Most of O Hara’s stories have been published in The New Yorker, giving birth to a certain type of story that we now associate with the magazine. Though I am not a fan of this type of story, I find O’Hara’s stories among the most entertaining I’ve ever read.

Having worked as a journalist, the skills accumulated while reporting real facts have served him well and have helped him create punchy, fact-based stories often inspired by overheard conversations. An O’Hara story is often like a play, in that the setting is circumscribed, the period of time in which the events take place is very short (a day or even a few hours), and it sometimes starts and/or ends with dialogue. O’Hara’s characters are from all the walks of life—bartenders, showgirls, cops, doctors, widows (more or less wealthy), drunks, actors—and one can tell that he has a deep knowledge of all the American class structures. But the most idiosyncratic characteristic of his stories is that his characters are defined by/through their voices and way of speaking. His dialogues are so vivid and life-like, that even when you don’t know almost anything about his characters, you can see them. Some of the stories in this collection are nothing more than dialogues between a husband and a wife, or a man and a woman who have just met—but they draw you in from the first line. One of O’Hara’s techniques is to start a story in the middle of an ongoing dialogue, which makes the reader curious to find out the missing piece of information. Another technique is an intriguing, mysterious ending.

Some examples of O’Hara beginnings: “The alarm clock went off and she did not remember setting it.” (“The Assistant); “The famous actress went to the window and gazed down at the snow-covered park.” (“Can I Stay Here?”); “Miller was putting his key in the lock.” (“Good-Bye, Herman”); and some endings: “She knew it [her lawyer’s phone number] by heart.” (“The Assistant”); “‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Me’.” (“It’s Mental Work”).