This story begins in medias res, as if, like Pegman on Google’s Street View, the reader is dragged and dropped into the narrative on a sizzling Japanese beach, “…and so my timing was thrown off. And so a space opened in my emotions.” These are the summers we all can’t quite remember – the summer of our burgeoning sexuality, of our changing bodies in our brand-new swimsuits, of our crushing crushes and fizzing desires, of being stung by jellyfish, burned by the sun and scorched by first love.
Yūko Tsushima (1947-2016) was the daughter of the extraordinary Japanese novelist Osamu Dazai (check out his No Longer Human in all its Japanese existential autobiographical angst). Her father had left the family home to live with his mistress and, just after Yūko’s first birthday, he and his lover had committed suicide by drowning themselves in the Tamagawa Aqueduct. There is a lot of water in Tsushima’s work, a lot of death, a lot of missing fathers, and her fiction concentrates on abandoned woman fighting their way in a misogynist society, a feminist viewpoint against a male-dominated society.
The story has similarities to Yukio Mishima’s ‘Death in Midsummer’, which also concerns sunburns, sandcastles, the sea, death, fathers and also has a character called Keiko. Tsushima’s work is sparse and incandescent, dreamlike while dealing with real problems. For further reading, go to Territory of Light and Child of Fortune, both Penguin Modern Classics. Another of her summer stories I could have chosen – ‘The Watery Realm’ – is in the pocket-sized Penguin Modern series along with ‘Of Dogs and Walls’.
First published in the short story collection Watashi (I), 1999. Its only English translation is online at Words Without Borders. Chosen by Steve Finbow. Read Steve’s Personal Anthology here
The stories in my anthology made me laugh, gave me the willies, or plain blew my mind and made me think about the form of the short story, about literature and therefore about life.
This is a story of paranoia, obsession and guilt, of post-Sophoclean horror and pre-Freudian psychosis.
True! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. 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.
This is the first short story I remember reading that stayed with me, that I copied out to see how it was done, that – at the pretentious age of seventeen – I decided to turn into a play and got as far as ‘casting’ it. I disagree with Henry James who wrote, “An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection. Baudelaire thought him a profound philosopher… Poe was much the greater charlatan of the two, as well as the greater genius.” Bitch.
First published in The Pioneer, 1843, and widely available in Penguin Little Black Classics, 2015 and online here)
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls.
At an even earlier age, this song transfixed me with its mixture of a short story (written by Lou Reed, read by John Cale) and feedback rock. This was experimental music and an experiment with the form of the short story. From this point on, both noise music and experimental literature would interest me, and still do. I could have chosen other examples of the short story as song – Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Thunder Road’, Bob Dylan’s ‘Black Diamond Bay’, Neutral Milk Hotel’s ‘Holland, 1945’ and Current 93’s work with Thomas Ligotti. Reed’s mixture of humour (rare for Lou) and suburban horror blends and contrasts with Cale’s mellifluous accent and the raucous noise of his fuzz bass, Sterling Morrison white-hot guitar and Maureen Tucker’s power percussion.
Born five years after the death of Jonathan Swift, Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade (1740-1814) – as Camille Pagila argues in Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson (snappy!) – is best categorised as a satirist rather than a pornographer. Sade would have denied both and all forms of literary taxonomy. Iconoclastic, anti-clerical, revolutionary, Sade even contradicted his own psychopathic sexuality. In Psychopathia Sexualis (1886), Richard von Krafft-Ebing used the terms sadism and masochism (after Leopold von Sacher-Masoch) to describe active and passive sexual pleasure derived from pain. If anything, taking as clues Sade’s sexual preferences in his novels, the Divine Marquis was a masochist. In this masochistic and funny short story, Sade attacks everything – the Church, the State, marriage, literature, himself and finishes with Carry On-like ribaldry. The Crimes of Love and The Misfortunes of Virtue and Other Early Tales (both Oxford World’s Classics) act as literary foreplay to the longer philosophic prose orgies.
In De Sade Quartet, Peter Owen, 1963. Online here
Probably my favourite Japanese author, well, the one I return to more than others, Akutagawa is best known for his short stories ‘Rashōmon’ and ‘In a Grove’ – Akira Kurrosawa’s Rashomon is based on the latter and not the former tale. For a take on Akutagawa’s troubled life and writings, read David Peace’s fictional biography Patient X. This story details the slow disintegration of Akutagawa’s mind, faith and life. It recalls the doubles in the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Fyodor Dostoevsky and looks forward to the doppelgangers in the novels of Vladimir Nabokov and Ursula K. Le Guin. Akutagawa walks through the streets of Tokyo’s Shitamachi, much as Poe’s William Wilson had done in Stoke Newington one hundred years earlier. In this Tokyo, still devastated by the Great Kanto earthquake of 1923, Akutagawa encounters people we are not quite sure exist, friends say they have met him in bars when Akutagawa wasn’t there and he becomes obsessed with the strange workings of his mind and memory. Other Japanese authors I could have included are Kanoko Okamoto, Osamu Dazai, Kenji Nakagami, Mieko Kanai, Yūko Tsushima, Yōko Ogawa and Mariko Nagai.
First published posthumously as ‘Haguruma’, 1927. Translated by Jay Rubin in Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories, Penguin Classics, 2009. Online here
Paul Bowles’s works are disturbing. Not in the sense of a Stephen King or a Clive Barker but in that overused term “psychological”. I’m not one to divulge the storyline in a review, as I’d like the reader to enjoy (if that’s the word) the creeping sense of disquiet, the horripilation, the quickening of breath as the story unfolds. Bowles is sometimes grouped with the Beat Generation writers (he happened to be living in Tangier when William S. Burroughs moved there, later being visited by Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and Gregory Corso) but Bowles is a better and more subtle writer than all of them (even if Burroughs is the more experimental and influential). Bowles’s novels and short stories are full of violence and depravation – both actual and inferred – and infused with the desert’s silence and darkness. This is a North Africa where European/Americans are out of their depth, however much they feel integrated.
First published in Partisan Review, January–February, 1947. Collected in Collected Stories, Penguin Modern Classics, 2009. Online here