‘The Taking of Elżbieta’ by Ryszard Kapuściński

Grace Paley, Isak Dinesen, Alejandro Zambra and Etgar Keret are knocking at the front door … But I left the back door open and this one, which I happened to be reading at the time of making this list, snuck in. Nobody Leaves is a collection of Kapuściński’s early domestic reportage in post-Stalinist but still Communist Poland, bulletins from a place that, as the translator notes in the introduction, “was, from our perspective today, as ‘exotic’ as any of the Third World countries he covered”. Fact, but it reads as fiction. Elżbieta was born in late 1939; her father was imprisoned by the Germans, her mother dug beets (“the soil that beets grow in is heavy soil”); after the war her father suffered two heart attacks and couldn’t work, her mother sold the medicines she was given for her tuberculosis “so that I could give Elżbieta what she needed”. The girl becomes a schoolteacher but instead of going to university she enters a convent: “At Elżbieta’s home it was cold, the pot was empty, and her mother lay there spitting clots. At the nuns’ it was warm and they fed her well.” The mother travels to the convent and is rebuffed; writes to her daughter and the letter is not delivered; writes to the Primate of Poland and is told “we advise you to keep quiet”. The narrator: “It strikes me that this is not bad advice … I also think that centuries of experience have gone into this reply.” The narrator visits Elżbieta – “we were kneeling in the snow, under a low sky, with an iron grille between us” – and is asked what he has brought for her. “I really don’t know. Perhaps only your mother’s scream.”

For more Polish reportage-as-story, see Hanna Krall, The Woman from Hamburg and Other True Stories (translated by Madeline G. Levine, Other Press, 2005).

Published in Nobody Leaves, translated by William R. Brand, Penguin Classics, 2017

‘Love, Death & Trousers’ by Laura Francis and Alexander Masters

Curated transcription. The curator here is Alexander Masters, author of A Discarded Life, based on 148 diaries found in a skip in Cambridge in 2001. The diary-writer was Laura Francis, live-in companion and servant for an elderly professor. Masters on Francis: “Laura could be an excellent diarist but frequently wasn’t … Her writing is repetitive, self-obsessed, confused, and two millimeters high.” But: “Even when the diaries are agonizingly tedious, you want to go on reading them because they are true. There’s none of the story-teller’s fraudulent scene-setting, character development, points of conflict, concluding resolution. You are peering in on a real woman who thinks she is alone – a woman in the final stages of tedium. She is writing about being human: the arbitrariness, the impotence, the fog.”

For The Paris Review, Masters arranged selected diary entries on specific subjects into ‘found stories’. The trousers one is hilarious. Some entries from another selection:

Various dates, 1959:

E said I’m very small, not interested in the world.

E said she didn’t believe in any of my gifts, not even writing.

E said I am stupid.

E said my song-capacity nothing, just a manifestation of the sexual impulse, like the singing of the birds.

July 23rd: Sat with the flickering lights in the leaves of trees playing in the hall, and thought thoughts that weren’t thoughts.

Aug: A desperate need for E; if E would have nothing more to do with me, I’d have nothing more to live for – would go ‘off my rocker’, or commit suicide. Almost feel I HATE E.

Published in The Paris Review, Summer 2017; available online to subscribers

‘Itinerary’ by Lucia Berlin

“I was leaving Chile for college in New Mexico. It was the going alone that was so glamorous. Dark glasses and high heels.” And it’s her first plane trip. There are stop-offs, at each of which her father has arranged for someone to meet her. Lima: Ingeborg, long tan legs, a large colour photograph of her father wearing “a rose-colored shirt that I had never seen before”. Panama: Mrs Kirby, canasta in “the pale silence of the American sector”. Miami: aunt Martha, grotesquely fat, “I clung to her, sank into her and her smell of Jergens lotion, Johnson’s baby powder”. Albuquerque: “The air was clean and cold in New Mexico. No one met me.” Pride, excitement, vulnerability, “so much I did not see or understand, and now it is too late”.

Where has Lucia Berlin been all my life? She was published by small presses in the 1980s and by Black Sparrow Press from 1990 and she died in 2004 and it took until 2015 for a big publisher, and then critics and reviewers, to wake up and take notice. She is sharp, quick (but alert to everything going on in the room), funny, unafraid, generous. (All things which contemporary mainstream publishing is not: I have no doubt there are other Lucia Berlins out there still waiting for the readers they deserve.) Of course she wrote short stories: there were too many other things going on in her life to sit down at a desk for the time it takes to write a novel.

Published in Evening in Paradise, Picador, 2018

Introduction

I believe that anthologies are, in and of themselves, a type of story. Poor anthologies are bitty; a playlist and not an album. It doesn’t matter how good the individual bits are; a proper anthology should have something to say as a curated composition.

That said, I’m too British at this point to make an anthology with a theme of ‘me’. Instead, I’ve chosen twelve stories that I think are remarkable for showcasing the power and potential of short fiction. They’re all clever and insightful and highly entertaining, as many good stories are. But the best short stories use the medium to do something novel (pun intended); to provide a perspective that is perfectly suited for the exact length and depth of the format.

‘The Old-Maid Aunt’ by Mary Wilkins Freeman

Mary Wilkins Freeman is a (sadly overlooked) turn-of-the-century author and fierce feminist writer, much admired by her peers. The Whole Family was the brainchild of novelist William Dean Howells; a ‘collaborative’ with a dozen authors (including Henry James) all telling interconnected short stories about a single family, and centred around the engagement of Peggy and Harry. Freeman is given the second chapter, but took exception to the description of her character in Howells’ set-up and proceeded to turn the frumpy ‘maiden aunt’ into a sexual dynamo who flirts with her niece’s fiancé and ultimately torpedoes the relationship entirely. The remaining ten authors have to pick up the pieces after the “explosion of a bombshell” (the editor’s words) as Freeman fiercely defended her decision to liberate her character.

The story of the story is fascinating, but even without context, Freeman’s contribution is simply excellent work. Freeman not only showcases a new perspective, but changes the entire narrative around her. By subverting expectations, she transforms Aunt Elizabeth from an insipid wallflower to an intriguing, admirable woman who threatens to steal the spotlight entirely. (So much so that she’s quickly packed off to New York by the book’s other contributors!)

First published in Harper’s Bazaar, 1907. Collected in The Whole Family, Harper & Brothers, 1908. Read it online here

‘The Wonderful Old Gentleman’ by Dorothy Parker

Including Parker feels like a cliché, and I can’t imagine she’d appreciate that, but – she’s inescapable. Parker’s inarguably one of the finest stylists of short form writing – poems, reviews, and, of course, short stories.

‘The Wonderful Old Gentleman’ is Parker at her very best. It is set in a family’s hideously stifling sitting room, while the clan’s elderly patriarch is dying in a bedroom upstairs. As Parker can be, it is merciless from the opening lines:

“If the Bains had striven for years, they could have been no more successful in making their living-room into a small but admirably complete museum of objects suggesting strain, discomfort, or the tomb. Yet they had never even tried for the effect.”

As the story unfolds, we learn about the “old gentleman’s” oppressive presence, and the emotional and physical wear and tear he’s inflicted on the family. But is that enough to merit their hypocrisy as they sit, blandly exchanging platitudes as they wait for his death? This story is – like ‘A Telephone Call’ – torturous, as Parker conveys a crushing anxiety. Line by line, Parker’s one of the most cunningly quotable writers imaginable. But it is her ability to inflict emotion on the reader that makes her stories more than cruel caricature. We’re laughing at her characters, but somehow we feel the pain of being laughed at as well.

First published in Pictorial Review, January 1926. Collected in Complete Stories, Penguin, 1995

‘Beyond the Black River’ by Robert E. Howard

Like most of Howard’s stories, the theme here is the tension between civilisation and barbarism – and, in this instance, the latter triumphs. Howard’s most famous creation, Conan, finds himself is involved through happenstance – he’s hanging out in the the area, and gets caught up in the conflict between a handful of pioneers and a burgeoning horde of ‘Picts’. A barbarian himself (obvs), Conan sees the settlers’ efforts to bring order to chaos as futile – and he’s right, as the story ends tragically.

‘Beyond the Black River’ takes the unusual approach of making Conan the secondary character. The Spy Who Loved Me approach provides a different point of view to what is initially established as a conventional pulp adventure. Balthus, an ordinary man, is the true protagonist of the story. As a pioneer, he’s trying (and ultimately failing) to build something, but is trapped between inexorable, destructive forces. Conan himself is undeniably impressive, yet his triumphs are, ultimately, meaningless – if not outright destructive.

The barbarian is, to both Balthus and to the reader, a legendary, superhuman figure. But in this story, Conan’s presented less as a man and more of a natural force; he’s not a person, he’s a plot point. Howard’s ability to deconstruct his own literary creation earns this story a place on my list. It is an excellent adventure in and of itself, but when taken in the context of the greater mythos, it is an absolute triumph.

First published in Weird Tales, May 1935. Collected in The Complete Chronicles of Conan, Gollancz, 2016. Read it online here

‘Zero Hour’ by Ray Bradbury

A bunch of kids are playing, because aren’t kids the cutest. They’re being very imaginative and talking to their ‘friend’ and nicking household items to build things. All very sweet, and told from the point of view of a distracted, rather distant mother. If anything, she’s delighted that the kids aren’t underfoot – even if they are playing ‘WWIII’. As with many of Bradbury’s twisted tales, by the time the people that shouldbe paying attention start to pay attention, it is too late, and terrible things are now underway.

This is a maddening, frustrating, provoking tale. It makes me want to yell at the page, and then hide under the bed. It was the source of a decade’s worth of nightmares as a child, and has stayed with me ever since.

First published in Planet Stories, Fall 1947. Collected in The Illustrated Man, Doubleday, 1951

‘First Offense’ by Evan Hunter

Evan ‘Ed McBain’ Hunter is one of my favorite authors. His 87th Precinct series ran for over half a century, always reflecting the attitudes, trends and mores of the day. Hunter is excellent at capturing the cultural zeitgeist: The Mugger is as quintessentially Fifties as, say, Lightning is undoubtedly Eighties and Fat Ollie’s Book is peak Noughties.

‘First Offense’, I would argue, bucks that trend, as a genuinely timeless piece. It is, like the 87th Precinct, a procedural: it follows a young man as he’s booked on his first offense, and goes through the process of being charged and interviewed by the police. But the nuts and bolts are secondary.

Stevie, 17, starts his journey hardened and cynical, but regresses before our eyes, finally ending as a weeping and confused child. Hunter captures the essence of adolescence: of being half-man and half-boy, trapped between knowledge and ignorance, in the world but not yet of it. He also captures the system that is there to process, not care; solutions, not sympathy. The details of ‘First Offense’ may feel dated, but the most salient human and social elements of it are still relevant today.

First published in Manhunt, 1955. Collected in Learning to Kill, Harcourt, 2006

‘The Doubtful Guest’ by Edward Gorey

It is hard to separate Gorey’s writing from his art, but why should we? A story like ‘The Doubtful Guest’ is the perfect fusion of words and pictures; the tragic, comedic tale of an unspecified creature that comes to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting family.

The havoc is also, for lack of a better word: marginal. Yes, it eats all of the syrup and part of a plate, and then breaks the gramophone. But it is never actually menacing or a threat. Gorey’s art depicts the guest or as small and fuzzy (wearing what looks suspiciously like Converse). The family are, at worst, annoyed: their trinkets are lost and pictures are askew. The net sum of its disruption is no worse than that of your average Tortoiseshell cat.

Perhaps, dare I say it, they’re better off?

That’s the beauty of Gorey’s world. Even when he’s outright macabre (such as ‘The Gashlycrumb Tinies’), he’s somehow making it seem gosh darned cute. And when he’s adorable (like ‘The Bug Book’), it is masking the grotesque. ‘The Doubtful Guest’ is perfectly spun in-between the two, leaving the reader to wrestle with their own indecision.

First published by Doubleday, 1957

‘Things’ by Ursula K. Le Guin

Le Guin explains that, when first published, the editor changed the story’s title to ‘The End’. Although still fitting, I agree with Le Guin’s re-assertion of her original title. Although set against the backdrop of the apocalypse, this is not a story about endings: this is a story about things.

In a small, seaside town, an (unspecified) end is nigh. Everyone has resigned themselves to their fate: either taking to the hills to weep or the streets to rage. Everyone, that is, except one brick-maker. A stolid man, he cannot abandon his creations, and isn’t drawn to the mob. Instead, he finds himself drawn to the faintest possibility of hope: the idea that something may exist across the waters. While the rest of his village burns and fades, he begins the patently futile task of building a bridge across the ocean. He is aided by the sole other remaining villagers, a widow with a small child, and the three of them attempt to build something, even as the world ends.

Unsurprisingly, given the author, this is a beautiful story. I have a hard time reading it through misty eyes. It showcases the disregarded perseverance of those who quietly strive to create in a world full of destruction. The choice of bricks as the central ‘thing’ is inspired. Solid, unspectacular, unremarkable, and the foundation for everything else, even hope.

First published in Orbit 6, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1970. Collected in The Wind’s Twelve Quarters, Harper & Row, 1975

‘The Coyote Gospel’ by Grant Morrison, Chaz Troug and Doug Hazlewood

Nearly-wordless and almost entirely heartbreaking. Imagine a world like that of Looney Tunes: adorable cartoon animals who spent their days in adorable cartoon violence. ‘The Coyote Gospel’ takes it a step further: imagine being one of those animals, forced by the cosmos to live a life of unending, Sisyphean slaughter, a world where there is nothing but (adorable cartoon) war, with no hint of resolution.

The animals manage to send a representative, a coyote, out of their world into ‘ours’ with a desperate plea – for someone, somehow to bring them peace. The coyote faces the trials and persecutions of the world, including a human stalker convinced that this visitor is the devil incarnate. The coyote finally meets the ostensible ‘hero’ of the title and begging for his aid. The resolution is truly heartbreaking, as worlds collide with a whimper.

It is a story within a story: a cartoon character meeting a pilgrimage to meet a comic book character. Like much of Morrison’s work, it is an examination of the form itself – a way of pulling the reader into the story by questioning the reality of storytelling itself. It is also a contrast between heroism, superheroism and the ordinary, as all three figures in the story weave in and out of one another’s lives.

First published as Animal Man Vol. 1, No. 5, DC Comics (Vertigo), December, 1988

‘Desert Rain’ by Pat Murphy and Mark L. Van Name

An artist moves with her husband to their new home in the American Southwest. She agrees – reluctantly – to be the ‘test subject’ for her husband’s new project, a virtual companion that can help with tasks from basic research to online shopping. Isolated, lonely, and creatively frustrated, her relationship with ‘Ian’ becomes more and more complex.

‘Desert Rain’ is prophetic at every level – down to basic functionality of our modern day, household AI devices. But, like the best of science fiction, it isn’t about the exciting technology – it is about what our relationship with that technology says about us. In this case, how we connect with humanized AI speaks volumes about who we are as people, and what we want from our own relationships. Do we want a sleekly perfect partner, or do we want the mess and chaos of imperfection?

This story has stuck with me since I first read it, not only because it becomes more accurate every day, but because it is – ultimately – a perfectly composed tale that builds to a single moment of choice. It is quietly, superbly constructed.

First published in Full Spectrum 3, Doubleday, 1991

‘Covehithe’ by China Miéville

Oil rigs as sea turtles. The miracle of life, as witnessed by a father and his daughter. It is gorgeously written and profoundly disturbing, a vignette of a deeply-traumatized world. As discarded oil rigs begin to resurface, humanity reacts with violence, then a fannish glee; finally completing the cycle with a sort of malign complacency.

It is odd, brief and wonderful. In a brief space, it raises questions about our relationship with history and the environment, with both the constructed and natural worlds. Miéville, who has somehow mastered the twin arts of meaningful philosophical prose and also kickass monsters, marries the two in a story that forces us to consider how we react to wonder itself.

First published in The Guardian, April 2011. Collected in Three Moments of an Explosion, Macmillan, 2015. Find it online here