Gilda Pacheco

Kary Meyers

The Telling and the Tale

An Introductory Guide to Short, Creative Prose

editorial.ucr.ac.cr
 Acknowledgements
We would like to express our appreciation to the Vicerrectoría de
Docencia (Office of Academic Affairs) of the University of Costa Rica
for their collaboration and to M.L. Alder Senior Grant, Director,
School of Modern Languages of the University of Costa Rica, for his
valuable support and assistance in transforming this project into
reality.
 “[S]toytelling is not only a recreation, an art, a social activity, but a
primary mode of cognition. A fundamental way of managing
experience is to encode it as story.”
Susan Lohafer (”Preclosure and Story Processing,”

Short Story Theory at a Crossroads, p. 272)

 Table of Contents
Cover

Acknowledgements

Table of Contents

Chapter I Introduction:Shaping Human Experience

through Stories
Defining the Title: A Critical Dilemma

A Brief History of Prose Narrative

The Fundamentals of Prose Narrative

Chapter II The Short Story: Structuring a Dynamic Whole

A Brief Introduction to the Short Story

Analyzing the Tale

“the arrangement of the incidents”

“the development of a personality”
“the background of fiction”
Analyzing the Telling

“the voice of the teller”

“the individuality and attitude of the writer”
 “the statement of the author”

Chapter III The Short-Short Story: Reshaping Story

Substance
A Brief Introduction to the “Short-Short” Story

Analyzing the Tale: “the stated and the unstated”

Analyzing the Telling of the Tale: “the power of the speaker”

Chapter IV Creative Nonfiction: Storytelling Human

Realities
A Brief Introduction to Creative Nonfiction

Analyzing the Tale: “reality” versus “fiction”

Analyzing the Telling: “inscribing the teller”
Annex: Writing Critical Essays on Short, Creative Prose

Glossary

Selected Bibliography

Notes on the Authors

Copyright

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 Chapter I
Introduction:
Shaping Human Experience
through Stories
 Defining the Title: A Critical Dilemma
By all logic, naming the subject of this book should have been both
easy and obvious. What could be more basic than identifying the
very subject matter to be discussed? However, somewhat to our
surprise and very much to our consternation, we discovered that
choosing the title and naming the topic was not only challenging, but
also perhaps the most crucial decision to be made in constructing
this text. In other words, we found ourselves in the midst of a truly
critical dilemma. It was critical, first of all, because the choice of the
title is at the very heart of the project. It was also critical because it
implied taking a theoretical stance within the huge gamut of
possibilities encompassed within the term “literary criticism.” Making
our choice essentially demanded and simultaneously became a
declaration of our own personal position on the subject of “story.”

Choosing a title requires taking into account different aspects. For

example, the title should reflect the subject of the book accurately,
be as original and creative as possible, and be appealing to the
public. Misleading, prosaic or boring titles could lose readers, which
is why the choice of a title should be approached carefully by the
author. When choosing a label for the subject at hand, all aspects
should be conscientiously considered because there are as many
ramifications as there are options.

We began with the premise that we wanted this book to be a

concise guide to narrative, which seemed simple enough. However,
it was not. The first part of our title, “The Telling and the Tale,” came
fluently, and we were pleased with the combination of these two
terms that encompass the nature of literature as a process and as a
product. Ironically, it was the second part of our title, the part that
supposedly clarifies the subject of this work, which presented
problems. The introductory nature of our book needed to be
apparent within its title, but defining the subject matter was difficult
due to problems of literary terminology. An introduction to what?
“Narrative” was our original choice, but that term was problematic
both because it includes poetry and because it is so frequently used
as a synonym for “short story.” Narrative is a word commonly used to
designate anything relating to story, and the word “story” immediately
brought to light three different critical dilemmas or problems.

The first dilemma is the definition of story. Once again, a decision

had to be made. A story clearly is something which implies the action
of communicating a happening. This automatically has additional
repercussions. If a story is a form of communication, then it
necessarily involves a teller, a listener (reader), a channel, and a
code, as well as the most obvious aspect, content. The code is the
easiest to define, since for our purposes, the story is expressed
through the use of language—language in the traditional sense of
words following a linguistic system, rather than in a broader sense of
any kind of communication system (such as music, kinesics, art).
The teller of the story is not particularly problematic, either, although
it can become somewhat complicated in the separation of author and
narrator, as will be discussed later. The reader is also quite readily
identified, although there is no consensus on the role of the reader
and its importance and impact upon the story. (Is the reader a
passive receiver, or does the reader influence the “actual” story in
significant ways?) The issue of the channel, however, is less
obvious. In general terms, it is quite easy to simply call the channel
“literature,” since we are essentially interested in artistic renditions of
story. By “artistic” we mean having to do with literary aesthetics, with
molding language conscientiously in ways which are both original
and pleasing to the ear (literally, if spoken, and metaphorically, if
written) and to the intellect.

But this brought us to the second serious dilemma: what kind of

stories were we talking about? The earliest poetry was narrative, and
the earliest literary narratives were written as poetry, telling the tales
of the heroes and histories of different peoples. (Not all poetry is
narrative, of course, and certainly most narrative is not poetry.)
Drama also relates a story (aside from the issue of whether the
drama is to be considered the written version or the version as
performed), and the essay is yet another means of examining human
experience in prose, as are letters and journals. Most of us associate
narrative with stories, by which we mean a tale told through prose.
Prose comes closer to the oral tradition of storytelling, which has
even been considered a fundamental mental schemata or form for
structuring human experience. From this perspective, stories, with
their format (beginning, middle, and end) and content (human
experience), are a manifestation of the very essence of the human
condition, and the oral or written form is one means of
communicating that essence. Most of us can readily accept that
there is a close relationship between story and prose, which
frequently leads to associating these two concepts, or even equating
them.

For students of literature, however, this expands rather than

resolves the dilemma because we traditionally insist on labeling a
story either “fiction” or “nonfiction.” “Fiction” is generally defined as a
creative, invented type of story, as opposed to “nonfiction,” which is
perceived as factual, true and real. Fiction may be a very realistic
representation of human experience to which we can easily relate
and accept as possible, or even probable, but it is not expected to
recount something which actually happened to a “real” person.
“Nonfiction” is assumed to be an account of real events involving real
people, however artistically it may be described. The difference
between these two categories might appear to be as “clear” as it is
“obvious,” but that is not the case. Have you ever listened to two
people give their versions of a fight they had? They report on the
same event, but their perspectives, assumptions, and conclusions
are different, which converts the two stories into versions of the
same happening. Which one “really” happened? Which story is
“true”? The line dividing fact (nonfiction) and imagination (fiction) is
more ambiguous than it might first seem. In fact, contemporary
narratology (the study of narrative) has created new categories to
encompass this ambiguity. For example, “creative nonfiction” is used
to designate “true” anecdotes or stories which are told in ways that
utilize the artistic techniques of literature in the telling. Previously
unquestioned concepts of authorship and objectivity are challenged
by twentieth-century critical approaches to literature, such as new
historicism, reader-response, and deconstruction, which invite us to
view all “telling” as human and therefore both open to interpretation
and unavoidably subjective.

Another dilemma revolves around the category known as “short

story.” What constitutes short? How do we determine the criteria for
differentiating between a novel and a short story? As terms such as
novella and short-short story suggest, there is no consensus for
defining the meaning of “short” as applied to story. Another issue is
that of the nature of “short story”: as a component of literature, it is
assumed to be fictional, just as it is assumed to be prose. But
contemporary experiments with this genre regularly put our
assumptions to the test and force us to reconsider previously
excluded possibilities both in terms of form and content. Is it possible
to have a story without any apparent plot? Must grammatical
guidelines and prose format and punctuation be used for it to be
considered a story? Who has the last word on what a story “means”:
the author, the critic, or the reader? Clearly, whatever else it might
be, “story” is unquestionably a dynamic form of literature which is
constantly evolving in new directions.

These are the most challenging of the critical dilemmas involved in

choosing a title for this book. A title such as “An Introduction to
Prose” would prove misleading, while “An Introduction to Narrative”
is too broad and “An Introduction to Short Story and Other Literary
Forms” too vague. We are definitely interested in close examination
of prose forms of narrative, which for our purposes eliminates both
drama and poetry. We are also intent upon analyzing those forms
traditionally designated as literature, which means we are not
including history, for example. In addition, we are eliminating essays
as being more of an intellectual exercise designed to persuade or
communicate an idea or a feeling in explicit, precise fashion, rather
than creatively, although this comes dangerously close to certain
contemporary forms of creative nonfiction.

Thus, through a very difficult but enriching process of elimination

and differentiation, we are left with a category of creative storytelling
in prose form, which is the “short, creative prose” referred to in the
title of this book. This should by no means be understood as
implying that other classic prose forms, such as drama and essay,
are not creative; rather, it reflects our conviction that the emphasis in
drama is more on the performance than on the written “telling” and
the emphasis in essay is on the intellectual impact. Both of these
forms tend to use language more pragmatically than evocatively. All
communication, literary or otherwise, “tells” in a sense, but we are
concerned with that special type of literary expression which exploits
language aesthetically and succinctly as a means for manifesting
and evoking human experience. Our critical dilemma is thus resolved
for the present, if not totally or definitively: this text will be an
introductory guide to “short, creative prose.”
 A Brief History of Prose Narrative:
The Origins and Development of the Short Story
The history of the short story is a history of paradoxes (Peden 3).
The first paradox is seen in its origins. Although for many literary
critics this prose narrative starts at the end of the eighteenth century
and the beginning of the nineteenth century, stories are, in fact, the
oldest form of literature. First in oral tradition and then perpetuated in
written form, stories have been present from the beginnings of the
human race.

There are different early forms of the short story, such as tribal
creation myths, animal fables and religious parables and accounts.
In fact, some of the oldest written tales are found in The Egyptian
Tales of the Magicians, dated 4000 B.C. (Peden 1). Aesop’s fables,
written approximately 600 B.C., are well known and are still read
today. And even though they were not intended as fiction, the
descriptive accounts of the Old Testament and the parables of the
New Testament are also examples of early forms of narration.
Stories are, in fact, one of the most ancient manifestations of human
creativity in the shape of legends, fables and folk tales.

No single place can claim to be the origin of storytelling. In the

classical literature of Greece and Rome, for example, Petronious’
“Satyricon” and Apuleius’ “Metamorphoses” are examples of brief
tales included in larger narrative forms (Charters 1600). During this
same period, tales from Asian cultures were brought to Europe from
the East. In fact, storytelling goes back to the remote past of all
peoples, cultures, and societies. There are no privileged
geographical zones in its development: storytelling is concomitant
with the evolution of humankind.

During the Medieval Age, heroic accounts and humorous and

secular tales were the stories that recorded the values, concerns and
views of that time. Boccaccio’s tales in Decameron and Chaucer’s
narratives in The Canterbury Tales serve as perfect examples. In the
Renaissance, stories continued to be concerned with religious and
moral issues, preserving the didactical function of these accounts.
However, an important change is seen in the following century.

The tremendous impact of secularization in eighteenth-century

Europe facilitated the production of fictional narratives (Charters
1601). Capitalism and the rise of commerce and manufacturing
helped develop a strong middle class “hungry for culture and
possessed with just enough money, leisure and education to pursue
and enjoy [literature]” (Pickering 59). Poetry and drama were
preferred by the aristocracy, while the middle class turned to the
novel and later to the short story as literary means of expression as
well as sources of education and entertainment.

Another paradox is seen in the development of fiction. People in

the Medieval Age and part of the Renaissance distrusted fiction and
imagination (Charters 1600), while paradoxically, the Age of Reason
(1660-1780) with its pragmatic, scientific view, let fictional narrative
flourish. One main channel for this kind of literature was the
periodical, which emerged from the middle class. Fiction writers took
advantage of this kind of communication and included their creative
works in the periodicals. Thus, as Charters asserts, gothic tales,
adventure stories and satires populate the periodicals from the
emerging middle class in the eighteenth century (1601).

The paradoxes of the origin and development of the short story

also vary, for some historians designated the Romantic period (1780-
1830), when imagination and originality were highly praised, as the
moment when the short story originated and developed as a literary
genre. In the first half of the nineteenth century, many writers
contributed to the consolidation of this narrative form, for example,
Gogol and Chekhov in Russia; Balzac, Mérimée and Maupassant in
France; Hoffman, Goethe and Tieck in Germany; and Irving,
Hawthorne and Poe in the United States. Their stories exhibit a
fascination with psychology, with the human mind, and with eccentric
behavior. These themes were developed by means of detailed
descriptions, rich characterization and original prose. For instance,
horror tales and detective stories were two of the most
representative types of narrative of that time. Another paradox, this
time in the reception of the short story, is seen in this century. In spite
of the popularity of stories in magazines or newspapers, “short
stories in book form tend to be ignored by the general public” (Peden
3).

In the middle of the nineteenth century, realism provoked a change

of subject, content and form in the stories. Flaubert and Tolstoy were
among the first to develop realistic fictional representations of their
respective societies. In the United States, realism is seen in local
color stories written, for instance, by Twain and Chopin. Cases of
extreme realism, in authors such as Crane, Wharton and James,
show a naturalistic tendency in their narratives. By the end of the
nineteenth century, the genre of the short story was consolidated by
means of writers’ innovations in form and in content. In fact, the
history of the short story reveals how the short story has changed
and evolved according to the pressure of the times and the literary
movements or trends in vogue.

Modernism emerged in the twentieth century and conferred new

traits upon the short story. The modernists challenged norms and
rules in society and conventions in life as well as in literature. In
Europe, modernist writers included Isaac Babel, Joseph Conrad,
James Joyce, Katherine Mansfield, Franz Kafka, D.H. Lawrence and
Virginia Woolf, among others. In the United States, writers such as
Sherwood Anderson, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway,
Katherine Anne Porter, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Richard Wright
presented modernist views, discourses and techniques. The
twentieth century was definitely a time of exploration of new forms
and new means of expression. Writers exploited the psychological
aspect of characterization, developing innovative narrative
techniques such as stream-of-consciousness and flashbacks. They
experimented with narrative elements such as plot and point of view.
They altered the line of action and valued its disruptions.
Thematically speaking, their main concern was the individual, the
human mind. After the modernists, exploration of form was an
undeniable part of fiction. So new generations of writers continued to
explore innovative patterns of narration, while others remained
traditional in terms of structure and form.

Variety and individuality are the key elements in contemporary

fiction. Traditionally literary movements have determined the form
and content of short stories, but now this genre is characterized by
diversity. Readers find a mosaic of different voices with unique
styles, particular concerns and different ways of expression. The
great variety of innovative writers of this time includes, in the United
States, Leslie Marmon Silko, John Barth, Sandra Cisneros, Alice
Walker, Bernard Malamud, Hisaye Yamamoto and Amy Tan, among
others. The vividness and variety of the short story is seen in writers
in other countries as well, for instance, Gabriel García Márquez,
Nadine Gordimer, Octavio Paz, Bessie Head, Rosario Castellanos,
Isabel Allende, Naguib Mahfouz, Carlos Fuentes, and Yukio
Mishima, among many. In fact, the list would be almost endless if
one takes into account that the diversity of contemporary fiction is
present in every national literature. As Ann Charters affirms, “The
significant differences among contemporary short stories are not
historical or geographical but are in the attitudes toward life that
govern an author’s sense of reality” (Charters 1606). This is also true
of the literary techniques that different writers use to express those
different attitudes. The “sense of reality” mentioned by Charters
presents another paradox of the short story: the fictitious is used to
depict the sense of reality that each writer has.

As Charters affirms, “[t]he history of the short story is open-ended”

(1607). This narrative form will never perish, for it is nourished by
humankind. We all tell stories, and we all love to listen to them. In
fact, storytelling is a basic human activity. However, we do not all
write stories, and those who do are not all able to publish them. Even
though it seems deceptively simple to write a story, this literary genre
demands strict control and precision. Storytelling is true
craftsmanship. It is time now to explore the genre itself.

Offering a definition is always somewhat uncomfortable and

limiting, even more so in this case, since we are dealing with a
literary genre, the short story, that has been ignored and
underestimated for so long. Seen by some as a smaller, simpler and
less important form of the novel, the “Cinderella” of the literary
genres, the short story has been undervalued and misjudged. In its
earlier states, “writing fiction was considered undignified, and
reading it vulgar” (Hogins 67). In comparison to other literary genres,
prose was considered a less significant and less artistic form. And
within the narrative forms, the novel was seen to be superior, while
the short story was considered an appendix to the novel. There were
even critics who saw the short story as merely an exercise in writing.

Contemporary critics confirm this disparagement. Norman

Friedman, who sees the issue of length as a basic problem of the
short story genre and as another source of paradox, affirms,
“Although the short story as a literary type gets a fair share of
attention in classroom texts and writer’s handbooks, it is still—tainted
by commercialism and damned by condescension—running a poor
fourth to poetry, drama, and novel-length fiction in the books and
journals devoted to serious theoretical criticism” (100-101). Even
writers themselves have sometimes belittled its importance. F. Scott
Fitzgerald, for example, wrote stories for financial support, so he
could continue experimenting with the form of the novel. Perhaps it is
here, with its own creators, the writers, where we can find a
definition.

Edgar Allan Poe sees the short story as “the fairest field in prose
for the exercise of a highest genius” (Peden 5). In addition, Poe is
always concerned with the coherent, structured writing of the whole
work that he visualizes in his famous “single effect.” Katherine Ann
Porter shares this idea of a unified whole when she affirms, “Now
and again thousands of memories converge, harmonize, arrange
themselves around a central idea in a coherent whole, and I write a
story” (Miller 346). And Sandra Cisneros embraces this unity through
the use of a metaphor, calling her collection of stories “a pearl
necklace.”
 For Anton Chekhov, the story is a “slice of life,” a view shared and
exemplified in Katherine Mansfield’s stories. James Joyce frequently
presents climactic moments of realization of life at the end of his
stories; these psychological revelations, called epiphanies, constitute
moments of heightened awareness which foment reflection on the
part of both the character and the readers, as well as introduce an
element of surprise. French author Guy de Maupassant is also
concerned about the surprise element at the end of the story, and
Julio Cortázar seems to agree when, through a boxing analogy, he
says, “La novela se gana por puntos, el cuento por knock out” [“The
novel wins by points and the short story by knockout”].

It is also productive to examine critics’ views on the short story.

Some have created complex theories relating narrative to discourse,
framing, the essence of storyness and the relation between genres
and subgenres. Let’s review some simpler definitions of this genre.
William Peden starts by saying that “a short story is a piece of prose
fiction in which a character or a group of characters gets from here to
there” (5). It seems this critic is concerned with the changes that take
place in characterization, emphasizing the dynamism of the short
story as a literary genre; however, “from here to there” is rather
imprecise. Brander Matthews asserts that “a Short-story is nothing at
all if it has no plot” (Peden 10). One wonders how this critic would
respond to the “plotless” stories of contemporary fiction. For Austin
Wright the story is “a prose narrative dealing with a fictional world”
(50). The presence of the fictitious element seems to be the most
important part of the story for this critic. Finally, H.E. Bates declares,
“the short-story can be anything the author decides it shall be”
(Peden 12). Bates’ definition is less descriptive, but more realistic,
for it proclaims the flexibility of this genre.
 The issue of length that some critics use to distinguish stories from
novels is also flexible and debatable since there are short short-
stories of less than five hundred words and long short-stories of
more than fifteen thousand words. Besides, different literary
movements influence the form and content of writers’ views and
readers’ tastes and provoke a variety of opinions in regards to the
short story, its place and its value. In summary, we can say that the
short story is a literary form that has shown flexibility, diversity and
dynamism in the face of paradox, condescension and dissent.

Perhaps it is preferable to present a standard definition of the short

story as “a relatively brief fictional narrative in prose” (Holman 469).
With such a definition, no single narrative element is emphasized
over others, while “relatively brief” gives room for extension, and the
rest of the sentence, “fictional narrative in prose,” comprises the
three terms that are almost always used in short story definitions.
Holman’s definition is valid but still vague. It is time to analyze the
basic elements of the short story to have a clearer view of this
narrative form and of its potential, strength, and versatility.
 The Fundamentals of Prose Narrative

Introduction
The ability to read and enjoy a literary text does not depend on
having acquired special tools to be employed in reading. As we know
from our own childhood reading experiences, one can comprehend
and thoroughly enjoy reading a story based on a very personal,
subjective response, known as a “pre-critical” response because it is
essentially emotional rather than intellectual. However, the strategies
and reading instruments used in literary analysis are rich tools for
enhancing the reading process and opening the literary text to fuller
exploitation of its unlimited potential. It goes without saying that there
are many different ways to approach a narrative text, each with its
own particular concerns, methods, and emphases. The advantage of
this for the reader is that s/he has a gamut of reading lenses from
which to choose in reading a literary text (or any other text, for that
matter) and a legion of possible strategies for enhancing the reading.

Even more importantly, these options make it totally impossible for

there to be only one “correct” reading of a text. Rather, they open up
a text to multiple interpretations, each of which is simultaneously
made possible through and limited by the type of approach
employed, as well as by other factors (to be discussed later in this
chapter) related to the reader. All narrative texts, however, share
three fundamental aspects: the tale, the teller, and the reader (or
listener). A fourth element, the context, may be added to them in the
sense that all three of these essential elements are inevitably a
product, as well as a manifestation, of their context. Let’s examine
each of these aspects more fully.

The Tale
As discussed previously, every narrative is essentially a story. This
story, or tale, can take many forms. Stories may also vary in terms of
their length, purpose, style, content, and other intrinsic aspects.
Every narrative, however, includes three key aspects: someone
(character) doing something (plot) someplace and sometime
(setting). The “something” is made up of an event or events, an
action or series of actions. These events may be physical, as in
specific actions, or psychological, in the sense of a change of
attitude or mindset. They may also be explicit—stated literally within
the text—or implicit, present only through inference or reference.
Together they constitute what is generally referred to as the plot, or
organized sequence of events. The events may be given in
chronological order, the order in which they “actually” occurred, as is
usually the case in traditional narrative. However, they may also be
presented out of sequence, almost as a puzzle for the reader to put
together in a more logical order. Sometimes an important piece of
the puzzle is provided through a flashback, an interruption of the
present by the recollection or telling of a past event.

The basic events of a story constitute its framework, the structure

upon which the rest of the story is built. It is crucial to keep in mind
that both the content and the organization of the plot—what is told
and the order in which events are arranged—are always intentional
choices made by the narrator, rather than merely happenchance.
 The plot generally evolves around some kind of conflict, or
struggle. It may be internal (within a single character), for example, a
personal struggle to choose between loyalty to a friend and
professional advancement when a given situation makes the two
incompatible. The conflict may also be external, for example, a
struggle between two individuals or groups or forces. When the
individuals represent intangible forces, such as Batman versus the
Joker representing the forces of good and evil respectively, the story
is an allegory. (Allegories are invariably didactic, although they
frequently use humor or entertainment to make their point.) An
external conflict may confront an individual against an institution, for
example, Robin Hood versus the laws (and their enforcers) of
England. Whatever the conflict, it is generally established near the
beginning of the story and constitutes the fuel for the development of
the events that follow, which means the story essentially ends when
it becomes clear how that conflict will be resolved. It should be
noted, however, that in contemporary narrative, the conflict itself may
be much less obvious than in traditional narrative.

In a formalistic approach to narrative, which emphasizes the

different parts of a story and how they work both separately and
jointly to create an effective narrative whole, the conflict is analyzed
in terms of its introduction (the appearance of contrasting elements
or characters), development (details and events which exacerbate
the opposition), climax (the point of greatest tension between the
opposing elements), and resolution (when usually one element either
triumphs over the other or appears to be about to do so). It is worth
noting, however, that the more traditional the narrative, the more
clearly—often very explicitly—the conflict is resolved, while more
contemporary narrative frequently ends without any definitive
resolution of the conflict, leaving it even more subject to
interpretation on the part of the readers. This is known as an open
ending.

Because every narrative is essentially a representation of a

version or segment of human experience, another major element of
every story is character, the actor(s) responsible for developing the
plot. The main characters are usually people, but they can also be
animals (such as Moby Dick), forces (such as luck, evil, supernatural
entities), or even nature (a storm, the sea). The principal character is
called the protagonist; if there is a character opposing the
protagonist in some major way, which creates the basic conflict of
the story, that character is known as the antagonist.

Generally speaking, the shorter the narrative, the fewer the

number of secondary characters it will include. Secondary characters
frequently serve to provide additional information about the main
character(s) in some way, often by emphasizing an important
characteristic of a main character either through reinforcement
(sharing it) or contrast (opposing it). When a secondary character
serves as contrast, s/he is known as a foil. (A story may have
several foils or none at all.) There may also be other characters in
the story who are essentially insignificant in terms of the plot or the
main characters and, because of this, they are developed little, if at
all. The reader is not given a basis for knowing what kind of people
they are—how they think, or what they value, or how they might act
in a given situation. These characters are known as flat characters,
while those who are fundamental to the story and are developed
more fully are known as round characters. Round characters are
generally more complex, and the reader is provided with multiple
opportunities for understanding them. Another way of differentiating
characters is by designating them as static (characters who do not
change during the course of the story) or dynamic (characters who
do change). Characters whose type is frequently used, easily
recognizable, and predictable are called stock characters.

The final major aspect of the tale itself is the setting, which
constitutes the place(s) and time(s) of the plot. These may vary
radically from story to story. In one instance, the action might take
place in a single place (a room, a town, a country) during a very
limited amount of time (a winter evening, for example, or a week-end
in spring), while in others there may be a several substantially
different contexts covering a more much extensive period of time.
Often the time and/or place are not stated explicitly, but rather can
be inferred from clues such as descriptions of clothing or manners,
modes of transportation, daily activities, speaking styles, and so on.

It is essential to keep in mind that “setting” also encompasses less

tangible aspects of time and place, such as social values and norms,
roles and expectations, historical-political-economic tendencies,
religious beliefs, philosophies, and lifestyles, among others. The
term psychological setting is used to refer to a character’s mindset—
the perspective, attitudes, beliefs, and feelings of that character. The
importance of this becomes clear when one contemplates, for
example, the huge differences between being a twenty-year-old
aristocrat in Elizabethan times in England and being a twenty-year-
old sheik in contemporary Saudi Arabia. Thus, setting refers to a
myriad of factors, both tangible and intangible, related to the physical
place and specific time of a particular narrative.

These three—plot, character, and setting—constitute the main

elements of the story itself (to the extent that it is possible to
separate the tale from the telling). Together they provide the basic
building blocks which the teller of the tale then combines and molds
in sharing the story with the reader.

The Telling
A narrative, by its very definition, entails both a storyteller and a
listener or reader; it is a means of communicating and reflecting
upon human experience. In other words, every tale must have a
narrator, the telling agent of the story. “Telling” or “narrating” is a very
dynamic act, as well as one which implies a series of choices being
made in its execution. When discussing literature, the reader is
confronted with written words on a page which it may be tempting to
perceive as stationary or static. However, as “fixed” as they may
appear to be because of their format, the words of the story are
really a sort of intermediate state, the result of a series of narrative
choices which, although already made by the time the reader sees
them, await the infusion of what the reader brings to them as well, as
will be discussed later.

It is essential not to confuse the narrative voice with the author.

One of the crucial choices an author makes in writing a story is
precisely that of which narrative voice, or point of view, to use. Once
that choice is made, the narrative voice determines how the tale is
structured, the vocabulary choices, what information is presented
(and omitted) and how, and all other decisions relating to the telling
of the story. It is possible for a combination of narrative perspectives
or voices to be used in a single story, but this is much more common
in novels than in short fiction.

The concept of point of view encompasses a combination of voice,

action, and perspective. The gerund form, voicing, is perhaps a more
accurate way of imagining the narrating, the storytelling, which is
taking place. The story must be told to be communicated, and every
telling implies an activated consciousness, a personal position or
perspective from which that telling springs. Just as in real life, the
identity of the speaker/teller influences both what is told and how it is
told; the narrative voice has that same effect on the tale.

Traditional narratology differentiates among basic types of point-of-

view, based on both the quality and quantity of the information
provided and the perspective(s) from which it is told. Different types
of narrators create varying degrees of distance from the reader and
have different effects on the reader. An experienced reader takes
careful note of who is speaking in order to evaluate the given
information effectively.

One type of telling is “first person,” when the narrator tells the story
from the perspective of an identifiable “I.” Usually this “I” is a
participant in the events. When this happens, the telling seems very
personal and transparent. One advantage of this type of narrator is
that readers tend to relate or identify easily with it and thus trust it as
they would a fellow human being. However, the reader should keep
in mind that this “I” may be concealing information from the reader,
inventing information for the reader, or otherwise distorting the
information, whether consciously or unconsciously. In first person
narration, the information to which the narrator (and therefore the
reader) has access is limited to what the narrator knows, sees,
hears, and believes.

Another type of telling is labeled “omniscient” because it presents

itself as a disembodied consciousness that knows everything that
has happened and is happening, both within and beyond the
characters. This narrative perspective appears to be objective, which
lends it credibility. However, once again, the reader needs to keep in
mind that how much information is given and how it is given is
determined by the narrator. The omniscient narrator, like all other
narrative voices, speaks from a position and should not be assumed
to be impersonal or objective, even though that is the image it
attempts to project. Sometimes this kind of narrator will interject
clearly judgmental comments or words, or even address the reader
directly.

Another less common type of telling is that of a narrator which is

also omniscient but refrains from including any extraneous
commentary on the characters or the situation. This is called a
“dramatic” (or “scenic”) narrator because it attempts to present the
story with very little or no description, judgment, or direct
intervention, similar to theatrical presentations. As in drama
performances, there are no explicit explanatory details or comments
from the narrative voice. Its aim is to be as objective as possible, in
an almost journalistic style, but since total objectivity is unattainable,
the reader must still consider the role of the narrative voice in this
type of telling.

One commonly used point of view is known as a “third person” or

“limited omniscient” narrator. It is similar to first person narration in
the sense that the tale is told in terms of what a single, selected
character (usually one of the characters from the story) knows, sees,
and believes; however, in this case, the narrator is speaking about
someone else, rather than from a strictly personal perspective. In
other words, the information given to the reader is essentially limited
to what the narrator’s chosen character experiences and/or
observes. The only internal information (thoughts and feelings)
provided refers to that chosen character, with the possible exception
of what is explicitly stated in the dialogue of one or more other
characters. For example, the narration may read as follows: “Judith’s
heart pounded as her mother’s footsteps drew nearer and nearer.
She wondered how much her mother had heard of the conversation.”

In this type of narration, the reader only has access to the

information to which the chosen character, in this case Judith, has
access, and the telling of the tale revolves around her perspective,
which is why it is called “third person” or “limited.” Nevertheless,
while emphasis is given to the chosen character from whose
perspective the tale is presented, there is still a degree of mediation
from a narrator who is telling us what that character sees, does, and
knows. In other words, this type of telling consists of a narrative
voice filtering the story through the perspective of a third party.

A very special kind of narrating, which can be done in either first

person or third person, is “stream-of-consciousness.” As the name
suggests, the content of this technique is limited to the thoughts
running through a character’s mind. It is sometimes called “interior
monologue” for that reason. Not surprisingly, because it is a
representation or re-creation of someone’s thoughts, which are
usually quite disorganized and jump from topic to topic, the logical
order is frequently disrupted and difficult to follow.

The choice of a narrative voice has major repercussions in terms

of both the style and the content of the narration. Just as in real life,
different narrators construct significantly different versions of the
same basic tale. For example, if a person were to narrate the tale of
an experience in which s/he felt victimized, that person would
structure the events, explanations, and vocabulary choices in a way
designed to induce the reader to perceive him/her as a victim and to
empathize with his/her situation. A first person or third person
narrator would be an effective way to do this, but other types could
also be manipulated toward that end by the way in which the events
are presented and the vocabulary choices.

The attitude taken by the narrator in the telling of a tale is called

the tone. For the purposes of literary analysis, tone is generally
described through carefully chosen adjectives, for example, “defiant,”
“sarcastic,” “nostalgic,” which identify the position the narrative voice
takes towards the subject matter. Any given situation can be
presented in radically different manners—for example,
sympathetically, derisively, or angrily—depending upon how it is
viewed by the narrator and the desired impact on the reader. The
tone is rarely explicit, but rather must be inferred from how the
subject matter is handled by the narrator. Tone may also be
examined in terms of the feeling the narrator seems to have towards
the readers of the literary text, such as “patronizing,” “pleading,” or
“conspiratorial.”

Tone is closely related to yet another basic element of narrative,

atmosphere, which is the general mood established in the literary
text. This is usually most apparent in the vocabulary choices the
narrator makes. For example, a story in which vocabulary relating to
darkness, fear, and danger predominates will create a somber, even
ominous, atmosphere, while a story with many references to
sunlight, bright colors, laughter and springtime will create a happy, or
perhaps hopeful, atmosphere. Setting and atmosphere are usually
closely intertwined and can be manipulated to make evident the
tone.
 Yet another important aspect of the telling of a tale is its style.
Style is the name given to the way in which the narrative voice
expresses itself. It includes technical elements such as sentence
length and syntax, language register, paragraph length, and
punctuation. Sociolinguists have demonstrated over and over again
that how a person structures and verbalizes his/her thoughts not only
unconsciously reveals a great deal of information about the speaker,
but also influences the impact on the listener. For example, a story
told in very ornate, multisyllabic vocabulary, long, complex
sentences, and multiple references to classical mythology suggests
a very educated narrator whose credibility might be better than that
of a narrator who tells a story full of nonstandard grammatical
structures, short, unfinished sentences, and trite vocabulary. Style
also encompasses what is frequently referred to as “literary
language”: the conscientious employment of figurative language,
rhythm, imagery, and other linguistic devices used to enhance
aesthetic enjoyment and open up the text to multiple meanings.

All of the above aspects lead to a final consideration in the telling

of a story: purpose. It seems that because we see narrative as both
a means of expression and a means of communication, there is a
tendency to assume that every narrative has a purpose. If that
purpose is perceived as teaching some sort of lesson or serving as
an illustration of an ethical point, we say the narrative is didactic.
However, the purpose may be as uncomplicated as simple
entertainment or aesthetic pleasure. In a formalistic approach,
purpose is discussed in terms of the “single effect” or intended
impact on the reader. In many critical approaches to literature, it is
discussed in terms of “theme,” or controlling idea. In very traditional
criticism, it is sometimes even called “the meaning” of the literary
text.
 Meaning, however, can never be fixed or static, as more
contemporary theories of literary criticism readily acknowledge. To
understand this more fully, let’s look at the third major element of
narrative: the reader.

The Reader
As stated earlier, each critical approach to literature has its own
way of focusing on a text by means of the elements it chooses to
emphasize and the questions it chooses to ask. It therefore comes
as no surprise that different approaches arrive at different
conclusions in terms of the meanings a text might have. The very
plurality of approaches guarantees a corresponding multiplicity of
potential meanings. Although traditional narrative theories give little
or no importance to the reader, except as an essentially passive
receiver of the work, contemporary narrative theories tend to support
the idea that a literary text cannot be considered complete without
the participation of the reader. Some even go so far as to consider
the reader a co-author of the text.

The logic at work behind these premises which acknowledge the

crucial role of the reader is that language is a dynamic system, which
means that linguistic meaning can never be fixed or absolute. For
example, The Oxford English Dictionary, which traces word
etymologies, has determined that the word “nice” was once a
synonym for “shy,” “coy,” and “ignorant,” radically different meanings
from its present day significance. In addition, all of us can easily
recall an ample number of instances in which something which we
said was understood in a significantly different manner from that
which we intended. Because language is always open both to
changes in conventional meanings and to interpretation, meaning
cannot be fixed.

This is not to say that a story may “mean” absolutely anything, but
rather that language, as communication theories remind us, is a
medium which requires input from both the sender (in this case, the
narrator) and the receiver (the reader). Thus, meaning is what the
reader constructs from the building blocks the story provides. While
the author surely has both a purpose and a meaning in mind when
creating the original text, it is impossible to know what they might
have been, unless the author has explicitly stated it at some point.
The reader may be inclined to hypothesize concerning the author’s,
or even the narrator’s, intended meaning, but in the final analysis, it
is ultimately the reader who ascribes meaning to the text. This is
what not only allows a multiplicity of potential meanings for the text,
but actually makes them inevitable.

Thus, the reader’s role is a crucial one in the reading process.

There are many factors which can and do affect that process. Each
reader brings to the text a plethora of individual input in the form of
past experiences, personality, socially learned norms, patterns,
mentalities, and personal ethics, among other factors, all of which
contribute to the significance ascribed to a text. Academic formation
is another important factor affecting the reading process. For
example, literature classes are one way in which we are taught to
read certain kinds of writing in special ways, as well as to think
analytically. Personal conditions such as age, gender, social class,
religion, and so forth, may also be factors in constructing meaning.
Each reader brings both a personal and a socialized perspective to
the reading of a text which influences the significance s/he ascribes
to it (the way in which the text is understood) and the impact the text
has on her/him.

These, then, are the basic components of narrative. Understanding

the major elements of narrative—the tale, the telling, and the reader
—serves as a foundation for reading, analyzing, appreciating, and
enjoying the stories of our lives in all their many forms.
 Chapter II
The Short Story:
Structuring a Dynamic Whole
 A Brief Introduction to the Short Story
“The possibility for control, the concentration of effect, the elegance of its shape, the fluidity
of its possibilities allowed the short story to become an art genre with its own evolving
aesthetic.”

Jerome Stern (“Introduction,” Micro Fiction 17)

Offering a definition can be a very challenging endeavor, especially

in literature where terminology is a dynamic issue and where there is
constant critical dissent. However, theoreticians, critics, and readers
are always looking for precise definitions—le mot just, as Flaubert
would say. In spite of the difficulties inherent in such a task, what
keeps nourishing the search for definitions is the process itself: the
very act of defining terms leads to finding limitations within them,
which then generates more attempts to clarify them—in other words,
the act of defining is by its very nature neverending. Moreover, when
the literary term is one whose validity as a genre was first
questioned, whose place within genre classification is still debatable,
and whose prestige has increased throughout time, this search
becomes extremely complex. This is the case of the short story and
its definition, our present search.

A good point of departure for this search is exploration of the

definitions articulated by short story writers, the tellers of tales, to
see what they have said about their artistic means of expression.
But, in fact, these very writers, in their definitions, have contributed to
the ambiguity of the term itself. For instance, in referring to the short
story and its creative process, Sherwood Anderson said, “Something
was growing inside me. At night when I lay in my bed I would feel the
heels of the tale kicking against the walls of my body [. . .]. It was the
tale trying to take form that kicked about inside the tale-teller”
(Charters 1379-80). Within this description, the tale, this imprecise
“something,” acquires the dimension of a living organism that wants
to be out, “kicking” its own progenitor. It seems the teller is just a
biological medium that facilitates the birth of the tale.

The role of the teller is also questioned by author John Cheever’s

assertion that “the short story is the literature of the nomad”
(Charters 1404). Just as the nomad is detached from the rest of the
world, the short story writer is “a lonely voice,” as author Frank
O’Connor has said, which can be perceived positively in terms of
flexibility and uniqueness or negatively in terms of loneliness and
uprooting. The limited role of the teller and the ambivalence of the
tale are also seen in Anton Chekhov’s words, “When I write, I reckon
entirely upon the reader to add for himself [/herself] the subjective
elements that are lacking in the story” (Charters 1406). Thus, it
appears that the writers are not the ones to offer the most precise
definition of the short story.

Perhaps, if we present the basic qualities or traits that are

recurrently used to describe this genre, the nature of the short story
will be clarified. And if we start with the traits proposed by writers, we
will face variety due to their diversity of style. Following a formalistic
perspective, some writers emphasize specific elements; for example,
Chekhov privileges characterization and meticulously develops
characters, while Poe carefully depicts incidents and creates
particular moods. Edith Wharton, on the other hand, emphasizes
“the sense of compactness and instantaneity” of the short story,
while Flannery O’Connor underlines “the sense of mystery and the
sense of manners” as well. As shown before, the definitions and
traits the creators of tales have offered in depicting the short story as
a literary genre are quite varied and imprecise. We will see if the
critics of tales exhibit more exact and clearly delineated views in that
respect.

Literary critics have also defined the short story with complexity
and imprecision. Austin Wright, for instance, believes that “the
process of definition will continue to be a collective and evolving
enterprise” (Lohafer 49). According to this view, there will never be
an exact definition of the short story, which is why Wright sees “a[ny]
definition of the genre as a category of works [as] a straitjacket or a
prison wall” (Lohafer 52). Wright recommends “a definition of the
genre as a cluster of conventions [which] may facilitate not only
discourse among critics but continuing insight into the art itself”
(Lohafer 53). However, what is “conventional” for some critics is not
for others, so the formulation of “this cluster of conventions” will also
cause dissent.

Suzanne Ferguson affirms that “the generic characteristics [of the

story] have been embraced as somehow representative of or
responsive to a profound aspect of the spirit of the age” (Lohafer
177). This critic establishes a difference between the modern short
story and early short fiction, and she states that it is more a matter of
modern taste, the change in public reception, than a change in form
that has provoked the increased esteem of this literary genre.
However, the exact essence of this “modern taste,” which is
responsible for different reception of the short story, is never clarified
in Ferguson’s article. “The spirit of the age” is not described either,
and so the ascent of the short story as a literary genre remains
mysterious. In any case, to talk about the spirit of an age or the taste
of an epoch is highly questionable in a world that is characterized by
diversity and contradictions. It is not surprising, then, to see these
variations within the definitions of the short story offered by critics.

Starting with the classics, Aristotle defines the story as an imitation

of action, a complete whole comprised of a beginning, middle and
end. The principle of unity seen in Aristotle’s view is supported by
Edgar Allan Poe when he proposes the principle of “the single
effect.” But this wholeness has been fragmented in modern times by
a myriad of different critical perspectives that have tried to answer
the question “What is a short story?”

Some critics have used a historical scope to describe the traits of

the short story. Others have adopted a more philosophical or
functional analysis to discuss its nature. Susan Lohafer, for example,
affirms that a short story as a genre is impossible to define, that the
story is basically a frame and that “people can evaluate a variety of
frames that allow us to know and to respond to ‘short-storyness’ in
the world” (61). On the other hand, Suzanne Ferguson describes the
modern story as “a manifestation of impressionism rather than a
discrete genre” (Hoffman 287). Both critics are rejecting the issue of
genre in their respective definitions. On the contrary, other critics use
precisely the genre concept to formulate their own definitions.
Norman Friedman states that a short story is “a short fictional
narrative in prose” (Lohafer 50). Other critics restate each of these
terms with differences of degree or emphasis to present their
definitions. For example, Wright restates Friedman’s view by saying
that the short story is “a prose narrative dealing with a fictional world”
(Lohafer 50).

The lack of precision and the ambivalence of the term “short story”
are also seen in the word choices some critics have used to
introduce their concepts. Phrases such as “the short story tends to
be” or “the short story is seen as” reinforce the ambiguity and
imprecision of this genre, as well as its flexibility. And if we go back
to the writers, we find vague or circular definitions such as the
following by Flannery O’Connor: “The short story is a way to say
something that can’t be said any other way” (quoted in Charters
1545).

Critics are always eager to offer traits that can define the short
story. Austin Wright, for instance, emphasizes length, the relationship
between character and action, the notion of unity, and in
contemporary stories, the role of reader inference. In describing the
contemporary story, Lohafer adds “fragmentariness, suggestiveness
and foregrounded point of view” as some other traits (173). Lohafer
also mentions the “artistry” seen in the stylistic encoding conventions
of the contemporary story. Other critics have referred to the
suppression of plot and the emphasis on characters’ insights as
recurrent characteristics of the short story genre. In addition, the
issue of length has been one of the most discussed. Friedman, for
example, states that “a story may be short because its action is
intrinsically small, or because its action, being large, is reduced in
length by means of the devices of selection, scale and/or point of
view” (Hoffman 115). Finally, many critics mention flexibility and
economy when they define the genre of the short story.

Most of the traits that have been listed here are also seen in other
genres and discourses. Some of the concepts acknowledged are
quite relative and subjective, and the techniques tend to be more
representative of a particular writer’s style than of a particular genre.
Moreover, the complexity and ambivalence of the short story can be
appreciated in its diverse classifications. From a historical
perspective, some theorists identify the tale, the gothic romance, and
the horror story as categories. Other critics, following a thematic
view, talk about the comic story, the local-color story, and the
detective story, as well as their subgenres. On the other hand, Wright
classifies stories into historical genres such as the modern short
story, the lyrical short story, and the story of “unified effect.” In terms
of structure, Friedman divides stories into dynamic and static tales
according to major changes in plot and character development.

Recent decades have witnessed the evolution of the “aesthetic

story” which, according to Ferguson, is a type of creative prose that
uses “the descriptive techniques and gradual heightening of
psychological tension of the sensation story and the concealment of
meaning associated with the detective story” (189). This kind of
prose narrative has been acclaimed by critics for its artistry, control,
and intensity.

As shown above, different criteria, ranging from historical, stylistic,

and/or literary trends or movements and from formalistic views to
more contemporary approaches, have been used to classify stories.
We have identified some, but there are many others. In this book, we
present our own classification of creative prose: the short story, the
short-short story, and creative nonfiction. However, before discussing
the newer types of narrative, we need to take a look at the “novella”
or “long short story” in order to examine its place within the fictional
literary field.

The word novella has been used to classify works of prose fiction
that occupy an intermediate position in terms of length: they are too
long to be called short stories and too short to be called novels. The
novella, sometimes called novelette or nouvelle, is a short novel or a
long short story that “combines the compression of the short story
and the character development of the novel” (Holman 468). Some
examples of this subgenre are Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw
(approximately 70 pages), Edith Wharton’s Ethan Frome
(approximately 150 pages), Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness
(approximately 90 pages), Isak Dinesen’s The Immortal Story
(approximately 70 pages), James Joyce’s The Dead (approximately
50 pages), Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage
(approximately 80 pages), Ernesto Sábato’s El túnel (approximately
100 pages), Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea (approximately
125 pages), and John Steinbeck’s The Pearl ( approximately 90
pages). Clearly the issue of length is still debatable.

In analyzing the definition of novella, we see that the issue of

length is what basically differentiates this kind of creative prose
fiction, even though there is no consensus. This issue has been
discussed by critics and writers, as shown before, and those views
can be expanded now. Poe, for instance, affirms that if a work “can
not be read at one sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense
force derivable from totality” (Charters 1489). Edith Wharton states
that every work has its own dimensions and that is the task of the
writer to discern “whether the subject [. . .] is suited to the
proportions of a short story or of a novel” (Charters 1514), or of a
novella, we could add. The issue of length in the short story, the
novella and the novel has generated interesting views.

Some critics have said that stories, long or short, present the same
narrative properties. Others have pointed out certain differences. For
example, Ferguson affirms that “setting is a more significant factor in
the modern story than in the nouvelle and novel in terms of
proportions of discourse space allotted to it” (Hoffman 286).
Friedman sees length as a quantity issue. He affirms, “the materials
and their organization in a short story differ from those in a novel and
in a novella in degree but not in kind” (Hoffman 101). According to
this view, it seems that intensity or emphasis is the key difference
between these literary forms. This assertion would explain why some
narrative works give more emphasis to telling and less emphasis to
action or vice versa. Like Wharton and other critics, Friedman
mentions that the principle of proportion should be taken into
account in the elaboration of a short story.

Some critics think that if a story is good, it cannot be reduced, but

it can be expanded. However, it would be unfair to say that a novella
is an expanded short story or a summarized novel. We could say
that the novella is a hybrid of two genres that offers the writers
another mode of creative expression. We should take into account
that there is no universal agreement on the standard of length for a
novella. This is not surprising, for in literature there are no fixed
formulas because “in fiction two and two is always more than four”
(Charters 1547).

By presenting writers’ and critics’ definitions of different forms of

prose narratives such as novellas, stories and tales, and by listing
the traits that each group perceives as representative of each literary
form, we have seen variety and dissent. Writers do not present
uniform views, and critics’ perceptions are quite contradictory.
Perhaps the answer is neither in the creators of tales nor in their
critics. Rather, the answer may reside in the tale itself: its essence
and components. Our next section, then, explores these issues.
 Analyzing the Tale
Analyzing a literary work is a challenging but rewarding task. For a
student taking his/her first literature course, it can be intimidating.
For a professor who knows s/he is teaching students who are
beginning their literary studies, this act, though enjoyable, implies
great responsibility. Sharing effective strategies for literary analysis is
fundamental. But in order to formulate them, we first need to explore
the elements of the short story that structure the content and
constitute the essence of the tale.

“the arrangement of the incidents”

The tale has traditionally been conceived as a unified whole;
however, the emphasis or importance given to its elements has
provoked dissent among critics. Starting with the classics, Aristotle in
his Poetics gave supremacy to the element of plot, which he defined
as “the imitation of an action” and “the arrangement of the incidents.”
In addition, he saw unity and causality as fundamental traits of plot.

As previously stated, the short story is a form of prose narrative

that involves a sequence of interrelated events, so obviously the
element of plot plays a crucial role. However, the actions or events
may be long or short, and the writer may omit episodes to create
effects. This flexibility, manifested in the variety of writers’ styles and
intentions, can emphasize or diminish the role of plot in the story. It is
not surprising, then, that some nineteenth- and twentieth-century
critics have rejected Aristotle’s view of plot as the main element of a
literary work, claiming that plot is merely “a mechanical means by
which a structure designed to display character is arranged” (Holman
& Harmon 378).

It is not our intention to give supremacy to any one element over

another, but rather to explore each of them and analyze their
respective potential. Plot, for instance, is dynamic; the teller
develops incidents that sometimes alter a chronological
arrangement, sometimes follow a traditional pattern of cause and
effect, and sometimes emphasize one episode and de-emphasize
others. But the movement of the tale is always present: whether
physical or psychological, within the episodes of the work or within
the mind of the reader who tries to link these episodes, plotting
always implies movement and connection.

In addition to movement, plotting usually involves tension or a

struggle between opposing forces, in other words, a conflict. The
nature of this struggle varies. Sometimes we see how the
environment is against the individual. The nameless hero of Jack
London’s “To Build a Fire,” who faces an extremely severe winter,
can serve as an example:

In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow.
He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor
clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and nose, and
cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his whole soul to matches.

In this story, London depicts how the cold weather of the Yukon is
gradually destroying a human being.

However, nature, in its wild strength, is not the only source of

destruction; the “civilized” world, society, can also destroy the
individual. For example, in Katherine Mansfield’s “The Doll’s House,”
we see how the poorest girls of the town, the Kelveys, are ostracized
by the others because they are poor, their mother is a
washerwoman, and their father is probably in jail. Not only are they
not allowed to see the Burnells’ doll house, they also cannot talk and
share with the other school girls: “But the line [in the school] had to
be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of the
children, including the Burnells, were not allowed even to speak to
them.”

Another possible conflict is that of one individual against another

individual. A good example of this is Montressor’s struggle against
poor Fortunato in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado.” The
psychotic Montresor plans to kill his “friend” for no apparent reason,
by burying him alive, in spite of a “succession of loud and shrill
screams, bursting from the throat of [Fortunato’s] chained form, […].”
In this story, the conflict is not only physical but psychological, for
Montressor’s insane mind presents moments of remorse and
euphoria almost simultaneously:

For a brief moment I hesitated [Montressor confesses], I trembled. Unsheathing my

rapier, I began to rope with it about the recess, but the thought of an instant reassured
me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I
reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of [Fortunato] who clamored. I re-echoed
—I surpassed them in volume and in strength.

As Poe has shown in his tale, an external conflict between two characters can be the result
of an internal conflict of an unbalanced mind.

In other narratives the conflict is social. The gender issue is a

perfect example for illustrating this. In D.H. Lawrence’s “Tickets,
Please” the chief of the tram service, John Thomas, abuses his
power, flirts with the girls who work there, and eventually leaves
them. Annie, one of these girls, wants to see John Thomas as a
“person, a man: she wanted to take an intelligent interest in him, and
to have an intelligent response. She did not want a mere nocturnal
presence.” However, John Thomas “intended to remain a nocturnal
presence, he had no idea of becoming an all-round individual to her.”
At the end of the story, the conflict acquires collective dimensions
since all the girls who had gone out with John Thomas plotted
against him and gave him a beating. No winners, no satisfaction, but
rather tension and disillusionment close the story. The male authority
was shaken for a moment. The girls organized themselves to punish
the male oppressor. However, at the end of the story, there is no
indication that John Thomas had learned a lesson and that he would
not abuse his power with more tram service girls later.

Another possible cause of struggle is the inner conflict that many

characters experience. In Eugenia Collier’s “Marigolds,” after having
destroyed the neighbor’s flowers, the heroine exclaims, “Suddenly I
was ashamed, and I did not like being ashamed. The child in me
sulked and said it was all in fun, but the woman in me flinched at the
thought of the malicious attack that I had had.” The difficult stage of
development this teenager is experiencing—since she is neither an
adult nor a child, her difficult economic situation and her parents’
frustration at home make Elizabeth declare later, “The world had lost
its boundary lines […]. Everything was suddenly out of tune, like a
broken accordion. Where did I fit into this crazy picture?” The
question of belonging, the doubts and revolt typical of her age, and
the limiting conditions of her milieu make Collier’s protagonist
confess her inner crisis and fear.

Another clear manifestation of internal conflict is the irrational

behavior shown by some characters. A perfect example is the
protagonist of Poe’s “The Black Cat.” This insane individual affirms:

Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I
 would burden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly,
succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their
consequences, these events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me.

With these words, Poe’s protagonist/narrator introduces himself to the reader. Throughout
the tale, the reader sees how the protagonist tortures and kills his favorite pet, a black cat,
and its substitute, another black cat, for no apparent reason, just as he kills his own wife,
showing no remorse.

Poe’s protagonist confesses his agony from the beginning of the

story, and the whole tale seems a cathartic release of guilt and
horror. However, there are others who prefer to swallow their fear
and rage, such as Gilbert Clandon in Virginia Woolf’s “The Legacy,”
who, after becoming aware of his wife’s infidelity and suicide, does
not want any explanation,

…”Is there,” he heard Sissy Miller (his wife’s secretary) asking, “anything that I can
explain?”

“Nothing!” he cried. “Nothing!”

He had received his legacy. [In her dairy, his wife] had told him the truth. She had
stepped off the kerb to rejoin her lover. She had stepped off the kerb to escape from
him.

As illustrated above, tension can be generated in different ways; external or internal,

collective or individual, conscious or unconscious, it is a crucial component of the line of
action of prose narrative.

Another aspect that needs to be emphasized is that episodes

themselves do not make a plot; rather, their interrelatedness is what
develops the plot of a tale. In some stories, there is the traditional
sequence of exposition, rising action, crisis, falling action and
resolution. Nevertheless, in other tales, some of these parts are
overemphasized, omitted, or altered. This wide gamut of possibilities
is due to the flexibility of the short story genre.

The exposition usually introduces background information, scene,

time, characters and situation. For instance, Vonnegut’s “Harrison
Bergeron” starts as follows:

The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before
God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than
anybody else. Nobody was better looking that anybody else. Nobody was stronger or
quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th and the 212th and
213th Amendments to the constitution […]

Some things about living weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove
people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G
men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son Harrison, away.

In two paragraphs Vonnegut has given the reader the year of the story, some traits and laws
of this futuristic society, the authorities’ powerful control over people, some imperfections of
the system, the name of the main characters and the potential for conflict seen in Harrison’s
being taken away from his family. Vonnegut is presenting a typical exposition in this anti-
utopian tale.

However, in Max Shulman’s “Love Is a Fallacy,” the first two

paragraphs are basically a description of the main character. Even
though there is a paragraph that describes the roommate, this is
basically a device to give us more information about the protagonist.
So the protagonist/narrator opens the story by telling the reader:

Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of
these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, as precise as a chemist’s scale, as
penetrating as a scalpel. And think of it!—I was only eighteen.

It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey
Burch, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an
ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type.
Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation
of reason […]

Here Shulman prefers to depict his arrogant protagonist, and it is not until later that he
offers more substantial information about setting, other characters, situation and more
potential for conflict.

Katherine Anne Porter’s “Theft” presents an interesting case of an

atypical line of action. When the story starts, the exposition has been
omitted. This untraditional structure confuses the reader. The main
character is an anonymous she, a nameless woman, who is holding
a purse and starts remembering the past: “She had the purse in her
hand when she came in. Standing in the middle of the floor, holding
her bathrobe around her and trailing a damp towel in one hand, she
surveyed the immediate past and remembered everything clearly,
[…].” Immediately following that, she goes out with a man called
Camilo, but their relationship is not clear. The object of conflict, the
purse, is mentioned at the very beginning, but due to the lack of
exposition, the conflictive potential of the purse has not been
depicted. It is not until the middle of the story that the tension
provoked by the purse is revealed to the reader, and the reader
begins to comprehend its importance.

Similar variations are seen in the rising action, that is, “the
dramatization of events that complicate the situation and gradually
intensify the conflict” (Charters 1609). In some stories, like
O’Connor’s “My Oedipus Complex,” the rising action is described by
the protagonist. After having depicted his peaceful life with his
mother, due to his father’s absence, one morning Larry realizes that
his father has returned. With his arrival, the protagonist’s life is
altered and drastically changed. His mother starts scolding him, his
father’s presence affects the boy’s perfectly balanced daily routine,
and so Larry has to start planning tactics to regain his mother’s
attention. The reader follows this rising action by listening to the
boy’s feelings and descriptions. However, in some other stories, it is
a narrative voice, not a character, that develops the dramatization of
events. For example, in Updike’s “Trust Me” a third person narrator is
in charge of the telling and starts introducing the rising action, “When
Harold was three or four, his father and mother took him to a
swimming pool. This was strange, for his family rarely went places,
except to the movie house two blocks from their house. Harold had
no memory of ever seeing his parents in bathing suits again, after
this unhappy day.” In some other tales, a secondary character is the
one who describes the events. And in other stories, the rising action
is developed through dialogue.

A good illustration of rising action found in the words and manner

of speaking of many characters is seen in Hemingway’s “The
Killers.” In this tale, aggressive dialogue and the constant allusion to
time generate tension in the dramatization of events. The story
introduces two customers in a lunchroom ordering some food:

“I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes,” the first man
said.

“It isn’t ready yet.”

“What the hell do you put it on the card for?”

“That’s the dinner,” George [the boy at the counter] explained. “You can get that at six
o’clock.”

George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

“It’s five o’clock.”

“The clock says twenty minutes past five,” the second man said.

“It’s twenty minutes fast.” [George replied]

“Oh, to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat?”

In this story, there is basically omission of exposition, for it starts with a rising action, a
crescendo of tension developed in the words of characters that lead to the revelation of their
criminal plans: They are in that town to kill a man they do not even know.

In other stories the rising action is partially disguised. Jackson’s

“The Lottery,” for instance, presents an interesting case. The story
starts with a beautiful sunny day; the people of the town start to
gather at the plaza to celebrate their traditional lottery, and it is not
until the middle of the story that a complication is seen because of
the “winner’s” reaction:

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing
quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to
Mr. Summers [the one in charge of the lottery], “You didn’t give him time enough to
take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair.”

The first time the reader follows the rising action of events and preparations, s/he does not
realize the tension or complication until later, in the middle of the story. The second time
s/he reads the story, s/he finds earlier clues and words, like the adjective “nervous,” which is
recurrent throughout the narration and which signals people’s fear toward this particular
lottery. Traditionally presented, disguised or partially omitted, the rising action is a
fundamental part of a tale.

The element called the crisis, or turning point, is a crucial aspect of

the structure of a story. Also known as “the climax,” the crisis is
considered “that moment at which the plot reaches its point of
greatest emotional intensity” (Pickering 2). Some people think that
the crisis is always located in the middle of the tale. This idea should
be abolished. Obviously in classical plays where the pattern of
exposition, complication, crisis, falling action and resolution is
traditionally depicted, the crisis is in the middle. But in stories, this is
frequently not the case.

Sometimes the crisis comes at the very end of the tale, in a form of
epiphany, like in James Joyce’s “Araby” where the protagonist
affirms, “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself burned with
anguish and anger” when he realizes that his trip to the bazaar has
been meaningless. Sometimes there is no agreement on where the
climax of the story is located. Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown”
serves as an illustration. Many readers believe that the line “My faith
is gone” is the turning point of the story since the Puritan protagonist
is admitting his loss of religious faith when he realizes his own wife is
a member of a black mass. Others have seen this same line as the
beginning of the climactic scene which ends when Young Goodman
Brown tells his wife to “resist the wicked one,” and for these readers
this last passionate cry of Young Goodman Brown, after becoming a
gloomy misanthrope, is the climax of the story. Definitely, as we can
see, sometimes it is not the structure of the tale but rather its impact
on the reader which determines the identification of the climax of a
story.

The falling action, the point “where the plot moves toward its
conclusion” (Pickering 3) can be omitted, diminished or emphasized,
depending on the effect the teller wants to create. It is also
determined by the placement of the crisis. In Hemingway’s “A
Canary for One,” the falling action is developed by quick acts—the
movement of the train, the dialogue among characters, the mother’s
decision to make her daughter end her affair, the decision of the
couple to have separate rooms. In Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good
Man is Hard to Find” the falling action comes when the grandmother
is trying to convince the misfit not to kill her, which is accompanied
by changes within the setting. In Eudora Welty’s “A Worn Path,” the
falling action is when old Phoenix, having passed the trials in the
forest, arrives in town. There the setting leads to the dénoument:

In the paved city it was Christmas time. There were red and green electric lights strung
and crisscrossed everywhere, and all turned on in the daytime. Old Phoenix would
have been lost if she had not distrusted her eyesight and depended on her feet to
know where to take her.

Obviously, there are no rules for ending a story. It depends on the

content, on theme and on the writer’s style. There is balance in
Grimm’s “Red Riding Hood” in giving each character a reward at the
end of the tale: “the huntsman skinned the wolf and took the skin
home. The grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine,” and Little
Red Riding Hood learned the lesson of never again wandering off
into the forest. There is a different kind of balance at the end of
Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” where the pestilence of the
opening paragraph is transformed into an agent of destruction at the
end, closing the story with an apocalyptic scene, “[a]nd the life of the
ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames
of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death
held illimitable dominion all over.” Here chaos and desolation end the
situation harshly, but justly.

Sometimes the reader experiences shock or astonishment when

finishing a story, as in the case of Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily.” At
the end of that tale, the reader realizes that Emily has killed her lover
and kept his corpse in her bed until the day she dies. There is irony
at the end of Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” when the last narrative
lines tell the reader that Mrs. Mallard dies of a “joy that kills,” and the
reader knows that her earlier joy leads to the frustration and
desperation of seeing her husband, presumed dead, now alive, after
having planned a life of freedom without him. There is agony and
uncertainty in Conrad’s “The Tale” when the commanding officer
thinks about the possibility of having sent a man to his death and
confesses, “I shall never know.”

In fact, the gamut of endings is quite varied in the resolution of

prose narrative, especially in tales with open endings. In those tales,
there is no or little resolution, leaving the reader to create his/her
own ending. After all, readers do not know what the mother of
Chopin’s “Silk Stockings” is going to do after the realization of her
unfulfilled life. We do not know if the girl in Hemingway’s “Hills like
White Elephants” will continue her relationship with the man who
wants her to get an abortion, nor do we know if the grandson of Old
Phoenix is already dead when she returns home. In those kinds of
tales, the reader is not only able to provide his/her own ending for
the story, but is forced to do so.

We have discussed the element of plot in this section, but

examination of other elements of fiction is necessary to have a
complete picture of the tapestry of a tale. All elements are
interconnected, and their relationships offer important glimpses that
help interpret the story and that demonstrate the level of mastery of
its creator. All components of a story are filaments that are knitted
together to present a coherent, artistic whole created by a writer,
transmitted by a teller, and finalized by a reader.

Strategies for Analyzing Plot

1. Read the story at least three times: the first time to obtain a general view, the second
time to trace different conflicts and analyze their transcendence within the plot, and
the third time to delineate the line of action and evaluate similarities and differences
with traditional plot development.

2. Once you have an understanding of all the basic elements of narrative, evaluate the
unity of the story by analyzing the interrelatedness among its parts: plot and
characters, plot and theme, plot and setting, and their relationships within the text.
Use quotations from the text to justify your views.

3. Compare and contrast the opening paragraph with the last paragraph in terms of
content, unity, and closure.

4. Analyze the writer’s choice of title and the last scene of the story. Discuss their
contribution in regards to the line of action, development of tension and unity of the
literary work.

5. Discuss how movement is achieved in the story. Examine the degree of flexibility or
innovation in the literary work.

“the development of a personality”

In “The Art of Fiction” Henry James says, “What is character but
the determination of incident? What is incident BUT the illustration of
character?” (Guerin 79). This perception serves as an illustration of
the interrelated elements of prose narratives and as a transition to
our next component: characters.

James Pickering reinforces the extremely close relationships

among fiction elements by saying, “Without characters, there would
be no plot, and hence no story” (6). Pickering states that for most
readers “the primary attraction lies in the characters, in the endlessly
fascinating collection of men and women whose experiences and
adventures in life form the basis of the plots of stories and novels in
which they appear” (6). For critics Holman and Harmon,
characterization is “[the] creation of these imaginary persons so that
they exist for the reader as lifelike” (81).

However, Ann Charters reminds us that “our principles of definition

and evaluation for fictional characters are based on the ones we use
for real people [and so, the] most important distinction to remember
is that we are reading about fictional characters in a short story, not
real ones” (1611). Charters’ warning is valid; nevertheless,
sometimes the line between fiction and reality is blurry, and we, as
readers of fiction, sometimes learn more about human nature by
analyzing fictitious characters than by trying to understand our
friends, neighbors or relatives.

In order to better understand these imaginary beings, critics and

writers have established several classifications. For example, to
categorize characters as “round” or “flat” is a common and
convenient strategy in the literary field. Round characters are those
fictitious beings which the reader can readily visualize because the
writer has provided them with a number of qualities and traits. They
are “complex multidimensional characters of considerable intellectual
and emotional depth” (Pickering 7). According to Charters, for
“characters in a story to emerge as round, the reader must feel the
play and pull of their actions and responses to situations” (1612).
The aforementioned critics posit a very interesting issue: Is it the
writer who decides if s/he is going to depict a round character? Is it
the critic/reader the one who determines whether a character is
round or not? As a writing strategy, the writer provides his/her
character with enough traits and qualities to achieve this fully
developed status, which is sometimes called three dimensional.
However, the reader also has some input in determining the nature
of a character. Ultimately, the roundness of a character is a
negotiation between these two parties, the writer and the reader.

A wide variety of round characters crowd short stories. For

instance, in Mary Wilkins Freeman’s “The Revolt of Mother,” the
character of Sarah Penn serves as an illustration of round
characterization. From the beginning, the author offers the reader
not only a clear physical description of this heroine, but some of her
most dominant character traits:

She was a small woman, short and straight-waisted like a child in her brown cotton
gown. Her forehead was mild and benevolent between the smooth curves of gray hair,
there were meek downward lines about her nose and mouth, but her eyes, fixed upon
the old man [her husband], looked as if the meekness had been the result of her own
will, never of the will of another.

This powerful will is developed later in the story when Sarah confronts her husband for
having built a new barn instead of the new house he had promised to build for her forty
years ago:

“Father, you come here,” Sarah Penn stood in the door like a queen, she held her
heard as if it bore a crown, there was the patience which makes authority royal in her
voice. Adoniram went […] “Sit down, father,” said she, “I’ve got somethin’ I want to say
to you.”

Sarah’s determination is seen in actions, when later, taking

advantage of her husband’s absence, she transforms the new barn
into a new house. She faces the town people: “some held her
insane, some of a lawless and rebellious spirit.” She confronts the
minister who visits her to see if he can talk her into her senses, but
Sarah “looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek front
had covered for a lifetime.” Her own words reveal her will: “I’ve been
a member of the church for over forty years. I’ve got my own mind
and my own feet, an’ I’m goin’ to think my own thoughts an’ go my
own ways.”

So, at the end of the story, when the husband returns and sees the
transformation of his barn and his wife’s resolution, he starts
weeping and offers to put up the partitions for the new house without
resistance. The last glimpse of Sarah Penn is that of a woman who
“put her apron up to her face, [for] she was overcome by her own
triumph.” Thus, presenting physical traits, personal qualities, inner
conflicts, decisive words and actions, Freeman offers a good
example of a round character in Sarah Penn.

In contrast to a round character, a flat character embodies “or

represent[s] a single characteristic, trait or idea, or at most a very
limited number of such qualities” (Pickering 7). Besides, in his
definition of flat characterization, Pickering mentions that “flat
characters are also referred to as type characters, as one
dimensional characters” (7). However, the idea of limitation or
flatness varies from one critic to another since, according to Holman
and Harmon, flat characters are “often handled two-dimensionally”
(82).

Another discrepancy is seen in the role played by these flat

characters. Some critics consider them minor characters. Others see
them as strategic devices that authors use to develop the main
characters. For example, in Steele’s “How Beautiful with Shoes” the
lunatic Humble Jewett is needed to develop the epiphany in the
heroine. After being kidnapped by Jewett, Amarantha realizes that
her life has been controlled by her fiancé and her society. And at the
end of the story, she exclaims, “Let me be.”

For some critics, one of the main roles of flat characters is to serve
as foils, characters who by contrast serve to enhance the traits of
main characters. In Hawthorne’s “The Birthmark,” Aylmer’s assistant,
Aminadab, is introduced to exhibit the animal instinct that contrasts
with the intellect of his boss. Flat characters serve as tools for the
author to develop his/her principal characters. In fact, in many
stories, even if the main characters or protagonists are not at all
admirable, the writer still manages to retain the reader’s sympathy
for those faulty heroes or heroines by limiting the characterization of
other, potentially more appealing characters, making them flat.

However, sometimes so-called “flat” characters do not play such

“minor” roles within prose narratives in terms of characterization and
within the line of action. This is clearly illustrated in Guy de
Maupassant’s “The Necklace.” The protagonist of this tale is
Mathilde Loisel, a woman who is explicitly described from the
beginning to the end of the story. Her dreams, frustrations, fears and
views constitute the marrow of the conflict of illusion/appearance
versus facts/reality depicted in Maupassant’s work. However, her
husband, a flat character, is barely described as “a little clerk at the
Ministry of Public Instruction.” Mr. Loisel, who says trivial things such
as “Ah, the good pout-au-few [stew]. I don’t know anything better
than that,” is actually a key figure in the conflict of “The Necklace.”

It is because of Mr. Loisel’s job that Mathilde has the chance to go

to the Minister’s party. He is the one who not only gives his wife the
money to buy a proper dress for the occasion but also gives her the
idea of asking her friend, Mme. Forestier, for some jewelry. Besides,
when they find out that Mme. Forestier’s necklace is lost, he is the
one who looks for it everywhere and finally tells his wife, “You must
write to your friend that you have broken the clasp of her necklace
and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn
round.” And since they could not find the jewel, Mr. Loisel is the one
who gives all his savings, who “compromised himself for the
reminder of his days […] by the black misery that was about to
descend on him,” and who bought the second necklace. Even
though he is considered a minor character who is never fully
described and whose thoughts and feelings are mostly unknown to
the reader, Mr. Loisel’s ideas, words and actions are crucial within
this story.

Another way of classifying characters is through the terms

“dynamic” and “static.” A dynamic character is one who changes
throughout the story. The nature of this change can vary. Although
the change can be manifested in physical traits, it mainly lies in the
mind, nature and/or behavior of the fictitious beings depicted in tales.

One case of a dynamic character is seen in John Steinbeck’s

“Flight.” When the story starts the protagonist, a nineteen-year-old
youth called Pepé, is described as “a gentle, affectionate boy, but
very lazy.” He has “coarse black hair,” “smiling eyes,” a sweet mouth,
and a fragile chin. Before going to Monterey in search of medicine,
the boy claims to be a man. His mother makes fun of him by saying,
“Thou? A man? Thou art a peanut.” However, when Pepé comes
back from Monterey, he has been totally transformed:

He was changed. The fragile quality seemed to have gone from his chin. His mouth
 was less full than it had been, the lines of the lips were straighter, but in his eyes the
greatest change had taken place. There was no laughter in them any more, nor any
bashfulness. They were sharp and powerful.

Pepé’s transformation is reaffirmed by his own mother who says, “Yes thou art a man, my
poor little Pepé. Thou art a man.” Pepé killed a man who was insulting him in Monterey, and
his innocence is gone. He has seen death, he has caused death, and now he has to start
another journey to try to escape his own death. Pepé’s naiveté and restlessness have
disappeared; he has experienced fear, anger, and sorrow. In short, he has matured in one
night.

There are characters whose changes require different steps,

demand much time, or have to go through several processes. There
are others whose lives are transformed by a single incident, decision
or action. The journey motif often serves as background to illustrate
this process of transformation. For example, Irving’s Tom Walker,
Grimm’s Red Riding Hood, Steele’s Amarantha, and Hawthorne’s
Goodman Brown are all transformed after their journeys.

However, the journey motif can also serve to show the unchanging
nature of a character. As stated before, there are no fixed formulas in
fiction, and the flexibility of story components is what makes them
appealing, dynamic narrative forms. A character that does not
experience significant changes within the narrative discourse is
called “static.” According to Holman and Harmon, a static character
“is one who changes little it at all [because] things happen to such a
character without happening within” (83). Pickering states that static
characters “leave the plot as they entered it, largely untouched by
the events that have taken place” (8).

According to the previous definition, Old Phoenix in Welty’s “A

Worn Path” is a perfect illustration of a static character. Old Phoenix
starts her trip “slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from
side to side in her steps,” carrying a small cane, “tapping the frozen
earth in front of her,” wearing unlaced shoes and having “eyes blue
with age.” This old black woman takes a trip periodically to obtain
medicine for her grandson, who is considered “an obstinate case,”
as one nurse declares. Old Phoenix faces the dangers of the forest;
she confronts winter in spite of her old age, and manages to arrive at
town by herself time after time.

At the end of the story, after her trip is over, she is the same old
woman, carrying her cane, with her unlaced shoes, showing her
exhaustion but also her determination. As the story ends, Old
Phoenix had to start her trip back home one more time, and then,
“her slow step began on the stairs, going down.” The same woman,
the same hope, the same endurance are seen in this static character
from the beginning to the end of the story and from the beginning to
the end of her journey as well.

The character of Old Phoenix serves to show the flexibility of

characterization. Sometimes there is a tendency to equate
categories of characters by saying that static characters are flat, and
that dynamic characters are round, or that minor characters are flat
and static, and main characters are round and dynamic. Even
though in most cases these associations are true, there are always
exceptions. For example, Old Phoenix, the protagonist, is static but
not flat, round but not dynamic. As stated earlier, there are no fixed
formulas in fiction.

In addition to these previous classifications, there are other literary

terms that are part of characterization. The “antagonist,” for instance,
the protagonist’s opponent, is “the character against whom the
protagonist struggles” (Pickering 7). Obviously, there are different
antagonists, as well as reasons for antagonism, in fiction. There is
the case of Mrs. Barrows, in James Thurber’s “The Catbird Seat,”
who, according to Mr. Martin, “stood charged with willful, blatant and
persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of F&S,”
where Mr. Martin works. In Mr. Martin’s mind, “the obscene woman”
is his antagonist, and she must be “rubbed out” to secure his post
and save the firm. So Mr. Martin makes people believe Mrs. Barrows
is insane, and she is fired without hesitation.

The antagonist is not always a stranger; s/he can be a family

member or an acquaintance. In Ortiz Cofer’s “Not for Sale” the father
is the antagonist, for he limits his own daughter’s freedom by means
of words and actions. The daughter complains by saying, “He [her
father] did not like any interruption of his routines: he wanted to find
my mother and me in our places [….H]e showed no interest in me,
except to say no to my requests for permission to go out.”

The possibilities for antagonists are varied. The antagonist could

be a whole group, like the apartheid of South African society in
Gordimer’s “Town and Country Lovers” that legally forbids and
condemns the relationship between a colored girl and a German
archeologist. The antagonist could be nature, in the form of a drastic
climatic condition or rough geographical features, an animal, or it
could be an abstract idea. In those cases, there are two more literary
terms which are helpful for analyzing characterization.
“Personification” is when animals, ideas, or objects take human form
and sensibilities, while “allegory” is a narrative in which persons or
objects represent abstract concepts beyond meanings of the story
itself. An important point to remember is that the antagonist is not
always the villain, for opposing the protagonist does not necessarily
imply moral inferiority. Labels of good or bad depend upon the
reader’s values and perceptions. We have to take into account the
protagonist’s position and his/her views and actions to establish our
value judgments as readers.

Another important issue within characterization is the strategies or

methods the author uses to depict his/her characters. Critics offer
different classifications in this respect. For example, Holman and
Harmon discuss three methods of characterization: 1) the explicit
presentation by the author of the characters, 2) the presentation of
the character in action, and 3) the representation from within a
character, “without comment on the character by the author, of the
impact of actions and emotions on the character’s inner self” (81).

Pickering presents a more complete classification by subdividing

the methods into two groups governed by the principles of “telling”
and “showing.” Within the “telling,” the critic includes direct methods
of characterization through the use of names, characterization
through appearance and characterization by the author, that is, when
the author “reveals directly, through a series of editorial comments
the nature and personality of the characters, including the thoughts
and feelings that enter and pass through the characters’ minds” (10).
Within the “showing” category, Pickering presents two indirect
methods: characterization through dialogue and characterization
through action. At this point we will not discuss in detail all the
methods mentioned because many of them will be studied in the
section devoted to types of narration and narrative voice. However,
some of them demand clarification and illustration.

The direct method of characterization through use of names offers

different possibilities in literature. A name can reveal aspects of a
character’s nature. For example, in Porter’s “The Jilting of Granny
Weatherall,” Granny Weatherall, as her last name implies, could
stand all kinds of weather, all kinds of difficult situations throughout
her life. In fact, the heroine not only withstood being jilted and the
traumatic effect that such an act implies in one’s life, but also the
death of a daughter, as well as the responsibility of taking care of her
family and land after her husband dies,

Digging postholes changed a woman. Riding country roads in the winter when women
had their babies was another thing: sitting up nights with sick horses and sick Negroes
and sick children and hardly ever losing one.

Names of characters can also be ironic within the line of action of the prose narrative.
Angela, in Woolf’s “The Legacy,” is seen by her husband as an angelical being incapable of
lying and misbehaving according to social or moral rules, in short, an individual personified
by devotion, self-sacrifice and innocence, that is, the “ideal” wife. At the end of the story, the
husband finds out that Angela had a lover and that she committed suicide, which calls into
question her angelic nature. Another case of an ironic name is Fortunato in Poe’s “The
Cask of Amontillado.” The reader perceives the irony of the name when s/he realizes that
poor Fortunato, who is not lucky at all and contradicts his own name, is tricked, trapped and
buried alive.

Sometimes there are characters with more than one name, which
may suggest problems of identity. The heroine of Steele’s “How
Beautiful with Shoes” illustrates this case. Her name is “Amarantha,”
the name of a flower, but she does not answer when her mother calls
her by this name. Her boyfriend calls her “Mare,” which symbolically
represents the rude way he treats her, as if she were an animal, a
female horse, following the literal meaning of such a name. The
“loony” who kidnaps her calls her “Mary” because he visualizes her
as the Virgin Mary. But the real woman is unknown; after an
epiphany, she starts emerging at the end of Steele’s tale.

Finally, nameless characters also frequent prose narratives.

Sometimes the lack of name can be equated to a lack of identity. For
example, the nameless heroine of Porter’s “Theft” illustrates this
case, for her life is conditioned and determined by others.
Sometimes nameless characters are used to represent universality;
if there is no name, the character can be any and every human
being. A good illustration of this situation is found in the nameless
man and nameless woman of Thurber’s “ A Couple of Hamburgers”
who develop the common “battle of the sexes” and the typical
communication problems shared by couples.

The method of characterization through appearance is also a very

effective strategy used to depict character. The killers in
Hemingway’s story so titled are dressed in black coats and wear
gloves as a way of indicating their evil hidden plans. In “The Doll’s
House” the Kelveys, the poor girls of the school, are dressed “in ‘bits’
given to [their mother] by the people for whom she worked.” For
example, Lil, one of the Kelveys, wears a dress “made from a green
art-serge table-cloth of the Burnells, with red plus sleeves from the
Longans’ curtains.” Their poverty is reflected in their patched
dresses. In Hawthorne’s “The Minister’s Black Veil” the appearance
of the reverend wearing a black veil provokes consternation in the
town and mirrors the inner turmoil of the minister. And in the mental
sanatorium pathetic Mrs. King in Fitzgerald’s “The Long Way Out” is
always wearing her blue dress, her spring hat, and carrying her
suitcase while waiting for her husband, whose death she cannot
accept. Her permanent attire reflects her rejection of reality and her
choice, as a self-defense mechanism, to live in a fantasy world.

Methods of characterization through dialogue and through actions

are quite revealing, and they also show the author’s control of
discourse and plot development. Some characters are more talkative
than others, but in every case, the reader must be cautious in
analyzing their words; the reader must read between the lines.
Monsieur G, the Prefect of the Parisian police in “The Purloined
Letter,” is characterized by his verbosity. His explanations of how his
men searched for the stolen letter are as extensive as they are
abortive. The verbosity of Monsieur G reveals Poe’s wit and detailed
imagery. On the contrary, there are laconic characters, like Mrs.
Mallard in “The Story of an Hour.” Her lines are very limited but
powerful in Chopin’s tale. By only saying, “Free, free, free!” after
finding out about her husband’s death, this oppressed individual
reveals herself to the shocked reader.

Like people, there are characters that say what they think, while
there are others who lie out of evil, self-interest or even pity: “I never
saw you look so young and happy,” says the doctor to Granny
Weatherall at her deathbed. In addition, there are characters who
say one thing and do something different. Montresor says to
Fortunato, “We will go back. Your health is precious,” and later he
kills Fortunato. There are characters that are consistent in their
words and their actions, as well as others who do things that
contradict their words or beliefs. In “The Garden Party” the
compassionate Laura exclaims, “But we can’t possibly have a
garden party with a man dead just outside the front gate.” However,
the party goes on, and Laura is forced to dress and “enjoy” the social
event.

Characters are considered successful as long as they are

convincing and credible to the reader. It is essential to explore the
concepts of credibility, plausibility and consistency and their role in
characterization. These three terms are quite interrelated if we use
them as criteria for evaluating characterization. A credible character
is totally accepted by the reader as believable. The reader can easily
visualize the character’s nature, justify the character’s actions, and
understand the character’s feelings. A plausible character is
compatible with the reader’s understanding of the tale, for the
character’s actions contradict neither the logical coherence of the
story nor the logical coherence of human nature and behavior. A
consistent character is one whose behavior and personality remain
essentially constant, even when the character is dynamic. Thus, by
using effective strategies, the successful writer convinces the
readers that his/her characters are faithful representations of
humankind, of individuals who inhabit not only books but also our
world.

Holman and Harmon affirm that “[t]he ability to characterize is a

primary attribute of a good writer” (81). Such a task is not easy for,
as Charters states, “in the creation of characters, the writer must be
able to suggest enough complexity to engage the reader’s emotion
or the story will not be a success” (1612). Thus, the author must use
effective strategies to depict credible characters in the limited space
of narration typical of short stories. But the reader should also utilize
strategies to reveal characterization and be able to admire,
understand, pity, or hate, as well as evaluate, these fictitious beings.

Strategies for Analyzing Character

1. Write an “exterior” sketch of each character in a given story which includes name,
profession, appearance, background, manner of talking, and so forth (if this
information is available) as a foundation for further analysis.

2. Add to this sketch the character’s personality traits, behavior, thoughts, goals, fears
and any other “internal” information to complete your perception of the character.

3. Analyze the relationships among the characters (family members, friends, coworkers,
strangers) and the kinds of tension generated or the kinds of affinity depicted in the
story.

4. Analyze the characters of the story in terms of protagonists, antagonists or foils. Be

explicit in demonstrating aspects to justify each label.

5. Classify the characters in terms of round or flat, dynamic or static, and the possible
variations or flexibility these categories present in the story. Do these categories help
or hinder the study of characters in the story?
 6. Analyze the role and significance of each character in the tale. What does each
character contribute to the story? To answer this, consider what the story would be
like without that character.

7. Evaluate the consistency, plausibility and credibility of the characters, taking into
account their words as well as their silences, their actions and motivation, their
behavior and thoughts.

8. Study the methods of characterization used in the story and evaluate their
effectiveness in providing credible characters to the reader.

“the background of fiction”

Setting, another crucial element of fiction, plays a key role within
prose narrative. Because of its importance and because of its
interrelatedness to the other elements already discussed, this
narrative component deserves analysis. If we look for the term in a
glossary, we find that setting is defined as “the physical and cultural
environment within which an action takes place” (Cassil 1406). This
definition is later expanded by saying that setting is also “the stage
that serves to demonstrate the qualities of a protagonist” as well as
an “arena suitable for the conflict” (Cassil 1406). The two last
elements, character and conflict, complement setting and its role in
fiction.

Every time we analyze another definition, the notion of setting

expands. For Ann Charters, setting is “the place and time of the
story” that helps create “the illusion of a solid world” (1612-1613).
For Holman and Harmon, setting is “the physical and sometimes
spiritual background against which the action of a narrative […]”
(465) takes place. In fact, if we keep presenting definitions, the term
shows its flexibility, for as William Peden says, setting is “determined
by the needs of a particular story and is governed only by the
author’s concept of the best way, the only way, to get from the here
to the there of his [her] story” (26). Thus, the stage, arena, milieu, or
space is amorphous, depending on the author’s emphasis, which
can be time and its description, physical space and its limitations,
history and its gaps, customs and their relevance within a
community, realistic details or surrealistic dreams, among others.

However, one aspect of setting is shared by most critics and

writers: setting is essential for reader involvement, for when “the
writer locates the narrative in a physical setting, the reader is moved
along step by step toward acceptance of fiction” (Charters 1613).
Besides, setting “adds credibility and an air of authenticity to the
characters […which] create[s] and sustain[s] the illusion of life”
(Pickering 12). This combination of fantasy and reality, noted by the
critics, has been exploited by many authors.

The process of creation differs from writer to writer. Frank

O’Connor affirms, “I’ve got to see what […] people did, first at all,
and then I start thinking of whether it was a nice August evening or a
spring evening” (Charters 1481). However, other writers start with
this nice August evening, and then visualize the people in it, while
others think first about messages or ideas and then place and
characterize them. The storywriting process varies, for as Margaret
Atwood affirms, “stories come to us through the air. We hear voices”
(Charters 1382). How to frame those voices is the writer’s choice,
but the reader always needs a background to visualize them.

In some cases the writer’s life and times are key to fomenting the
reality of a fictitious world for the reader. Katherine Mansfield
portrays and criticizes her society in the realistic details of her
narrative background. F. Scott Fitzgerald distills the spirit of the
1920s in his collections of stories. Alice Walker denounces her own
social milieu by the vivid imagery of the setting of her tales. Joyce’s
Dublin is segmented in the sensorial scenes the author depicts;
every house, every smell, and every sound portrays his people and
his own concerns in his stories.

In some cases, the setting is a product of the author’s sensitivity,

vividness and imagination, as in Vonnegut’s futuristic settings,
Cortázar’s surrealistic backgrounds, or Porter’s psychological space-
time motif. But in all these cases, as Charters affirms, “the fictional
world […] emerges on the printed page, [giving] the illusion that while
the story unfolds, it is the real world itself” (1613). Obviously, the
illusion of reality also depends on the reader’s imagination and
willingness to enter that fictitious world.

Holman and Harmon offer a list of elements that make up setting.

In regards to place, they include the actual geographical location,
topography, scenery, and arrangement of location. They also name,
as components of setting, the occupations and daily manner of living
of the characters, as well the time or period in which the action takes
place and the religious, moral, social and emotional conditions
through which the people in the narrative move (Holman and
Harmon 465).

As we can see, especially in the last elements, the division

between characters and setting is sometimes blurry. Some stories
present all these elements from the beginning, so the reader can
visualize the situation easily after the first paragraphs. In other tales,
some of these elements are omitted, and it is the reader who fills
these gaps. There are other stories whose authors have deliberately
chosen to emphasize certain elements of setting to develop their
views.
 An interesting case of setting is seen in Joseph Conrad’s “The
Tale.” The story starts, “Outside the large single window the
crepuscular light was dying out slowly in a great square gleam
without colour, framed rigidly in the gathering shades of the room.”
The physical movement of setting is very interesting in this story
since it moves from the outside to the inside where the darkness of
the crepuscular dying light and the shades of the room help frame a
story of guilt, fear and doubts. Once the reader is inside the room,
the place is described as “a long room [where] the irresistible tide of
the night ran into the most distant part of it, where the whispering of
a man’s voice […] seemed to plead against the answering murmurs
of intimate sadness.”

The long room and its darkness are the perfect ambience for a
story of a long-hidden secret, a sad confession that is going to be
revealed. The owner of the murmurs of sadness, the teller of this
confessional tale, is a contrasting element since “there is somber all
over [the room] except for the crude discord of the white collar under
the shape of his head and the faint, minute spark of a brass button
here and there on his uniform.” The previous description of the
teller’s uniform seems to confer upon him some “light” in “the
gathered darkness” of the ambience, which symbolically parallels his
decision to reveal his secret to a woman with pale hands who is
dressed in black. The elements of setting, such as the light/dark
binary opposition, prepare the reader for a story of secrets and
confession and help develop the mysterious, gloomy mood of
Conrad’s tale.

However, in other stories, setting is not only the perfect arena for a
tale of torture, but a torturing element itself. Gilman’s “The Yellow
Wallpaper” serves as an illustration. Almost at the beginning of the
story, the heroine admits that she does not like her room even
though it is big, airy and has “windows that look all ways.” The
problem is the wallpaper, for, as she declares, “it is stripped off […] in
great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can
reach […] I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those
sprawling, flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.” First,
she denounces its color as “repellent, almost revolting: a
smouldering unclear yellow strangely faded by the slow turning
sunlight.” As the story progresses, the reader realizes that it is not
only the color but also the patterns of the wallpaper that disturb the
protagonist/narrator: “there is a recurrent spot where the pattern
looks like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside
down.”

As the story continues, the heroine’s aversion to the wallpaper

turns into identification: “I’m getting really fond of the room in spite of
the wallpaper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper.” Besides, she
visualizes a woman creeping up and down the wallpaper by daylight.
Gilman’s heroine was confined to a room as a part of a treatment
imposed by her husband and her doctor to treat her psychological
disturbance; initially, she sees the wallpaper of her room as a source
of torture but at the end of the narrative, she sees it as a means of
release. In the last scene, she exclaims to her astonished husband,
“I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back.” She
sees herself as the woman she visualizes creeping in the yellow
wallpaper. She pulls off the paper and now she feels free. At the end,
the wallpaper, ironically, has helped the heroine liberate herself.

Instead of citing elements of setting as Holman and Harmon do,

Pickering prefers to analyze setting in terms of five functions: as a
background for action, as an antagonist, as a means of creating
atmosphere, as a means of revealing character, and finally, as a
means of reinforcing theme (13-15). Following this classification, we
can discuss interesting variations.

On the basis that “[e]verything happens somewhere” (13),

Pickering introduces the first function: setting as a background for
action. He affirms that background can be “highly developed” or
“barely mentioned.” Later he unifies the two extremes by saying that
this function is based on the notion that “setting exists largely for its
own sake, without necessary relationship to action or characters”
(13). However, this view is questionable. Even in stories where
setting is barely mentioned, like in Hemingway’s narratives, those
few lines of background can be very significant. In “The Killers,” for
instance, the reader sees some elements of setting in the fast
descriptions of a few customers in Henry’s lunch room, the quick
remarks of time passing, the sketched view of Ole Andreson’s
position on his bed and his looking at the wall, and the arc-light
shining through the bare branches of a tree that is depicted when
Nick Adams leaves the lunchroom to tell Andreson about the killers.
These scattered lines are few in comparison to the amount of
dialogue that constitutes most of the story. However, these few lines
are significant in terms of meaning and symbolism, for they help
develop tension, agony, human concern and disillusionment.

The second function, setting as an antagonist, is described as “the

forces of nature function[ing] as a causal agent or antagonist,
helping to establish conflict and to determine the outcome of the
events” (Pickering 14). To illustrate this view, Pickering uses Jack
London’s “To Build a Fire,” already discussed in a previous section of
this book. To this example we can add Steinbeck’s “Flight” or Welty’s
“A Worn Path” in which the mountains and the dark forest work
against the hero and the heroine. However, Pickering’s view of the
antagonist engendered in natural forces must be expanded.

Setting as an antagonistic element can also be seen in an interplay

between the mind of the character and the physical components of
the milieu, as we have just seen in “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Setting
as an antagonist is not necessarily rooted in Nature. It could be in
“civilized,” crowded New York, as in Porter’s “Theft,” where the
heroine is isolated, exploited and rejected.

Sylvia Townsend Warner’s “The Phoenix” serves as an illustration

of an antagonist setting which is social rather than nature-rooted.
The Phoenix, an exotic, precious bird, is highly appreciated by Lord
Strawberry, who is his first owner, a nobleman and collector of birds,
who dies penniless “just after a world war.” Then The London Times
urges in an editorial that the phoenix be bought for the London Zoo
by saying that “a nation of bird lovers had a moral right to own such
a rarity.” But Mr. Poldero, the second owner of the bird, the proprietor
of Poldero’s Wizard Wonderland, does not share that kind of
morality. He tortures and exploits the bird until he kills not only the
exotic phoenix but also himself and the people who gathered to see
the bird burst into flames.

However, the antagonist is not only the greedy Poldero, but also
the people who pay to see “the event,” who are more interested in
the entertainment aspect of such a happening rather than in the
ethics involved. Here the antagonistic role of setting is not seen in a
dark forest, but in a dark heart that belongs to a “civilized” nation
characterized by materialism and exploitation.

The third function of the background of fiction is defined as setting

as a means of creating atmosphere. It is crucial to explore the
second term, atmosphere, in order to visualize this third function.
Atmosphere is described as “the prevailing tone or mood of a literary
work, particularly but not exclusively when that mood is established
in part by setting or landscape. It is, however, not simply setting but
rather an emotional aura that helps to establish the reader’s
expectations and attitudes” (Holman and Harmon 42). The previous
definition interrelates the emotional component generated by a
particular setting with the reader’s expectation or response, which is
obviously varied, for each reader has his/her own set of values and
needs.

Pickering affirms that authors “manipulate their setting as a means

of arousing the reader’s expectations and establishing an
appropriate state of mind for events to come” (14). Authors can and
do manipulate their settings, but they cannot predict the gamut of
expectations and responses that their tales might provoke. Besides,
this “appropriate” state of mind is highly relative. Appropriate to
whom? To the reader who plays the role of the author within the
manipulated narrative? To the author who can impact the reader the
way s/he wants? To the editor who can sell more copies because of
this collective “appropriate” state of mind? The writer cannot tell the
reader how to respond; the most s/he can do is to insert details and
literary devices into her/his narration that can help the reader
visualize setting. The writer can direct a response, but s/he cannot
control it.

The author mentioned by Pickering to illustrate this third function is

Edgar Allan Poe. If we think about Poe’s tales, we must agree that
he is a master of atmosphere used as an undeniable structural
element. When we read “The Cask of Amontillado,” most readers
empathize with Fortunato, facing the cold and fear provoked by the
milieu. However, there could be readers who, like Montresor,
morbidly enjoy the whole passage; after all, in real life we have seen
how crimes are sometimes committed following the steps of a literary
work. There may also be careless readers, like naïve Fortunato, who
do not infer the signs of danger or hatred. There may be readers
who feel the atmosphere is too artificially constructed, or readers
who have faced or read similar situations and feel threatened by,
immune to, or identify with the terrifying tone of the atmosphere.
Thus, the elements of setting can undeniably help develop
atmosphere, and this involves the reader within the narrative.
Nevertheless, to talk about an “appropriate” state of mind in the
reader due to this function is highly questionable.

Another peculiar aspect in the development of atmosphere is that

complete appreciation and evaluation is sometimes fully recognized
only in retrospect. After all, it is not until the end of Chopin’s “The
Story of an Hour,” when the narrative voice tells us that the heroine
has died of “heart disease—of joy that kills,” that readers can
understand the irony developed from the very beginning of the
narrative, the first sentence of which says, “Knowing that Mrs.
Mallard was afflicted with heart trouble, great care was taken to
break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.”
It is also only in retrospect that the reader of Jackson’s “The Lottery”
can distinguish the symbolic connotation of certain elements in the
tale that foreshadow something gloomy in that community event. For
example, there is the constant repetition of the adverb “nervously”
used to describe the actions of different people of the town before
knowing who won the winning ticket. And it is not until the end of
Graham Greene’s “A Shocking Accident” that the reader sees a
person who does not find the accident of a pig falling from a balcony
on Jerome’s father funny at all.
 In fact, Greene’s story can serve as a good example to show how
setting, by means of atmosphere, can manifest the unpredictability of
human nature. Jerome is the protagonist of Greene’s story, and his
whole life is drastically marked by his father’s death. It is not the
absence of his father but the way he dies which traumatizes Jerome
and controls his behavior and relationships throughout his life. Mr.
Wordsworth, the headmaster of the preparatory school which
Jerome attends, is the one who gives him the news: “Your father was
walking along a street in Naples when a pig fell on him. A shocking
accident.” Jerome then rehearses methods of recounting his father’s
death to reduce the comic element to its smallest dimensions. The
narrative contains different accounts of people who describe the
streets of Naples and explain why pigs can be there, “Oh, yes.
Naples of course. You’d be surprised in the poorer quarters what
things they keep on the balconies of these sky-scraping tenements—
not washing, you know, or bedding, but things like livestock,
chickens or even pigs. Of course the pigs get no exercise whatever
and fatten all the quicker.”

As seen from the previous description, there are details of setting

that help the reader visualize the shocking accident. However, each
reader recreates the whole event in his or her own way. So s/he
adds elements of his or her own choice to vivify the accident. By
means of imagination s/he develops a personal atmosphere that the
text does not present but rather invites the reader to imagine, and
which the writer cannot control. This imagined atmosphere
generates an attitude in the reader that Graham Greene cannot
control, just as Jerome cannot control his fiancée’s visualization of
the accident and reaction of consternation: “How horrible […]. It
makes you think, doesn’t it? Happening like that. Out of a clear sky.”
The atmosphere of the clear sky is Sally’s invention; others could
visualize a gloomy sky, a rainy morning or a windy afternoon.

The fourth function of setting is “setting as a means of revealing

character.” Pickering affirms that “very often the way in which a
character perceives the setting, and the way he or she reacts to it,
will tell the reader more about the character and his or her state of
mind that it will about the setting itself” (14). This assertion reinforces
the interrelatedness of fictional elements as well as the symbolic
nature of setting.

Washington Irving’s “The Devil and Tom Walker” serves as a good

illustration of this function of setting:

It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he
paused there awhile to rest himself. Anyone but he could have had a bad opinion of it,
from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars, when it was asserted
that the savages held incarnations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit.

Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind.

The hero is not troubled because the gloomy setting reflects his dark inner self. “The evil
spirit” of the context is his own. In that dark forest, Tom Walker feels at home.

The connection between setting and personality is also carefully

depicted in Freeman’s “A New England Nun.” Louisa Ellis
exemplifies how the occupations and daily life of characters,
elements of setting sometimes described as local color, reveal
personality:

She [Louisa] had been peacefully sewing at her sitting-room window all the afternoon.
Now she quilted her needle carefully into her work, which she folded precisely, and
laid in a basket with her thimble and thread and scissors. Louisa Ellis could not
remember that ever in her life she had mislaid one of these little feminine
appurtenances which had become, from long use and constant association, a very
part of her personality.

The organization, consistency and stability of the heroine are reflected in her room, her daily
routine, and her activities. The author herself makes this fusion explicit in her narrative.
 In other stories, setting is basically a prolongation of character. In
those instances, the relationship between the physical space where
the character dwells and his/her morals and mentality is symbolic.
Vivid examples are Roderick in Poe’s “The Fall of the House of
Usher” and Emily Grierson in Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily,” for the
decay and deterioration of both dwellings symbolically depict the
inner self, spiritual exhaustion and turmoil of their dwellers.

The fifth function of setting, following Pickering’s classification, is

“setting as a means of reinforcing theme.” By means of describing
the milieu, the narrator’s attitude toward a determined subject is
revealed. For example, in the story “Who’s Passing for Who?”
Langston Hughes situates the reader in Harlem, and from the
beginning he alludes to the Negro Renaissance. Sometimes theme
is closely related to the writer’s own life experience.

The narrator depicts a scene in a café where white and black

individuals are together and where a fight between an interracial
couple takes place. A white school teacher from Iowa knocks the
black husband down “to save” the wife and says “Keep your hands
off that white woman.” But the husband’s answer leaves the teacher
astonished, for the former says, “She’s not a white woman. She’s my
wife.” The white man feels confused and asks for forgiveness. The
social conflicts of that time, such as appearance vs. reality, male vs.
female, black vs. white, develop the tension and help weave Hughes’
theme: the hypocritical nature of American racism or the difficult
interactions among members of different races. This web of conflicts
frames the idea of deceptive racial or social identity.

Finally, in the same café, a white couple tells some black artists
that they are not white but colored, that they are just “passing for
whites.” The artists then change their previous defensive, arrogant
attitude toward the couple and show the couple how they really are.
They all have a good time. However, at the end of the story the
woman says to the writers, “Listen boys. I hate to confuse you again.
But to tell the truth, my husband and I aren’t really colored at all.
We’re white.” Thus, by means of analyzing setting, we see how the
neighborhood—Harlem, the time—night, the decade—the sixties,
and the racial tension of the ambience are perfect for unfolding
Hughes’ theme.

However, there are also occasions in which setting serves as a

counterpoint to reveal theme. D.H. Lawrence’s “The Horse Dealer’s
Daughter” shows this variation. In the most hostile place for
romance, love is revealed. Jack Ferguson “slowly ventured into the
pond […]. As he stirred he could smell the cold, rotten clay that
fouled up into the water. It was objectionable in his lungs.” However,
he moves deeper into this disgusting water and grasps Mabel. Jack
takes her out of the pond, saving her.

Jack carries Mabel, still unconscious, to the house. He looks down

“at her entangled wet hair, bare, animal shoulders […]. He ha[s]
never thought of loving her. He ha[s] never wanted to love her.”
Nevertheless, he realizes his love toward her at that precise
moment. Mabel is covered with filthy water; she almost dies in the
gloomy, cold pond. There is nothing appealing in her appearance or
in the milieu, but it is then and there that Jack Ferguson realizes he
loves Mabel Pervin. Thus, D.H. Lawrence’s positive theme of love as
an essential part of human nature or love as a feeling that transforms
reality is developed in a dark, cold setting that, as a counterpoint,
embodies the idea of death, rottenness and disgust.
 Setting, an essential component of prose narrative, has been
analyzed by means of its elements, kinds, variations and functions.
As seen before, setting is not isolated but connected to the rest of
fictitious elements that conform the story. Variety and flexibility
enhance its dimensions and reinforce its importance within the tale.
Thus, the writer creates the scene, the teller depicts the ambience,
and the reader recreates in his/her mind the background of fiction.

Strategies for Analyzing Setting

1. Identify the setting of the story in terms of space, time, and daily life manners of
characters. Analyze if one of these elements dominates the others. If so, look for
reasons to justify this emphasis.

2. Observe if the previous elements are related to other components of the story, such
as plot, character or theme. If so, explore the effects of these relations and their
contribution to the dynamism of the story.

3. Discuss the choice of setting, its appropriateness and its validity within the narrative.

4. Analyze the function or functions of setting as used in the story. Look for possible
variations of these functions and discuss their traits. What is the principal function?
Defend your choice.

5. Ask yourself if you, as reader, can see and feel the setting from the details provided
by the narration. Ask yourself if you are totally or partially merged in the fictitious
world of the story. What do you, as a reader, contribute to the setting of the story?
 Analyzing the Telling
The telling of a tale is a process that encompasses the writer’s
choice of voice, perspective, diction and syntax; the artistic creation
of a teller transmits the writer’s messages, concerns or dilemmas.
Since the success of the teller contributes enormously to readers’
understanding of the tale, the narrative voice is one of the key
elements that determine the degree of distance and involvement of
the reader. The telling is crucial to the tale because the tale needs a
teller, just as the teller needs a tale. In other words, without either
one, the presence of the other is nullified. The writer chooses a
voice, the narrator, who tells a narratee a story. The effectiveness of
the narrative voice can be seen in the access and acceptance of the
audience.

“the voice of the teller”

Writers select a voice to tell each narrative. Sometimes this voice
is the author’s, but most of the time, this voice is a totally
independent character. In literature, the narrative voice is frequently
considered synonymous with point of view. However, some critics
see differences between these two terms. Seymour Chatman, for
instance, affirms that “point of view is the physical place or
ideological situation […] to which narrative events stand in relation.
Voice, on the contrary, refers to the speech or other overt means
through which events and existents are communicated to the
audience” (153). Chatman clarifies that voice implies expression
while point of view is “the perspective in terms of which the
expression is made” (153).

Other critics, like Marie-Laurie Ryan, combine these two notions

under the term narrator: “the narrator is the speaking voice which
takes responsibility for the act of narration, telling the story as ‘true
fact’” (Makaryk 600). In other words, in fiction the term “narrator” is
used “in a more technical sense, as the ostensible author or teller of
a story” (Holman and Harmon 32), while the term “point of view” is
used “in the analysis and criticism of fiction to describe the way in
which the reader is presented with the materials of the story”
(Holman and Harmon 386). Even though there are differences and
variations in terminology, in most classifications the terms narrator
and point of view are used synonymously, combining the notions of
narrative voice and perspective.

There are different points of view available to the author. The point
of view can be “first person” when the narrator is a major or minor
character or “third person” when the narrator is not a participant but
sees into a character’s mind. This second category can be
subdivided. An “omniscient” point of view is when the narrator has
access to all characters’ minds and knows their thoughts, feelings,
and actions. “Limited omniscient” is when the narrator has access to
one or two characters’ minds. Finally, “dramatic point of view” is
when the teller of the story is almost imperceptible. In short, there
are four basic points of view which will be discussed and clarified
next.

The first person point of view is marked in prose by the pronoun

“I.” This pronoun foments a level of intimacy in the reader, for this “I”
is telling “us” (readers) his or her story. Involvement is then
developed, and the reader tends to identify with the narrator by
sharing his/her mindset. The reader enters the fictitious world as
presented by the narrator’s perspective. In this category, there are
different degrees of narrator participation, as indicated before, as
well as different degrees of reliability and authority. The first person
narrator “can approach other fictional characters as closely as one
human being can approach another” (Charters 1614), but since
everything human is filtered by subjectivity, this narrator, whether the
protagonist or an eyewitness, often manifests biases, prejudices or
ignorance, and the reader must be aware of this partiality when s/he
receives the information.

Edgar Allan Poe’s stories are characterized by this “I” who tells the
reader about crimes, fears and anxieties. This “I” is not only very
concerned about his/her listener, giving the reader all possible
details of the event described, but also about his own role as a teller.
The narrator of Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart” wants to convince the
reader of the validity of his telling.

From the beginning the narrative “I” informs the reader, “I heard all
things in the heaven, and in the earth. I heard many things in hell.
How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily—how
calmly I can tell you the whole story.” However, as his telling
progresses, the reader questions his rationality even more, for he
wants to justify an irrational, immoral act. He killed a man because
he hated the man’s eye, as he confesses, “I think it was his eye! Yes,
it was this! […] I made up my mind to take the life of the old man,
and thus rid myself of the eye forever.”

As the narrative progresses, the narrator’s acute sense of hearing,

rather than convincing the reader of the reliability of his account,
reveals the narrator’s insanity and denies how “calmly” he tells the
story. The beating of his own heart increases in the narrator’s mind
so that he confuses it with the dead man’s beating heart: “[The heart
beat] grew louder—louder—louder […].” And so the narrator
exclaims, “I felt that I must scream or die […].” Tortured by this
constant noise, the narrator tells the policemen who are there to
investigate the man’s disappearance, “‘Villains’ I shrieked,
‘dissemble no more! I admit the deed.” However, unreliability in
telling is not limited to psychotic narrators but is a possibility in any
first person narrator.

Children, because of their obvious lack of experience, are often

examples of unreliable first person narrators. Frank O’Connor’s “The
Man of the House” presents a case of a naïve narrator. The “I” in this
story is a boy who has a sick mother. He offers to go to the
dispensary to get medicine for his mother. He starts his journey “with
a bottle wrapped in brown paper under [his] arm.” He tells the reader,
“I had a penny which my mother had given me by way of
encouragement, and I made up my mind that when I had done my
business, I should go into the cathedral and spend it on a candle to
the Blessed Virgin, to make my mother better quick.”

But once in the dispensary, the narrator meets a little girl who
“waited until [his] bottle was thrust out, and then she accompanied
[him]. On the way [he] bought a penny worth of sweets, and [the
narrator and the girl] sat on the steps, besides the infirmary, to eat
them.” He not only spent the penny on sweets, but he is also tricked
by the girl who convinces him to give her some of the cough
medicine and makes him drink the rest.

The boy starts crying when he realizes that he has no medicine for
his sick mother. The desperate narrator tells the reader, “Now I had
only one refuge and one hope—a miracle. I went back to the
cathedral, and, kneeling before the shrine of the Blessed Virgin, I
begged her pardon for having spent her penny, and promised her a
candle from the next penny I got if only she would work a miracle
and make my mother better fore I got back.” But once home, the
narrator sees his mother is still in bed. So he confesses his misdeed
and “rushed up the stairs to throw [him]self on the bed and bury [his]
face in the clothes.”

Because of his innocence, the narrator has been tricked, and his
guilty feelings do not let him see reality: His mother is not mad
because he took her medicine. She is concerned about him and
worried that the medicine might affect him. At the end, the naïve
narrator tells the reader that his mother “got up, put on her slippers
and coat, and unlaced [his] boots while [he] sat on the bed. But even
before she had finished [he] was fast asleep.” His naiveté made him
a victim of deceit in the dispensary and, back home, prevented him
from realizing his mother’s love for him. In this tale, it is the reader,
not the narrator, who can see the whole picture and evaluate
people’s words and actions.

In some other accounts by children, an interesting technique of

telling the story in retrospect is used. In Sherwood Anderson’s “The
Egg,” the narrator tells the reader, “Our going to the out-of-the way
place to embark in the restaurant business was mother’s idea.” And
later he adds, “Now I am older I know that she had another motive in
going. She was ambitious for me. She wanted me to rise in the
world, to get into a town school and become a man of the town.” This
is a good example of a narrative dual filter: the reader can perceive
what the child thinks and what the adult discovers. Many stories of
James Joyce’s Dubliners present this same kind of narration, an
adult remembering his childhood and judging his past words and
actions.

The use of the pronoun “I” is also effective in cases of frame

narration, that is, when there is a story inside a framework, in other
words, a tale within a tale. This kind of narration provides a context
for the main story, and the narrator of the frame usually provides a
more global view. Frame narration usually has the effect of making
the reader part of an audience who is gathered to listen to the tale.
The reader is involved in the first narrative for s/he is a participant of
the first tale, but s/he is still outside the main story, which makes
him/her be able to judge impartially the events from the outside. F.
Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Long Way Out” can serve as an illustration.

In Fitzgerald’s story, the narrator is part of a group who starts

talking about old castles and oubliettes or dungeons. The narrator
confesses, “I have such a tendency to claustrophobia […s]o it was
rather a relief when a doctor told [another] story—that is, it was a
relief when he began it, for it seemed to have nothing to do with the
tortures long ago.” The doctor’s story is about Mrs. King, who suffers
from schizophrenia. Because of this condition, the doctors at the
sanatorium where she is a patient do not tell her that her husband
has died, so the woman spends years pathetically waiting for her
husband. The doctor’s story then becomes another case of torture,
this time psychological torture, and offers no relief for the first
narrator who exclaims at the end, “For God’s sake, let’s talk about
something else—let’s go back to oubliettes.”

Frame narration can present a different structure where the “I” can
be the narrator of the second tale. In Dinesen’s “The Blank Page,”
the story starts in third person narration,
 By the ancient city gate sat an old coffee brown, black-veiled woman who made her
living by telling stories.

She said:

“You want a tale, sweet lady and gentleman? Indeed I have told many tales.”

This teller, who then becomes the “I” of the framed story, is proud of her way of living, for it
is part of her identity and tradition. She tells her audience, “It was my mother’s mother […]
who took upon herself to teach me the art of story-telling.” And her grandmother’s advice
was, “Be loyal to the story.” Later she adds, “Where the story-teller is loyal, eternally and
unswervingly loyal to the story, there in the end, silence will speak.” Within the frame of
loyalty, the veiled woman starts a tale, and the reader feels sure that her loyalty to this tale
will provide reliability to the story. Frame narration, then, confers upon the reader the feeling
s/he is part of the scene, part of an audience who listens to a tale, and hence the reader is
immersed in a fictitious world that s/he accepts as real.

A second category of narrators is the third person point of view.

One of the types of third person narrators is called omniscient. This
point of view presents an all-knowing narrator who knows everything
about all the characters, events and situations. Besides, s/he directs
the reader’s attention and controls the amount of information the
latter receives. This narrator is never a character, and s/he is never
directly involved in the story. As Charters affirms, “the omniscient
point of view of third person narration is most clearly apparent in fairy
tales beginning ‘Once upon a time’ when the teller knows everything
there is to know about all the characters, both inside and out—what
they think and feel as well as what they do” (1615). According to
Edgar Roberts, “[i]n third person omniscient point of view, the author
takes a great responsibility: by delving into the minds of his[her]
characters he[she] assumes a stance that exceeds our ordinary
experience with other persons” (56). Concern with psychological
insights is often shown in this kind of narration. Many authors, such
as Nikolaevich Tolstoy, Nathaniel Hawthorne and George Elliot, have
used this point of view in stories; this type of narration is also
frequently utilized in novels or novellas, where the extension of the
narrative facilitates development of this all-knowing point of view.

The limited-omniscient point of view is present when the narrator

sees through the mind of only one or sometimes, less frequently, two
characters. The narrator’s knowledge is limited to these characters’
feelings and thoughts with no access to the feelings and thoughts of
the other characters. Most of the time, this point of view has a
character as the center of the narrative perspective. Writer Henry
James has explored this type of narration and has given the literary
field terms such as “the central intelligence,” “the reflector,” and
“mirroring consciousness” that are based on this kind of narration.
Due to the control and focus this point of view confers, this type of
narrative voice is well suited to the short story genre.

The use of a limited-omniscient point of view contributes to the

effectiveness of Katherine Mansfield’s “Miss Brill.” The story starts as
follows: “Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powered
with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the
Jardines Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her
fur.” From the very beginning, by providing the reader with images to
visualize setting, the limited-omniscient point of view lets the reader
know Miss Brill’s feelings. Later on, by means of flashbacks, the
reader sees how Miss Brill “had taken [the fur] out of its box that
afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and
rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes.” The reader can then
understand Miss Brill’s tenderness when she “could have taken it off
and laid on her lap and stroked it.” Throughout the whole story,
everything is filtered through Miss Brill’s consciousness: the people
gathered that Sunday afternoon, the music of the band, the beggars,
the little children, the sounds, the words and the laughs.
 In addition, examples of stream-of-consciousness are recurrent in
“Miss Brill.” Stream-of-consciousness is a narrative technique that
consists of a creation of a character’s flow of thought by means of
images at random to show how the mind works. The reader has the
opportunity to enter Miss Brill’s mind frequently in order to encounter
her thoughts and feelings. The narrative voice tells the reader, for
instance, “Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she
loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like
a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn’t painted? […]
They were all on the stage […], she was part of the performance
after all. How strange she’d never thought of it like that before!”

However, at the end of the story, after Miss Brill listens to the
young couple’s insulting comments, calling her a “stupid old thing”
who has “a silly old mug” that looks like “a fried whiting,” the access
to her mind is over. The reader then is the one who has to imagine
what she thinks and how she feels at the end of the tale. This
omission or restriction of stream-of-consciousness reinforces the
tension of the story and promotes the involvement of the reader.

Another interesting case of limited-omniscient point of view is

present in James Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”
According to Marie-Laurie Ryan, the third person narrator “enjoys
absolute narrative authority […]. His or her utterances determine
what counts as fact in the narrative world” (601). In Thurber’s story,
the reader is transported from the “reality” of the fiction, when Mitty is
taking his wife to the hairdresser and when he is on his way back
home, to his thoughts and imaginary life, seen in different vignettes
of heroic deeds and grandeur that intercept the line of action of the
tale of his monotonous life. At both levels, the “real” and the
imaginary, the presence of a third person point of view is maintained
to achieve the narrative authority mentioned by Ryan.

From the courageous man to the confused individual, a third-

person limited point of view is used to unfold the dual life of
Thurber’s protagonist. Even when Walter Mitty imagines himself as a
hero playing the role of a courageous commanding officer, a
successful lawyer or a renowned physician, the point of view is
always third person. There are comments, lines of dialogue and
observations, but Mitty is always the hero or the anti-hero described
by a non-participant narrator. The effect of this kind of narration is to
give greater credibility to his image even in his own mind. In Mitty’s
imagination, “The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge,
hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other [and
said:] ‘The Old Man ain’t afraid of Hell.’” In contrast, in his real life,
his wife scolds Mitty, telling him, “Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!
[…].” Mitty just looked at his wife with perplexity and “with shocked
astonishment.” In depicting both the courageous individual and the
henpecked husband, the third-person limited point of view helps the
reader accept Mitty’s dichotomous human nature and the co-
existence of fantasy and reality in our lives.

A fourth type of narrative voice is seen in the dramatic point of

view where the writer presents his/her work by means of dialogue
and descriptions. By using this kind of narration, the writer “allows
the characters themselves to voice their thoughts and feelings […]
but does not overtly guide the reader toward any conclusions”
(Roberts 57). This point of view is also called objective narration
since there is no obvious teller presence, and the reader does not
have access to the characters’ thoughts or feelings. It attempts to
avoid personal perspective and to present actions and dialogue
without any degree of subjectivity. As Pickering affirms, “with the
disappearance of the narrator, telling is replaced by showing, and the
illusion is created that the reader is a direct and immediate witness
to an unfolding drama” (19). However, the narrative voice never truly
disappears; it is simply disguised in this kind of narrative.

A writer who has used and explored the potential of this type of
narrative voice is Ernest Hemingway. His tale “Hills like White
Elephants” exemplifies the use and effectiveness of dramatic point of
view. The story presents a couple at a train station in Spain who are
having a serious conversation about their future life together. On the
surface, they talk about trivial things such as the weather, the
landscape, the train schedules, and the drinks they have ordered,
but the dialogue is full of gaps that generate tension. The reader fills
the gaps by reading between the lines and realizes they are
considering the possibility of an abortion. The reader can feel the
girl’s anxiety and the man’s concern, but the word abortion is never
mentioned, nor are the feelings and thoughts of the girl or the man
overtly expressed. Sometimes the person who says the line of
dialogue is not even identified. This indeterminacy makes the
reader’s concentration and involvement stronger. To illustrate, let’s
review some lines of the story:

“Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.” [the girl says]

“It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.” [the man comments]

“Would you do something for me now? [the girl asks]

“I’d do anything for you.” [the man answers]

“Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?” [the girl
demands]

After this dialogue, a description follows, “He did not say anything but looked at the bags
against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had
spent nights.” The narrative voice emphasizes the man’s silence and the image of the bags
against the wall, which could give the reader the idea of no clear destiny or direction within
the couple. The labels on them are not only varied but also from different hotels, transitory
places, which could represent the negation of a future life together.

Thus, with this kind of narrative voice, the reader is immersed in

the action and forced to participate in the dialogue. While this point
of view reinforces “the psychological and emotional detachment and
self-control that many of [Hemingway’s characters] adopt as a
means of coping with the reality of experience” (Pickering 20), the
reader cannot remain detached from the action and tension
generated by the narrative voice of this tale.

Each of the different points of view has advantages as well as

limitations. First person narratives create intimacy with the reader by
establishing a dialogue between the “I” who tells the story and the
“you” who listens to it. A third person narrator seems to make the
story more credible since s/he is not directly involved. A dramatic
point of view foments the reader’s participation since the reader is
not provided with a guiding narrative voice. The different narrative
voices offer the writer flexibility in his/her discourse, and his/her
choice of point of view is crucial to the telling.

In oral storytelling, people look for tellers with good voices, clear
articulation, and a good command of body language and gestures, in
short, someone who can tell the tale and entertain the audience at
the same time. In fiction, it is the writer who creates his/her tellers;
within that literary construct, the role of point of view is crucial. As
Roberts affirms, “Point of view conditions opinions” (57). Besides,
once chosen, the point of view “will color and shape the way in which
everything else is presented and perceived” in the story (Pickering
15). Readers should remember, however, Lawrence’s dictum: “Trust
the tale, not the teller.” They should also keep in mind that the point
of view or the narrative voice of a tale “is always part of the ‘lie’ of
fiction, not always identical with the voice of the writer […]” (Charters
1616).

Strategies for Analyzing Point of View

1. Identify the point of view in the story. Evaluate how this fictional element is linked to
other elements within the tale.

2. Judge the writer’s selection of point of view in terms of reader involvement and
narrator reliability.

3. Is the narrative voice of the tale consistent and effective? Justify your answer by
using textual support.

4. What effects does the writer create on the reader by means of his/her selected voice
of narration? Is s/he successful? Is the choice of narrative voice appropriate?

5. Select two paragraphs of a story and change the point of view. Analyze the effects
and limitations of that new perspective within the narrative.

“the individuality and attitude of the writer”

We have discussed the components of the tale and the range of
the teller, and now we are going to look at the creator of the tale, the
writer. In approaching the author in prose, the emphasis is on two
elements of fiction: style and tone. One visible and the other one
inferred, both are crucial to the development and understanding of
the tale.

Traditionally, style and tone have been discussed exclusively in

terms of the author. While it is true that authors tend to develop an
individual style, we must remember that one of the first decisions an
author makes is the choice of a narrator, after which it is the narrator
who determines what is said and how it is said in the telling. Style
and tone differ according to the teller. Factors such as age,
education, life experience, and gender, which influence real people,
also influence the telling, depending on who the teller is. The more
personal the narrative perspective is, the more closely it is
associated with the narrator. For example, a first person narrator tells
the tale in his/her own way. The more distant the narration, as seen
in omniscient or dramatic point of view, the more we tend to
associate style with the author because the narrator is less obvious.

Style has been defined as “the characteristic way an author uses

language to create his [or her] works” (Charters 1616). It has also
been described as “the way in which a writer employs his [or her]
words, phrases, and sentences to achieve his [or her] desired
effects” (Roberts 196). This characteristic use of language for
obtaining “desired” effects helps reveal the author’s individuality. J.R.
Lowell affirms that style is “the establishment of a perfect mutual
understanding between the worker and his [or her] material” (quoted
in Holman and Harmon 487). With this assertion, Lowell emphasizes
the relationship between the writer and his/her writing. Even when
this control, command or particular use of language is recognized by
the reader, it is sometimes difficult to analyze. A critical approach
based on style has been developed; it is called “stylistics,” the study
of the “particular choices an author makes from the available
materials, choices that are largely culture-oriented and situation-
bound” (Guerin 324).

Style refers to “diction, sentence structure and variety, imagery,

rhythm, repetition, coherence, emphasis and arrangement of ideas”
(Holman and Harmon 488). Some critics have systematized the
study of style. Edgar Roberts, for instance, affirms that “the three
chief ways to describe style are (a) the analysis of the grammar in a
passage, (b) the rhythm and sound and (c) the analysis of the words”
(199). James Pickering asserts that style consists of diction and
syntax “as well such devices as rhythm and sound, allusion,
ambiguity, irony, paradox and figurative language” (29). Ann Charters
includes “sentence length and complexity, word choice and
placement, and punctuation” (1616) within her definition of style. As
seen so far, each critic presents different elements within his/her
view of style. The more definitions we look at, the more the list of
elements expands. However, there are two aspects that all of them
mention and that involve the use and control of language: word
choice and the arrangement of the words.

Diction, the use of words in discourse, and vocabulary or word

choice are essential stylistic traits that show the author’s uniqueness
or individuality. To analyze this aspect, we need to talk about types of
words (concrete and abstract, specific and general), about their
semantic potential (denotative, which refers to the words literally, and
connotative, which refers to the emotional impact of the terms), and
about their levels of usage (nonstandard, standard, colloquial, and
formal). To illustrate the previous terms, some literary passages will
be analyzed.

Katherine Anne Porter’s tale “The Circus” exhibits carefully chosen

vocabulary and serves as a perfect example to explore the element
of diction as a stylistic trait. The story starts as follows:

The long planks set on trestles rose one above the other to a monstrous height and
stretched dizzyingly in a wide oval ring. They were packed with people—“lak [sic] fleas
on a dog’s ear,” said Dicey, holding Miranda’s hand firmly and looking about her with
disapproval. The white billows of enormous canvas sagged overhead, held up by three
poles set evenly apart down the center. The family, when seated, occupied almost a
whole section on one level.

From this introductory passage, we can appreciate the narrator’s and author’s interest in
developing a clear image for the reader’s eyes. The title is not enough; Porter wants to be
sure her reader visualizes the distribution and dimension of her setting before developing
the drama. In terms of nouns, with the exception of “height” and “disapproval,” most of them
are concrete words that help depict the idea of structure. For instance, planks, trestles,
billows, canvas, poles, a ring and a center all contribute to the physical description of the
scene.

The noun choices serve multiple purposes in Porter’s story. Nouns

like “people,” “hand” and” family” introduce the human element within
the physical structure, reinforced by two proper nouns, Dicey and
Miranda. Besides, figurative language in shape of a simile is used by
the narrator to introduce the first of these two names. Dicey says,
“lak fleas on a dog’s ear,” and this colloquial language suggests
Dicey’s background and condition (an uneducated, Southern
woman). Nevertheless, Dicey has a certain authority over Miranda
(the protagonist of the story) because Dicey holds Miranda’s hand
“firmly” and looks about “with disapproval.” The analysis of these
nouns reveals ambience, develops characters and establishes their
relationships.

In terms of adjectives, all of them help depict the visual images

presented before. Words like “long,” “wide,” “oval,” and “white” give
specificity, and the adjectives “monstrous” and “enormous” enhance
the word “height” introduced in this passage. Besides, the verbs also
help support the idea of structure: “set,” “rose,” “stretched,” “sagged,”
“held up” and “occupied.” Adverbs such as “dizzyingly” and “evenly”
help visualize the dimension and structure of the setting. Even
though the verbs themselves are potentially dynamic, most of them
are in the past, which reduces their impact. Porter’s selection of
nouns, adjectives and verbs is not random. The symbolism and
position of these elements within the tale provides the story with
vividness, precision and movement. Porter’s diction helps her
readers visualize, and perhaps even vicariously participate in, her
tale.
 A different stylistic diction is observed in Edgar Allan Poe’s
“Ligeia.” The story opens with the following lines:

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became
acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Longs years have since elapsed, and my mind is
feeble through much suffering. Or perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind,
because in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning and her singular yet
placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical
language, made their way into my head by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive
that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and more
frequently in some, large, old, decaying city near the Rhine.

From the word choices of this paragraph, it is clear that Poe’s intention is different from
Porter’s. While Porter in “The Circus” wants to convey a clear image of the setting to
develop her tale, Poe confuses the reader from the very beginning, developing imprecision
not only around Lady Ligeia, but also in the narrator, and in the time and the place first
evoked in his tale.

To create this effect, Poe uses mainly abstract nouns: “soul,”

“years,” “memory,” “suffering,” “truth,” “character,” “learning,” “beauty”
and “eloquence.” Even the words that could be considered concrete
are used in abstract ways. For example, when the word “points” is
introduced, it refers to mental points. Even the word “head” is not
introduced as the physical part of the body, but mostly as an image
to suggest the presence of a confused mind.

The adjectives, even though they are qualifying, also emphasize

the idea of imprecision: the years are “long,” the speaker’s memory
is “feeble,” Ligeia’s beauty is “singular,” her learning is “rare,” her
eloquence is “enthralling,” and finally the city where they met is
“some large old decaying [place] near the Rhine.” This nameless city
cannot be precisely located either. The verbs also contribute to the
vagueness of characters, images and setting. The narrator says “I
cannot remember” how, when, or where he and his beloved “became
acquainted.” He adds he “cannot bring these points to mind,” and
that his paces of thought have been noticed but “unknown.” Finally,
he states that he “believed” they met in “some” large city near the
Rhine. Thus, nouns, adjectives and verbs all help develop the
imprecise mood of Poe’s story.

Obviously, Poe’s choice of adverbs also reinforces the imprecision

of his tale. Ironically, he introduces the adverb “precisely” but within a
negative sentence that nullifies its connotation. The adverb
“perhaps” also supports the unreliability of the narrator. The adverb
“yet” helps develop the subjectivity involved in the verb “believe.”
And finally, when the reader thinks s/he finds an adverb that could
state or fix some thought or action, like “steadily,” that adverb is
immediately followed by another, “stealthily,” that undermines the
reassuring effect of the first one. Besides, those paces that the
narrative voice first describes as “steadily progressive” are seen as
“unknown” at the end of the same sentence. In short, by means of
diction, Poe has disturbed the reader by developing a blurry image of
people, places and perceptions framed by the narrator’s tortured
mind from the beginning of his tale.

The arrangement of words, sometimes called syntax, is another

key element of style. For example, sentences can be short or long,
simple or complex. In addition, “the deliberate arrangement of words
within individual sentences […] can result in patterns of rhythm and
sound (pleasant or unpleasant) that establish or reinforce feeling and
emotion” (Pickering 31). By analyzing some literary passages, we
can see the variety of syntactical patterns that writers use as stylistic
traits.

Many writers are well-known for their particular style. For example,
Ernest Hemingway’s style has been classified as “simple,” but
ironically, many books and studies have been written to discuss this
“simplicity.” When he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1954,
Hemingway was cited for “forceful and style-making mastery of the
art of modern narration” (McMichael, ed. 1347). Hemingway’s diction
is characterized by a lack of adjectives and adverbs. To examine the
sentence patterns or the arrangement of words he uses to develop
his narratives, we are going to analyze the opening paragraph of
Hemingway’s “Banal Story:”

So he ate an orange, slowly spitting out the seeds. Outside, the snow was turning to
rain. Inside, the electric stove seemed to give no heat and rising from his writing-table,
he sat down upon the stove. How good it felt! Here, at last, was life.

In terms of length, the previous paragraph presents a combination of short and long
sentences. Besides, the long sentences are subdivided by means of commas. The usage of
commas, recurrent in this text, develops a rhythm of stops and continuity emphasizing
places, movements, and actions. The nameless “he” ate his orange and after the first
comma, the reader visualizes the way in which he did it. In the second sentence, the adverb
“outside” followed by another comma, introduces that transformation of snow into rain that
takes place in the exterior. The movement now goes to the inside, following the same
pattern, that is, an adverb of place followed by a comma. Now the reader is introduced to a
stove, and joined by the conjunction “and” is the image of the man who rises from the
writing-table to sit down upon the stove. So far, we have movement from the inside to the
outside, from the outside to the inside, and even within the room, for from the writing-table
to the stove, there is also displacement.

In addition, the man’s feeling of well-being because of his proximity

to the heat is expressed by a short exclamatory sentence. The last
sentence, even though short, is also intercepted by two commas to
emphasize the place as well as the assertion that inside the house it
was warm, it was life. Thus, by means of short phrase and simple
sentences (no complex structures are seen), Hemingway displays in
sequence a series of kinetic images that let the reader follow the
logic of the movements as well as experience sensations of coldness
and warmth. His syntax is direct, straightforward, unembellished.
Although some critics have classified his style as “journalistic”
because of the objectivity of his descriptions, Hemingway’s “simple”
images can transmit a gamut of emotions.

A contrasting style is that of Nathaniel Hawthorne. In fact,

“complexity” is the word that best represents his individuality as a
writer. Hawthorne’s vocabulary is exuberant, formal, and exhaustive.
His images are rich, and metaphors and similes typify his tales. His
sentence patterns exhibit the same complexity as the lexicon and
immerse the reader into a narrative discourse of sensations,
intuition, brooding and thoughts.

The opening lines of his famous tale “Young Goodman Brown”

illustrate this assertion:

Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem Village; but put
his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young
wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the
street, letting the wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap while she called to
Goodman Brown.

Analyzing the syntactical patterns as a stylistic trait, amazingly the whole paragraph
consists of only two long sentences. They are not only long but also extremely complex in
terms of structure. The first is segmented by a semicolon, which in this case does not play
the role of a period as this punctuation mark traditionally does. The lack of subject in the
second part makes what comes after this semicolon an undeniable part of the first
sentence. Within the second part of the first sentence there is an adverbial phrase, an
infinitive phrase, and a prepositional phrase. The second sentence starts with the
conjunction “and” to establish continuity. Within this second unit, there is an explicative
sentence by the speaker in reference to the allegorical name of Faith, a gerund introducing
a kinetic image to describe the movement of Faith’s ribbons, and an adverbial phrase. With
long, complex structures like these, the reader has to keep reading and struggling with the
language to find its logical sequence, embellished by verbosity, elaborate patterns and a
variety of grammatical units that make this structure challenging to assimilate. Definitely, the
diversity of syntactical functions demands the presence of an active reader willing to solve
stylistic obstacles and to accompany Young Goodman Brown on his trip to the dark forest.

Of course, not all syntactic patterns in prose narrative are as

simple as Hemingway’s or as complex as Hawthorne’s. Alice Walker,
for instance, presents syntactical balance in terms of length, form
and rhythm. Her tale “Everyday Use” exhibits this equilibrium. The
story reads:

I will wait for her in the yard that Maggie and I made so clean and wavy yesterday
afternoon. A yard like this is more comfortable than most people know. It is like an
extended living room. When the hard clay is swept clean as a floor and the fine sand
around the edges lined with tiny, irregular grooves, anyone can come and sit and look
up into the elm tree and wait for the breezes that never come inside the house.

Walker combines long and short statements, simple and compound sentences. However,
the compound sentences are not complex in terms of reading. Even though she uses
adverbial phrases and subordinate clauses, the limited usage of punctuation (just two
commas are seen) and the use of the conjunction “and” facilitate the reading of the story.
Walker introduces an image, the yard, and in this case uses three or four sentences to
describe it. Walker does not present another image until she is completely sure that her
reader has a clear view of the previous image in his/her mind. Thus, the reader has time to
breathe while s/he visualizes the welcoming natural setting of the mother, characterized by
sensorial imagery and the speaker’s warmth and concern. The balanced arrangement of
words creates a musical rhythm while reading Walker’s “Everyday Use.”

Each writer’s style is unique. As Pickering states, style functions

as “the writer’s ‘signature’ in a way that sets his [or her] work apart”
(29). The reader must look for those stylistic traits that constitute the
writer’s individuality. The reader should judge their effect and how
they help develop the components of the tale. That is why Roberts
affirms that the study of style “should aim toward a description of the
writer’s ability to control his [or her] needs” (199). And one of these
writer’s needs is to express his/her attitudes toward a specific
subject and toward life itself, in this case, through narration of a tale.

The other basic element to be discussed in this chapter refers to

the attitude perceived in the narrative, the element known as tone.
Richard Russo defines tone as “the author’s attitude toward the story
he [she]’s telling [that] must at all times be clear without ever been
stated” (12). Edgar Roberts disagrees in part by saying that “tone
refers not to attitudes but to that quality of a writer’s style that reveals
—or creates—these attitudes” (152). James Pickering states that
“tone in fiction is a guide to an author’s attitude toward the subject or
audience and to his or her intention and meaning” (32). Whether
referring to the attitude itself, the quality of style that reveals that
attitude, or the guide that leads to the writer’s attitude, the concept of
tone is always abstract and sometimes difficult to grasp.

Holman and Harmon declare that tone contributes “in a major way
to the effect and the effectiveness” of the literary work itself. In fact, if
the reader disregards tone, s/he can misinterpret the whole story.
The tone may be formal, informal, comic, serious, playful, ironic,
condescending, positive or pessimistic, to name only a few. We can
add other adjectives used to determine tone, such as direct,
complicated, evasive, indifferent, antagonistic, violent or lofty
(Roberts 154). Obviously, this list of adjectives can be expanded, for
human beings exhibit a wide gamut of attitudes to express their
feelings and thoughts. As Roberts asserts, analyzing tone implies
“the study of the author’s mind at work” (152). As seen before, the
relationship between the author and his/her narrator can be personal
or distant, which could modify Roberts’ previous assertion.
Sometimes authors maintain one predominant tone throughout their
narratives. Other times they present combinations in recurrent
patterns or a complexity of moods within their tales. Some literary
examples can help us understand these options.

Vonnegut’s “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” presents an

ironic tone throughout the whole tale. The story depicts a futuristic
society where people can live as long as they want because “anti-
gerasone,” a chemical liquid, maintains them artificially young and
always healthy. The narrative starts with a couple, Lou and Emerald,
discussing their crowded situation, since three generations live in the
same household, and “Gramps,” the patriarch or head of the family,
who is one hundred and seventy-two, does not want to “leave.”
Emerald says, “Sometimes I wish there wasn’t any such thing as
anti-gerasone […]. Sometimes I wish folks just up died regular as
clockwork, […] instead of deciding themselves how long they’re
going to stay around.” However, when Lou asks Emerald, his wife,
“you are ready to up and die, Em?” Emerald, who is ninety-three,
ironically answers, “I’m not even one hundred yet.”

Through most of the text, these two characters remember “the old
days” as better times when, ironically, people “used all the raw
materials.” The climactic moment of the story takes place when one
family member decides to kill Gramps by diluting his anti-gerasone.
Lou catches his nephew in fraganti, and when he tries to fix Gramps’
anti-gerasone, Gramps sees Lou and thinks Lou is plotting against
him.

Ironically, Lou, the one who tries to save Gramps, is sent to jail
with his wife. And it is, ironically, in jail where they are finally happy.
They enjoy the privacy they were denied at home. They finally have
their own T.V. and their own bed. With excitement, Lou asks his wife,
“Em […] you got a washbasin all your own too?” Ironically, it is in jail
where Lou and Em feel freed from an overpopulated world and from
Gramps’ tyranny. In short, Vonnegut’s story is characterized by
verbal irony and situational irony, in addition to his typical black
humor and his science-fiction elements. The ironic tone intensifies
until it reaches a level of resolution that offers a “happy” ending.

Another short story that illustrates the functions of tone is Willa

Cather’s “Wagner Matinée.” A nostalgic tone initiates the story, and it
is later transformed into reproach and sadness. Besides, the
recollection of the past creates nostalgia in the speaker, and he
transmits it to the reader. The story starts when Clark, the narrator,
receives a letter announcing the arrival of his Aunt Georgina. As
soon as he is informed of her coming, the narrator goes back in time
and remembers, with nostalgia, when he was “the gangling farmer
boy [his] aunt had known, scourged with chilblains and bashfulness.”
Later Clark states, “I owed to this woman [Aunt Georgina] most of
the good that ever came my way in my boyhood.” Now that his aunt
will be in Boston, Clark sees his chance to pay her back. So he
decides to take her to a matinée, for he knows she has a passion for
music. Aunt Georgina used to be a music teacher in Boston before
she got married.

During the recital, Aunt Georgina starts remembering her life in

Boston before her marriage, her profession and her love of melodies,
sounds and rhythms. With a nostalgic, reproachful tone, she asks
her nephew at the end of the concert, “And you have been hearing
this ever since you left me, Clark?” Cather’s story ends with the aunt
crying when the concert is over. A mood of frustration, desolation
and sadness pervades the atmosphere. Aunt Georgina realizes that
instead of concert halls and matinées, she has to go back to “the tall,
unpainted house” where “the crook-backed ash seedling where the
dishcloths hung to dry; [and where] the gaunt, molting turkeys
picking up refuse about the kitchen door.”

The two characters, by means of a nostalgic tone, remember their

past and realize their losses: childhood and a life without troubles for
one, and artistic realization and professional gratification for the
other. The two feel guilty, Aunt Georgina for having left her music
career and Clark, for having taken Aunt Georgina to the concert, for
that visit is still part of his memories, and is depicted in a nostalgic,
melancholic tone. Cather is successful in arousing a mélange of
feelings in the reader whose sympathy, pity and concern parallel the
tone of the story.

Other stories present a variety of tones abruptly, without recurrent

or sequential patterns. Ralph Ellison’s “The King of the Bingo Game”
is a perfect example. The story starts by depicting a black man from
the South who is away from his home in North Carolina. He is
starving, he is poor, and he constantly thinks of his wife Laura, who
is dying because, as he says, “we got no money for a doctor.” Ellison
begins his story with a pessimistic tone charged with social criticism.

The black man is playing bingo to see if he can change his luck.
The situation changes when he wins the game and screams, “Bingo!
Bingo.” From this moment on, the mood starts modifying. Now a tone
of hope pervades the atmosphere. However, the man is so weak
from not having eaten anything the whole day that with some
whiskey in his system, he gets “light-headed.” However, he knows he
has the opportunity “to win tonight’s jackpot of $36.90 [, but] the
wheel must stop between the double zero” to get his prize.

The man has studied the movement of the wheel many times. He
knows he has to give “the wheel a short quick twirl” to come close to
double zero, but once he starts pressing the button, he feels he has
to keep “the bingo wheel whirling forever.” The tone now is one of
agony and suspense: the audience cannot understand the black
man’s behavior, while the reader can, but s/he cannot predict the
black man’s subsequent actions. The black man has turned into “the
King of the Bingo Game,” for he has the power to control the wheel
by pressing the button forever. While the audience gets angry, the
black man feels in charge. We have a combined mood of anger and
satisfaction taking place at the same time.

But the tone of the story changes at the end. Two policemen came
and brutally force the man to leave the wheel. Ironically, when the
wheel finally stops moving, it marks the double zero. The man feels
excited and happy, but instead of getting his reward, he receives a
terrible blow to his head. The story ends with a tone of sadness and
despair, for the king of the bingo game “only felt the dull pain
exploding in his skull, and he knew even as it slipped out of him that
his luck had run out on the stage.” In Ellison’s “The King of the Bingo
Game” the moods of the story vary abruptly provoking a gamut of
different feelings in the reader.

After analyzing style and tone, we have seen how these two
elements of fiction work together to manifest both the author’s and
narrator’s individuality. Style manifests tone; diction and syntax help
develop tone; “the author’s tone [and narrator’s] can be inferred by
the choices he or she makes in the process of ordering and
presenting material” (Pickering 32). On one hand, style is tangible
and concrete, for we can study the syntactical patterns and we can
analyze the word choice and their denotative and connotative
potential. On the other hand, tone is perceived by “reading between
the lines,” by feelings and responses. Tone can influence the
reader’s response, and in this case, it turns into an effective,
manipulative tool for the writer. In sum, in building the fictitious world,
style and tone help reveal the writer’s mentality, craftsmanship,
artistic potential, ideas and feelings. Thus, both elements help
writers “define the world in which they find themselves, wherever
(and whatever) that turns out to be” (Halpen xiii).

Strategies for Analyzing Style and Tone

 1. Analyze the diction of the story. Evaluate the word choices in terms of abstract-
concrete quality, denotative-connotative potential, and dominant level of language.
Discuss the stylistic traits of the telling and their relationship with the other elements
of the story.

2. Study the sentence patterns based on length, form, complexity. How do they
contribute to developing a rhythm within the tale? How do they affect the reading
process? Can they be related to the thematic content of the work?

3. Look for examples of figurative language, repetition or ambiguity. Judge the validity
of their presence in terms of syntactic structure, relevance within the work, and
valuable tools for the reader. How do they facilitate reader response? How do they
attempt to manipulate the reader’s response?

4. Identify the narrator’s attitudes in the text and the reader’s attitudes (your own
attitude) during the reading process. To what extent do you, the reader, share the
narrator’s attitudes?

5. Does the style help you identify the narrator’s attitudes and intentions in the telling of
the tale? Or is the style an obstacle that blocks reader’s understanding and
response? Give textual supports for your position.

6. How does the choice of narrative perspective influence style? Find textual examples
to support your answer.

“the statement of the author”

So far we have discussed the individuality of the writer’s style and
the attitude of the narrative voice in order to approach the creator of
the tale, the author. However, there exists a fundamental element of
fiction that reveals the author’s intention and, in a way, is also the
genesis of the tale itself: the component of fiction known as theme.

Holman and Harmon define theme as “a central or dominating

idea” in a literary work (502). The key word here is “idea.” These
critics are wise in inserting the indeterminate article “a” instead of the
determinate article “the,” for a work of fiction can present, develop or
generate several dominating ideas; to claim that a literary text has
only one possible meaning is to deny its textual and thematic
potential. The two critics later clarify this notion of theme by defining
it as “the abstract concept that is made concrete” (Holman &
Harmon, 502) throughout the writing of the tale. Here the emphasis
is on the creation, that is, the concretization of an idea, which can be
considered a valid definition of theme.

Edgar Roberts explores and elaborates the notion of idea in a

literary work. He states that the word itself, “idea,” is linked “to the
actions of seeing and knowing” (78). Roberts affirms that when we
discuss ideas, “[we] are concentrating on thoughts and concepts”
(78), and that ideas are sometimes difficult to perceive and articulate
because of the great variety of reader interpretations and responses.
Roberts also lists some ways of presenting ideas in fiction: direct
statements by the author, direct statements by the author’s persona,
dramatic statements made by the characters, characters themselves
standing for ideas or the work itself implying ideas (80-81). This list is
potentially dangerous, however, for it disregards other key elements
of fiction, such as setting, tone or imagery, which can be crucial in
the presentation of ideas or themes that configure a tale.

Roberts recognizes that regardless of the writer’s intention, new

meanings and ideas can be perceived and conceived by different
readers. The problem with Roberts’ view is that he does not see
theme as an unifying element perceived throughout all of the
elements of a tale, for he affirms, “Sometimes an idea will have
caused [the writer] to shape his [her] story in a certain way” (79). It is
not “sometimes” but “all the time” that an idea or theme directs the
crafting of a tale. In fact, the author’s idea, message, statement or
intention is the genesis of the story. (This aspect will be discussed by
other critics later).
 James Pickering presents a more philosophical definition of theme.
He affirms that “theme is the central idea or statements about life
that unifies and controls the total work” (20). Later he expands this
notion by adding that theme is not the subject itself but rather “the
comment or statement the author makes” (20) about an issue or
subject. The problem with Pickering’s view is that he sees theme as
“the” central idea, implying the exclusive existence of just one
possible theme. Second, he confers upon the author the role of a
messenger of statements about human nature, a privileged voice,
and he sees the reader as a passive individual whose task is to
capture, accept or at least contemplate such views of life. Even
though Pickering expresses that theme is “the author’s way of
communicating and sharing ideas, perceptions and feelings with his
[her] readers” (20), the nature of this “sharing” is not clearly stated in
his views.

Pickering’s definition is quite valid in the sense that it helps

visualize the difference between theme and topic. Sometimes the
topic is equivocally considered synonymous with theme. However,
topic refers to the general subject matter of a narrative, for example,
love, jealousy or hatred; theme is the articulation of a “statement”
manifesting the author’s or narrator’s personal position on that topic.
Every topic can be developed in radically different directions. Thus,
while theme is always closely related to the topic, identification of the
topic is only the first step in articulating a theme. Theme needs to be
expressed as a complete statement of position, not merely as a
phrase or fragment suggesting the topic.

To reinforce his notion of theme, Pickering discusses four

important aspects. First, following a formalistic view, he affirms that
theme “inevitably emerges from the interplay of the various elements
of the work and is organically and necessarily related to the work’s
total structure” (21). This notion of organic unity and coherence is
quite valid if we contemplate how an idea becomes concrete, for this
process demands structure and texture. Pickering’s second point is
that the element of theme is more prominent or less developed in
some tales than in others. This is a very interesting notion because
here Pickering is seeing theme as one more element of fiction and
not as the organic structure he mentioned before. Even though it is
true that characterization or setting or any of the other elements of
fiction can be emphasized in a story, the author’s goal is generally to
present a statement or theme explicitly or implicitly within his/her
literary work.

Critic Ann Charters shares some of Pickering’s views on theme but

questions others. She accepts Pickering’s structural notion of theme
but emphasizes its complexity by saying, “what makes the statement
of a theme so difficult is that the theme must be true to any and all of
the specific details in the narrative” (1618). Charters also shares
Pickering’s philosophical view of theme by stating that “theme is an
abstract formulation of [a] truth, the author’s vision of the meaning of
life” (1619). However, by using the word “vision” instead of
“statement” about life as Pickering does, Charters diminishes the
authority of the author and leaves room for subjectivity in the
authorial statement as well as more flexibility in the reader’s
response, since, as Charters affirms, “some readers agree
intellectually but not emotionally with the writer’s interpretation”
(1619).

Finally, Charters shares Pickering’s organic, structural view of unity

within the notion of theme, for she states, “the structure and theme of
a story are fused like the body and soul of a reader, their interaction
creates a living pattern” (1619). This living pattern propitiates not
only movement but also a dialogue between author and reader, teller
and listener, telling and tale.

Critic Russell Brown sees theme as “an author-centered term, but

from it follows the idea that readers can read theme out of a work
and recognize a common theme in many different works” (642).
Later Brown de-centers this author-centered term by saying that
theme can be negotiated between the reader and the text, between
the reader and the implied author. Before giving his own definition,
Brown cites the terminology that has been used so far to identify the
concept for theme. He lists phrases such as “dominant content,
central subject, unifying thought or authorial intention” (643). He
even cites terms, such as “motif,” that have been used as a synonym
for theme. After discussing all these choices of terminology, Brown
formulates an interesting definition of theme: “the meeting place of
the semantic levels of a literary work” (643).

Brown’s definition better illustrates the sharing of ideas and

feelings mentioned by Pickering before, as well as the concretization
of an abstract concept proposed by Holman and Harmon. According
to Brown’s view, theme mediates among authors, readers, and texts.
Theme also mediates “between word and world” (Brown 644) by
articulating worldview. Finally, Brown concludes his definition of
theme by stating that “theme remains a valuable and flexible concept
when employed in a way that remains sensitive to the complex
nature of literary expression” (644).

When the term “theme” is used to indicate the main area of

concern, critics often classify themes into “topical” (valid only within a
specific work) or “universal.” There is even an area of literary studies
known as comparative thematics, the study of universal themes or
“cultural themes out of national bodies of literature or out of the
writing of gender-identified groups” (Brown, 645). In sum, discussing
theme implies analyzing a plurality of voices, ideas, intentions,
statements and concerns.

Let’s see how this variety of multi-layered processes of meanings

functions in literary works. If we go back to some of the stories we
have already discussed to illustrate other elements of fiction, theme
emerges as a unifying principle of content and form. For example,
let’s review Poe’s “The Black Cat.” As stated before, some themes
are explicit while others are implicit in the narrative. In this story, the
psychotic narrator talks about “the spirit of perverseness” of his soul.
The subject is thus explicit, but the author’s position is implicit.
Linked to this idea of perverseness, each reader generates his or her
own statement. For some, Poe is telling us that every individual is
capable of undergoing a reversal of personality and falling into total
madness. For other readers, Poe is stating that an individual cannot
prevent his/her mental deterioration even though he/she is conscious
of it. Some others see Poe’s message as a warning that in each
human being the seed of perverseness is latent and waiting to spring
out at any time. Depending on the readers’ background, life
experience and social conditions, interpretations of Poe’s statement
can be quite varied.

Another classic tale that serves as a perfect example of thematic

embodiment is Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown.” Some critics
see its theme explicitly in the sentence “Evil is the nature of
mankind,” implying that we all share this devilish self. Others
recognize theme in the protagonist’s own words when he confesses,
“My faith is gone,” since for those readers, Hawthorne is saying that
losing faith can destroy a person’s life. Others, according to their
religious leanings, see theme linked to moral judgment: how the lack
of human solidarity and trust in human nature can tarnish human
relationships forever, leading to a misanthropic life. More secular
readers will perhaps be more psychologically oriented in their search
for theme. In addition, Hawthorne’s contemporaries probably saw a
thematic element quite different from ours, for the notions of evil and
faith have different meanings and interpretations for different
generations.

The theme of lost innocence as a way of gaining experience has

been treated in many stories we have used in our previous
discussions. However, they present interesting variations that lead to
a myriad of authorial statements and reader interpretations. In
Hemingway’s “The Killers” the loss of innocence is seen in the
description of Nick Adams when the narrative voice declares that
Nick “had never had a towel in his mouth before.” So Nick Adams
loses innocence by facing human evil. In Collier’s “Marigolds” the
heroine loses innocence by facing shame, regret and compassion
when she realizes her unfair behavior toward her neighbor. In
Joyce’s “Araby” the boy suffers a loss of innocence when confronting
the cold, materialistic milieu of the bazaar. As seen, the same basic
subject can be treated in different ways and in different hues. Thus,
different authors’ statements can be as varied as their readers’
reactions, responses and interpretations to their tales.

The subject of love is another favorite topic in fiction, and authorial

statements about this subject nourish many tales. Love as a vivid
élan that provides life to the individual is seen in D.H. Lawrence’s
“The Horse Dealer’s Daughter.” Love in the shape of sacrifice is
developed in Welty’s “A Worn Path.” Love as a torturing and
traumatic experience is depicted in Porter’s “The Jilting of Granny
Weatherall,” and the list of statements of love and its effects on
humankind can go on and on.

To conclude this discussion on theme, we would like to use a more

contemporary and probably less known story that deals with the
theme of love and its implications about human nature in a peculiar
way, Karen Brennan’s “Sacha’s Dog.” In this tale, the nameless dog
sacrifices itself for its owner’s sake. Actually, the dog is the one that
takes care of irresponsible Sacha, who is always drunk. There is a
reversal of roles because Sacha is more of a pet and the dog plays
the role of the owner. So it is not surprising that the narrative voice
says, “But the dog loves Sacha in the neurotic, overbearing way that
most people love their pets.” On one hand, we, as readers, witness
the personification of the dog. On the other, we contemplate and
condemn the dehumanization of Sacha, who, at the end, realizes
that he has not given his dog a name, that he does not know what
sex the animal is, and, mainly, that he does not know he loved the
dog until it is too late. The dog is killed while attempting to save
Sacha. Sacha is aware of this sacrifice, feels sorry and, since he is
drunk, keeps sleeping.

What is Brennan’s statement about love and sacrifice? What is her

view about human nature? In an interview, Brennan answers our
question by emphasizing, in her own view, by means of this story,
“[the] predilection to continue on with our lives, arising from the
inability to solve our losses” (quoted in Turchi, 135). However,
different readers who are pet owners, dog lovers, or quite the
opposite, would generate different statements to satisfy their
different responses and needs.
 Theme has been the last fiction component of our discussion
about the short story. We have seen how its traditional definition as
being the main idea in a literary work has been left behind. Flexibility
and movement are its main traits. Theme cannot be permanently
fixed, for each reader reconfigures the author’s view of life and
evaluates his/her message. Besides, each reader generates a theme
throughout his/her reading process. So dynamism continues, for
theme is not only the statement by the author but also the intention
of the writer, the concern of the teller, the message of the tale and,
mainly, the interpretation of the reader. To discuss theme is to
explore a plurality of meanings, a chorus of voices that are present,
evoked and developed by means of tales.

Strategies for Analyzing Theme

1. As a reader, what do you think is the author’s statement of life presented in the
story? Do you share this view emotionally or intellectually? Formulate your own
statement and justify it using the text.

2. What main fictional components of the tale contribute to develop theme? How do
they accomplish that?

3. Can the organization of the tale be considered a function of an idea? Is the theme
implicit or explicit in this narrative structure? Defend your answer using textual
supports.
4. Analyze the theme(s) of the story by first identifying the main topic and then
articulating the author’s position on that topic. How does the author make this subject
his/her own? How do you as a reader make the subject your own in articulating
theme? Use the text to justify your answers.
 Chapter III
The Short-Short Story:
Reshaping Story Substance
 A Brief Introduction to the “Short-Short”
Story
“Only a fool would rigidly define the short-short because, above all else, it must be an
innovative, attention-grabbing exploration of that perennial mystery that is the origin and
end of expression itself: language.”

Charles Johnson (“Afterwords,” Sudden Fiction, 233)

Just as length is both a defining feature and a problematic element

for characterizing what is traditionally known as “short story,” it is
central to a subcategory of that genre frequently called short-short
story, or in some cases, micro fiction, flash fiction, or sudden fiction.
In both types of stories, it seems that we must resign ourselves to
utilizing a term which is comparative by nature without ever being
able to specify the exact length to which we are referring. Clearly,
however, whatever length is considered adequate, acceptable,
necessary or reasonable for a narrative to be labeled a “short” story,
it must be even shorter to be called a “short-short.”

While many critics and writers consider this subgenre to be a

modern, even experimental form, it could also be argued that its
history goes back to the very beginnings of narrative form. For
example, anecdotes and fables, two of the very earliest forms of
narrative, are both invariably quite brief in length, as are myths and
parables, two other ancient forms. Some students of literature and
literary theorists might question whether there is any significant
difference in the nature of the brevity typical of early narrative types
as compared to the carefully crafted brevity of contemporary short-
short texts. There is little, if any, essential difference in the sense
that, in both cases, it is the brevity itself which constrains the
content, creates much of the impact, and prompts the reader/critic to
respond in certain ways. It is possible to argue, though, that
contemporary short-short stories generally give much less emphasis
to plot, choosing rather to exploit other aspects of narrative as their
means of storytelling, as will be discussed further. In other words,
modern brevity is almost always a strategy purposely employed by
the writer for effect rather than simply a matter of abbreviated
content, happenchance, or didactic convenience.

But before we get into the techniques for writing and analyzing
short-short stories, it is worth noting that even within this subgenre
there is a wide gamut of possibilities. For example, it is interesting to
ponder the claim that Julius Caesar’s famous assertion—“I came. I
saw. I conquered.”—could actually be considered both the shortest
and one of the oldest short stories ever told. There is no question
that what has been considered short, and what has been considered
acceptably short, has varied through time. Many literary historians
have hypothesized that one of the reasons the short-story form
developed substantially in the nineteenth century is because during
that time periodicals and newspapers became much more available
and accessible to a great many people. It was also a time when
public education flourished, thus producing more readers. In
comparison to the characteristically huge volume of Victorian novels
(which often ran hundreds of pages and were frequently a product of
their having been originally published in weekly installments rather
than in their entirety), a twenty- or thirty-page story would surely be
considered short, even though by contemporary standards, it would
be considered long.

Many contemporary critics have suggested that the greater brevity

of the modern short story is related to the faster pace of our lives in
general, in the sense that many people no longer enjoy, or do not
take the time for, reading more extensive texts. Even cursory
examination of the stories included in the multitude of short-story
anthologies demonstrates that there is little consensus on what
should constitute “short.” Perhaps it is wise to keep in mind the
following assertion of Irving Howe, in the “Introduction” to Short-
Shorts: “Divisions of genre serve a purpose somewhat like
scaffolding: useful as preliminaries but in the end to be discarded”
(xiv-xv).

Given the disparity of working definitions for “short story,” it is not

surprising that there is no definitive definition for “short-short” either.
Some people have attempted to put a limit on the number of words
or pages necessary or acceptable for a story to be labeled “short-
short.” Others, however, while incorporating length as an issue in
one way or another, give more importance to the quality of the story,
particularly its evocative power. Some readers might even wonder
just how important the choice of a name and a definition really are.
The answer is that they are indisputably of great significance.

Beneath the naming and defining lie larger issues related to our
basic concepts of literature and genre, and even deeper, related to
more fundamental issues of how naming and language, in general,
function in terms of perception and attitudes, that is, in terms of how
we see the world and position ourselves in interacting with our
surroundings. They also relate to polemical areas of literary
authority, power, and prestige. For example, who is given or claims
the authority for deciding the criteria to define a type of text is a
power issue. Editors and publishers also exercise power in
authorizing the publication of a literary text. The inclusion of a short-
short story in a literary journal, for example, gives it the prestige of
being called “literature,” and the prestige of the publisher affects the
seriousness with which the author is viewed by readers and critics
alike. The fact that short stories are virtually never published singly,
but rather as part of a collection or a magazine or journal, contributes
to problematic perceptions of this subgenre as a “minor” kind of
writing, which is even more the case for short-short stories. The fact
that there is considerable ongoing debate revolving around these
issues of names and definitions is testimony not only to the
magnitude of their importance but also to the dynamic nature of
literary studies.

The dynamic quality of short-short stories seems inevitably to lead

to difficulties in defining it. The descriptions which follow, however,
provide a gamut of options for furthering understanding of the nature
of this potent narrative form. In the “Introduction” to Sudden Fiction
International, Charles Baxter describes short-short stories as
“explosive moments […,] visions of tremendous clarity,” while
characterizing them as “a suggestion—a play of light—rather than an
explicit insight” (12). In Sudden Fiction, Robert Shapard describes
them in terms of their effects: “Their fundamental quality […] is life.
Highly compressed, highly charged, insidious, protean, sudden,
alarming, tantalizing, these short-shorts confer form on small corners
of chaos […]” (“Introduction” xvi).

Although definitions and characterizations of short-short stories

vary considerably, even radically, those critics and authors who have
attempted to describe them concur that short-short stories not only
require great skill to execute but are equally demanding of their
readers. John L’Hereux affirms that “[T]he short-short story is an
exercise in virtuosity that tightens the circle of mystery surrounding
what we know, or what we think we know. […. A] really good short-
short, whatever else it may be, is a story we can’t help reading fast,
and then re-reading, and again, but no matter how many times we
read it, we’re not quite through it yet” (“Afterwords,” Sudden Fiction,
228). Charles Baxter seems to agree, although he gives greater
emphasis to the role of the reader: “[i]ts intervals are unexpected and
must continue to resonate when the piece is over. It’s a test of the
reader’s ability to fly, using minimal materials” (“Afterwords,” Sudden
Fiction, 229).

Critics have differing perspectives on what causes the impact of

short-short fiction. James Thomas asserts, “Like all fiction that
matters, their success depends not on their length but on their depth,
their clarity of vision, their human significance—the extent to which
the reader is able to recognize in them the real stuff of real life”
(“Introduction,” Flash Fiction 12). In referring to the title of his book,
Thomas clarifies that they “called them ‘flash’ fictions because there
[is] no enforced pause in the reader’s concentration, no break in the
field of vision. They [are] apprehended ‘all at once.’” Robert Shapard
claims that “the essence of story lies little in theory and not at all in
length […]—but in wishes, dreams, and sometimes truth” (Sudden
Fiction, xvi).

However, most of the critics and writers of short-short fiction would

probably agree with the statement that short-short fiction is “serious
fiction that’s fun to read” (Shapard and Thomas, “Introduction,”
Sudden Fiction Continued). They appear to share a perception of
short-short story as “a tiny, highly polished gem of narration”
(Goodman, “Introduction,” 75 Short Masterpieces). Like all literature,
short-short fiction can be defined by what it is, what it is not, how it
works, and its effects on the reader, each aspect of which is more
significant than any single definition.

In the introduction to Sudden Fiction International, Charles Baxter

comments the following: “I suspect these [short-short] stories appeal
to so many readers so much now because the stories are on so
many various thresholds: they are between poetry and fiction, the
story and the sketch, prophecy and reminiscence, the personal and
the crowd. […] Which means that, as a form, they are open, and
exist in a state of potential” (25). In other words, it is their evocative
quality which justifies their being called “literature” and their
provocative quality which engages readers’ interest.

The brevity of short-short stories maximizes their potential for the

reader while simultaneously demanding reader participation in order
to “complete the picture” or “finish” the story. In the rest of this
chapter, we will take a closer look at how brevity is handled both by
the writers of short-short stories and by their readers. Happily for
contemporary readers, today’s short-short fiction is characterized by
its power of suggestion rather than by its didactic tone. This
empowers readers with infinite possibilities for ascribing meaning to
even the shortest story.

Analyzing the Tale: “the stated and the unstated”

In analyzing a short-short story, it is often possible for the reader to
approach it much as s/he would a more traditional short story, by
examining “standard” formalistic elements of fiction—as seen in the
previous chapter—first separately, then in relation to each other, as a
whole. However, many short-short texts require innovative strategies
for effective interpretation because of their abbreviated size or
unconventional content, as will be discussed later. But in every
analysis of a short-short literary text, length is a crucial factor. Of
course, length is a consideration in the analysis of any literary text,
but in short-short stories, what is left unsaid is at least as important
as what is explicitly stated. In other words, since the quantity of text
itself is so very limited, each word “counts” a great deal; its
significance increases in direct proportion to the total size of the text.
Each word in the text is the result of a carefully considered decision
to include it, just as in poetry.

Thus, the first point to consider in analyzing a short-short story is

the fact that the author has purposely chosen to use that mode as a
means of expression. No matter what the topic under discussion
might be, a writer always has multiple possibilities for structuring
his/her ideas. For example, if a person has an idea s/he wishes to
communicate about nature, s/he may choose to express it through
music, sculpture, journalism, painting, or architecture, among many
others. It is worth remembering that the very first step is making the
broad choice to use literature as a medium. Within literature, of
course, there are also many options for expressive channels. So the
decisions to use prose, then fiction, then short-short story all
represent artistic choices. Writers have frequently asserted that their
material “insisted” upon taking a certain shape, but most critics begin
with the assumption that it is the writer who initially molds the
material in the manner s/he finds most appropriate and promising,
according to the content, the writer’s areas of competency, and
personal preference.

Because of the nature of short-short stories and their restricted

length, writers of such texts tend to focus more insistently on a single
aspect of the story, although it is certainly possible to find all the
basic elements of fiction present in condensed form. As mentioned
earlier, plot is one basic aspect which tends to be less emphasized in
a short-short story than in traditional short stories. Plot is generally
understood to refer to the organized sequence of events in a story.
Short-short stories, because of their reduced size, frequently use
one or more strategies to minimize that aspect. For example, a
short-short story may focus exclusively, or almost exclusively, on a
single event. When that happens, the event is generally a very
crucial one, for example, an incident or moment which radically
affects the main character. Previous events may be hinted at or even
mentioned, but they are rarely explicitly developed. Introductory
details are generally greatly reduced or may even be eliminated
totally.

Bret Lott’s one-page story “Night” is an interesting illustration of the

above. The plot is traditional in the sense that it is a series of clearly
related actions. This is the story of a man who wakes up in the night,
thinks he can hear their child breathing in the next room, and gets up
to check, only to find that the child’s room is empty, at which point he
goes back to his own room. We are given little details to substantiate
each step of this process—the coldness of the floor, his wife’s
breathing, the darkness. However, although this scene may initially
appear quite mundane, one little phrase in the next-to-last paragraph
changes our entire perception of it: “The room, of course, was
empty.” Readers have been given no previous clue to prepare them
for the empty room (and in fact, never receive an explanation for that
“of course”), but the phrase itself gives a sense of firm finality. At the
same time, it provokes a very profound question: why is the
emptiness of the room so predictable?

As if in anticipation of possible reader reaction that this is nothing

more than the “empty-nest syndrome” parents sometimes suffer
when their children grow up and leave home, the details which follow
immediately eliminate that possibility. The missing child was young,
as shown by the “small blue desk” in the child’s room, covered with
“colored pencils and scraps of construction paper, a bottle of white
glue.” That the child’s absence was unplanned and deeply mourned
is demonstrated in the fact that “[t]hey had left the bed just as their
child had made it, the spread merely thrown over bunched and
wrinkled sheets, the pillow crooked at the head.” The final statement
of the story irrevocably confirms the reader’s worst fear and the
parents’ anguish, even though it ironically speaks of continuity: “This
happened each night, like a dream, but not.” The father’s longing for
his child is clear in his desperate hope to find the child once more
back in bed, while his frustration is manifested in his posture upon
returning to his own room, “his hands at his sides, his fingertips
helpless.” In this example, the description of the sequence of actions
tells the story of a parent’s grief over the loss of his child, while
leaving the explanation for that loss unstated. What is most
unexpected about this plot is that it deals with the aftermath of a
significant event, rather than with the event itself. It is the father’s
story which is being told, and it is told virtually entirely through the
actions themselves.

In a short-short story, when a main action or event is given, the

events following this crucial central moment, which would constitute
the “tying up of loose ends” or dénouement of a traditional short
story, are usually left unsaid, although there are often clues
encouraging the reader to mentally continue the story in a certain
direction. This strategy, used by storywriters and their narrators in
plot development, of simply ending the story—often at a crucial
moment—is known as an “open” ending, in the sense that no explicit
“conclusion” is provided. It is closely tied to the issue of “closure,”
which refers to the sense of an ending, both in relation to how the
story terminates and to the effect of that termination on the reader.
Traditional short stories tend to conscientiously “complete” the story
by providing clear resolution of the main conflict, while contemporary
short and short-short stories tend more towards “open” endings. It is
then essentially up to each reader to decide for himself/herself what
the conclusion could or would be. In narratology, this constitutes one
kind of “ambiguity,” a lack of conclusiveness.

Traditional formalistic criticism resists the issue of ambiguity by

asserting that the different aspects of a literary text relate to each
other in ways which inevitably lead to a single conclusion. Poe, one
of the first short-story theorists, refers to this as “unity of plot,” in
which no part can be eliminated without damaging the whole, and he
asserts that a carefully crafted plot leads to “unity of effect” on the
reader. Post-structuralist theories, on the other hand, tend to
perceive ambiguity as an inherent opportunity for multiple
constructions of meanings (interpretations) because they believe all
language use is inevitably imbibed with “indeterminacy.” In other
words, linguistic meaning is invariably dynamic because meaning
always depends on the context; this makes it impossible to proclaim
any final or fixed meaning.

It is important to keep in mind, however, that neither ambiguity nor

indeterminacy should be understood as validating every and all
interpretations of a literary text; the content itself sets certain
guidelines and, in a way, even limits possible interpretations. But
since meaning can never be permanently fixed (even if that level of
precision were possible), neither can an ending be truly “closed.”
Nevertheless, there are variable degrees of closure in different
narratives. It is also true that readers may experience different
degrees of closure from reading the very same literary text.

The issue of closure becomes even more complex in those short-

short stories which are so innovative that they may even be
considered “plotless.” Such a condition depends upon the working
definition of plot being used in a given situation. It is certainly true
that short-short stories frequently push the limits of traditional
definitions of plot, in the sense that there may be no actual sequence
of events. However, if plot is defined as a “movement” in the
storytelling, a type of plot exists even in these stories. The
movement may be intangible, as in a change of attitude or
perspective, but it always involves a change of some sort. Another
significant aspect of plot to take into account is the issue of conflict.
Traditional plots build up to a conflict, which is then resolved in some
way. Innovative plot development—considered by some as
“plotless”—may only hint at a conflict or set the foundation for
possible conflict. In such cases, the endings tend to be very open
both because the limited length of the story impedes extensive
development and because closure is frequently antagonistic to the
spirit of short-short fiction.

For example, Gregory Burnham’s short-short story (one and a half

pages long) called “Subtotals” begins with the following: “Number of
refrigerators I’ve lived with: 18.” Every sentence which follows also
begins with “number of,” completed by different categories, facts,
and statistics. Is there a deliberate sequence of events here? Is the
sequence of statements organized? As readers, we probably
assume that the sequence is deliberate and then look for the logic in
this long, single paragraph of listed numbers. What are we left with?
A complex character sketch, presented through the types of
numbers chosen to be shared and the actual data provided. The
movement in this story comes from our increased understanding of
the first person narrator with each new fact, a movement which is
intangible and immeasurable both in terms of comprehension and in
terms of autobiography. Although some of the statements include
verbs, such as “[n]umber of times I forgot what I was going to say,”
most are articulated using past participles to diminish the actual
“doing,” and most do not include a subject pronoun either, which is
another strategy used to diminish or eliminate personal involvement.
The reader cannot really say that nothing has happened in the
narrator’s life, but the way in which the events are communicated is
essentially passive, a nontraditional plot, at the very least. However,
by communicating these facts, the first-person narrator is revealing
past and potential conflicts within himself and between himself and
the people around him.

Another strategy employed in short-short stories to minimize length

is judicious character development. Frequently this entails the simple
strategy of limiting the number of characters included, sometimes
drastically. A short-short story often has only one or two characters,
and only very rarely does it have an entire “cast” of characters. In
other cases, the strategy of limiting the means used to develop a
main character is exploited. Short-short stories may employ any or
all of the traditional forms, discussed in earlier sections, which are
used to develop a literary character, but no matter which ones are
used, it is generally done in an abbreviated or condensed manner.

For example, short-short stories rarely use description extensively.

Rather, they let the character’s words, thoughts, and/or actions
suggest the kind of person involved, and once again it is left to the
reader to deduce the personality type, strengths and limitations.
When description is included, it is usually limited to a very few
descriptive words or phrases. For instance, in “Thank You, Ma’am,” a
story by Langston Hughes (which—at three and a half pages—is
actually quite long for a “short-short”), the main character is
introduced simply as “a large woman with a large purse that had
everything in it but a hammer and nails.” Both of these details are
crucial to developing the story: the purse is the catalyst for the
relationship she forms with the young boy who tries to steal it, and
her size is what allows her to turn a potentially disastrous situation
into an opportunity to do a good deed.

No other explicit description of this woman is given throughout the

story. Rather, we come to understand what kind of person she is
through her name, Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones, through her
conversations with the boy who tries to snatch her purse, and from
the way she treats him. Her name, starting with the label “Mrs.” and
ending with three last names, suggests a series of relationships and
the importance she gives to marriage, although she now lives alone.
The description of her home as “a kitchenette-furnished room at the
back of the house” where “other roomers” could be heard suggests
that she has very limited financial means. Nevertheless, her sharing
of her meager food supplies, including “half of her ten-cent cake,”
reveals her generous spirit and caring nature. This empathetic trait is
reinforced through her admission that “I have done things, too, which
I would not tell you, son—neither tell God, if He didn’t already know.
Everybody’s got something in common.” These brief comments also
suggest a difficult life, strong religious beliefs and a deep
understanding of human nature. Most importantly, the last sentence
—“Everybody’s got something in common”—demonstrates that she
chooses to focus on what people share rather than on what
separates them, thus revealing her essentially positive outlook on life
and the importance she gives to human relationships. These few
details provide the reader with sufficient information to understand
both how the woman is capable of reversing a potentially negative
situation and why she chooses to deal with it in the way she does.

Again, it is very important to pay strict attention to what is said,

how it is said, and what is not said. For example, in “The Lampshade
Vendor,” a two-page story by Allen Woodman, a salesman is
described as “a white-haired man dressed in a black and frayed
tuxedo.” The addition of the conjunction “and” between the two
adjectives (which normally would be separated only by a comma
when before a noun) has the immediate effect of giving greater
emphasis to the word “frayed.” This then becomes a clue for the
reader to pay special attention to that implied condition of “better
days in the past,” “lost glory,” or even poverty, in analyzing the
salesman. We know from this simple description that the man is
elderly, that he had a more prosperous life when younger, and—in
conjunction with the title—that he is struggling through a difficult time
in his life, since one would expect to find neither a lampshade vendor
wearing a tuxedo nor someone who owns a tuxedo selling
lampshades.

The fact that he is wearing that tuxedo can be attributed to many

possible reasons: he is poor and does not have other clothes; he
used to wear it for other, more gratifying activities and likes to be
reminded of them; he wears it in an attempt to appear to be more
than “just” a lampshade vendor; he wears it to maintain a sense of
dignity or a more positive self-image, and so forth. This tentative list
of possible motives all contribute to enriching the simple description
given at the beginning of this paragraph; in other words, for the
active reader, they offer a great deal in terms of character
development.

Another example of minimalist but significant description is found

in Raymond Carver’s story “The Father,” which is less than two
pages long. In this text, a little baby who “did not smile or laugh” in
his bed is eventually described by his mother, sisters, and
grandmother, who are gathered around him, as resembling his
father, a man who, in the last sentence, is finally described as a
person whose “face was white and without expression.” The father
appears to have no special importance in the story, and until the last
sentence, all we know about him is that he hears the conversation
from the kitchen and turns around in his chair. However, this single
connection, the resemblance, transforms him into the key figure, and
his principal trait, replicated in the baby, is shown to be his emotional
detachment from the others.

Because there is a single situation (that of trying to find family

resemblances in the baby) and because the two males in the family
are both shown to be not only emotionally remote but unnaturally so
—for we would expect both of them to be more responsive in that
shared family moment—it becomes clear that this family is both
divided along gender lines and lacking in the unity and sharing
optimal in a family. There seems to be little hope of living “happily
ever after.” Two words, “without expression,” encompass the
problematic personality of the father, the main conflict—the
interpersonal distance between him and the women in the family,
and suggests how this family situation is and will continue to be:
unhappy. This is never stated explicitly, but it is highlighted through
the similarities in the initial description of the baby and the final
description of the father; they also give a doomed sense of closure,
in spite of the newness of the baby, whose presence, in other
circumstances, could suggest a bright, open future. Thus, the very
brevity of the scene, the sparseness of the descriptions, the relative
immobility of the family members, and even the dialogue—which is
full of short or unfinished sentences—all suggest truncated potential
and combine to create a frustrating, negative ending which
encompasses a lifetime, although reduced to a moment.

Setting is another basic element of fiction which also tends to be

developed in direct proportion to the length of the text. Frequently, a
reader will find a single setting in a short-short story, since the short
length curtails both the range of events and their contexts. In the
stories mentioned above, the setting is very controlled: “The
Lampshade Vendor” has only one physical setting, the store
(although the buyer’s home is referred to), and in “The Father,” the
only setting is the bedroom. “Thank You, Ma’am” has two settings,
the street where the robbery attempt takes place and the woman’s
home. Because the street setting is merely a place for the initial
action to take place, it is barely mentioned, while the second setting,
the woman’s home, is described in considerable detail because it is
significant for understanding the main character’s lifestyle, mentality,
and ethics.

Setting can be minimized to an extreme. For example, in Lon

Otto’s three-paragraph, one-page story “Love Poems,” there is no
explicit setting, although we have an indication of a time of year. The
story revolves around a man who has written a love poem for his
mistress for St. Valentine’s Day, a poem which is so beautiful that he
decides to exploit it by making a copy for his wife, another for “a
woman in England, a poet who really understands his work,” and yet
another for “”one of the more prestigious literary magazines” for
possible publication. This poem, we are told in the second sentence,
“is very beautiful; it expresses, embodies a passionate, genuine
emotion, emotion of a sort he hardly realized himself capable of,
tenderness that is like the tenderness of a better man.” The physical
setting is implicit in the references to the writer typing up copies and
putting one in his files, but it is never made explicit because it is not
really of any importance in this short-short story.

What is most important here is the man’s attitudes towards his

literary talent and the women in his life, in other words, the
psychological setting. He is amazed at his own ability to produce
poetry: “He cannot believe it, it is so good. It is the best poem he has
ever written.” He then callously proceeds to undermine its
“passionate, genuine emotion” not only by sending it to three
different women, but also by attempting to exploit it commercially. By
the end of the third paragraph, several phrases of the second
sentence have become very ironic. Clearly he was right in not
considering himself truly capable of “passionate, genuine” emotion; it
is difficult to claim “genuine” love when it applies equally to three
women in his life. The phrase “like the tenderness of a better man,”
which originally sounded quite humble, also becomes ironically
significant. His “tenderness” is totally self-serving, and while it may
appear to be real, it is at best a clever imitation of the true
tenderness of “a better man,” which he seems to be incapable of
being. In the end, he has manifested his ability to exploit words, but
not any ability to truly love. The plural “poems” of the title serves to
underscore the irony of the situation, since it refers to the many
copies he makes of the single poem rather than to a series of
different poems professing his love. The only setting of significance
here is totally internal, the writer’s mindset. It is the type of situation
which can and does take place almost anywhere, and the lack of an
explicit physical setting emphasizes that reality.
 In contrast, in Bret Lott’s one-page story “Night,” which was
discussed previously, the setting is crucially important, as the title
suggests. In fact, it dominates the content from start to finish. A
child’s absence during the day would not necessarily be cause for
concern. Neither would it be likely that both parents were home
during the day, much less so very attentive to listening to their child’s
breathing. The fact that it is night allows the drama of their grief to
unfold, and the cold and the darkness underscore the grimness of
the parents’ situation and the sad, negative atmosphere of that
home. It is at night when their emotions are most likely to take over
and they are least able to control their thoughts. When the father
arrives at the child’s room, it is “as dark, as hollow as his own,”
providing no relief from the terrible reality of their loss. And of course,
it is at night when we are most prone to dreaming, in this case in two
very different modes: initially, the father dreams (in the sense of
wishing or hoping) that the child is back where s/he belongs, while
later, he finds the actual situation so inconceivable and so
undesirable that it feels as though it were part of a dream (in this
case, a nightmare), although he is wide awake. The night becomes
almost another actor in this drama, both initiating the grieving ritual
and perpetuating it. However, even though setting is extremely
important here, there is little actual description of it, in keeping with
the minimalist nature of short-short fiction.

One very unusual, intriguing example of short-short fiction

experimentation with setting is found in Jamaica Kincaid’s two-page
story “Girl.” The entire work, with the exception of two phrases which
are italicized to differentiate them from the rest of the text, is a single
paragraph made up of a series of instructions on how a young girl
should fulfill her duties properly. It begins as follows: “Wash the white
clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap, wash the color
clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry, don’t walk
barehead in the hot sun, cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil
[…].” As can be seen, not even the punctuation is used traditionally
in this story. Neither are readers given any explicit descriptions of
characters or setting; rather, they must make deductions from the
instructions themselves.

In “Girl,” the types of activities and the ways in which they are
discussed lead to a mental construction of the setting. Among
others, details such as “sing benna,” growing dasheen,” “wharf-rat
boys,” “how you sweep a yard,” “how to make doukona,” “how to
catch a fish,” “this is how you grow okra,” and “when buying cotton to
make yourself a nice blouse,” contribute to a picture of a tropical
setting, perhaps an island or port town. It is also a situation in which
both the person speaking and the girl listening are part of the
working class, which is apparent both from the type of instructions
being given for serving others and certain comments, such as “this is
how to make ends meet.” The topics chosen for discussion, the
details of the information which is shared, and the constant
admonitions of the speaker—which will be discussed in greater detail
in the next section—eventually create a clear image of the situation
and the setting, without ever addressing them explicitly. And in this
case, setting is fundamental to understanding the characters and
conflict. In this way, in classic short-short style, Kincaid builds a
complete story from what initially appears to be merely a brief
monologue.

Hopefully, the examples given above have suggested strategies

for analyzing short-short fiction which could be extended to a
discussion of possible themes. As stated previously, the
conscientious examination of style, structure, and vocabulary which
is characteristic of “close reading” is always an essential part of
analyzing the tale itself; it is even more significant when delving into
issues related to the telling of the story. The issue of “theme” or
“dominating idea” cannot really be addressed until tone and narrator
have been discussed. Short-short fiction sometimes challenges the
traditional concept of theme, at least in the sense of a message,
especially when it is perceived as being “the” (in the sense of the
only possible) message inscribed in the text by the author. In
addition, the narrative voice and tone often influence not only the
style, but also the theme, of the text.

Analyzing the Telling of the Tale: “the power of the

speaker”
Experienced readers and critics of prose, whether literary or
otherwise, are well aware that the very nature of narrative demands
that the narrative voice be taken into consideration; for every story,
there must also be a storyteller. At the most basic level, the author
chooses or invents a story to be told. However, it is not the author
who really relates the story; rather, the author designates a narrative
voice to do the actual telling. It is crucially important not to confuse
the author with the narrator in analyzing the story.

Traditionally, the storyteller has been called the narrator, and as

the name suggests, has even been thought of much like a “real”
person who narrates. This has frequently led to confusion in terms of
who is really responsible for telling the story. It has also, in many
cases, increased the temptation to equate the narrator with the
author. Because of these complications, contemporary narratologists
tend to speak of “narrative voice” rather than “narrator,” although
either term may be used. Both terms acknowledge that for a text to
be a narrative, there must be an act of telling, and that act implies a
teller.

Moreover, the presence of a teller implies a perspective, in the

sense that every teller is narrating the story as s/he perceives it,
which will never be exactly the same as other narrators might
perceive (and tell) it. The narrator always approaches the story in a
personal way, taking a position on “what happens” and how it should
be presented to the reader. This goes hand-in-hand with linguistic
theories which emphasize that language usage is not simply a one-
sided expressive act on the part of the author; rather, it is a
communicative act, which implies readers as “receivers” of the act of
telling. As a result, the communicative situation—who is speaking, to
whom, under what conditions, and so forth—must be contemplated
in determining a meaning for what is said.

The narrative style, that is, the manner in which the story is told,
depends upon who is doing that telling. This is especially obvious in
the case of “first-person” narrators, whose language register (degree
of formality), vocabulary, grammar, degree of reticence or loquacity,
and so on, all depend upon the personality, level of education,
background, and perspective of the “I” that is speaking. It is essential
to keep in mind that those characteristics are all strategic choices
related to the author’s choice of narrator. Clearly, a story narrated
from the perspective of a five-year-old child would necessarily vary
quite dramatically from versions of the same story told, for example,
from the perspective of the child’s blind grandmother, or sixteen-
year-old sister, or a mother who is a legal assistant, or a father who
is illiterate. Not only would each one have his/her own perception of
the tale, but also their language use would probably differ
considerably. In stories where the narrative voice speaks as “I,” it is
usually much easier to identify the important characteristics of that
voice than when it is less direct. In fact, first-person narrators
actively, openly assume the role of a “narrator,” usually as a
participant in the story being told, but occasionally from the outside,
as an observer.

In Kincaid’s story “Girl,” which was discussed earlier, the narrative

voice is never explicitly identified. However, by the end of the text, it
is clear that the speaker is both female and in a position of authority
over the girl being spoken to, possibly her mother. What allows us to
make these assertions? First of all, there’s the obvious grammatical
situation of the commands being given. The entire text is an almost
unbroken series of commands, which in itself necessitates a
speaker. In addition, the fact that they are presented directly (without
the use of quotation marks), rather than in the form of a reproduced
or reported dialogue, implies that they emanate from an “I.” This
combines two narrative strategies: the use of direct speech, in the
form of commands, and the format of a monologue, a single,
continuous speech event. The lack of quotation marks functions as a
strategy to make it seem like an actual speech act which is taking
place, rather than a fictional dialogue; it makes the whole speech
event more immediate and “real,” and therefore, increases its impact
on the reader.

The result is very powerful: the reader is drawn into the “listening”
position of the young girl being instructed, as the voice attempts to
intimidate both the girl and the reader with its authoritative tone. The
harsh comments interspersed among the instructions enhance that
tone and further intimidate: “try to walk like a lady and not like the
slut you are so bent on becoming,” “you are not a boy, you know.”
The issue of “sluttiness” is clearly paramount, for in spite of the
story’s brevity, it is included four separate times. Additionally, the
choice of the word “slut,” which is so strong and so derogatory,
focuses the issue very negatively; there is a huge difference, for
example, between being “unladylike” and being “slutty.” Specific
vocabulary choices such as this are strong clues, especially when
repeated, revealing narrative attitudes and perspectives.

The narrative voice is speaking on different levels simultaneously.

On one hand, the speaker is giving pragmatic instructions which will
help the girl survive: “this is how to iron your father’s khaki shirt,”
“this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest,” “this
is how you smile at someone you don’t like at all,” and so forth.
However, as the instructions progress, it is clear that the speaker has
little faith in the girl and expects the worse: “this is how to behave in
the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way
they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against
becoming,” “after all you are really going to be the kind of woman
who the baker won’t let near the bread.” Again, vocabulary clues are
significant; by adding the word “immediately,” the speaker is making
it clear that she thinks men will inevitably perceive the girl as a slut.
Thus, the narrative attitude is two-sided: helpful on the surface,
undermining in the side comments and assumptions.

Readers can also perceive the difficult social situation of these two
females. Almost all the instructions are geared toward satisfying
appearances and pleasing those in positions superior to their own—
their employers and the men in their lives: “this is how to bully a
man; this is how a man bullies you,” “this is how to make a good
medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child,”
“always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s
stomach,” “this is how to love a man, and if this doesn’t work there
are other ways.” Their poverty is implicit in the speaker saying “this is
how you make ends meet,” “be sure to wash each day, even if it is
with your own spit,” “this is how you sweep a yard.” A lack of formal
education is suggested in certain grammatical structures: “the color
clothes” rather than “colored,” “don’t walk barehead” instead of
“bareheaded,” “move quick” rather than “quickly.” What seemingly
begins as a generous passing on of learned wisdom is transformed
into a manual for survival, provided by a voice of experience whose
own life experience has made the speaker cynical, resigned, and
unsympathetic.

Only twice does the young girl interrupt the tirade (as indicated by
the use of italics), once to defend herself by saying “but I don’t sing
benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school,” and again at
the end, to inquire “but what if the baker won’t let me feel the bread?”
The first time her comment is totally ignored by the speaker, and the
second time, her question only serves as an opportunity for the
speaker to berate her further. By then, the reader—like the young
listener—has most likely taken one of two positions: either unhappily
but totally intimidated by what the speaker says and how it is said, or
totally rebellious against being maligned and ordered around by the
speaker. In this story, the content and tone of the speaker transforms
the title, “Girl.” Normally the word girl suggests innocence and
youthful charm; here it comes almost an epithet, used generically
and patronizingly instead of the girl’s personal name. Used that way,
it underscores the hopelessness of the young listener from ever
breaking out of that socially constructed pattern of inferiority.

This narrative voice, like all narrative voices, employs a number of

strategies through which it attempts to manipulate the reader into
reacting in desired ways by constructing certain types of meanings.
The enhanced immediacy of the “first person” narrative voice,
achieved through the use of commands, in combination with the
unforgiving, negative tone and the almost dizzying onslaught of so
many instructions given all at once, appeal to the reader’s empathy
for the young girl. At the same time, they induce the reader to feel as
frustrated and miserable as the young girl being addressed. As
frequently happens, this type of very “personal” narrative voice
comes across as the most “realistic” and even “real.” However, the
reader should always keep in mind that the choice of narrative voice
is invariably a strategy for presenting a narrative in ways designed to
engage the reader as fully as possible.

In Margaret Atwood’s “My Life as a Bat,” a first-person narrator is

used to enhance credibility and appeal to the reader’s empathy.
There is an unusual twist, however: the narrator is speaking as a bat,
or rather as a person who “in my previous life” was a bat, which
explains why credibility and empathy are issues. This nearly-five-
page story is divided into five small sections, each one of which
examines a chosen topic—“Reincarnation,” “Nightmares,” “Vampire
Films,” “The Bat as Deadly Weapon,” and “Beauty”—from a
perspective empathetic to bats. Since, as the narrator
acknowledges, most humans tend to react negatively towards bats,
this choice of narrator becomes in itself a very powerful strategy for
fomenting tolerance and respect.

In each instance, a case is made for better understanding of and

empathy for the position of bats. For example, in “Reincarnation,” the
narrator asserts: “Conventional wisdom has it that reincarnation as
an animal is a punishment for past sins, but perhaps it is a reward
instead. At least a resting place.” The narrator substantiates that
possibility by affirming that bats “do not inflict” in that “they kill
without mercy, but without hate,” and “[t]hey never gloat.” The
implied contrast is that people do inflict pain, do kill in hate, and do
gloat, which suggests moral superiority in the bat. In “Nightmares,”
the bat is terrified by the threat of being trapped outside during “the
burnout of day” when “the sun will rise like a balloon on fire and I will
be blasted with its glare, shriveled to a few small bones.” This
scenario prompts the bat to comment: “Whoever said that light was
life and darkness nothing? For some of us, the mythologies are
different.” Once again, irony is used strategically to make a point, in
the title, since humans associate nightmares, as the name suggests,
with the darkness of the night, but for the bat, it is daytime which is
potentially frightening. Again, the original perspective of the narrator
leads readers to perceive, or at least consider, putting themselves in
the position of a very different “other.” Irony is an important strategy
in this short-short story, especially because it is used in a subtle,
almost gentle manner. If it were used more blatantly or sarcastically,
the effect would probably be the opposite, that of distancing the
reader from empathy rather than fomenting it.

This story uses a variety of strategies to provoke contemplation.

Besides the unusual narrative voice, the device of structuring the
content into five separate but related sections, which function almost
as philosophical vignettes, forces the reader to reconsider personal
attitudes. After all, if the narrative voice is able to make readers
overcome their initial aversion to bats, and even transform it into
empathy, a thoughtful reader cannot help but question, or at least be
willing to question, other previously held prejudices and
misconceptions as well. In accomplishing this, the choice to use
sections dedicated to different aspects is much more functional and
effective than a traditional narrative relating the narrator’s life as a
bat and transformation into a human would have been. Another
powerful tool in this narrative is tone; as suggested above, the
narrator manages to incorporate irony in a very subtle, even gentle,
form, which contributes to the contemplative tone and theme.
Because the irony is thought-provoking, rather than abrasive, it
elevates the probity of the content, whereas a traditional plot-
oriented story would probably sound more like pure fantasy and be
less likely to be taken seriously.

Yet another strategy employed by the narrator is to begin with the

mildest topic, “Reincarnation,” and escalate to the most radical, in
this case “Beauty.” Here a very strong statement is made: “What do
we pray for? We pray for food as all do, and for health and for the
increase of our kind; and for deliverance from evil, which cannot be
explained by us, which is hair-headed and walks in the night with a
single white unseeing eye and stinks of half-digested meat, and has
two legs.” In other words, for bats, humans are not only definitely not
attractive, but also a mystery and a threat. Beauty, for this narrator, is
found in the shared affection of the bat community and their shared
belief system: “the hymn of praise to our Creator, the Creator of bats,
who appears to us in the form of a bat and who gave us all things:
water and the liquid stone of caves, the woody refuge of attics,
petals and fruit and juicy insects, and the beauty of slippery wings
and sharp white canines and shining eyes.” Clearly another strategy
used in these vignettes is to appropriate familiar thoughts, attitudes,
and phrases of humans and to transform them through and to a bat
mentality, a very effective tool for prompting empathetic reader
response.

There is an unexpected but satisfying sense of closure in this

short-short story, accomplished through the common strategy of
taking a key element from the beginning and recycling it near or at
the end. The first vignette begins with an admonition to take the
possibility of reincarnation seriously, and the final section takes up
the topic in an even stronger position: “Perhaps it isn’t my life as a
bat that was the interlude. Perhaps it is this life. Perhaps I have been
sent into human form as if on a dangerous mission, to save and
redeem my own folk.” Thus the narrator takes readers from the
original surprise—and perhaps resistance to—perspective of a bat to
the even more challenging possibility that being a bat could be
preferable to being a human. The narrative strategies have been so
effective that by the end, readers not only are used to the idea of a
bat having a valid perspective, but are even able to consider this
possibility, which before reading the story would have been
perceived as ludicrous or outrageous. Just as the story has come to
an end, so our responses to “life as a bat” have come full circle from
repugnance to empathy, perhaps even admiration.

It is the task of the narrative voice to attempt to influence the

readers to think in certain ways or ascribe certain kinds of meanings
to the story. In short-short fiction, narrative voice and tone are key
elements for accomplishing this. Because brevity is always an issue,
each word must be carefully chosen to encourage the reader to
respond, so style is inevitably an issue as well. Another common
strategy employed through narrative voice is that of seemingly
obliterating “personal” input or bias by diminishing the presence of
the narrative voice. Since, as stated earlier, there cannot be a telling
without a teller and without a narrative perspective, neither can a
story be told totally “objectively.” Nevertheless, when a dramatic
narrative perspective is utilized (and sometimes with an “omnipotent”
or “all-seeing” narrator), the story seems to unfold without any
narrator interpretation, which, of course, is an illusion created by the
narrative voice itself. How much information is provided and how that
information is shared are choices made by and exploited through the
narrative voice.

An excellent example of this is Robert Fox’s three-page story titled

“A Fable.” The narrative, which could not be much simpler, presents
the story of a clean-cut young man who “loved everybody on the
street and everybody disappearing into the subway, and he loved the
world because it was a fine clear day and he was starting his first
job.” He sees a beautiful girl, “was immediately attracted to her,” falls
in love with her, proposes to her, and convinces her to marry him,
with her mother’s permission. It is told in classic journalistic style: it
consists mostly of very minimal dialogue exchanges, interspersed
with equally bare descriptions of the characters and actions, just
enough to make the situation and its development clear. Almost
without exception, the descriptive sentences are very short and very
direct, as the following examples demonstrate: “Otherwise he felt
fine,” “He loved everybody he saw,” “The train pulled to a stop,” “She
jumped.” The dialogue also frequently consists of single words or
simple phrases. When the man asks the mother for permission to
marry her daughter, the following exchange takes place:

“Are you crazy?” the mother asked.

The train started again.

“What?” he said.

“Why do you want to marry her?” she asked.

“Well, she’s pretty—I mean I’m in love with her.”

“Is that all?”

“I guess so,” he said.

This type of narrative, which comes as close as possible to objective reporting, has no
interruptions, embellishments, or explicit judgments on the part of the narrator, which also
makes it the closest telling possible to “no narrator.” It leads readers to think that this is all
there is to the situation and the story because it is as skeletal a presentation of the “facts”
as can be.

This short-short story ends with the train conductor approaching

solemnly to marry the young couple who have just met. The
narrative, brief as a subway ride, seems totally transparent.
However, this appearance is, of course, deceptive, as the title, “A
Fable,” has warned. In the end, the apparent intent of the narrative
voice to obliterate itself has ironically proven to be a strategy
employed to ridicule the simplistic plot and shallow values of the
characters. The man falls in love with the girl’s appearance; the
mother is convinced to agree simply because the man has a job and
declares that he “should be able to get [a car] pretty soon. And a
house, too [….] With lots of rooms.” The girl acquiesces because on
the basis of their brief conversation, she has decided that she loves
him, too, because “he’s good, and gentle, and kind.”

In other words, what is presented to readers as a straightforward

narration turns out to be a daydream or fantasy, at best, and an
absolute farce, at worst. Thus, it really does become a “fable,” a brief
story with a moral teaching. Far from merely “reporting” a situation,
the narrative voice has manipulated and oversimplified complex
human relationships, feelings, and attitudes into a cute little tale. In
so doing, the style parallels the absurdly simplistic story itself, thus
reinforcing the potential lesson. In “A Fable,” length, narrative voice
and style are all exploited as strategies to foment theme. The lesson,
however, as is characteristic of short-shorts, is at no point made
explicit; rather, it is up to each reader to ascribe personal meaning to
the situation.

The previous analyses demonstrate that although examination of

short-short fiction is frequently similar to analysis of traditional short
stories in their general directions, they do differ significantly in two
ways. First, while most classic short stories include all the
fundamental elements of fiction, and each one is analyzed both
separately and in terms of how it contributes to the whole, short-
short stories almost invariably emphasize a single aspect of fiction.
Second, in short-shorts, length is always more than just an important
factor; rather, it is a crucial factor which affects every aspect of the
narration. It is the critic’s job to investigate how size is actively
exploited in each short-short tale: what has been left unsaid, what is
the significance of what is explicitly stated, what narrative strategies
have been employed to influence the reader, and how effective those
strategies have been. It is the reader’s job to fill in the inevitable
gaps in the story in order to construct a meaning for himself/herself.

Strategies for Analyzing Short-Short Stories

1. Examine the story to determine which traditional elements of fiction are found in the
story. Consider possible reasons for the inclusion or exclusion of each major element
by asking yourself why each element is either crucial to the telling of that particular
story or relatively expendable.

2. Analyze the issue of length in the story. What strategies has the author used to
control the length? What is the effect of the length on the telling? On the tale? On the
reader? On your personal interpretation?

3. Look carefully at the title. Identify the way(s) in which it relates to the content,
whether explicitly or implicitly. Consider how the title foreshadows, summarizes,
deconstructs, reinforces, and/or announces what you believe to be the controlling
idea of the story.

4. Examine the vocabulary in terms of language register and tone. Pay special attention
to any words or phrases which are repeated. What does the vocabulary reveal about
the narrative voice? About theme?

5. How are the divisions within the story (such as paragraphs and sections) exploited to
foment the story line? How do these structural choices contribute to movement and
meaning in the story?
 6. Characterize the narrative voice in the story. What specific strategies does it utilize in
attempting to influence the reader’s perceptions? How well does it succeed in
molding reader response?

7. Decide whether this story has an “open” or “closed” ending. Defend your position by
relating the ending to the rest of the story. Justify your position by explaining your
personal response to the ending.

8. Consider different possible perspectives/interpretations of the story. Which seems the

strongest to you? Why? Relate the interpretation you find most compelling to your
personal position as a reader and defend it through textual elements.

9. Do you think that character development is handled essentially the same in short-
short stories as it is in traditional short stories? Why or why not? Find supports for
both positions. Then use either a single character from a single short-short story or a
variety of characters from different short-short stories to defend your personal
position.

10. Setting in a story always encompasses different aspects and layers. Choose a short-
short story in which you find setting to be especially important and analyze the
functions it has in that story, as well as the techniques employed for developing it.
Then choose another story in which setting appears to be of minimal importance and
examine its role.
 Chapter IV
Creative Nonfiction:
Storytelling Human Realities
A Brief Introduction to Creative Nonfiction
“In each case, the subject matter is nonfiction; the writing makes it literary, or creative.”

Judith Kitchen and Mary Paumier Jones (“Introduction,” In Brief, 20)

Of all recent innovations and reformulations of narrative, the

contemporary subgenre known as “creative nonfiction” is perhaps
that which has caused the greatest upheaval because of the
fundamental questions it provokes. Is this really a new type of
writing, or is it simply a new label for writing which already follows a
tradition? Isn’t all prose “creative” to some extent? Isn’t all prose
which is “creative” also “fiction”? What is fiction anyway? Is there
truly such a thing as “nonfiction”? Modern theories both in linguistics
and in literature have transformed our ideas on many of these
issues.

Language research has posited that while every language has a

basic system for creating meaning—through rules for regulating
possible combinations of sounds and symbols—the meanings of
individual words are not fixed, but rather depend on their context. In
other words, meanings are not inherent; they are ascribed by
consensus and thus have unlimited potential for change. They
develop or are modified through their use, which implies that the time
and place of language use has a significant effect on its meaning in
any given situation. This fundamental premise has had a major
impact on other philosophical concepts of a general nature, such as
our concepts of “reality” and “truth.” Traditionally, just as language
was perceived as having fixed meaning, “reality” and “truth” were
believed to be single and universal, and thus unquestionable. They
were—and still are, for some people—seen as concepts which are
“given” (“the ways things are”) rather than “constructed” (“the way we
perceive them to be”).

What does this have to do with literature? The key issue is one of
essence versus multiplicity, and it is a very fundamental polarity. For
example, if a reader believes that meaning is fixed, then s/he is likely
to look for “the” meaning of a literary text, rather than “a” meaning.
Readers who believe there is a single meaning are also likely to
believe that the author of the literary text inscribed “the” meaning into
the text, and that it is the job of the reader/critic to “find” that
particular meaning. A significantly different perception of the job of
the reader/critic derives from the conviction that language has
unlimited potential for meaning. This does not mean that what is
written can mean anything at all, but rather that meaning in the text
is influenced by what is ascribed by the reader. Meaning is
generated; it is a perception, a negotiated understanding, rather than
something that the reader passively receives from the author. From
this perspective, many different interpretations of a literary text are
not only possible, but also equally valid. If meaning is variable, so is
“message.”

This same dichotomy between essence and multiplicity makes a

difference in terms of subdividing literature into categories. For
example, the first step is to decide what qualifies as literature
because calling a text “literature” (or not) influences if and how we
read it. Literary critic Stanley Fish, among others, has shown how we
approach a text differently if we read it “as literature,” rather than as,
for example, an informative article. We use different strategies for
understanding, analyzing, and judging a text, according to the
category to which it is assigned. Traditionally, literary critics and
theorists—the “experts”—have claimed the right to decide what
literature “is,” as well as what criteria and method(s) should be used
to understand it. However, when their authority to decide is
questioned, then the concept of “the nature of literature” is also left
more open to debate.

It is precisely this kind of process which has kept the definition of

“short story” flexible and has facilitated the existence of new
categories such as “creative nonfiction.” The differences between
fiction and nonfiction have become much less clear, or perhaps it
would be more accurate to say that we now recognize and accept
the fact that there is considerable overlapping between them.
“Fiction” used to be defined as “invented” or “imagined,” while it now
refers—in the case of literature—to a kind of writing which includes a
significant element or degree of conscientious, intentional invention.
“Nonfiction,” which has traditionally been defined as “factual” or
“real,” is now understood to be based on what is perceived as
“factual” or “real.” It affirms the author’s intent to re-create something
which already exists or has existed, rather than to “create”
something wholly new. Given that “reality” is constructed through the
eyes of each beholder, both individually and collectively, it is
unavoidably susceptible to being called a “fiction” from the positions
of other worldviews. Who has the final authority to state what
constitutes “reality”? The answer is that there is no “final” or
“definitive” definition of “reality,” but rather multiple versions of reality
competing for credibility and acceptance. In other words, in the case
of “nonfiction,” the author firmly believes s/he is writing an account
which is founded in reality (as perceived by the author, of course).

Thus, the name “creative nonfiction” is simply one way of

acknowledging that the written text so described is an attempt to
present the author’s “reality” as accurately and evocatively as
possible. It is also sometimes called “literary prose.” As Judith
Kitchen and Mary Paumier Jones state in their introduction to In
Short, this type of writing can go in many directions, from essay, to
anecdote, to description, to commentary, to memory fragments, to
language exploration. Writing which qualifies as “creative fiction” can
also be of very different lengths, from a simple paragraph to an
entire book. However, it must always use language in inventive,
evocative, conscientiously construed ways as an instrument for
sharing the authors’ perceptions.

Kitchen and Jones, who concentrate on very short forms of

creative nonfiction, affirm that length is “a matter of proportion—how
much the piece does for how long it is” (25). Interestingly, they
describe these brief nonfiction texts very similarly to the descriptions
given earlier for “short-short stories”: “No matter how brief,
everything needed is there: an initial something moves somewhere,
taking as long as it takes and no longer. Length, depth, and
wholeness, then, are the characteristics of Shorts” (25). In the
“Preface” to In Short, Bernard Cooper asserts, “In an act of swift
engagement with his or her subject matter, the skilled essayist can
imbue even the briefest text with the immediacy, momentum, and
intellectual agility one expects from a longer work” (21). Clearly,
compression is a significant factor in analyzing contemporary short
prose, whether fictional or otherwise.

In the “Introduction” to In Brief, Kitchen and Jones characterize the

nature of creative nonfiction, most of which is personal narration, as
a kind of “personal reflection and speculation […] a single voice
conveying individual experience,” while defining “the personal” as “a
way of seeing the world, of examining its meanings, of exploring and
expressing an interior life” (16). They affirm the following: “Creative
nonfiction works in a space of its own. Neither documentary nor
fiction, it invites us to speculate, but always about the world we
know, have known, or could know” (In Brief 19). To do so, such texts
“employ many techniques of fiction […] not to invent imaginary
worlds […] but to make something of the facts” (19). This is perhaps
the crucial difference between creative nonfiction and other fiction
and nonfiction: the former appropriates facts in order to exploit them
creatively as a means for appealing to readers. In this way, as
Kitchen and Jones so aptly assert, “Imagination becomes a way to
probe reality” (In Brief 20). Creative nonfiction thus becomes an
innovative form not only for grasping reality, but also for shaping it
aesthetically.

Analyzing the Tale: “reality” versus “fiction”

It is difficult to discuss the tale, or content, of creative nonfiction
separately from the telling. As discussed previously, the teller is
always implicit in the telling, even in so-called objective writing. In
creative nonfiction, the telling is of special importance because the
text is so intimately and insistently related to the narrative voice. At
one level, it is certainly true that there are factual details of an
essentially unassailable nature, for example, the time and date of a
happening, or the age and physical features of an individual, or the
place where something occurs. However, there is really no such
thing as an entirely objective description or telling of events because
there is always a degree of mediation, beginning with the choices of
what is excluded in the telling and what is included, as well as in how
it is told. This is true for all writing (and writing is one kind of telling);
however, in literary writing, it is not only implicit in the very label
“literary,” but also emphasized through the ways in which language is
manipulated in such writing.

In The Situation and the Story, writer Vivian Gornick discusses the
nature and structuring of the dominant type of creative nonfiction:
personal narrative. She asserts that this type of text derives, at least
partially, from the so-called “personal journalism” of the 1970s, in
which the journalist takes an explicit, personal stance on a social
issue rather than attempting to report objectively. According to
Gornick, personal narrative, like all literature, consists of two basic
components, which she defines the following way: “The situation is
the context or circumstance, sometimes the plot; the story is the
emotional experience that preoccupies the writer: the insight, the
wisdom, the thing one has come to say” (13). In her view, every
author has something s/he wishes to not only articulate for
her/himself, but also to communicate to others; this is essentially
what makes the decision to use nonfiction “creative” or “personal.” It
is not merely a matter of presenting a situation, but rather an
exploration of what that situation signifies for the narrator. For
example, in Jonathan Swift’s “A Modest Proposal,” the situation is
the dire state of the Irish poor in the early eighteenth century, while
the story is the inhumanity of English hegemony. In Isak Dinesen’s
Out of Africa, the situation is Dinesen’s twenty-year stay in Africa,
but the story is the profound effect it had on her as a person.

In creative nonfiction the teller is irrevocably inscribed in the story

itself, to the point where this type of text is frequently considered
synonymous to personal narrative. Because of that, it may seem
paradoxical to call literary prose “nonfiction.” However, the purpose
of such writing is always to share something “real,” which frequently,
but not always, comes from personal experience. Its content is
“objective” to the degree that the author declares his/her intent to
present factual data, without any “fictional filter,” to use Kitchen’s and
Jones’s phrase. In choosing to write without a fictional front, the
author is automatically engaging the reader in special kind of
contractual relationship: “If a writer calls a piece nonfiction, there is
an implied contract with the reader: ‘This is factual as best I can
remember and re-create it’ ” (In Brief 18). In other words, the basic
elements of the content are those of all “reporting”: who, what, when,
where, why, and/or how.

In analyzing creative nonfiction, then, the first task is to determine

the specific topic and summarize those key journalistic elements.
What is the event or situation under discussion? Who is involved and
in what role(s)? What is the setting? This basic identification of
content aspects will immediately suggest where the emphasis is,
whether on the person or people involved, the situation itself, the
place and time, and so forth. This emphasis, in turn, will suggest the
fundamental nature of the piece, for example, to recall a childhood
incident, to evoke the spirit of a place. It will concomitantly reveal its
significance for the person involved, for example, to reflect upon a
personal or social issue or to commemorate a person or event,
among others. Keep in mind that the same strategies used in
examining fictional prose, which have been discussed in previous
sections, can be employed productively in analyzing creative
nonfiction as well.

Frequently the main thrust of the text is apparent from its

beginning. In “Parnassus,” Albert Goldbarth’s first sentence is
“Technically I was a man.” The reader is immediately engaged by the
word “technically” because although it announces an affirmation, the
use of that word instantly challenges the validity of what follows. This
promises to be a personal examination of manhood—how it is to be
defined, who has the authority to define it, how it affects each
aspiring candidate. This tale describes the situation of a young
teenager who, for lack of a better candidate, is asked to join nine old
men as the tenth member of a minyan, a Jewish prayer group which
requires the participation of ten men.

The narrator clarifies that he was “technically” a man at that time

because he was “thirteen and bar mitzvahed.” In Judaism, a thirteen-
year-old boy is expected to take part in a religious ceremony, the bar
mitzvah, proving his worthiness to be formally inducted into the
Jewish religious community, after which he is officially considered to
be a man. Although the narrator of this text is hesitant to accept and
insecure about his “manhood,” he joins the others—mostly because
he cannot think of a valid reason to refuse—in singing prayers for the
deceased wife of one of the older men. In so doing, he is
transformed by the shared song in which his own voice “took its
place in a single wing of voice that made its technical way through
the top of the ionosphere, and into a realm of shimmering off the
scale of human perception.” The situation here is that of a young boy
adjusting to his religious role, but the story—as the title reinforces—
is that of an insecure adolescent who finds both an identity and self-
confidence through becoming part of that community of Jewish men,
through fulfilling the Jewish concept of manhood. Thus, the first
sentence does announce the situation, as well as presage the story.

In other instances, the story emerges as the situation develops,

sometimes slowly, at other times dramatically. In Diane Ackerman’s
“Mute Dancers: How to Watch a Hummingbird,” the situation is
explicitly declared in the title, but the story is buried within and
reluctant to come forth. Ackerman imparts a great deal of information
about the types, habits, and appearance of hummingbirds: their
anatomy, their sizes, their movements, their colors, their habitats,
their mating habits. In fact, the entire narrative, interspersed with
several hummingbird-related anecdotes, is about those intriguing,
tiny birds, or at least, that is what appears on the surface. Closer
examination and contemplation, however, lead to other possible
“stories” at a deeper level.

The very first sentence mentions death, which activates the

possibility of the hummingbird’s lifespan, or physical existence—both
the quantity and the quality of its life—as an issue: “A lot of
hummingbirds die in their sleep.” Of course, death as a physical
issue always has the potential for leading into or paralleling death as
a metaphysical or philosophical issue. The first statement is
explained by the next sentence, which states “Hummingbirds have
huge hearts and need colossal amounts of energy to fuel their
flights, so they live in a perpetual mania to find food.” In other words,
they “consume life at a fever pitch,” which “puts them in great peril”
because by the end of the day they are “wrung-out and exhausted.”
The second paragraph expands upon this phenomenon by
describing how during the night hummingbirds “sink into a zombielike
state of torpor” in order to recuperate, which then requires “a
colossal effort” to “jump-start” their hearts and bodies the following
morning “for another all-or-nothing day.” Curiously (for who would
have imagined humans and hummingbirds would have fundamental
similarities?), by the end of the second paragraph, many readers will
already have identified with the frantic pace, exhausted slumber, and
the tremendous energy required to overcome that nighttime inertia.

From this point, the “story” seems to bifurcate, allowing at least two
distinct possibilities for interpretation. On one hand, the situation
seems to warn against the present lifestyle of many people, one
which makes huge demands on energy in order to maintain constant
activity, stopping only briefly for “refueling.” Hummingbirds, like many
humans, are also “[b]razen and fierce” and “willing to take on large
adversaries,” a quality which is illustrated through an anecdote
detailing how hummingbirds often attacked a woman outside her
apartment building, perceiving her as the intruder on their property.
The fact that these birds are very territorial, even possessive, and
that their incredible level of activity is repeated day after day, with no
end in sight, could well suggest to the reader that it is time to slow
down and take stock of his/her own priorities and values. (It could
also be construed, however, as an exhortation to take advantage of
every moment in the present.) This is reinforced through the initial
veiled warning that although “most do bestir themselves,” “a lot of
hummingbirds die in their sleep.” A thoughtful reader might then
begin to question if so much activity is worth the effort it takes, or
even if it is truly productive. Contemplation of the hummingbird’s life
could lead the reader to question his/her own existence and/or that
of humankind in general.

But another clear, divergent possibility for comparing a

hummingbird’s life with a human one is provided. According to the
narrator, the hummingbirds’ daily re-awakening leads to their being
“often depicted as resurrection birds, which seem to die and be
reborn on another day or in another season” in American Indian
myths and legends. This positive portrayal is reinforced by the later
comment that their name in English comes from the American
colonists, who “first imagined the birds humming as they went about
their chores.” This is clearly a projection of the colonists’ own work
ethic, which sees work as both positive and enjoyable. The next-to-
last paragraph in this narrative supports the association by asserting
that hummingbirds, like vanilla, are “a New World phenomenon”;
their association is strengthened by the fact that hummingbirds were
actually “a key pollinator of vanilla orchids.” With this subtle example
of hummingbird activity as purposeful and useful, even necessary,
the narrator seems to be affirming their lifestyle. The fact that their
presence and usefulness can be connected all the way back to the
early history of the New World also enhances the fundamental
nature of the values associated with them.

This positive perspective of the hummingbirds’ movement is

strengthened by the key fourth paragraph in which the narrator
reports that, unlike most birds, “hummingbirds are virtually mute.”
The reader might think this is a serious defect in a bird, especially
from the perspective of the humans who observe them. However,
this turns out to be not the case. Their virtual muteness does pose a
fundamental question: “if they can’t serenade a mate, or yell war
cries at a rival, how can they perform the essential dramas of their
lives?” The answer takes us back to the title: “They dance. Using
body language, they spell out their intentions and moods […].” Once
again, their constant movement is seen as purposeful. The fact that
their movements are described as dancing reinforces a positive view
of the hummingbirds’ movements, as well as an idealistic one, since
dance is associated with aesthetic grace and beauty.

Both the title and the final paragraph seem to suggest that
hummingbirds are more of a positive role model than a negative one.
The last paragraph explains how to take fullest advantage of
hummingbirds’ movements and attraction: “The best way to behold
them is to stand with the light behind you, so that the bird faces the
sun. Most of the trembling colors aren’t true pigments, but the result
of light staggering through clear cells that act as prisms.” While a
negative perspective of this statement might suggest deception,
illusion, or artifice, a positive account is more likely to emphasize the
amazing, if ephemeral, beauty of these birds as they perform their
daily activities. The narrator also emphasizes the fascinating beauty
and controlled energy of the hummingbirds by choosing to end the
narrative with the simile of gardeners watching hummingbirds “patrol
the impatiens as if the northern lights had suddenly fallen to earth,”
which posits the hummingbirds as worthy of our awe and admiration.
In any case, although the “situation” of this text is a description of
hummingbirds, the “story” definitely deals with human perception and
worldview. And as always, it is each reader’s own experience and
attitudes which will influence his/her interpretation of the text.

Once the general gist of the text becomes apparent, the next stage
is to examine how the quantity and quality of specific details in the
text contribute to creating that emphasis and exploiting it. In the
introduction to In Brief, Kitchen and Jones remind us that although
creative nonfiction texts “employ many techniques of fiction—
narrative, dialogue, descriptive imagery, point of view, interior voice,
etc.—they do so not to invent imaginary worlds (what Charles Baxter
refers to as ‘the parallel universe of literature’) but to make
something of the facts” (19). That is, literary techniques are
appropriated to enhance the telling of the facts, whether to present
them more vividly, to enhance their significance, to contribute to the
aesthetic effect of the content, or a combination of these motives.
Identification and analysis of these techniques are handled just as
they would be in any other literary text.

An interesting case in point is Reg Saner’s “The Tree Beyond

Imagining.” In this four-page text, the narrator describes his
fascination with juniper trees, especially the Utah juniper, which he
describes as “a high-desert strain of that species, one growing where
it ought not to try.” However, he is only interested in those junipers
which grow “where they almost can’t—at their ecological edge.” He
clarifies this by saying he is not referring to the usual timberline
above which conifers cannot grow, but rather a desert version of this
limit, defined by the amount of available water rather than the
altitude. He asserts that the specimens he admires would make
“interesting museum pieces,” if only one could also bring inside “the
thin air of its Southwestern plateau,” “that powdery fine sand red as
rust,” “skies blue as chicory petals,” and above all, “desert sun with
its glare, its incomparable clarities, deep shadows; its refusal to lie.”
The similes employed in describing the sand and the skies and the
personification of the sun make this description vivid. The
comparisons continue throughout the description, for example, in its
“erstwhile needles that evolution has smoothed like snakeskins,”
“cones shrunk to beads,” “its bark is shaggy as hanks of unbraided
sisal.” He goes so far as to say “If animal, such trees would be
camels, and almost are.” He sums up the general impression
junipers make by claiming that just looking at such trees makes one
“wonder about botanical vandalism.”

What makes his description most powerful, however, is his

constant personification of the junipers. According to the narrator,
this kind of tree clearly lends itself to human comparison: “Other
arboreal species may echo states we recognize in ourselves, but
none I’ve run across seems so moody and irrational.” That said, he
then feels free to expand the analogy throughout the rest of the
description. These are trees with “a neurotic past [which is] visible
through no matter how many feigned identities.” It is a “most
irrational tree,” with a “self-tormented trunk.” The “gesturing limbs in
every style of passion“ and “writhing branch[es]” look like “tensed
muscle and sinew,” “clad” in fibrous bark “all threads and shreds and
tatters, like a beggar’s rags.” These trees are “marginalized
eccentrics,” to the point where they grow “against all reason.” The
narrator claims to have seen “deep depression and recovery—both
alive in the same tree,” “trees giving instructions in bravery,” “a bad
example” of “a juniper who had once been a witch and couldn’t quit
practicing.”

The personification of the junipers is so complete that the narrator

even imagines them communicating. He claims the “witch” juniper
had “converted” “countless others.” He even personifies what he
imagines to be the thought processes of these special junipers: “A
Utah juniper at the edge of its range is either so distraught or far
gone in perplexity it can’t make sense of itself, ‘Do you suppose I’d
have grown this way,’ it seems to snort, ‘if I’d had any idea what I
was getting into?’” He imagines the trees “wrestling for its own
affections,” “being too much of a shape-shifter ever to tire of
dilemma,” with “moods, like ours, [which] don’t believe in each other.”
In the “good” trees, he perceives “living optimism, all the hurt joy”
that perseveres against adversity, as opposed to the “deranged and
violent” trees which are “bad.”

In this text, the extensive use of personification is employed not

just to describe, but also to strengthen the narrator’s final
observation and point: the unwavering courage of those Utah
junipers which live “at the threshold of impossibility.” The narrator
reflects that “[w]e admire most, I suppose, those virtues our souls
utterly lack, or need more of.” Having inscribed the juniper with
human traits throughout his description, the narrator can now justify
his immense admiration for them, saying that he frequently stands
“spellbound” before one of these junipers, “[f]eeling sympathy and
awe before such pure indomitability” and “hoping a touch of juniper
courage might agree to come with me.” Notice how not just the
juniper, but even the ascribed characteristic of courage is
personified, as though anything so remarkable could not be less than
human. Saner’s perception of the juniper is thus described through
and constructed upon a personification which—as the title suggests
—goes beyond the merely physical to “imagining” what lies beneath
it, truly taking the description “beyond” normal dimensions. In this
text, the narrator effectively employs similes, metaphors, and
especially personification both to articulate the description and to
appeal to readers’ empathy. A physical description of the Utah
juniper would not have the same effect on the reader as this
personalized version does.

The above analyses demonstrate how readers can apply

strategies with which they are already familiar from analysis of
traditional short stories and contemporary short-short stories to
analyses of creative nonfiction in terms of content. In the next
section we will examine how this is also true for the telling of these
nonfiction tales.

Analyzing the Telling: “inscribing the teller”

As suggested in the previous section, the telling is of utmost
importance in creative nonfiction. The narrator is always present,
implicitly or otherwise, both in providing all necessary information
and in determining how that information will be imparted. Judith
Kitchen and Mary P. Jones emphasize the crucial role of the teller of
nonfiction, no matter which voice is used, by explaining that whether
the account is given through first person, direct address, or third-
person, “the reader is brought into an intimate space defined by the
voice and perspective of the author” (In Brief 17). They refer to this
phenomenon as “the voiceprint, the defining vision, that marks the
piece as personal” (In Brief 18). In other words, all telling is “marked”
by the teller and invariably inscribes the teller’s unique perspective
and position, although how explicitly that fact is acknowledged within
the text itself certainly varies.

In The Situation and the Story, author Vivian Gornick points out a
crucial difference between narrators of fiction and narrators of
nonfiction. She asserts that the writer of nonfiction cannot relate
experience in a void, but rather “must engage with the world,
because engagement makes experience, experience makes
wisdom, and finally it’s the wisdom—or rather the movement toward
it—that counts” (14). She sees it as the responsibility of every writer
to “convince the reader they have some wisdom” so that readers will
be motivated to read the text, but she believes that the writer of
personal narrative “must also persuade the reader that the narrator
is reliable” (14). This is accomplished, as Gornick affirms, by creating
a narrative persona who both is and is not the author her/himself;
this narrator is not an invention, but rather “the narrator that a writer
pulls out of his or her own agitated […] self to organize a piece of
experience” (25). This “truth speaker” is a version of the author who
serves as an instrument for interpreting and sharing the author’s
insights. If the narrator is not able to persuade the reader of his/her
reliability, the content will not be accepted as nonfiction and will not
have nearly the same impact.

According to Gornick, the narrator will be able to engage the

reader only if the writer knows “not only why [the narrator] is
speaking but who is speaking” (8), in other words, the identity of the
speaker. Every person is made up of a variety of “selves,” frequently
differentiated by major roles or aspects. For example, one might
simultaneously be a woman, a wife, a mother, a lawyer, a painter, a
Costa Rican citizen, and a friend, among others. Gornick asserts that
the writer must conscientiously choose a single self to be the one
who narrates, and this self becomes, in effect, a persona (like the
persona of a poem or the narrator of a novel). The narrative situation
is then presented from the perspective of that particular self: its “tone
of voice, its angle of vision, the rhythm of its sentences, what it
selects to observe and what to ignore are chosen to serve the
subject; yet at the same time the way the narrator—or the persona—
sees things is, to the largest degree, the thing being seen” (Gornick
7). In other words, the narrative perspective both directs and
becomes part of the content of the literary text.

In “Parnassus,” the narrative about the Jewish boy discussed

earlier, the writer uses his younger self as the initial narrator. By so
doing, he is able to portray the confused thoughts and feelings of the
thirteen-year-old vividly, with details which engage the reader’s
empathy. We have all been through that stage of adolescent anguish
where we were struggling to find an identity, define a self, and make
a place for ourselves in the adult world. However, the narrator at the
end of the tale is a slightly older “self” who has survived and
surpassed that unexpected initiation, a young man who has found
himself and his place: “And ever since, if I’ve been invited to join
them for a moment, to sing along as a tenth—though they may have
scraped the bottom of the barrel to get my number, I go.” The simple,
direct statement which ends this story is an affirmation of his newly
found satisfaction with who he is and his relation with his community.
The “angsts and overbrimming of being technically a man” no longer
torture him; he is willing and able to take his place in life. Had this
story been told strictly from the perspective of a considerably older
self (although readers might argue that it is a “considerably older
self” who made the decision about which narrative voice to use), it is
unlikely it would have the same vividness or the same impact on the
reader. After all, we all eventually find or make a place for ourselves
in the world. The strength of this tale comes from the inspired choice
of this particular narrative self.

Gornick sees the identification of that narrator as “vital” to the

writing, for the persona is not only “the instrument of illumination,”
but also the catalyst “[w]ithout [which] there is neither subject nor
story” (7). The narrator, the self which is narrating, must be
determined very clearly so the reason for telling can also be
established. The narrator is the one who molds the writer’s
experience into something of value; the experience itself is just the
raw material from which the story is shaped into a meaningful
experience for the reader. This is because the narrator self decides
the angle from which the experience will be seen, the strategies to
be used in the telling, and—most importantly—the purpose of the
telling, to which all other aspects are subordinated. If the purpose is
unclear or diffused, or the narrative self fails to maintain sufficient
distance from the experience to examine its significance
productively, the narrative will not be meaningful to others.

In the earlier example of “The Tree Beyond Imagining,” the

figurative language employed by the narrator leads very explicitly
from the “situation” of describing the Utah junipers to the “story” of
the narrator’s personal, positive response to them. While others
might look at the junipers and see only misshapen trees, perhaps
focusing on how the less than ideal environmental conditions
produce less than ideal tree specimens, Saner finds them
inspirational. Through his description of the trees, readers thus learn
not only about the Utah juniper, but also a great deal about the
narrator as well. This narrator is of a contemplative nature, a person
who “happily roams” along the Grand Canyon’s south rim, “more
intrigued by its pygmy forest of piñons and junipers than by the view”
and who is “well-content” to spend hours contemplating their
mysteries and significance. As he acknowledges, he frequently loses
himself in such thoughts: “I’ve often stood that way a longish while,
unaware that I was.” In other words, his mission in the Utah desert is
as much a search for self as it is a hike into nature. While we are left
with a clear image of what the junipers must look like, it is the
narrator’s perception of them which has the greatest impact on us;
Saner has effectively developed a narrative voice which
communicates both the situation and the story.

Movement in creative nonfiction frequently derives from the

progression of angles the narrative voice provides as it contemplates
the subject from different perspectives or in different ways, each one
adding to both the narrator’s and the reader’s insight on the
situation. This can be channeled through plot, description, emotional
response, or any other structure which is flexible enough to permit
change. By the end of the text, neither the narrator nor the reader
sees the situation as it was originally perceived. Identification of the
pattern of movement is frequently an important clue to identification
of the purpose of the text, in other words, its potential “messages.”

An intriguing example of this is Will Baker’s “My Children Explain

the Big Issues.” This text is divided into four sections, each one
dealing with an incident involving one of the author’s three children;
the narrator then channels the incidents into a less tangible
dimension which transforms them into the “big issues.” For example,
in the first anecdote, the author’s twenty-three-month-old daughter,
on a long, uphill walk with her father on a very hot day, refuses both
her father’s initial offer to carry her and his later offer to hold her
hand. When she slips and falls, he again offers to help, but she
“scrambles up and slaps at the dirty places on her knees, then looks
at [him] sidelong with a broad grin [and says] ‘See?’” The little girl is
clearly—and happily—asserting her independence; the father, older
and male, is clearly torn between his paternal desire to protect and
help his daughter (with perhaps a touch of chauvinistic
overprotection) and his desire to respect her wishes and autonomy.
It is the narrator, who is apparently in touch with (and perhaps
wrestling with, as well) the “big issues,” who makes the connection
between this incident and “feminism,” which is the title for this
particular anecdote.

By using “Feminism” as the subtitle of this section, the narrator

provides the focus and indicates the significance he wants the
reader to share with him. He is not simply telling a cute story about
one of his children, but rather, as all contemplative parents do,
examining its larger significance in terms of both himself as a parent
and the child as a small person. The next three sections develop in
like fashion, with a deceptively simple, everyday anecdote involving
one of his children, the greater meaning of which is explicitly stated
in the title. The fact that the key statement or action always comes
from the children is a narrative strategy lending credibility and weight
to the main title. The children are not literally explaining the big
issues, of course, but their actions and comments directly relate to
the issues indicated in the title. And while each little section is
complete in itself, their impact is greatly increased by the fact that
there are four of them, which has a cumulative effect.
 The movement of each little story is plot-based, following a clear
sequence of actions, while the essential effect of each one depends
on both the narrator’s choice of subtitles and their relation to the
main title. So there is a double movement at all times: the forward
development of each anecdote, followed by its subsequent referral
back to its subtitle and the main title, at the same time that each new
element adds to the previously constructed “big issues” in justifying
the title. In this way, the back-and-forth movement of the content
parallels the contemplative thought processes in motion as the
parent examines these little everyday incidents from a more
philosophical perspective and as the reader witnesses them and
relates them to his/her own experience.

It is worth emphasizing that this nonfiction text demands

considerable work from the reader. It is the reader’s task to
contemplate each anecdote and relate it to its own title and to the
principal title in order to understand the significance the narrator
ascribes to each incident. The titles are the only clues offered by the
narrator for lifting the incidents out of the ordinary and into a less
tangible dimension. Those readers who are more inclined toward
and adept at philosophical perspectives will have a much easier task
than those who are adamantly pragmatic, especially since the
subtitles declare the “big issues” to be closely tied with philosophical
matters, such as “Fate” and “Existentialism.” It must be noted,
however, that the narrator’s attempt to manipulate the reader
(through the titles) into seeing the same significance he does in
these incidents does not necessarily mean that all readers will do so,
much less agree.

Style and tone are very significant elements in creative nonfiction,

even more so because they are so intimately related to narrative
voice. Language register, sentence length and syntax, grammatical
structures, and vocabulary choices all influence the movement of the
text. In addition, they reveal a great deal about the narrative voice
and the relation of the narrator to the situation. For example, irony
may be used to demonstrate a sense of humor, a cynical outlook,
resignation, sophistication, or reluctant acceptance of an undesirable
situation, among others. Long sentences may be employed to
indicate the complexity of a situation and of the narrator’s thinking, or
they may suggest quite the opposite, an inability to organize
thoughts effectively. These two elements—style and tone—generally
function in a complementary manner, so it is productive to examine
them both separately and jointly.

Sherman Alexie´s “White Men Can’t Drum” provides an excellent

example of how style and tone work together to reveal narrative
perspective (and position). This text is written in almost
conversational style, from a first person perspective. The
organization is very loose; the narrator’s comments seem to be
communicated simply in the order in which they occur to him, with no
obvious organizational scheme. There are also several almost
nonchalant inclusions of statements made by different people and
brief conversational exchanges which also make the text informal.
The pace is quite slow and erratic, since this text is not plot-based
but rather is basically a description of a situation. In addition, the size
and import of its many paragraphs vary quite dramatically, from a
single sentence to five or six sentences. The narrator makes a series
of clarifications and side comments which on the surface seem
extraneous but eventually are understood as being the crux of the
central issue, which is cultural: stereotyping.

The text is essentially a cultural comparison which becomes

personal, as well as judgmental, through the style and tone. The
narrator begins by telling readers about a news item he saw on
television showing a meeting of the “Confused White Men” chapter,
or group, in Spokane, followed by his reactions to the news clip and
his contemplations of it. Early on, he states he is not only a Native
American, but also a “’successful’ Native American writer,” which
serves as a basis for his response. The initial detail he provides is
that all the participants at the meeting are wearing “war bonnets and
beating drums, more or less.” That phrase “more or less” is the first
indication that he disapproves of what he saw, since it suggests that
they were inept at beating the drums. He is totally unimpressed by
their efforts: “I was amazed at the lack of rhythm and laughed, even
though I knew I supported a stereotype. But it’s true: White men
can’t drum.” By acknowledging (through the phrase “even though”)
that stereotyping is a problem in human relationships, he appears to
sound objective, but when this is followed by his insistence that the
stereotype about white men being unable to drum is really “true,” we
have a good glimpse of his own narrative bias.

In developing the topic, the narrator frequently resorts to

contrasting “white men’s” and Native Americans’ radically different
perceptions of shared topics. For example, he says white men “fail to
understand that a drum is more than a heartbeat” and explains that
“[s]ometimes it is the sound of thunder, and many times it just means
some Indians want to dance.” He then criticizes white men’s
penchant for appropriating Native American moments and exploiting
them inappropriately. For example, he mentions the contrasting
views of using peyote as “an excuse to get high” versus a “Vision
Quest.” He quotes a Paiute poet’s comment on “going back with pain
[…] to the place we grew up to grow out of,” and then sarcastically
says that “[i]n their efforts to find their inner child, lost father, or car
keys, white males need to go way back. In fact, they need to travel
back to the moment when Christopher Columbus landed in America
[…].” Sarcasm is an effective tool for belittling something or
someone, and the narrator exploits it by putting “lost father” and lost
car keys right next to each other, as though they were of equal
importance. The reference to Christopher Columbus also suggests
that the “real” problem started centuries ago with white men’s
incursions into Native Americans’ territory.

This narrator frequently uses humor as a tool for making his points
and his position clear. For example, he makes fun of white people’s
attempts at spirituality when imagining that a full-blooded Spokane
Indian “made a small fortune when he gathered glass fragments
from shattered reservation car-wreck windshields and sold them to
the new-age store as healing crystals.” He imagines white men
turning to “an old Indian man” for answers, and the men he thinks of
are Dustin Hoffman, Kevin Costner, Daniel Day Lewis, and Robert
Bly, all men who have portrayed Native Americans in Hollywood
versions of U.S. history. When the narrator’s friend suggests that
“the sweatlodge has come to be a purifying ceremony […which
w]hite men need […] to use an Indian thing to get rid of all the
pollution in our bodies,” the narrator is disgusted and replies that “the
sweatlodge is a church, not a free clinic.” He imagines that the white
men’s tendency to choose the largest animal possible to adopt as
“the animal that is supposed to reside inside every man” might be
due to “possible phallic connotations or a kind of spiritual steroid
abuse.” He comments that he had to turn down offers to lecture at
various [white] men’s gatherings “because I couldn’t have kept a
straight face” while speaking about “Native Spirituality and Animal
Sexuality,” “Finding the Lost Child,” or “Finding the Lost Father.”
These topics sound so absurd to him that he imagines a meeting on
“Finding the Inner Hunter When Shopping at the Local
Supermarket”! It is important to note that with these examples the
narrator is laughing at white men, not with them, which suggests an
antagonistic position of clashing cultures, rather than a shared laugh
at human folly.

In the midst of all the examples and projections the narrator

includes, there are brief, straightforward statements unobtrusively
placed among them which remind careful readers of the very serious
points the narrator wishes to make. For example, after making fun of
white men looking to Native Americans for solutions to their
problems, he asserts: “I fail to understand how Native American
traditions can help in that search, especially considering how much
we have lost ourselves.” Besides this acknowledgment of cultural
loss, he somewhat bitterly comments on “one of the most disturbing
aspects of the entire [white] men’s movement. It blindly pursues
Native solutions to European problems but completely neglects to
provide European solutions to Native problems.” He facetiously
mentions, while shuddering at the very thought of it, the possibility of
white man’s commodification of a kind of “Indians ‘R’ Us” chain store,
again using humor to bemoan the fact that the “men’s movement
seems designed to appropriate and mutate so many aspects of
Native traditions.” The tone of these isolated statements is very
serious, and the fact that they are significantly different from the
tongue-in-cheek tone of the text in general lends them greater
weight.

The narrator uses humor—especially irony and sarcasm—both as

a strategy for making his points and as a distraction for his own
ethnocentrism. He not only objects to white men’s equivocal,
ludicrous attempts to appropriate Native American traditions, but
also makes fun of their ignorance of and indifference to the real
significance of those traditions. This reversal of their cultural
positions, in which he, as a Native American, sees only what he
considers problematic or pathetic about white culture, manifests the
true irony of his complaint against white men’s behavior because he
also fails to acknowledge, much less surpass, his own cultural
assumptions and stereotypes. In the end, he affirms that “Everyone
at a powwow can dance. They all get their chance.[….] We all have
our places within those dances.” As open-minded and tolerant as
these comments might sound, they are totally undermined by his
final comments. He asserts, “Perhaps these white men should learn
to dance within their own circle before they so rudely jump into other
circles,” indirectly stating his own position against intercultural
assimilation. His final comment could be taken in different ways:
“Believe me, Arthur Murray was not a Native American.” Perhaps he
is simply suggesting that each culture has its own ways of
expressing itself, but that statement could also be understood to
mean that no self-respecting Native American would be interested in,
much less proud to follow a white man’s steps, both literally and
figuratively.

In “White Men Can’t Drum,” Alexie exploits a casual style and a

humorous tone to appear reasonable and likeable to the reader, in
hopes of turning them into allies. Notice that the chosen narrative
voice is that of an articulate, Native American, adult male, and he is
speaking as, and on behalf of, Native American males, not Native
American women, or writers, or any other of his possible voices. He
is also addressing “white men” rather than “whites” in general,
although the main issue nevertheless remains a cultural, rather than
a gender, issue. In the process of making his comments, the
personal narrative position becomes very clear: he deeply resents
white men’s attempts to appropriate Native American cultures for
their own purposes, yet he seems to feel unable to stop it. His
objections are clear, but his own cultural assumptions and
stereotypes keep him from offering any real solutions to multicultural
co-existence; on the contrary, they do just the opposite by
manifesting how difficult it is to achieve harmonious co-existence
and mutual respect. His ability to detect the cultural stereotypes of
“white men” does not keep him from harboring—apparently
unconsciously—his own stereotypes. This is perhaps the greatest, if
unintentional, irony of the entire text.

As discussed previously, the identification of narrative tone is

accomplished through careful analysis of specific vocabulary
choices, figurative language, positioning and juxtapositioning of
details, and examination of both what is said and what is left unsaid.
The tone of a literary text closely corresponds to the narrator’s
attitude towards his/her topic, since attitude is revealed both in what
is said and how it is said. In creative nonfiction, narrative attitude is
also closely related to authorial perceptions and positions because
the most basic premise of creative nonfiction is that the text deals in
reality, not invention. Style and tone are two major elements
exploited by the narrator of a creative nonfiction text, as well as by
the author, to communicate personal positions and influence the
reader. How successfully this is achieved depends as much on the
teller’s narrative skills as it does on the reader’s personal situation,
perceptions, and reading skills.

Strategies for Analyzing Creative Nonfiction

1. Use the classic journalistic questions (what, who, when, where, how) to determine
the “situation” of the text by deciding which of those elements is most important in for
developing the topic of a given text. Justify your choice with textual supports.
2. Identify the narrative voice(s) of the text and characterize it (them) as fully as
possible. What type of narrator is used? Whose viewpoint is used to tell the story?
What effect does that choice of narrative perspective have on the text? Find
examples from the text to support your answer to the previous questions and your
characterization of the narrative voice. In other words, define the “voiceprint,” to use
Kitchen’s and Jones’s term.

3. Decide what the “story” of the text is. Compare and contrast the “situation” with the
“story,” using Gornick’s concepts.

4. Analyze the movement of the text. What provides the “motor” for the textual
sequence? Is it action-based? If so, what is the plot? If not, what is the narrative logic
underlying the inclusion of different content aspects? Relate the textual movement to
the situation and the story.

5. ;What narrative strategies are utilized by the teller of this tale to engage and
influence the reader? How successful is the narrator in convincing you, the reader,
that the narrative position is a valid one? Why?

6. Describe the style and tone of the text. How does each of these contribute to
revealing the narrator’s position on the issue at hand? How does each contribute to
creating an impact on the reader?

7. Imagine how the text might be different if presented from alternative narrative
perspectives. How would each one affect the style, tone, and content, as well as
reader impact?

8. What precisely is “creative” about the nonfiction text you are analyzing? Have you
been convinced that the text really is nonfiction? How could/would it be handled
differently if it were fiction? Be as explicit as possible in responding to each of the
above questions.
 Annex
Writing Critical Essays on Short, Creative Prose
When you are taking a course in narrative or short, creative prose,
you will most likely be required to do some analytical writing as part
of your course work. There are many readily available guides to aid
students in both content and format when writing about literature.
These books offer step-by-step instructions for writing critical essays
on literary topics and usually include sample essays and a myriad of
suggestions as well. The MLA Handbook for Writers of Research
Papers is the authoritative guide, in terms of format and
documentation, for writing about literature. (This reference book is
regularly updated, so be sure to use the latest edition.)

In developing essays in literary criticism, you should make an effort

to exploit what you have learned about essay structure, format, and
development in your composition courses and/or in the writing
components of other classes. It is imperative to have a clear, single
focus and to articulate an explicit main point (the “thesis statement”).
Generally speaking, critical essays on narrative, like those on any
type of literature, are argumentative by their very nature. In other
words, as the writer of an essay of literary criticism, you must have a
clear position on a specific aspect of the narrative text, a position
which you hope to convince the readers of your essay is a good,
valid point. Critical essays are almost always argumentative in the
sense that the essay writer’s position is always just one of many
possible ways of seeing or understanding the literary text. It is
precisely because there are limitless other perspectives and/or
positions on the text that you must devise strategies for persuading
your readers that your position is not only viable, but also logical and
well-grounded.

The first step in writing an analytical essay on narrative is to

narrow the general topic appropriately. It is impossible to discuss all,
or even several, major aspects thoroughly in a single, short essay.
Choose a topic that intrigues you about the literary text; your writing
will be more powerful and persuasive if you write on an issue that
you yourself find particularly interesting. For example, perhaps you
are especially intrigued by the main character of a certain story. This
could logically lead to an essay of character analysis in which you
not only highlight what you believe to be the main characteristics of
that character, but also justify your characterization by explaining
why those traits are significant within the story. For example, you
may use them to help explain why they necessarily lead to certain
plot developments, especially in terms of a main conflict and how it is
resolved. As this example suggests, it is never enough to simply
describe or summarize the narrative topic; critical analysis requires
that you take a personal position on the significance of that topic. In
other words, you are arguing that the story can be seen the way you
see it and that your perspective deserves attention, while assuming
that there are other possible ways of looking at it.

The most compelling strategy for convincing the reader of your

essay that you are making valid points is to give textual support,
which means to refer to specific points within the literary text. This
can be done indirectly, by summarizing or simple referring to
something from the literary text (an item, a word or phrase, an event,
etc.), or directly, through citing direct quotations from the text. Every
major point you make in your essay must include textual evidence to
support it and make your ideas sound convincing. Without this
textual evidence, you would essentially be trying to convince people
that you have a valid point simply because you say so, which, as we
all know from personal experience, is usually not a very effective
strategy for persuasion.

The more textual support you can provide to substantiate your

ideas, the more effective they will be. However, be sure to articulate
your point clearly before giving the textual evidence; if you give the
evidence first, in a vacuum, it will not be clear to the reader of your
essay why you are including it. You may reinforce it afterwards as
well if you think it is necessary or wish to emphasize an especially
important point. In addition, be sure to be as explicit as possible
about the significance of each support in order to justify its inclusion;
do not expect readers to automatically make the same connections
or share the same assumptions that you do.

There are many possible topics to be found in every literary text,

as the illustrative analyses included in the previous chapters have
demonstrated. Any one of the major elements of narrative can serve
as a starting point from which to further refine the topic. You may be
interested in examining how a certain narrative style contributes to
plot development in an unexpected manner, or how setting
influences character development, or how the narrator tries to
influence readers into taking a certain attitude or position in terms of
theme, to give a few examples. Of course, not all literary texts lend
themselves equally to given areas of analysis. It is usually quite clear
which elements are of greatest importance or are given the greatest
emphasis in a text, although that does not necessarily mean that
other topics are not possible. The most important thing to keep in
mind in choosing a topic for a critical essay is that it needs to be
analyzed in terms of a personal position. Whatever the main point is,
it should always be a debatable issue, as well as one which you, as
the essay writer, make a clear commitment to presenting in a
particular, personal way and to defending that vision persuasively.

The objective of a critical essay is not to convince the reader that

your perspective is the only valid way of perceiving the text, but
rather that your perspective is one valid way of perceiving the text.
To achieve that objective, be sure to pay special attention to the
clarity of your main idea. Make sure that each main point you include
clearly contributes to supporting and developing that thesis idea in
some way, so that your final draft is both cohesive and unified.
Eliminate any ideas or supports which do not directly contribute to
the main ideas. One effective way of editing your own essay to
enhance its unity is to read just the introductory paragraph, the first
and last sentence of each developmental paragraph, and the
concluding paragraph. Together they constitute a kind of outline of
your main point and main supports.

Once at the final editing stage, pay attention to the mechanics of

writing. Proofread carefully for possible grammatical errors, typing
mistakes, careless or inappropriate punctuation, and problematic
sentence structures which slow down the reader and detract from
the impact of your ideas. Eliminate wordiness and little phrases or
words which undermine the force of your statements, such as “in my
opinion,” “perhaps,” “it could be said,” “I think,” and so forth. One
important strategy for enhancing the impact of your essay is to
sound as emphatically certain as possible that your ideas are good;
if you sound hesitant or unconvinced of their validity, it is unlikely that
you will be very convincing to readers. Finally, use a dictionary and a
thesaurus to optimize vocabulary choices, variety, and precision.

Written responses to literature are valuable tools for examining

literary texts in depth and for fortifying critical and rhetorical skills.
Essays are opportunities for clarifying and articulating personal
positions, polishing writing techniques, and honing critical thinking.
 Glossary
ambiguity: a textual characteristic or condition which allows for more than one
interpretation. It is closely related to indeterminacy, a term used to
acknowledge the fact that linguistic meaning is neither fixed nor static.

allegory: a narrative with at least two distinct meanings, a surface meaning which is
literal and a continuously parallel meaning which functions as a type of
extended metaphor analogous to the surface story. In allegories, landscapes and
characters frequently embody abstract ideas, such as Beauty, Death, Goodness, and so
forth. Allegories are closely related to fables and parables.

ambience: the atmosphere surrounding characters, part of the setting in a literary

work.

antagonist: a character who opposes a protagonist.

atmosphere: a term that refers to the prevailing mood of a narrative, usually linked
to setting.

character: an imaginary being in a literary work.

chronological order: the order in which events occur according to the time at
which they happen. In narrative, this order is often
changed by the narrator.

climax: a term used to refer to the point of greatest tension in the development of a
narrative plot; it is the point at which a crisis is reached (concerning the
conflict) and after which at least some degree of resolution is achieved. It is also referred
to as the crisis.

closure: a term used to refer to the degree to which readers experience a strong
sense of resolution or finality at the end of a narrative, what Frank Kermode
calls “the sense of an ending.” Traditional narratives ended with a strong sense of
closure, often explicitly stated by the narrator, while contemporary narrative frequently
leans toward more open endings. The degree to which closure is experienced by each
reader may vary quite dramatically.

the struggle or tension between two (or more) opposing forces in a narrative.
conflict: the implication(s) or association(s) that words may have
connotation: beyond their literal meaning(s).

creative nonfiction: the label ascribed to a type of narrative prose in which

literary techniques and language are used to narrate real-
life situations.

crisis: the point at which the opposing forces present in a literary work interlock,
provoking a turning point in the narrative.

denotation: the literal meaning(s) of a word, without taking into account other
possible associations.

diction: the word choices or lexicon used in a narrative, often classified in degrees of
formality or informality.

discourse: the narration or the language of a text. The term is also used to indicate
language in use. It shapes subjectivity and manifests the knowledge and
ideology of a group or an individual.

dramatic point of view: a type of narration which minimizes description and

narrator intervention by presenting the situation and
characters through bare facts and dialogue, giving the impression of an absent narrator.

dynamic character: a character who changes during the course of a literary

work. The change may be physical, psychological, and/or
behavioral.

epiphany: a sudden awareness of meaning or significance, a sudden realization or

changed perception of reality.

exposition: the part of a narrative that presents introductory information on setting,

characters and tone.

fable: a brief tale that teaches a moral lesson, usually through using animals as
characters.

falling action: the actions that follow the climax and lead to a resolution of a plot.

fiction: narrative prose which derives from the use of imagination and invention.

figurative language: the use of figures of speech as rhetorical devices in a

literary work.

first person point of view: a point of view marked in prose by the pronoun “I,”
which indicates a high level of subjectivity.
flashback: a narrative device by which the writer presents incidents that took place
before the opening action, for example, a character’s recollection of
his/her past.

flat character: a character who presents a single or very limited number of traits.
These characters are also called type or one-dimensional
characters.

foil: a character who by contrast serves to enhance the traits of a main character.

formalism: a type of literary criticism in which style and technique are perceived as
both the method and the goal of art. As a critical movement, it was
initiated by Russian critics in the early twentieth century and only lasted a few years, but
its focus on structure and form greatly influenced later movements, especially New
Criticism, which emphasizes close reading and language use.

frame: a mental structure; a controlled perspective.

frame narration: a narrative structure in which there is a story within a framework,

in other words, one tale within another tale.

genre: a category into which literary works are classified according to form, technique
and conventions. Some examples of traditional genre are: epic, lyric, comedy,
and tragedy. Examples of modern genre are: novel, essay, and short story.

indeterminacy: a word used to acknowledge the fact that linguistic meaning can
never be truly static or fixed, but rather depends on context and, in
the case of literature, the reader. Therefore, a text is always incomplete, in a sense, and
thus “indeterminate.”

interior monologue: the inner flow of thoughts of a character when thinking to

himself/herself.

introduction: in narratology (especially in formalistic approaches), used to refer to

the initial stage of plot development. It generally includes the
beginnings of setting and character.

legend: a narrative with folklore elements that is passed from generation to

generation.

levels of language: the use of different language registers which suggest social
characteristics such as class and level of education.

limited omniscient point of view: a kind of telling in which the narrator

presents the story from the perspective
of only one character (or, less frequently, two), with access only to what that character
sees, thinks, hears, and feels.

“literary language”: a term used to indicate conscious and conscientious

manipulation of language through employment of figurative
language and literary techniques.

local color: a kind of writing which portrays people and their lives in a geographical
setting by exploiting the speech, thought, dress and topography of that
setting.

meaning: the significance ascribed to something, whether to a word or to a literary

text. In literature, the crucial debate revolves around the issue of meaning
as inherent versus meaning as ascribed.

mediation: in literature, this refers to the fact of a narrator’s intent to influence

readers, as well as to each reader´s input and its effect on the narrative.

mood: the attitude or emotion that a writer projects onto his/her subject. It is
sometimes used synonymously with atmosphere.

motif: a recurrent image or theme that helps structure a literary work.

narration: the act of narrating.

narrative: an account, the product of a telling.

narrative voice: the voice used by the teller of a narrative. It incorporates the
perspective, language use, and position (attitudes, values,
judgments, etc.) of the narrator and always responds to a choice made by the author.
However, the narrative voice is never equal to that of the author in a work of fiction.

narratology: the area of literary criticism and theory concerned with the study of
narrative. It is especially concerned with how narrative is structured
and how it functions.

narrator: the teller of a narrative.

novella: a work of prose fiction that occupies an intermediate position in terms of

length. It is too long to be called a short story and too short to be called a
novel, by conventional standards. It is sometimes called novelette or nouvelle.

omniscient point of view: a type of telling using an all-knowing narrator who

has total control of the telling and knows everything
about all the characters, events, and situations.

open ending: a term used to refer to the type of ending in a narrative which does
not provide closure for the reader; rather, this type of ending not only allows but forces
the reader to “conclude” the narrative in his/her own imagination, using whatever clues
may be provided by the narrative. There are varying degrees of “openness” possible.

organic unit: the idea that the structure and content of a literary work are
inseparable. It links art with nature. This is a term used by the
Romantics.

parable: an illustrative story that teaches a lesson in an allegorical way.

paradox: a statement that seems absurd or contradictory, but could be true.

personification: when animals, ideas, and/or objects are ascribed human form
and/or characteristics.

perspective: in narratology, the position from which a narrative is told or perceived.

This position is always, inevitably subjective and can be inferred from
choices of language use and content.

plausibility: acceptability or reliability in a literary work, seen in terms of character

and action.

plot: a term that refers to the structured sequence of events in a narrative.

point of view: the perspective from which a narrative is told.

pre-critical response: the initial, emotional reaction of a reader to a text, before

analysis or intellectual contemplation of the text.

protagonist: the main character of a literary work.

reader: the receiver of a written text, considered by some theorists to be a co-author

of the text.

resolution: the events following the climax in a plot.

rising action: the part of a plot that develops the conflict to the point of crisis.

round character: a fictitious being easily visualized by the reader because the
writer has provided him/her with a number of qualities and
traits; a complex character.

sensorial images: visual, sound, smell, taste and tactile images that provide
vividness in a literary work.

setting: the context of a narrative, the time and place in which it takes place. Setting
includes all references to time (hour, day, date, year, century, era) and
location (both immediate, such as a room, building, or town, and general, such as a
country or geographical region). Setting has tangible aspects, such as those listed for
location, speech patterns, weather, customs, manners, etc., as well as intangible
aspects, which include social values, norms, beliefs, and so forth, which underlie the
tangible aspects. A special aspect of setting is the psychological setting, which
emphasizes the attitudes, personalities and mindset(s) of the characters involved.

short story: a relatively brief narrative written in prose, usually used to categorize a
subgenre of fiction.

short-short story: a contemporary type of narrative which is deliberately more

limited in length (although the degree varies considerably)
than traditional short stories.

single effect: the unified effect that, according to Edgar A. Poe, a short story
should achieve by means of the interaction of all its structural
elements working together toward a controlling purpose.

static character: a character who does not experience significant changes within
the narrative.

stock character: a kind of literary character which is immediately familiar and

recognizable to readers, such as the brave hero, the naïve
maiden, the evil stepmother, and so forth. A stock character is sometimes also called a
type character, although type refers to a character who is representative of an entire
group, not just a familiar kind of person. (For example, a nosy person is a type character,
while the nosy town gossip is a stock character.)

story: a sequence of events which is organized into a narration.

stream of consciousness: a narrative technique that shows how a given

character’s mind works by means of reproducing
the flow of thought, recollections and sensations of that character. It uses disruptions of
time and disjointed images.

style: the individual form of expression of an author or narrator, as shown in his/her

choice and arrangement of words.

stylistics: in literature, the study of style which concentrates on word choice, syntax
and levels of diction.

syntax: the way in which words are organized to form sentences.

tale: a narrative written in prose or verse. Sometimes the terms tale and short story
are used interchangeably.
theme: a central or dominating idea or statement about life that is presented either
explicitly or implicitly in a literary work.

third person point of view: when a narrative is told by a voice that uses the
pronoun “she” or “he.” This type of perspective
supposedly provides the narrative with considerable objectivity because it establishes a
distance between the narration and the character.

tone: the predominant attitude projected toward the subject matter and readers,
usually implicit in the language usage.

voicing: the act of articulating a position implicitly through language use.

 Selected Bibliography
Abbott, H. Porter. The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative.
Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002.
Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative.
Trans. Christine van Boheemen. Toronto: U Toronto P, 1985.
Barnet, Sylvan. A Short Guide to Writing about Literature. 5th ed.
N.p.: Little, Brown, 1985.
Cassill, R. V., ed. The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction. 2nd ed. New
York: Norton, 1981.
_____ . The Norton Anthology of Contemporary Fiction. New York:
Norton, 1988.
Charters, Ann. The Story and its Writer: An Introduction to Short
Fiction. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 1995.
Chatman, Seymour. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in
Fiction and Film. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1978.
Cobley, Paul. Narrative. The New Critical Idiom. New York:
Routledge, 2003.
Cohan, Steven and Linda M. Shires. Telling Stories: A Theoretical
Analysis of Narrative Fiction. New York: Routledge, 1988.
Currie, Mark. Postmodern Narrative Theory. New York: St. Martin’s,
1988.
Genette Gérard. Narrative Discourse Revisited. Trans. Jane E.
Lewin. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1983.
Gornick, Vivian. The Situation and the Story: The Art of Personal
Narrative. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001.
Halpern, Daniel, ed. The Art of the Story: An International Anthology
of Contemporary Short Stories. New York: Penguin, 1999.
_____ . Who’s Writing This? Notations on the Authorial I with Self-
Portraits. Hopewell, NJ: Ecco, 1995.
Herman, David, ed. Narratologies: New Perspectives on Narrative
Analysis. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1999.
Hoffman, Michael J. and Patrick D. Murphy, eds. Essentials of the
Theory of Fiction. 2nd ed. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1996.
Hogins, James Burl. Literature: A Collection of Mythology and
Folklore, Short Stories, Poetry, Drama, and Literary Criticism.
Chicago: SRA, 1973.
Holman, C. Hugh, ed. A Handbook to Literature. New York:
Macmillan, 1986.
Howe, Irving and Ilana Wiener Howe, eds. Short Shorts: An
Anthology of the Shortest Stories. New York: Bantam, 1982.
Keen, Suzanne. Narrative Form. New York: Palgrave/Macmillan,
2003.
Kermode, Frank. The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of
Fiction. New York: Oxford UP, 1966.
Kitchen, Judith and Mary Paumier Jones, eds. In Short: Creative
Nonfiction. New York: Norton, 1996.
_____ . In Brief: Short Takes on the Personal. New York: Norton,
1999.
Lentricchia, Frank and Thomas McLaughlin, eds. Critical Terms for
Literary Studies. Chicago: U Chicago P, 1990.
Levy, Andrew. The Culture and Commerce of the American Short
Story. New York: Cambridge UP, 1993.
Litzinger, Boyd and Joyce Carol Oates, eds. Story: Fictions Past and
Present. Lexington, KY: Heath, 1985.
Lohafer, Susan and Jo Ellyn Clarey, eds. Short Story Theory at a
Crossroads. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 1989.
Makaryk, Irene R., ed. Encyclopedia of Contemporary Literary
Theory. Toronto: U Toronto P, 1993.
Martin, Wallace. Recent Theories of Narrative. Ithaca, NY: Cornell
UP, 1986.
May, Charles, ed. The New Short Story Theories. Athens: Ohio State
UP, 1994.
McMichael, George, ed. Anthology of American Literature. NY:
Macmillan, 1985.
Miller, James E., Jr., et al., eds. The United States in Literature. 7th
ed. Illinois: Scott, Foresman, 1987.
Mitchell, W. J. T., ed. On Narrative. Chicago: U Chicago P, 1981.
Moss, Steve, ed. The World’s Shortest Stories. San Luis Obispo and
Santa Barbara: New Times Press/John Daniel and Co., 1995.
Onega, Susana and José Ángel García Landa, eds. Narratology.
London: Longman, 1996.
Peden, William, ed. Short Fiction: Shape and Substance. Boston:
Houghton Mifflin, 1971.
Pickering, James H. Reader’s Guide to the Short Story to
Accompany Fiction 100: An Anthology of Short Stories. New York:
Macmillan, 1988.
Roberts, Edgar V. Writing Themes about Literature. 3rd ed. New
 Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1973.
Rubenstein, Roberta and Charles R. Larson. Worlds of Fiction. New
York: Macmillan, 1993.
Shapard, Robert and James Thomas, eds. Sudden Fiction:
American Short-Short Stories. Salt Lake City: Peregrine Smith,
1986.
_____ . Sudden Fiction International: 60 Short-Short Stories. New
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_____ . Sudden Fiction (Continued): 60 New Short-Short Stories.
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Stern, Jerome, ed. Micro Fiction: An Anthology of Really Short
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 Notes on the Authors
Kari Meyers Skredsvig, co-author of The Perceptive Process: An
Introductory Guide to Literary Criticism, is a native of Minnesota,
U.S.A., and a graduate of the University of Minnesota with a B.A. in
English and Spanish literature. A resident of Costa Rica since 1970,
she earned Licenciatura and M.A. degrees in English literature from
the University of Costa Rica, where she did research, taught as a full
professor of the School of Modern Languages, and coordinated the
M.A. Program in English Literature until her retirement in 2002.

Gilda Pacheco Acuña, Costa Rican co-author of The Perceptive

Process: An Introductory Guide to Literary Criticism, received her
B.A. in English and a M.A. in English Literature from the University of
Costa Rica. As a Fulbright scholar (1989-1992), she earned a Ph.D.
in Comparative Literature at The Pennsylvania State University in
the U.S. She is presently a full professor at the School of Modern
Languages of the University of Costa Rica and coordinator of the
M.A. Program in English Literature, and Director of the M.A. Program
in Literature.
808.543
P122t

Pacheco Acuña, Gilda, 1960-

The telling and the tale : an introductory guide to short, creative prose / Gilda Pacheco, Kari
Meyers. – First digital edition. – San José, Costa Rica : Editorial UCR, 2021.
1 recurso en línea : archivo de texto, ePub.

ISBN 978-9968-02-006-0

1. NARRACIÓN DE CUENTOS. 2. NARRACIÓN (RETÓRICA). I. Meyers Skredsvig, Kari,

1947- , autora. II. Título.

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