What do you think?
Rate this book
afternoon, a story
A classic of electronic fiction, afternoon is the richly imagined story of Peter, a technical writer who (in one reading) begins his afternoon with a terrible suspicion that the wrecked car he saw hours earlier might have belonged to his former wife.
- GenresFiction
300 pages, CD-ROM
First published January 1, 1990
7 people are currently reading
240 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
January 21, 2023
Something, something Jeff Goldblum as Dr. Ian Malcolm admonishing “your scientists were so preoccupied with whether they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.”
Afternoon, a story is the seminal example of what is referred to as “hypertext fiction” a digital storytelling medium in which stories are told non-linearly via readers clicking the words on the page, which will then take them to a page related to the said word.
My lede may make it sound like I’m dismissing hypertext fiction as a whole. Au contraire: I’m always interested in works that bend genres and mediums. I place all the onus of my disappointment with Afternoon, a story on its author, Michael Joyce.
I liken Michael Joyce’s work on Afternoon, a story to Walter Jackson Freeman II giving a lobotomy; showily demonstrating “look ma, I can do it with no hands” as he gives the crowd a toothy grin while ruining some poor sap’s brain with an ice pick — you’re impressed, yet disgusted. One of two things is true: either A, Michael Joyce is just straight-up a poor writer, or B, he’s so interested in showing off his apparent skills that, while impressive in their novelty, actively hurt the narrative. Whatever the reasoning, the result is the same: a genuinely good story buried under layers of post-modernist posturing.
This much can be seen in the disconnect between the story’s premise and its starting point.
“I want to say I may have seen my son die this morning.”
Yes, while I may be a dumb bitch who gravitates towards weeb trash and cape shit, I’m not one to withhold credit where credit’s due: that’s punchy. That’s the type of premise that makes it impossible to dismiss the dreaded “lit fic” out of hand. And it’s a very simple beginning that would give a good number of jumping-off points while not being overwhelming to those new to the medium.
Naturally, Joyce doesn’t start with this.
No, he instead starts with…some conversation between two ill-defined people about winter that prompts the reader to answer whether they do or don’t want to hear about poetry. It might take you a while to get to the aforementioned passage. It’s an odd choice, but it’s par for the course for Afternoon, a story.
Something as crucial as POV is muddled — the passage I highlighted is clearly from the perspective of “Peter,” who is ostensibly the main character. I say “ostensibly” because we jump from POV to POV with no rhyme or reason. There’s very little way to tell POV from POV, to the point where I still don’t have a firm grasp on who the five central characters are — neither as individuals nor in relation to one another. There are beautiful bits of description but nine times out of ten, they come with little-to-no context, robbing them of impact. The parts when they are connected to a clear person, place, or event are some of the highlights of the story, and…that’s weird, right? Basic shit being the highlight?
It’s not even like Joyce eschews traditional storytelling to focus on making the most of the medium he’s writing in. No, it feels pretty damn disappointing as a form of hypertext fiction, as well. Not all words lead to a unique page and unlike *actual* hypertexts, there’s no indication of the ones that do, forcing to go back and obsessively click them all, not really caring what the next page is. Worst yet, many pages will railroad you to a certain next page regardless of what you click. It takes you right the fuck out of reading.
Despite it all, I don’t hate Afternoon, a story, the sum of its parts is average; aggressively, disappointingly average. There are genuinely interesting and affecting passages. Despite being disappointed, I’d keep coming back to the story to try to find new content because the diamonds are just brilliant enough that I was willing to brave the rough. If nothing else, Afternoon, a story is disproportionately addictive. I so want to find more gems in the story, I so want to line the pieces up to create a narrative that’s at least sensible, I so want to find out who the fuck I’m dealing with, but each reading session, at best, I’m whelmed, at worst, I’m disappointed.
Some might say this is the point, that as post-modernist fiction, it’s supposed to turn traditional narrative structure on its head, it’s supposed to make me as the reader work for understanding. But I don’t know, man, I’ve always been of the opinion that effects are more important than the cause. But what do I know, every other academic (something that my degree dictates I am, at least ostensibly) who reads thinks it’s the bee’s knees. I’ll just keep on sipping my “dumb bitch juice.”
Afternoon, a story is the seminal example of what is referred to as “hypertext fiction” a digital storytelling medium in which stories are told non-linearly via readers clicking the words on the page, which will then take them to a page related to the said word.
My lede may make it sound like I’m dismissing hypertext fiction as a whole. Au contraire: I’m always interested in works that bend genres and mediums. I place all the onus of my disappointment with Afternoon, a story on its author, Michael Joyce.
I liken Michael Joyce’s work on Afternoon, a story to Walter Jackson Freeman II giving a lobotomy; showily demonstrating “look ma, I can do it with no hands” as he gives the crowd a toothy grin while ruining some poor sap’s brain with an ice pick — you’re impressed, yet disgusted. One of two things is true: either A, Michael Joyce is just straight-up a poor writer, or B, he’s so interested in showing off his apparent skills that, while impressive in their novelty, actively hurt the narrative. Whatever the reasoning, the result is the same: a genuinely good story buried under layers of post-modernist posturing.
This much can be seen in the disconnect between the story’s premise and its starting point.
“I want to say I may have seen my son die this morning.”
Yes, while I may be a dumb bitch who gravitates towards weeb trash and cape shit, I’m not one to withhold credit where credit’s due: that’s punchy. That’s the type of premise that makes it impossible to dismiss the dreaded “lit fic” out of hand. And it’s a very simple beginning that would give a good number of jumping-off points while not being overwhelming to those new to the medium.
Naturally, Joyce doesn’t start with this.
No, he instead starts with…some conversation between two ill-defined people about winter that prompts the reader to answer whether they do or don’t want to hear about poetry. It might take you a while to get to the aforementioned passage. It’s an odd choice, but it’s par for the course for Afternoon, a story.
Something as crucial as POV is muddled — the passage I highlighted is clearly from the perspective of “Peter,” who is ostensibly the main character. I say “ostensibly” because we jump from POV to POV with no rhyme or reason. There’s very little way to tell POV from POV, to the point where I still don’t have a firm grasp on who the five central characters are — neither as individuals nor in relation to one another. There are beautiful bits of description but nine times out of ten, they come with little-to-no context, robbing them of impact. The parts when they are connected to a clear person, place, or event are some of the highlights of the story, and…that’s weird, right? Basic shit being the highlight?
It’s not even like Joyce eschews traditional storytelling to focus on making the most of the medium he’s writing in. No, it feels pretty damn disappointing as a form of hypertext fiction, as well. Not all words lead to a unique page and unlike *actual* hypertexts, there’s no indication of the ones that do, forcing to go back and obsessively click them all, not really caring what the next page is. Worst yet, many pages will railroad you to a certain next page regardless of what you click. It takes you right the fuck out of reading.
Despite it all, I don’t hate Afternoon, a story, the sum of its parts is average; aggressively, disappointingly average. There are genuinely interesting and affecting passages. Despite being disappointed, I’d keep coming back to the story to try to find new content because the diamonds are just brilliant enough that I was willing to brave the rough. If nothing else, Afternoon, a story is disproportionately addictive. I so want to find more gems in the story, I so want to line the pieces up to create a narrative that’s at least sensible, I so want to find out who the fuck I’m dealing with, but each reading session, at best, I’m whelmed, at worst, I’m disappointed.
Some might say this is the point, that as post-modernist fiction, it’s supposed to turn traditional narrative structure on its head, it’s supposed to make me as the reader work for understanding. But I don’t know, man, I’ve always been of the opinion that effects are more important than the cause. But what do I know, every other academic (something that my degree dictates I am, at least ostensibly) who reads thinks it’s the bee’s knees. I’ll just keep on sipping my “dumb bitch juice.”
September 9, 2021
The first work of hypertext fiction was, unfortunately, rather boring. More like 2.5 stars. The innovation factor bumped it up to 3 stars.
Want to read
May 29, 2011The first hypertext fiction ever.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews