After writing about some of the scariest short stories last time, I thought it would be fun to take a look at a few great American short stories. In these burst cultural times, people are starting to notice (again!) how wonderful a short story can be, and what it can accomplish when done right.

Not only will I discuss the stories – all of which I consider to be classics – but I’ve provided links for you to read the stories yourself. When does Matt give you such a plethora of free entertainment? Never, I say!

Let’s get started, shall we?

Herman Melville’s “Bartleby the Scrivener”

I had a high school teacher who pretty much killed any interest I would have with Herman Melville because of his insistence of teaching Moby Dick with a heavy emphasis on the religious aspects of the novel. For years after that, just the mention of Melville left a sour taste in my mouth; that is, until I attended university and someone handed me a copy of “Bartleby the Scrivener”. From that day on, I’ve become a huge defender of Melville’s work, and I’m continually amazed that high school teachers continue to teach the bulky Moby Dick over the breezy “Bartleby”. Let’s be honest, teenagers have a hard time relating with a revenge-obsessed captain, and I’m willing to bet they’d love to read about a man who simply “prefers not to”.

To put it simply, Melville’s “Bartleby the Scrivener” is one of the best American short stories ever written. By modern standards, the story tends to be a bit dry, and the beginning takes the long way of getting to the point, but I’d argue that it’s part of the story’s charm. And to be fair, it’s necessary for the story’s effectiveness. The nameless narrator, who so proudly admits that the easiest way in life is the best, the boss of two men whose peculiar habits (one works best in the morning and not in the afternoon, and the other vice-versa) mean they essentially function as one worker, hires the title character to be his scrivener. Unfortunately, after a brief productive period, Bartleby doesn’t want to do the job anymore. In fact, he would “prefer not to” do anything. And to make matters worse, Bartleby won’t leave the office:

     “Bartleby,” said I, “are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being dismissed from the office?”

     No answer.

     “Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something, or something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?”

     “No; I would prefer not to make any change.”

     “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?”

     “There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship; but I am not particular.”

     “Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all the time!”

     “I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once.

     “How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the eyesight in that.”

     “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular.”

From there, the narrator discovers that Bartleby’s refusal to work is only a preview to a much bigger problem. And depending on how you take the story, what follows next is either a trip into absurdity or a tragedy of epic proportions.

“Bartleby the Scrivener”, at its heart, is a suicide story. Now, I subscribe to a metafictional view of the story, largely amounting to the sad reality that Melville had to publish this story anonymously in 1853 in light of Moby Dick’s critical failure (one that had the press going so far as to question Melville’s sanity). But the story wallows in existentialism, helps plant the seeds to what will eventually be Absurdism, and clearly provides inspiration to later writers, most notably Franz Kafka, who will take an evolved Bartleby and put him on trial and turn him into a bug, among other things. 

If you are one of those people who is at a loss to why Melville is so well respected, please understand that this is the Herman Melville readers love, the man who destroyed his literary career in his own lifetime in an attempt to earn the respect (and possibly the love) of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Because in the end, Melville preferred not to take the easy path, and the world is honestly a better place because of it.

Prefer to read the story right here.

Joyce Carol Oates’ “Where are you going? Where have you been?”

If I had been thinking properly, I would have included this Joyce Carol Oates story in my last column. While generally not considered a horror story, the story of 15 year old Connie who is home alone when two men arrive to take her away is genuinely chilling. Since Connie recognizes one of the men, the initial encounter feels pretty harmless, but things go from good to bad fairly quickly as the man she recognizes, Arnold Friend, tries to get her to come outside of her house:

     “Honey—? Listen, here’s how it is. I always tell the truth and I promise you this: I ain’t coming in that house after you.”

     “You better not! I’m going to call the police if you—if you don’t—”

     “Honey,” he said, talking right through her voice, “honey, I m not coming in there but you are coming out here. You know why?”

     She was panting. The kitchen looked like a place she had never seen before, some room she had run inside but that wasn’t good enough, wasn’t going to help her. The kitchen window had never had a curtain, after three years, and there were dishes in the sink for her to do—probably—and if you ran your hand across the table you’d probably feel something sticky there.

     “You listening, honey? Hey?” “—going to call the police—”

     “Soon as you touch the phone I don’t need to keep my promise and can come inside. You won’t want that.”

It’s powerful stuff, and considering that the majority of the story is a conversation between Connie and Arnold Friend, it’s a testament to Oates talent for writing that the story works as effectively as it does. As the reader, you know that if Connie leaves her house with Arnold, her life – that is, if she still has one – will never be the same. When Connie asks what it is he’ll do to her, he responds: 

“Just two things, or maybe three,” Arnold Friend said. “But I promise it won’t last long and you’ll like me the way you get to like people you’re close to. You will. It’s all over for you here, so come on out.”

I won’t tell you if Connie comes out or not, I don’t want to rob you of the experience that Oates so masterfully created. But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least warn you that “Where are you going? Where have you been?” is one of those stories that will stay with you for a lot longer than you think it will.

Don’t believe me? Find out for yourself right here.

Donald Barthelme’s “The School”

Well, we had all these children out planting trees, see, because we figured that…that was part of their education, to see how you know the root systems…and also the sense of responsibility, taking care of things, being individually responsible. You know what I mean. And the trees all died. They were orange trees. I don’t know why they died, they just died. Something wrong with the soil possibly or maybe the stuff we got from the nursery wasn’t the best. We complained about it. So we’ve got thirty kids there, each kid had his or her own little tree to plant, and we’ve got these thirty dead trees. All these kids looking at these little brown sticks. It was depressing.

So begins Donald Barthelme’s short story “The School”.

The first time I heard of this story, it was read to me, and those five minutes seemed to change my life. While I have a lot of love for the short story in general, very few of them take my breath away, and “The School” was one of the first to do so. It’s hard to pinpoint why the story works so well for me, but a lot of it has to do with the choice of narrator, a teacher, who is fundamentally as lost and confused as his students are. The blurring of the line between student and teacher is a theme Barthelme would return to again and again (such as the wonderful ”Me and Miss Mandible”), but he really nails it here in less than 1,200 words.

Barthelme is one of the few American writers who really knew how to make a few words count, and ”The School” is a great example of his minimalistic style, packing in enough ideas and emotion to fuel a novella.

It’s a fantastic compressed narrative, as well as a stunning monologue. 

Sadly, since his death in 1989, Barthelme tends to be overlooked more often than not, which is a real shame.

His ability to seamlessly make the transition from drama and comedy and back again – creating an eerie balance that reflects real life - is unparalleled. Without his work, I’d argue that literature today – especially short fiction – would look very different than it does now.

Read “The School” right here. 

Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral”

Raymond Carver tends to be noted for his “everyman” characters, but I always thought that was simplifyingwhat he set out to do. I think a large part of Carver’s success is how he deftly taps into our need to be saved, for someone to enter our lives and bring us to safety.  

“Cathedral” tells the story of a man (the unnamed narrator) who reluctantly plays host to his wife’s blind friend, a man who is visiting from out of town. Initially, it seems that the man’s ignorance towards the blind is his biggest problem, and then it seems like he’s jealous, but as the story progresses, it becomes clear that these are simply excuses to keep himself isolated from others. At times awkward, and at times funny, “Cathedral” builds and builds so subtly that when the revelation comes, it’s practically orgasmic.    

In this scene, the man and the blind man are watching a documentary on building cathedrals, when the blind

 man asks the man if he could describe to him what a cathedral looks like:

     I stared some more at the cathedral before the picture flipped off into the countryside. There was no use. I turned to the blind man and said, “To begin with, they’re very tall.” I was looking around the room for clues. “They reach way up. Up and up. Toward the sky. They’re so big, some of them, they have to have these supports. To help hold them up, so to speak. These supports are called buttresses. They remind of viaducts, for some reason.  But maybe you don’t know viaducts, either? Sometimes the cathedrals have devils and such carved into the front. Sometimes lords and ladies. Don’t ask me why this is,” I said.

     He was nodding. The whole upper part of his body seemed to be moving back and forth.

     “I’m not doing so good, am I?” I said.

     He stopped nodding and leaned forward on the edge of the sofa. As he listened to me, he was running his fingers through his beard. I wasn’t getting through to him, I could see that. But he waited for me to go on just the same. He nodded, like he was trying to encourage me. I tried to think what else to say. “They’re really big,” I said. They’re massive. They’re built of stone. Marble, too, sometimes. In those olden days, when they built cathedrals, men wanted to be close to God. In those olden days, God was an important part of everyone’s life. You could tell this from their cathedral-building. I’m sorry,” I said, “but it looks like that’s the best I can do for you. I’m just no good at it.”

     “That’s all right, bub,” the blind man said. “Hey, listen. I hope you don’t mind my asking you. Can I ask you something? Let me ask you a simple question, yes or no. I’m just curious and there’s no offense. You’re my host. But let me ask if you are in any way religious? You don’t mind my asking?”

What comes next is a thing of beauty.  

What makes Carver’s work so interesting is how he has a tendency to end the story right at its climax with

no denouement. Carver’s approach to writing was to isolate the exact moment when the protagonist changes, either by epiphany or deliverance, and once this moment occurs, it doesn’t matter what happens next. In fact, when Carver does feel the need to move beyond the climax (such as “Fever”), it tends to feel a bit redundant. Thankfully, the ending of “Cathedral” is one of the greatest short story endings of all time.  

See if you agree with me right here.

This is TOO SOON.

SHAMELESS PLUG

Now, I’m not going to suggest my short stories are anywhere near the caliber of the writers I’ve just been writing about here; however, if you are interested in reading some of my work, check out issues 1 and 3 of GUD magazine.

In issue 1, you can read my report MAD DOGS, which “makes real life seem just as strange as the fictional realities depicted in the rest of the magazine.” And in issue 3, you can read COUNTING NUNS, which is “quite engaging . . . you’re bound to appreciate the humor and true-to-life inner dialogue Dumais presents” and ”contains a richness of language and imagery that many fictional stories lack. A perfect example of the editors taking a risk publishing an unusual piece that pays off.“

And if you’re interested in listening to some of my fiction, you can download the following stories:

THIS IS NOT FOR YOU

THE MARIACHI

MUTED PORN

PAYING THE TAB

Thanks. 

This entry was posted on Thursday, November 13th, 2008 at 8:35 am and is filed under Movies, Too Soon. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.