I love Lore Segal’s writing. And when I say that, I fully admit that I am referring to her short stories that I have read in The New Yorker. (I really need to pick up one of her novels.) I love how her short stories don’t fit neatly in any box, are elusive like trying to grasp smoke, and no matter how serious or melancholy a piece or section of a piece might be, her work leaves me feeling better, more affirming towards life.
What is “Stories About Us,” about? I’m still not sure. I guess you could say that it five short vignettes about older women who live in New York, and talk to each other about their lives…
“Stories About Us,” is also about being validated, being seen, being missed, the contradictions in life, inclusion as an act of grace, and the past that still lives with us.
What I like about Segal’s writing, and this story in particular is that at the first read, I wasn’t sure what was going on, and then I thought about it, and I concluded that I knew what was going on. And then I re-read it this morning, and I’m not sure I really know what’s going on, but I’m okay with that. There is an undisputed piece of truth in each one of the sections, that is wonderful to discover, like a flower opening up. And in quick secession, Segal lets us see the thinking and insights of these characters; women who are complicated and vulnerable, having lived lives, and still want to keep exploring and experiencing. I can’t explain how Segal does it, but there is an ebb and flow to each section, working together like a piece of music, landing on a touching yet unsettling denouement.
“Stories About Us” is a very fine work, that I might never be able to pinpoint exactly why I enjoy it so much. It also makes me think that’s why Lore Segal is Lore Segal; her writing is like music. I can say why it moves me, it just moves me when I hear it.
(The short story “Ambrose” by Allegra Goodman appeared in the September 30th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)
Photograph by Annie Collinge for The New Yorker
I’m paraphrasing this, but John Lennon said the best way to become a good song writer, is that you first have to write a lot of bad songs. I think that applies to any artist; to make good art, you have to make a whole lot of bad art first. That doesn’t mean that the bad art only serves the purpose of getting the artist to their good art. No, bad art can help in so many ways. That was one of the thoughts that went through my head while reading “Ambrose” by Allegra Goodman’s effectively touching story.
Here’s a way too short synopsis: Lily is a sixth grader who is writing a story, about the Princess Ambrose, while also dealing with the difficulties of her parent’s divorce. Elements of Lily’s life work their way into the world of Princess Ambrose.
What Goodman’s story just smashes are the little details. The way Lily decorates her notebook that contains the story, her parents concern, the words and phrases used by grownups talking about kids, and the way Lily sees her parents sitting together when they haven’t in a long time. I appreciated how Goodman approached Lily’s struggles by never belittling them, and though the school might have over reacted, the adults in Lily’s life take her seriously. But my favorite aspect was that Lily’s story wasn’t particularly good, in regard to originality or grammar. Lily creating a “good story” really isn’t the point so much as Lily discovering, maybe subconsciously, that the issues of her life can be expressed and dealt with in the art she is creating. I felt that was a very honest and authentic way to dramatize the creation of this writer, showing us how important it is that she writes this story, even though it isn’t very good. I think lesser writers would have made Lily’s story epic, and original and well written… and that would have missed the point.
My only criticism of the story is the ending. Not the climax, which was handled very well. No, I’m talking about the last nine paragraphs. After giving us a nice honest moment between Lily and her mother, the final scene is in Lily’s dance class with an odd fitting “deus ex machina” of a substitute dance teacher. This felt tagged on, as if to give Lily a win in the story, or to end on a button. I found it distracting because the story was taking us to a place where Lily, and her parents, are all learning that this life together will be difficult, but they will face it as a family. Just didn’t sit right with me.
That’s not to say that I’m not recommending this story. “Ambrose” is sweet, and moves with an airy confidence that is charming. Goodman makes Lily a very interesting, and intelligent kid who is going through a time in her life which makes everything a challenge. This isn’t life and death drama, but Goodman shows how impactful moments in a six grader’s life can be.
(The short story “Autobahn” by Hugo Hamilton appeared in the September 23rd, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)
Illustration by Christoph Niemann
Funny how a situation, a moment that you are experiencing, can unlock a memory that even sometimes has nothing to do with what you are doing. Walking into my kid’s school the other day, I started to remember being at my grandmother’s house, and how it would smell when she was making apple dumplings. Interesting, how moments in our lives can be keys to the past. Hugo Hamilton’s “Autobahn” plays around with that idea, but in a more dramatic fashion.
Here’s a super simple description of the story: The narrator, an Irish hitchhiker in Germany, is questioned at gun point by a police officer along the Autobahn, and while being held there, the narrator begins to remember his father.
This is a very short story, and though it isn’t a flash piece, it had that quality to it. Also, this story did remind me of a song, perhaps because there were two “melodies” happening with the piece; the cop story line, and the father story line. (And then it could be that the story ends mentioning a Doors’ song.) I found that Hamilton did a good job switching between these two narratives, like jumping from the chorus to the bridge, and then back again. Both story lines had the threat of violence to them, which created tension needed to keep the story dramatic, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the narrator was never really in danger.
What I found most interesting about “Autobahn” were two bits; one was the theme, and the other was the climax. I liked how Hamilton laid out the difficult and conflicting the relationship was between the narrator and his father. How the father could be abusive toward his son, but also encourage his son’s talents, and how circling that square is a never-ending challenge which ends up making memories of the father always close to the surface. Then there was the climax, where the narrator describes a moment when he saw his father at a newsstand, but his father didn’t see him. It was drawn well, and had a lasting but fleeting feeling to it.
I liked this story, though it did feel light. Like, the story wanted to go to a third gear, so the speak, but pulled back in the last section. Over all, Hugo Hamilton created a very specific emotional moment, that I could relate to, as sometimes you can’t stop a memory from coming up.
The only constant in life is change – nothing stays the same forever. The older I get, the more I think about this. There are things I wish would stay the same forever, but I also know how foolish of a wish that is. And then there were times in my life that I thought nothing would ever change, only for the ground to slowly shift under my feet. These were some of the thoughts I had as I was reading Bryan Washington’s “Last Coffeehouse on Travis.”
The story is set in Houston in the very recent past. Specifically, in the Midtown neighborhood before gentrification changed the area. At the start of the story, the narrator is being politely kicked out of his aunt’s home and is going to live with Margo and her son Walter. In exchange for a free place to stay, the narrator will have to work at Margo’s coffeeshop not too far away. Margo is master coffee maker, and the majority clientele at the coffeehouse are recently arrived white gentrifiers. But there is to be a solid group of regulars, mainly black and latinx, who form the community of this story. As Washington lets his story develop, mainly through Margo’s coffee making and the narrator’s attempt to learn from her, we come to see people in states of change, both wanted and unwanted.
Now that I have that very simplistic description out of the way…
There were a couple of times that I felt that this story could fall off the rails and land in a pool of clichés; The narrator continually trying to make a cup of coffee that impresses Margo, or a character reveals some deep dark secret trauma from their past, or the climax being some explosion of a fight between two characters that should be working together. No, Bryan Washington was playing with me, because he crafts full, lived in characters that I could see myself running into on my block and having a conversation with. These are characters that want to learn from each other. Characters that have pain and mistakes in their past, but that pain doesn’t define them, nor stop them from going out and living and trying to make connections.
Then there is the craftsmanship to Washington’s writing. The very subtle touches he uses to forward the story and develop characters. How Margo never asks, she tells people what to do. The very short but efficient descriptions of the neighborhood, to create the feel of this setting, as something that is slipping away, but at this moment, it was very alive. Another aspect that I thought was well written was how gentrification was this underlining menace to the story and its characters. Change maybe unavoidable, but it is not always good. We know from the beginning of the story that the neighborhood will change, and Margo and the coffeehouse won’t be there in the future. It’s touched on in the right way to amplify the theme without belaboring the point. This is good writing, where nothing felt wasted or superfluous. This story was made the way it needed to be.
Which brings me to how well the climax of this story worked. Again, I go back to the fact that Washington was playing with our expectations by starting this section with, “The morning that it happened…” My mind went to dramatic ends of what could possibly be coming. In fact, the final paragraph of the section before, the narrator even acknowledges that no matter how well things are going, it can’t stay this way forever. (See, Bryan Washington is priming us.) But what follows are characters understanding that it is time for them to move on to whatever is next, because things are changing. There is a rise in action, a true climax, but it is treated in an honest way that I wasn’t expecting, and I am also trying not to ruin this story for people. Sorry that’s vague.
I love reading Bryan Washington’s work. It moves in ways that feel familiar but also unexpected at the same time. I loved being with his characters, not at the most dramatic moment in their lives, but a very pivotal one. These are moments that take us to the next place, and Bryan Washington reminds us how valuable those moments are.
(The short story “The Narayans” by Akhil Sharma appeared in the August 26th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)
Illustration by Sargam Gupta
Gossipy neighbors; We all have them. They seem to live on the edges of most stories, novels, and sitcoms. Sometimes it’s not the neighbors, but the community as a whole that is a gossip. People will talk, and make conclusions, and jump to conclusions. It never works out well. And the neighbors do talk in Akhil Sharma’s “The Narayans,” but the clichés and tropes that usually develop and deftly avoided in this work.
First of all, Akhil Sharma makes an ingenious choice with the narrative of this story, which sets an impactful tone. The narrator of this story is third person limited, and is also a member of the community from which the story takes place. (Maybe it’s first person limited…) It makes the narrative of the story feel as if it’s second hand, possibly unreliable. Any insight from this story comes from the narrator, and not from any of the other characters.
The narrator tells us about the Narayan family, who live in an Indian immigrant community in Edison, New Jersey. Mr. Narayan is an unpleasant man, while his wife is overly generous. They have two children, an older son, Vikas, and a younger daughter, Madhu, whom Mr. Narayan is overly protective of. We also meet the neighbors, Dr. Shukla and her daughter, Nehali, who is the same age as Madhu, fourteen. Soon it is discovered that Madhu is pregnant, and at first the rumor is that Vikas is the father. Then the rumor is that Mr. Narayan is the father. Madhu is then sent to India, while Vikas is attacked at school by a pack of white girls. The community turns on the Narayans, wherein Mr. Narayan also returns to India, and receives what the narrator implies is his comeuppance. Then time goes by, and the community changes as a new wave of immigrants from India arrive. Soon notions and stigmas also begin to soften, and Mrs. Narayan is no longer judged in the same way. This leads to the climax of the story, and Madhu’s return to this community in New Jersey.
This story was a kick to my gut. It completely created a sympathy in me for Madhu, and to be empathetic to her situation. But it also left me feeling conflicted with how the community reacted to this situation. How this community blamed, possibly correctly, one person, while ignoring the victims. The swift kick this story gave me had the effect of making me question my need to assign blame first, and not sympathize and help those that have been hurt. How that lack of sympathy and empathy can add to a person’s trauma.
As with all stories that deeply affect me, I am having trouble putting my finger on all the aspects and details in this story that give it such a full breath, and life. But, that’s also the sign of a very good writer, and Sharma is that. And still I was left wondering if everything I was told, was in fact, true. That isn’t a knock against this story, just an acknowledgment that the theme and tone were spot on for this piece.
