Long Live the Short Story

Short Story Collections

On occasion, I decide against picking up a new novel and opt instead for a selection from a book of short stories. I pondered recently, why do I make that decision? Before committing to the longer format of a novel, with its necessary complexities, there’s something refreshing about entering the concise dynamic of a shorter read. You become rapidly immersed in the fabric of a good short story, drawn in by its condensed intensity. The short story typically encapsulates a moment, a microcosm, a tiny world unto itself. V.S Pritchett described short stories thus: ‘Something glimpsed from the corner of the eye, in passing.’

Different writers have their own idea of what constitutes a short story. Edgar Allan Poe declared that ‘a short story is a brief tale which can be told or read at one sitting.’ I did some investigation into the average length of short stories and they vary dramatically from writer to writer. Alice Munro’s stories have an average word count of 10, 215 words. Whereas Raymond Carver works to a more modest average of 4,263 words, perhaps explained by his theory on writing short stories: ‘Get in, get out. Don’t linger’. Many an aspiring short story writer might have dreamt of being published in the New Yorker – where the criteria for submissions is that the story should range from 2000 words to about 10,000.

I came across a very short story; a mere 500 words or so. But, wow, what a complex world was packed into this concise piece. The story is called ‘It’s Beginning to Hurt’, written by British author, James Lasdun. (Click on the link below for the story). James Lasdun theorises that perhaps the short story is appealing for readers ‘because it’s short, it’s quick and people have limited time and short attention spans. One would think it would fit right into the habits of mind that people have in this era.’ He reasons that writing short stories is more like poetry ‘because it’s so much about economy and trying to do many different things all at the same time.’

But I suspect the appeal of the short story is not merely the fact it can be consumed quickly, it’s the power that can resonate from such a brief encounter. Spanish writer Juan Benet nails the best definition of the short story I’ve read:

Something that can be read in an hour and remembered for a lifetime.

– Benet

It’s Beginning to Hurt. James Lasdun

http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/stories/downloads/lasdun.pdf

Spark of Genius

Short Story Collections

In one of those listings of the greatest British writers of the 20th century, I can’t recall who compiled it, Muriel Spark was ranked eighth. Muriel Spark? Then I discovered she was the woman who wrote The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie – the novel itself possibly usurped by Maggie Smith’s seminal portrayal of Miss Brodie in the film. I felt somewhat guilty when I then found out that Muriel Spark was Scottish. I was born in Glasgow, so why didn’t I know more about such a heralded writer? I promptly read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie as a starter. Enjoyed it very much for its characterisation of a compulsive extrovert, which led me to order The Driver’s Seat, nominated by Spark as her best book. The story proved to be quite a short one, I’d call it a novella. It was a brittle, tightly constructed tale about the planning of a murder. Less of a whodunit, rather, in the author’s words, a ‘whydunnit’.

The hardback was published by Polygon and I was most impressed by the delightful quality of the production: stylish typography, coloured endpaper, textured dust jacket – the book just has a great feel in the hand. Turns out Polygon have released twenty-two books in 2018 to celebrate the centenary of Muriel Spark’s birth. I’m keenly anticipating the arrival of five more volumes, but I fully suspect I’ll be ordering the balance. From not knowing much about this author, hopefully I’ll be able to offer some opinion on the prime of Miss Muriel Spark.

Here’s what another Scottish writer thought of Muriel Spark:

‘The greatest Scottish novelist of modern times…my admiration for Spark’s contribution to literature knows no bounds.’ – Ian Rankin

George Orwell’s Last Draft

Orwell’s scribbled corrections.

In 1946, George Orwell moved to the remote island of Jura, in the Hebrides, Scotland. There he was to work on a novel and take some fresh air for a troublesome chest. By December, 1948, having been diagnosed with tuberculosis, he had sent the manuscript to his agent in London unsure whether to call it Nineteen Eighty-Four or The Last Man in Europe. By the spring of 1949, Orwell was spitting blood. Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in June, 1949 and was hailed as a masterpiece. On January 21, 1950, Geroge Orwell suffered a massive haemorrhage and died in hospital, alone. He was forty-six years old.

The photograph shows Orwell’ s annotations on an earlier draft. Below is the opening to the published version; there are some notable changes which made for more economical and precise prose. If you look at the draft, the first sentence originally featured ‘a million radios striking thirteen’ – so much more succinct to say: ‘the clocks were striking thirteen.’ On the older draft, Winston Smith ‘pressed the button of the lift’, then he ‘pressed a second time’. In the final, it simply says: ‘It was no use trying the lift’ – this just feels so much more bleak. The ‘aged prole who acted as porter’ is summarily removed so that, instead, our attention is focused on the large poster on the wall featuring an enormous face. We will find out that the face had a caption beneath it which ran: BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.

Published Version:

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift.

George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four