinth is an apt metaphor for the author’s own fictional approach: there is one road, leading to one place, and the edifice contains a kind of magic – surprising and finally inexplicable.
From The Invisible Collection: Tales of Obsession and Desire
“No one will know how we lived,” mourns Stephen Henighan in his essay “‘They Can’t Be About Things Here’: The Reshaping of the Canadian Novel.” Henighan was bemoaning the rising tide of globalization that resulted in a raft of 1990s CanLit novels that failed to engage with the country’s experience in any meaningful way; the decade’s most lauded, bestselling books evinced, in Henighan’s view, an “inability to pull our own society into focus.” One reason for this, Henighan suggests, was Canada’s position in the world at the time, having emerged from under the colonial thumb of Britain only to succumb to economic and cultural colonization by the U.S. However, Henighan suggests, “[a] country that no longer exists in spirit may still exist in literature: this is one of the lessons of German-language literatures.”
One of the writers Henighan points to is Stefan Zweig, the Vienna-born author of the early twentieth century, whose signature theme, like Henry James before him, was the disintegration of an old world, with its particular manners and ways of life, and its replacement with a new, in many ways degraded and dissolute, society. Henighan views Zweig as an Austro-Hungarian novelist practicing long after Austro-Hungary had disappeared: an argument could be made. It is true, also, that Zweig was capable of capturing the tenor of the time in which he lived with the kind of perspicacity and insight that allow his fiction to retain resonance for a modern reader.
“The Invisible Collection” is set during the period of German “hyperinflation” following the end of the First World War. The Treaty of Versailles was in many ways a manifestation of Europe’s anger at Germany, forcing upon the Weimar Republic crippling reparation payments that had the effect of eroding a once-prosperous economy and sentencing the German population to poverty and strife. By 1923, so-called hyperinflation had set in, rendering the country’s paper money essentially valueless. “At its height,” states an article in The Economist, “prices were rising so fast that waiters had to climb on tables to call out new menu prices in restaurants every half hour. Banknotes became sufficiently useless that workers had to bring wheelbarrows with them to work to collect their daily pay, and bundles were given to children to play with, being cheaper than actual toys.”
This is the backdrop against which Zweig’s story is set. “The Invisible Collection” is framed as an encounter between an anonymous narrator and a prestigious art dealer. The two meet on a train outside Dresden, and the dealer relates a tale of an extraordinary interaction he has just had with a collector. The dealer had hoped to track down this man in an attempt to uncover some paintings he might auction; with the value of the currency so depleted, many of the country’s “nouveau riche” had discovered a taste for fine art, and the supply of original work had dwindled precipitously. The dealer tracks down the collector in what is admittedly a mercenary endeavour; upon locating him, the dealer discovers that the collector is blind and that his wife and daughter have sold his collection in an attempt to feed the family and keep a roof over their heads. The aged man’s beloved “collection,” which is kept in portfolios that he rifles obsessively, consists of nothing more than stained sheets of blank paper.
On one level, “The Invisible Collection” operates as a satirical allegory of the depredations that befell the German populace in the interwar period. “[Y]ou know what these times are like,” the daughter tells the art dealer as she explains how she and her mother have sold of her father’s collection in an attempt to keep the family afloat. Given the pitiful state of the economy, even the wholesale depletion of what should have been a highly valuable collection of paintings leaves them with barely enough to get by:
It was a very valuable item that we sold, a Rembrandt etching. The dealer offered us many, many thousand marks for it, and we hoped that would provide for us for years. But you know how money melts away these days … we had deposited most of it in the bank, but two months later it was all gone. So we had to sell another work, and then another, and the dealer was always so late sending the money that it was already devalued when it arrived. Then we tried auctions, but there too we were cheated, although the prices were in the millions … by the time the millions reached us they were nothing but worthless paper.
The connection here between the worthless paper of the national currency and the worthless paper that has replaced the paintings the mother and daughter have sold is clear; this is also where the story escapes its specific historical setting and takes on a more universal tenor.
That the old man is blind is resonant in the story on both a metaphorical and a literal level. His vision had been “disturbed” before the outbreak of war, but it was the global conflagration that prompted his complete loss of sight. “You see,” the daughter says, “even though he was seventy-six at the time he wanted to go to France with the army, and when the army didn’t advance at once, as it had in 1870, he was dreadfully upset, and his sight went downhill at terrifying speed.” The man’s blindness is symbolically linked to the war and its effects on Germany: pain and suffering that had been gradual prior to 1914 suddenly erupted in widespread, unchecked misery.
But his blindness also literally prevents him from seeing the paintings that make up his collection; likewise, he is unable to recognize when those paintings are replaced with blank pieces of paper. However, his memory remains intact, and he is able to take the dealer step by step through a detailed description of the great works of art that he believes still reside between the leaves of his portfolios. His appreciation of these artworks, unlike those “philistines” who snap up paintings for piles of valueless currency, but with no solid knowledge or recognition of their artistic merit, provides him solace and elevates him from the faceless masses who eke out miserable lives in a depleted country.
The old man, then, is representative of the transcendent power of art: the fact that he cannot see the work does not limit his enjoyment of or devotion to it. Indeed, he exacts a promise from the dealer that when he dies, the dealer will sell his collection at auction: “Just promise me to draw up a handsome catalogue,” the old man insists. “[I]t will be my tombstone, and I couldn’t ask for a better memorial.” In this way, Zweig’s story likewise transcends its historical moment and provides a modern reader with a note of universal insight.
By bringing his society into clear focus at a particular moment in time, as Henighan suggests literature can – and should – do, Zweig has provided his reader with not only a document of German life between the two world wars, but a memorable and expansive meditation on an enduring theme.