Showing posts with label Eudora Welty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eudora Welty. Show all posts

Thursday, November 11, 2021

10 Stories by Women that Rocked my (Male) World




10 Stories by Women that Rocked my (Male) World
In celebration of our upcoming ten year anniversary we are publishing a Top 10 list by a carte blanche editor once a month. This month’s list is brought to you by Laurence Miall.

To me, the longstanding appeal of fiction has always been to escape my limited worldview and enter that of somebody else. Now, I don’t read stories by women to find out what women are like. There’s real life for that. I read stories by women for the same reason I read stories by men. When I say I love the stories of Mavis Gallant, I don’t say so because she is a woman. I say it because she is a great writer, full stop. It’s embarrassing to belabour this point, but I feel I should, because I am a man, and because there is nothing so awful for a man to say than something like, “She’s great. And she’s a woman, too!”

Something rather dreadful like this happened recently on Twitter, when Playboy (who’da thunk a Hugh Heffner production would be so sexist?!) tried to heap praise on the musician Neko Case. The cringe-inducing tweet that Case was “breaking the mold of what women in the music industry should be” elicited more than a cringe from Case—thank God. 

1. The Ice Wagon Going Down the Street, by Mavis Gallant
This story, about ex-patriot Canadians in Europe (like many of Gallant’s stories) is probably one of her most famous. It’s the kind of story you can read, not get, read again, not get, and keep not-getting, perhaps for your whole life. Because that’s how Gallant is—so astonishingly life-like are her literary creations that you never, ever feel the authorial temptation to tell you something, explain to you something. No, what you get is messiness, confusion, self-doubt. This story is about an encounter between a male protagonist with a younger woman who is originally from a small-town in Saskatchewan. It’s simple. And it’s not.

2. Dear Life, by Alice Munro
The title story of Alice Munro’s most-recently published collection is a gem, not just for all the many usual reasons that Munro’s fiction is celebrated, but also because it’s such a compelling account of how an author picks over the events of her own life—seeking stories, maybe meanings—and how both the stories and meanings change over the decades. It’s probably not a stretch to say that only a woman of Munro’s extraordinary longevity could pull off this kind of feat.



3. Bliss, by Katherine Mansfield
“Although Bertha Young was thirty she still had moments like this when she wanted to run instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a hoop, to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh at–nothing–at nothing, simply.” That’s how much fantastic writing is on offer just in the first line. New Zealand has produced so much more for us to marvel at than the backdrop for the The Lord of the Rings.



4. The Museum of Useless Efforts, by Cristina Peri Rossi
The imagination of the Uruguayan Rossi, is larger than the constraints of earthly reality, if one can make so bold a claim. Her highly experimental fiction is always weird, never dull. I really love this story because it starts with such a wonderful premise—a museum that catalogs all the “useless efforts” in history (“a man tried to fly seven times; some prostitutes attempted to find another job; a woman wanted to paint a picture”)—and it just gets better from there.

The classic story of a descent into madness. It’s made all the more poignant because madness, of course, plays out worse for women than men in the late stages of the nineteenth century, when this was written.

Margaret Atwood



6. The Resplendent Quetzal, by Margaret Atwood
Atwood is possibly the wittiest author Canada’s given the world. Her story from 1977 about tourists in Mexico is a gem.

Intense, fast moving and with a shock ending. Frequently anthologized.

8. Why I Live at the P.O., by Eudora Welty
Set in the deep South, by an author who, like Faulkner, was determined to create narrative out of the society immediately around her, this story bursts off the page through the entertaining but also cruel conversation/argument that you get in a close-knit family.

This entry on the list is, well, me cheating, because this is not in fact a short story, but rather, a novel excerpt that the magazine n+1 published back in 2010. I was blown away by it and scant months later, bought the full work. Heti is easily one of the best young Canadian authors at work today.

Mavis Gallant

10. In the Tunnel, by Mavis Gallant
I said I loved the stories of Mavis Gallant, so I had to include a second story by her on the list! This one sets a couple of stodgy old Brits in the south of France with a young Canadian guest who is sleeping with somebody she calls Professor Downcast. Brilliant.

 
Miall-authorphoto-1
Laurence Miall is a Montréal-based writer who spent his childhood in England before emigrating to Canada at the age of 14. Miall has contributed to The Edmonton Journal and his short stories have been finalists in the Summer Literary Awards contest and Glimmer Train’s Short Story Award for New Writers. Blind Spot, his first novel, is being released by NeWest Press in September. Miall is the fiction editor of carte blanche.


CARTE BLANCHE

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Elizabeth Spencer / Remembering Eudora Welty

Eudora Welty

Remembering Eudora Welty


A Chapel Hill author travels to Mississippi to say goodbye to an old friend

By Elizabeth Spencer
August 15, 2001



So Eudora has finally left us. As we all knew, she had been departing gradually for some years. First unable to go upstairs, then unable to go out at all. She took her place daily by the front window, able at least to look out at the world she knew so wonderfully how to observe, then give it back to us in her stories, full of what we had seen too, though we didn't really know it until we read her words.

Eudora Welty / Every Story



Eudora Welty
EVERY STORY


Every story would be another story, and unrecognizable if it took up its characters and plot and happened somewhere else... Fiction depends for its life on place. Place is the crossroads of circumstance, the proving ground of, What happened? Who's here? Who's coming?



Thursday, April 14, 2016

Eudora Welty / A brief survey of the short story

Eudora Welty
Poster by T.A.

A brief survey of the short story part 29:

Eudora Welty

A brief survey of the short story part 29: Eudora Welty

Her reputation as a regionalist tends to obscure the rich sophistication of the work
Eudora Welty
Eudora Welty. Photograph: Ulf Andersen/Getty Images
Eudora Welty won eight O Henry awards and the Pulitzer prize, was awarded the Légion d'honneur, became the first living author to have her works published in a Library of America edition, and was long considered a likely recipient of the Nobel. Long before her death in 2001, aged 92, she had become the grande dame of American letters: an infallibly polite and humorous southern lady who still lived in the same house, in Jackson, Mississippi, where she was born. It's a portrait that tells nothing of the cryptic brilliance of her best fiction.
But reputations like these can blockade a writer's work rather than promote it, which I think might be the case with Welty.
Journals began accepting Welty's stories in the early 1930s and her first collection, A Curtain of Green, was published in 1941. The book sold just 7,000 copies in the 30 years that elapsed before Welty's first major commercial success, the family saga Losing Battles (1970), but it contains several stories that have been heavily anthologised over the years: the deceptively simple "A Worn Path", the feverishly comedic monologue "Why I Live at the P.O.", the grotesque "Clytie", and the satiric, impishly sexual "Petrified Man".
Despite the range and accomplishment of Welty's stories she was often dismissed as a regionalist, an unjust accusation that only receded late in her career. She was frequently compared to Carson McCullers, Flannery O'Connor and William Faulkner which, superficial similarities aside, seems more a geographical than a literary judgment. More considered analysis uncovers stylistic and thematic affiliations with Virginia Woolf, DH Lawrence, Jane Austen, Isak Dinesen, James Joyce and Chekhov: a blend that, combined with her own sensibility, proved a potent mixture. Further to this, her work is shot through with references to Yeats, Homer, Wordsworth, Emily Dickinson and Ovid.
Welty's most outstanding work, the novel-length story-cycle The Golden Apples (1949), is clotted with such allusions. Spanning several decades in the fictional Mississippian town of Morgana, its seven stories enter into a dialogue with or otherwise rework Yeats's poem, The Song of Wandering Aengus; elements of James George Frazer's The Golden Bough; the Danae and Perseus myth; Leda and the swan; and numerous other pieces of Greek and Celtic mythology. No special knowledge is required to appreciate the stories – particularly masterpieces like June Recital and Music from Spain – but once you begin tracing the threads of deeper meaning running through them, uncovering their multiplying levels of complexity quickly becomes addictive.
Welty often drew criticism from northern critics for refusing to use her fiction to do anything other than denounce the south as corrupt and racist. In response, she wrote an essay entitled "Must the Novelist Crusade?" (Her answer was "no".) Defenders including her New Yorker editor William Maxwell and the novelist Toni Morrison have argued that the iniquities of southern attitudes to race are present throughout her work. Complications arise because her characters can be both racist and rounded: that is, rather than ignoring racism she is practising subtlety, creating complex characters, and asking the reader to do some work. Certainly her 1940 story, "Keela, the Outcast Indian Maiden", in which two white men argue and fight in front of an old black man, is assiduous in its dissection of white guilt and harmful complacency. Elsewhere, racist attitudes are presented so casually that they shock more than denouncement would. In "Shower of Gold", hearing children playing on the road, Kate Rainey says: "We heard them charge out, but we thought it was just a nigger that was going by for them to scare, if we thought anything." But you can also argue, of course, that, on encountering the same sentence, a reader with racist views wouldn't be shocked or shamed at all.
There was, however, an occasion when Welty did engage in crusading."Where Is the Voice Coming From?", a first-person narration told from the point of view of a racist murderer, was written in a single sitting, following the death of the black civil rights worker Medgar Evers. It was rushed into print by the New Yorker, appearing shortly after Byron De La Beckwith was arrested for the killing. It's a searing work, the relentless pounding of the narrator's hatred matched by the merciless summer heat: "That pavement in the middle of Main Street was so hot to my feet I might've been walking the barrel of my gun."
Powerful as this is, the stories I find most striking, "Music from Spain" and "No Place for You, My Love", are unusual for taking place outside Mississippi. Both stories take the form of compressed, one-day odysseys: a Joycean journey through the streets of San Francisco, and a drive down a crackling road of shells in the Mississippi river delta. They are both encounters between strangers whose relationships teeter between attraction and hostility. Both have something of the fever dream about them. Intense in the way they flicker between the everyday and the fabular, they underline Welty's ability to, in her own words, "click the shutter at the crucial moment".



A brief survey of the short story



Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Tessa Hadley's top 10 short stories



Tessa Hadley's top 10 
short stories

Nadine Gordimer says short stories should 'burn a hole into the page'. Here are 10 of the most incandescent examples of the form
time running out burning edge of paper
Short stories: addictive pageburners. Photograph: Matthew Antonino/Alamy
Reading short stories is a strenuous business, and that's half the joy of them. You can lose yourself in a novel – but because a story is short, you can always feel the end coming, sooner rather than later. This makes for a more self-conscious immersion. The reader is more aware of the edges of the fiction, and of how it's made.
Writing short stories is deliciously irresponsible – though irresponsible doesn't mean easy. A novel requires intricate engineering; writing a story, you're not distracted by holding the long span of the novel in place, making all its parts work together. A good story concentrates on what's essential, on the white heat at the core of perception. Nadine Gordimer says that short stories should "burn a hole in the page".
How can I not have included James Joyce's The Dead in my list, below, or something else from Dubliners? Well, it was agony, leaving him out. But, unlike all these others, Joyce wasn't a lifelong short-story writer. Dubliners is sublime, but feels like a writer on his way to something else. (It was agony leaving out John Updie too, another of my favourites – his stories are much more satisfying than his novels, I think).

Anton Chekhov


1. Ward 6 by Anton Chekhov
With Chekhov, the modern short story seems to spring into being fully formed, in all its ambivalence and sophistication. In a country town in Russia, miles from anywhere, a doctor has lost his faith in modern medicine, and progress; the only intelligent person he can find to talk to is a madman confined in the hospital. It makes no difference, the doctor lectures his friend, whether you're inside ward 6 or out of it. He soon learns that he's wrong. It's a savage story, and profoundly moral.

2. Odour of Chrysanthemums by DH Lawrence
Lawrence writes about miners and their wives with the same tragic intensity as a great dramatist writing about kings and queens. Elizabeth Bates waits in a Nottinghamshire mining village for her husband to come home. Embittered, thinking how their marriage has failed, she's sure he's out drinking again – but then learns that he's been killed in a mine accident. As Elizabeth prepares her young husband's dead body for burial, Lawrence searches out a new range of expressivity in his language, to do justice to what she comes to feel and understand.

An ape lectures in exquisitely sophisticated sentences to a distinguished audience in Vienna, telling them his tragic history: since he was captured on the Gold Coast, he has been forced to set about learning human culture. Kafka's deadpan fable is as vast and funny and terrifying as Metamorphosis.

Katherine Mansfield
Poster by T.A.

Perhaps some of Mansfield's shorter pieces seem fey and mannered now, belonging to their era. But the late, great New Zealand stories, revisiting her childhood, are all fresh air and broad spaces of light. Their incompletions and free associations still feel audacious, like something new.

5. The Parrot by Elizabeth Bowen
Bowen has written stories as dark and deep as anyone – because my list was sounding solemn, I've chosen one by her that's purely funny. An escaped parrot causes mild havoc in suburbia. Each sentence is worth having by itself. "'Was it improper?' asked Eleanor in a low voice, winding wool quickly." Chasing the parrot, Eleanor – an inhibited lady companion – finds herself on a roof with a risqué artist in a dressing-gown.

6. The Immortal by Jorge Luis Borges
A Roman soldier searches for eternal life; we find his story in a manuscript hidden inside an old book. Granted immortality, the soldier learns that it's not worth having. "Everything among the mortals has the value of the irretrievable and the perilous." Wisdom to live by.

7. Moon Lake by Eudora Welty
The stories in Welty's collection Golden Apples make up a portrait of a small town in Mississippi between the wars. In Moon Lake the respectable little girls of Morgana coexist at summer camp with the orphans, who seem to them wilder and more entrancing. Welty's lovely language is involved and oblique, belonging to the high modernism of the southern states in the mid-century.

8. Country Lovers by Nadine Gordimer
This is one of a pair of stories set in apartheid-era South Africa – there's a Town Lovers, too, equally fine and terrible. A white farmer's son and one of the black girls from the kraal play together as children; when the time comes to grow up into segregation they can't unlearn the deep affinity they feel for each other. The blunt instruments of an unjust law invade their intimacy and privacy. Gordimer draws on two story traditions at once: an austere political parable is also a fragment of life, rendered with a sensuous and exact realism.

9. Gold Watch by John McGahern
McGahern in his novels and stories revisits the same material over and over – a tyrannical father, and a son who can't please him nor forgive him. The secret of McGahern's style is in his repetitions – of words, things, places. But this is a beautiful love story too. "'Why are we so happy?' I would ask."



Every summer, the writer, who lives in Dublin, goes home to his father's farm to help get in the hay. He continues this practice even after his marriage to a woman his father has insulted. One summer, his father, who is a bitter, ungiving man, grudgingly parts with a gold watch, a family heirloom, that he promised the son years ago. It doesn't work, but the writer's wife has it fixed for him. The next summer, which the writer sadly feels will be the last that he goes home for haying, he gives his father an expensive new watch-- dustproof, shockproof, waterproof, guaranteed for 5 years. The father does everything he can to break it. Writer finds it soaking in a barrel of poison prepared for spraying the potatoes. He is not surprised.
THE NEW YORKER

10. Love of a Good Woman by Alice Munro

Munro has changed our sense of what the short story can do as radically as Chekhov and Mansfield did at the beginning of the 20th century. She uses the form so capaciously – a whole community in 1950s rural Canada is captured in the loose weave of this one – around a woman who believes she's uncovered the secret of a violent death. She makes plans to do the right thing, bring the secret into the light of day. There's never a false or fussy note, as Munro penetrates in words into the hidden roots of how we choose to live, and why we act.