My affair with Katherine Anne Porter has been going on for some time now, and I revisit her stories more than any other author.
This collection is like a weird mixtape where someone chooses to focus on a certain tone of a particular artist. All of the stories are excellent, but they don't present you with all Porter can achieve and only a handful of them are her at her absolute best. Because of this, it's not a good introduction for her, I feel.
The best introduction is 'Pale Horse, Pale Rider', a perfect book of American fiction. One story in 'The Old Order' is from 'Pale Horse, Pale Rider' and that is 'Old Mortality', a Miranda story where she is "not a girl, not yet a woman", to quote the scintillating Britney Spears pop classic.
BUT I really would have loved to read Porter addressing her roots more directly. You see, the 'Miranda stories' so-called, are kind of like the Nick Adams stories of Hemingway: Partially autobiographical, deeply romantic and wistful, while simultaneously self-mythologizing. For Porter, she sort of suggests a history as a Southern belle from a prestigious old southern family (she also suggested this in person when telling anecdotes to enraptured listeners) that's weirdly grafted on to a Texas setting (in the early stories). If you know her biography, she was a poor child who grew up in Central Texas, but she was always a little hesitant to embrace this, and had reservations about her home state (I feel you, Katherine). Reading a story where she inhabited her past more directly would be a great joy to me. You get a glimpse of what might have been in 'The Grave', the best story in this collection. It's a story about a brother and sister exploring a graveyard, a story about punishment and memory and fleeting joy. The ending, where she is far away in another country and remembering that day and sees her brother's face again, well, just read it:
One day she was picking her path among the puddles and crushed refuse of a market street in a strange city of a strange country, when, without warning, in totality, plain and clear in its true colors as if she looked through a frame upon a scene that had not stirred nor changed since the moment it happened, the episode of the far-off day leaped from its burial place before her mind’s eye. She was so reasonlessly horrified she halted suddenly staring, the scene before her eyes dimmed by the vision back of them. An Indian vendor had held up before her a tray of dyed-sugar sweets, shaped like all kinds of small creatures: birds, baby chicks, baby rabbits, lambs, baby pigs. They were in gay colors and smelled of vanilla, maybe. . . . It was a very hot day and the smell in the market, with its piles of raw flesh and wilting flowers, was like the mingled sweetness and corruption she had smelled that other day in the empty cemetery at home: the day she had remembered vaguely always until now as the time she and her brother had found treasure in the opened graves. Instantly upon this thought the dreadful vision faded, and she saw clearly her brother, whose childhood face she had forgotten, standing again in the blazing sunshine, again twelve years old, a pleased sober smile in his eyes, turning the silver dove over and over in his hands.
Takes your breath away doesn't it?
Sadly, one of the finest Miranda stories is missing from this, 'Holiday', set on a farm of German immigrants in Central Texas. Maybe it wasn't available when this was published?