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Open
Lisa Moore's Open makes you believe three things that St. John's is the centre of the universe, that these stories are about absolutely everything, that the only certainty in life comes from the accumulation of moments which refuse to be contained. Love, mistakes, loss -- the fear of all of these, the joy of all of these. The interconnectedness of a bus ride in Nepal and a wedding on the shore of Quidi Vidi Lake; of the tension between a husband and wife when their infant cries before dawn (who will go to him?) and the husband's memory of an early, piercing love affair; of two friends, one who suffers early in life and the other midway through.
In Open Lisa Moore splices moments and images together so adroitly, so vividly, you'll swear you've lived them yourself. That there is a writer like Lisa Moore threading a live wire through everything she sees, showing it to us, warming us with it. These stories are a gathering in. An offering. They ache and bristle. They are shared riches. Open.
In Open Lisa Moore splices moments and images together so adroitly, so vividly, you'll swear you've lived them yourself. That there is a writer like Lisa Moore threading a live wire through everything she sees, showing it to us, warming us with it. These stories are a gathering in. An offering. They ache and bristle. They are shared riches. Open.
226 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2002
15 people are currently reading
497 people want to read
About the author
Lisa Moore
75 books291 followersLisa Moore has written two collections of stories, Degrees of Nakedness and Open, as well as a novel, Alligator.
Open and Alligator were both nominated for the Giller Prize. Alligator won the Commonwealth Prize for the Canadian Caribbean Region and the ReLit Award, and Open won the Canadian Authors' Association Jubilee Prize for Short Fiction.
Lisa has also written for television, radio, magazines (EnRoute, The Walrus and Chatelaine) and newspapers (The Globe and Mail and The National Post).
Lisa has a Bachelor of Arts degree from the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. She also studied at Memorial University of Newfoundland, where she became a member of The Burning Rock Collective, a group of St. John's writers.
Open and Alligator were both nominated for the Giller Prize. Alligator won the Commonwealth Prize for the Canadian Caribbean Region and the ReLit Award, and Open won the Canadian Authors' Association Jubilee Prize for Short Fiction.
Lisa has also written for television, radio, magazines (EnRoute, The Walrus and Chatelaine) and newspapers (The Globe and Mail and The National Post).
Lisa has a Bachelor of Arts degree from the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. She also studied at Memorial University of Newfoundland, where she became a member of The Burning Rock Collective, a group of St. John's writers.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 47 reviews
May 25, 2015
When I was a young adult, I was committed to reading nonfiction. Probably because I never finished university, I was on a quest for self-education and could haughtily sneer to myself, "I don't have time to read novels when there's so much in the world to learn." I should also add that before university, I read mostly pulp: Stephen King, Anne Rice, Piers Anthony (on the badgering advice of a close friend/superfan). Then, a most astonishing thing happened: not long after becoming a mother, and picking up any book at hand while breastfeeding, I read Margaret Laurence's The Fire-Dwellers. This was 17+ years ago and I can still remember how gobsmacked I was by the main character: a frumpy, dissatisfied housewife who couldn't remember getting old. There's a scene (and I NEED to reread this book now that I'm thinking about it) where Stacey is in her wood-panelled recroom, alone in the middle of the day, drinking Tom Collinses, and she kicks off her shoes and plays some old records and moves around, dancing like a young girl once more-- only more free than she had ever been in her life. I was reading this scene, still young myself, but I can remember the tears springing to my eyes as I recognized myself in Stacey: we had absolutely no circumstances in common, but I could see the truth of the scene and it felt real and beautiful and universal and I had an epiphany of yes! This is the point of good literature and of course the most important things in life can be learned from it.
From then until now, I have sought out these epiphanies, these pearls of truth, and naturally they're hard to come by, but Open is full of such moments. I recently read an article by Dave Bidini in which he said that the author of this book, Lisa Moore, once called him a lazy reader. Not being a particular fan of his, I had a moment of schadenfreude at the reproach, but after finishing and loving this book of short stories, I wonder if Ms. Moore would also call me a lazy reader. Absolutely without a sense of literary criticism, I approach books viscerally, and they either resonate with me or they don’t. And this one did. Full of basically unhappy and dissatisfied women, which I am not, I could recognize the truth of their lives. From a young girl of twelve hunching forward in her bathing suit so her budding breasts weren't obvious, to a forty-something in an open marriage realizing that she didn't want to lose her husband to another woman, I don't need to have lived through these exact situations in order to know that the way they are described here is exactly how they would feel to me. The stories are mostly written with memories springing up in the middle of present consciousness and I loved the experience of this style of writing-- so true to the way that we all experience real life. The language is poetic and descriptive and each story is a perfect pearl.
Getting back to Stephen King, I remember reading Gerald's Game, written from the point of view of a woman, and thinking, "I just don't buy any of this". King is a master storyteller, but I don't think anyone would argue that he is a master of literature, and though that sounds in my head like my new version of a haughty sneer, I simply mean that he's not trying to reveal the universalities of human experience through the particulars of his characters, and I did not for a minute believe that this man had gotten into the head of his woman protagonist. By contrast, in Open, Lisa Moore hit me again and again with beautiful, honest, and gobsmacking moments that reflect what being a woman is. Lazy reader I may be, but my reading life has been enriched by the experience.
From then until now, I have sought out these epiphanies, these pearls of truth, and naturally they're hard to come by, but Open is full of such moments. I recently read an article by Dave Bidini in which he said that the author of this book, Lisa Moore, once called him a lazy reader. Not being a particular fan of his, I had a moment of schadenfreude at the reproach, but after finishing and loving this book of short stories, I wonder if Ms. Moore would also call me a lazy reader. Absolutely without a sense of literary criticism, I approach books viscerally, and they either resonate with me or they don’t. And this one did. Full of basically unhappy and dissatisfied women, which I am not, I could recognize the truth of their lives. From a young girl of twelve hunching forward in her bathing suit so her budding breasts weren't obvious, to a forty-something in an open marriage realizing that she didn't want to lose her husband to another woman, I don't need to have lived through these exact situations in order to know that the way they are described here is exactly how they would feel to me. The stories are mostly written with memories springing up in the middle of present consciousness and I loved the experience of this style of writing-- so true to the way that we all experience real life. The language is poetic and descriptive and each story is a perfect pearl.
Getting back to Stephen King, I remember reading Gerald's Game, written from the point of view of a woman, and thinking, "I just don't buy any of this". King is a master storyteller, but I don't think anyone would argue that he is a master of literature, and though that sounds in my head like my new version of a haughty sneer, I simply mean that he's not trying to reveal the universalities of human experience through the particulars of his characters, and I did not for a minute believe that this man had gotten into the head of his woman protagonist. By contrast, in Open, Lisa Moore hit me again and again with beautiful, honest, and gobsmacking moments that reflect what being a woman is. Lazy reader I may be, but my reading life has been enriched by the experience.
July 18, 2008
Most authors can put together a compelling plot, tell engaging stories, and interest us in their characters. They can evoke a place, a time, or an emotion. But few authors can actually evoke the senses, making us feel and see and smell and hear and taste the worlds in which their characters live. 2002 Giller Prize Finalist Lisa Moore is one of the rare few whose engagement with the senses escapes the page, forcing the reader to become more than a passive cypher for the text.
“Open,” Moore’s second book of short stories, is meant to be actively read. She trusts our instincts and expects us to bring our own experiences to her work. “A book is only 50% percent written by the writer and the rest of it is created by the reader. The reader is doing all the imaginary work. So if I write down that a character’s eyes are blue it would be the reader’s job to imagine how blue.” And it’s in these moments of reader imagination that Moore’s textual cues conjure the senses.
One such moment comes in the story “Natural Parents” where a mother and her child get caught in the middle of a holdup: “Sirens so far away they could be out in the Atlantic. Policemen. Someone shouts, Don’t move. But I am at the door, and then a punch in the guts by a force so powerful it knocks the breath out of my lungs. I am drilled open by a pillar of granite. I am knocked off my feet and I’m driven across the tiles until my head smacks the beer cooler at the far end of the store. Cans and boxes, everything flies in my face. I’m drowning.”
Even taken out of context this fragment summons sight, sound and touch. Moore’s imagery is as sparing as it is descriptive, forcing us to fill in the blanks – to add our imaginations to the mix. The overbearing brightness of a late night convenience store, the distant, approaching wail of sirens, and the visceral pounding of the surprise attack on the narrator’s body are as much a product of the reader’s imagination as they are of the writer’s words.
Moore’s literary mastery of the senses is likely a result of the importance she places on being alive; not the actual biology of life, but rather the importance she places on being present and alive in the world. “Because I believe that we experience emotions through the senses, you have to really be present to see and feel and touch and really experience those things. That’s what I think being alive is, really taking in where you are when you’re in a place.” And this belief is inextricably bound to Moore’s belief in the significance of love and what truly loving another person means.
“I think it’s dangerous to be in love because what being in love means is that you’re willing to accept the other person no matter how much they change and no matter how much you change. But how can you love someone who’s always changing? You don’t know what they’re going to be next. It’s a constant being in the present if you’re going to be in love with them, because you have to love who they are now. We all change everyday. And that’s a scary business.” But it’s a scary business that Moore bravely engages with in all her stories.
“Open” is a book about love, about being present and alive, about the senses and about how all of these things intertwine to enrich one another. Moore’s stories are never maudlin, her characters are never caricatures and her images are never boring. If a reader is open to Moore’s challenge – the challenge to provide his or her own imagination – ten new worlds, ten sensuous stories will be the reward. And that 50% of the writing process is a small price to pay for some of the finest literature of the year.
“Open,” Moore’s second book of short stories, is meant to be actively read. She trusts our instincts and expects us to bring our own experiences to her work. “A book is only 50% percent written by the writer and the rest of it is created by the reader. The reader is doing all the imaginary work. So if I write down that a character’s eyes are blue it would be the reader’s job to imagine how blue.” And it’s in these moments of reader imagination that Moore’s textual cues conjure the senses.
One such moment comes in the story “Natural Parents” where a mother and her child get caught in the middle of a holdup: “Sirens so far away they could be out in the Atlantic. Policemen. Someone shouts, Don’t move. But I am at the door, and then a punch in the guts by a force so powerful it knocks the breath out of my lungs. I am drilled open by a pillar of granite. I am knocked off my feet and I’m driven across the tiles until my head smacks the beer cooler at the far end of the store. Cans and boxes, everything flies in my face. I’m drowning.”
Even taken out of context this fragment summons sight, sound and touch. Moore’s imagery is as sparing as it is descriptive, forcing us to fill in the blanks – to add our imaginations to the mix. The overbearing brightness of a late night convenience store, the distant, approaching wail of sirens, and the visceral pounding of the surprise attack on the narrator’s body are as much a product of the reader’s imagination as they are of the writer’s words.
Moore’s literary mastery of the senses is likely a result of the importance she places on being alive; not the actual biology of life, but rather the importance she places on being present and alive in the world. “Because I believe that we experience emotions through the senses, you have to really be present to see and feel and touch and really experience those things. That’s what I think being alive is, really taking in where you are when you’re in a place.” And this belief is inextricably bound to Moore’s belief in the significance of love and what truly loving another person means.
“I think it’s dangerous to be in love because what being in love means is that you’re willing to accept the other person no matter how much they change and no matter how much you change. But how can you love someone who’s always changing? You don’t know what they’re going to be next. It’s a constant being in the present if you’re going to be in love with them, because you have to love who they are now. We all change everyday. And that’s a scary business.” But it’s a scary business that Moore bravely engages with in all her stories.
“Open” is a book about love, about being present and alive, about the senses and about how all of these things intertwine to enrich one another. Moore’s stories are never maudlin, her characters are never caricatures and her images are never boring. If a reader is open to Moore’s challenge – the challenge to provide his or her own imagination – ten new worlds, ten sensuous stories will be the reward. And that 50% of the writing process is a small price to pay for some of the finest literature of the year.
March 19, 2015
I have a bit of a love-hate thing going on with Lisa Moore.
On the one hand, she's an exquisite writer. She uses mundane details in unusual ways to render setting or plot or character both familiar and disconcerting. The result is a collection of stories in which we recognize ourselves, but often wish we didn't.
Long story short: Moore has a knack for laying bare our collective nerves and heart.
I also love how specifically she locates her work. There's no doubt that we're reading about Newfoundlanders, either displaced or recently returned or never-left. It's there in the words and phrases she chooses; the briny atmosphere; the problems and pleasures her characters encounter. The Rock underpins everything, like salt in the air.
On the other hand: part of Moore's style is to let loose with a dozen scatter-shot details (of a person, place or thing - doesn't matter) that coalesce into a snapshot. It's a quick and effective way of establishing atmosphere or backstory, and it's often powerful.
The first five times.
After the tenth or fifteenth time, though, it gets a little old. She uses it so often that it looses it's power; we become immune. Not only that, we loose the plot. Instead of immersing ourselves in a story, we end up bouncing from image to image, impression to impression.
That said, the writing alone - the bracing, honest, wit of it - is worth your time. And, in the end, Moore often pulls it together. Not always, but I'm willing to forgive her that. So, if you haven't read Open - or anything else by Moore - yet, do it. Soon.
On the one hand, she's an exquisite writer. She uses mundane details in unusual ways to render setting or plot or character both familiar and disconcerting. The result is a collection of stories in which we recognize ourselves, but often wish we didn't.
Long story short: Moore has a knack for laying bare our collective nerves and heart.
I also love how specifically she locates her work. There's no doubt that we're reading about Newfoundlanders, either displaced or recently returned or never-left. It's there in the words and phrases she chooses; the briny atmosphere; the problems and pleasures her characters encounter. The Rock underpins everything, like salt in the air.
On the other hand: part of Moore's style is to let loose with a dozen scatter-shot details (of a person, place or thing - doesn't matter) that coalesce into a snapshot. It's a quick and effective way of establishing atmosphere or backstory, and it's often powerful.
The first five times.
After the tenth or fifteenth time, though, it gets a little old. She uses it so often that it looses it's power; we become immune. Not only that, we loose the plot. Instead of immersing ourselves in a story, we end up bouncing from image to image, impression to impression.
That said, the writing alone - the bracing, honest, wit of it - is worth your time. And, in the end, Moore often pulls it together. Not always, but I'm willing to forgive her that. So, if you haven't read Open - or anything else by Moore - yet, do it. Soon.
December 11, 2008
My appreciation of short stories is growing. It helps to come across a selection like this one. Great collection!!!
February 4, 2018
This is the second time I've read this book. This is probably obvious, but having been to NFLD between the first and second readings of this I think I have a much better appreciation of the material. The stories are so tight and even without much stylization the dialogue is always clear (and believable), and there's so much femme-focus, and there's so much love, and there's so much great big punctured world draining into the stories, and punctured wounds draining out of everyone who's looking for love or an escape or a refuge. Really beautiful descriptions, like "rain hitting the street so hard it rises in a silver fur under the streetlights," that totally poetic gift of rendering the ordinary extraordinary. This is the work of a master. The stories are so consumable. There's so much reference to cinema (like the actual production thereof) too, in a lovely way that made me fall in love even more. If you like short fiction then this has got to be a mandatory read.
June 22, 2013
In this collection of short stories, Moore explores the nature of love, the beauty and bliss, but, more often the pain and the sacrifice, both free for the taking by those brave (or foolish!) enough to 'open' up to it.
There are no big ideas in this book, no sudden epiphanies and the plot is slim to non-existent. Instead, Moore's talent is charting a course through the landscape of the heart. It's not an easy read as she shifts (sometimes abruptly)between time, place, and characters all to shed light on the arc of a protagonist's emotional development.
"Feeling" types will probably love this book. "Thinkers" may find it lacks substance. Me, I'm somewhere in between.
There are no big ideas in this book, no sudden epiphanies and the plot is slim to non-existent. Instead, Moore's talent is charting a course through the landscape of the heart. It's not an easy read as she shifts (sometimes abruptly)between time, place, and characters all to shed light on the arc of a protagonist's emotional development.
"Feeling" types will probably love this book. "Thinkers" may find it lacks substance. Me, I'm somewhere in between.
January 6, 2023
I am struggling with the rating on this one... first of all, short stories are really not my thing yet the stories do make a reader ponder. Many of the stories reflect an inner stream of consciousness, relationships, love, love lost, passion, lust yet... short stories are really not my thing...
September 26, 2023
2.7/5
Some truly beautiful writing. Imagery. Details captured like yellow fireflies aglow in a glass jar. So small and significant. Can get quite monotonous and plotless though. Reads very white cis middle class.
Some truly beautiful writing. Imagery. Details captured like yellow fireflies aglow in a glass jar. So small and significant. Can get quite monotonous and plotless though. Reads very white cis middle class.
July 25, 2015
Interesting and captivating short stories. The writing at times has much stream-of-consciousness to it.
June 18, 2019
When I first picked up this book and decided to read it, I was worried that I would not enjoy the book and was skeptical that I would like the short stories since I have never actually read a series of short stories. Thankfully after reading this, I can say that I plan on reading more books with short stories, and I can thank Lisa Moor and her book Open for my new love of short stories.
One of the things I thought that might make it difficult to enjoy the book and short stories is not being able to feel engaged, intrigued or connected with the stories and characters because they are short stories and there wouldn’t be much character development or detail. I was worried that the fact that they were short stories about totally different characters and situations that I wouldn’t be able to follow what was happening or be all that interested in. I can now say that if you have ever had these doubts or worries going into reading a series of short stories, Lisa Moores book Open is the way to go.
One of the biggest things I can applaud Lisa Moore for is being able to suggest not only the place, time and emotion of the story but for being able to stimulate even the reader's senses creating a very vivid picture for the reader even with such short stories. The way that Moore writes is very open to the reader's interpretation, and she forces the reader to fill in the blanks of her writing to add their imagination to the mix. Moore seems to use the least amount of words throughout her book and doesn’t include every little detail, yet her writing still creates a very clear picture allowing the reader room for their interpretation and imagination of the story.
For example, this quote from the short story “Natural Parents” “Sirens so far away they could be out in the Atlantic. Policemen. Someone shouts, Don’t move. But I am at the door, and then a punch in the guts by a force so powerful it knocks the breath out of my lungs. I am drilled open by a pillar of granite. I am knocked off my feet and I’m driven across the tiles until my head smacks the beer cooler at the far end of the store. Cans and boxes, everything flies in my face. I’m drowning.” It shows how her writing is shortened not including every little detail, yet by doing this, she has forced the reader to bring their imagination to mix, creating a more vivid image of what is happening. The very first part of the quote “Sirens so far away they could be out in the Atlantic. Policemen.” The reader is never told that the character is hearing the sirens, or what is making the sound, or why it is happening but by merely talking about sirens and policemen the reader can imagine what is happening. And then later talking about cans and boxes and a beer cooler in a store, without even being told, the reader can imagine what is happening. Even reading this out of context and not knowing the back story or what has lead to this, you can imagine what is happening, where the character is, and how the character feels thanks to how well Moore’s writing creates clear effective pictures.
Not only was Lisa Moore able to write very vivid, clear pictures in her stories, but she made stories that I, and I'm sure other readers, can make connections with — even going back to the same quote as before. Moore never explains what the store looks like, how the sirens sound, or how it feels when the characters head hits the ground and she leaves a bit of a blank for the reader's imagination and interpretation. Each person reading will imagine a different environment and feeling for the character, and by doing this, each person reading the story will be able to connect to the story more immensely. When reading it, I could create a picture of a store I have seen before, a feeling I know of, and an environment that I am aware of which is what makes the picture Moore has created even more detailed and even easier to connect to.
So if you are looking to read some very compelling stories and you’re willing to add your imagination and interpretation to the stories than you will enjoy these short stories. You will get to experience the fantastic pictures Moore creates, make intriguing connections with the stories she’s written, and enjoy some of the best literature you will have ever read.
One of the things I thought that might make it difficult to enjoy the book and short stories is not being able to feel engaged, intrigued or connected with the stories and characters because they are short stories and there wouldn’t be much character development or detail. I was worried that the fact that they were short stories about totally different characters and situations that I wouldn’t be able to follow what was happening or be all that interested in. I can now say that if you have ever had these doubts or worries going into reading a series of short stories, Lisa Moores book Open is the way to go.
One of the biggest things I can applaud Lisa Moore for is being able to suggest not only the place, time and emotion of the story but for being able to stimulate even the reader's senses creating a very vivid picture for the reader even with such short stories. The way that Moore writes is very open to the reader's interpretation, and she forces the reader to fill in the blanks of her writing to add their imagination to the mix. Moore seems to use the least amount of words throughout her book and doesn’t include every little detail, yet her writing still creates a very clear picture allowing the reader room for their interpretation and imagination of the story.
For example, this quote from the short story “Natural Parents” “Sirens so far away they could be out in the Atlantic. Policemen. Someone shouts, Don’t move. But I am at the door, and then a punch in the guts by a force so powerful it knocks the breath out of my lungs. I am drilled open by a pillar of granite. I am knocked off my feet and I’m driven across the tiles until my head smacks the beer cooler at the far end of the store. Cans and boxes, everything flies in my face. I’m drowning.” It shows how her writing is shortened not including every little detail, yet by doing this, she has forced the reader to bring their imagination to mix, creating a more vivid image of what is happening. The very first part of the quote “Sirens so far away they could be out in the Atlantic. Policemen.” The reader is never told that the character is hearing the sirens, or what is making the sound, or why it is happening but by merely talking about sirens and policemen the reader can imagine what is happening. And then later talking about cans and boxes and a beer cooler in a store, without even being told, the reader can imagine what is happening. Even reading this out of context and not knowing the back story or what has lead to this, you can imagine what is happening, where the character is, and how the character feels thanks to how well Moore’s writing creates clear effective pictures.
Not only was Lisa Moore able to write very vivid, clear pictures in her stories, but she made stories that I, and I'm sure other readers, can make connections with — even going back to the same quote as before. Moore never explains what the store looks like, how the sirens sound, or how it feels when the characters head hits the ground and she leaves a bit of a blank for the reader's imagination and interpretation. Each person reading will imagine a different environment and feeling for the character, and by doing this, each person reading the story will be able to connect to the story more immensely. When reading it, I could create a picture of a store I have seen before, a feeling I know of, and an environment that I am aware of which is what makes the picture Moore has created even more detailed and even easier to connect to.
So if you are looking to read some very compelling stories and you’re willing to add your imagination and interpretation to the stories than you will enjoy these short stories. You will get to experience the fantastic pictures Moore creates, make intriguing connections with the stories she’s written, and enjoy some of the best literature you will have ever read.
August 31, 2013
Short story collection Open by Lisa Moore is an exploration in human connections that tests what keeps us together and what draws us apart, from the tangible to the tantalizing effervescent.
In each story, the reader wades in luxuriant and lurid fragmented details, searching for the thread of the narrative until they realize that the details are the thread, a tapestry that you can't properly see until you take a pace back. Often times the paragraphs are a chant of impressions, dizzying and clarifying all at once, cut with sharp and startling dialogue, pronouncements, conclusions.
Usually I outline each short story in a collection, but the theme is such a strong unifying element throughout the volume that one story often bleeds into another with a satisfying rhythm and I don't want to try to slice it into single parts.
Instead, I will list some of my favourite pieces in the volume, and the story that they are found in.
I'd let Brian Fiander hold my wrists over my head against the brick wall of the dorm while he kissed me; his hips thrusting with a lost, intent zeal, the dawn sky as pale and grainy as sugar. Brian Fiander knew what he was doing. The recognition of his expertise made my body ting and smoulder. My waking thought: I have been celebrated. - Melody
Melody and I are working on math in my dorm room. She kisses me on the mouth. Later, for the rest of my life, while washing dishes, jiggling drops of rain hanging on the points of every maple leaf in the window, or in a meeting when someone writes on a flowchart and the room fills with the smell of felt-tip marker - during those liminal non-moments fertile with emptiness - I will be overtaken by swift collages of memory. A heady disorientation, seared with pleasure, jarring. Among those memories: Melody's kiss. Because it was a kiss of revelatory beauty. I realized I had never initiated anything in my life. Melody acted; I was acted upon. - Melody
The sound as desperate and restrained as that of a whale exhausted in a net. - Melody
The thick film of water sloshing over the windshield makes their bodies wiggle like sun-drugged snakes. - Melody
The gull screeches. Metallic squawk, claws outstretched, reaching for the sand. The sun through the grass on the hill laserbeams the gull's eye, a red holograph. The gull's pupil is a long midnight corridor to some prehistoric crimson flash deep in the skull. - Melody
We are in Cuba. The lawn sprinkler beside the pool whispering rounds of silver ammunition that pock the sand. A cockroach with an indigo shell. Banana leaves as sharp as switchblades. The plastic of my recliner sweating against my cheek. The pool as solid as a bowl of Jell-O, a jar of Dippity-Do. The Italian transsexuals lower their bodies until they are submerged to the neck, careful of their curls. They have the most beautiful nipples. I can't take my eyes off their more-than-perfect breasts. - Mouths, Open
There is a white statue of a woman with a basket on her shoulder at the end of the pool. Bernini talked about the paleness of marble. The absence of flesh tone makes it difficult to capture likeness. Would you recognize someone who had poured a bag of flour over his head? To compensate, Bernini suggests drawing the face just as it is about to speak, or after it has just spoken. That's when the face is most characteristic of itself. He's responsible for the sixteenth-century fashion of portraits with the lips parted. We are most ourselves when we are changing. - Mouths, Open
Her feet are bare. She's been wearing that bathing suit all summer, sleeping in it, picking blackberries that stain her teeth, leaping off a boulder into the river. Her long hair in a loose ponytail. She throws a baton. Far up in the blue sky it becomes liquid, a rope of mercury, but it comes down fast, bouncing off the pavement on its white rubber ends. There's no way to keep this moment in the present. - The Way The Light Is
There are vampires, sacrificed lambs. A crow with a giant beak. Bodies draped in white sheets lying on slabs of stone, desolate fields of snow seeping into the mud. Trudging, a lot of trudging. Then, like a jewel, a flashing ruby dropped in a bucket of tar, Bergman offers a bowl of strawberries, or a child. A greenish cast over Mina O'Leary's cheeks from the streetlight through the silk umbrella. - The Way The Light Is
Jessica admired the characters of her Siamese cats, haughty and lascivious. She could suss out the swift-forming passions of the gang of boys we knew, and make them heel. She knew the circuit of their collective synaptic skittering and played it like pinball. She couldn't be trusted with secrets, and we couldn't keep them from her. - Craving
He's a herd of wild horses, he's already abandoned her. - Natural Parents
It takes an incredible will to do the right thing, he says. Everybody must try. The courage you must summon. - Azalea
The kitchen echoing itself, concentric rings of kitchen pulsing from the kitchen. This would be the moment my husband and I have worked toward all day, every day, for fourteen years, more or less. The dryer going. The kettle. The rest of the house detaching like the burnt-out parts of a rocket. - If You're There
Your breasts are tender, a rumour, the beginning of a long story, a page-turner. It's the worst when you're speaking with your coach. The bathing suit transparent as the skin of a grape you peel with your teeth. - The Stylist
The kittens knocking over the jade plant. Giant piles of laundry. A stack of books about the plague, one on alchemy. She'd had four children, each a year apart. Alchemy she knew; the Pill she didn't bother with. - Grace
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These are only a handful of excerpts from Open, which reads like a classic art film on paper, and is easily one of my favourites of all time.
I recommend this for anyone who enjoys short story collections, Canadian talent, poetic writing, experimental narration, themes of loss, themes of falling in and out of love, themes of identity and discovery.
In each story, the reader wades in luxuriant and lurid fragmented details, searching for the thread of the narrative until they realize that the details are the thread, a tapestry that you can't properly see until you take a pace back. Often times the paragraphs are a chant of impressions, dizzying and clarifying all at once, cut with sharp and startling dialogue, pronouncements, conclusions.
Usually I outline each short story in a collection, but the theme is such a strong unifying element throughout the volume that one story often bleeds into another with a satisfying rhythm and I don't want to try to slice it into single parts.
Instead, I will list some of my favourite pieces in the volume, and the story that they are found in.
I'd let Brian Fiander hold my wrists over my head against the brick wall of the dorm while he kissed me; his hips thrusting with a lost, intent zeal, the dawn sky as pale and grainy as sugar. Brian Fiander knew what he was doing. The recognition of his expertise made my body ting and smoulder. My waking thought: I have been celebrated. - Melody
Melody and I are working on math in my dorm room. She kisses me on the mouth. Later, for the rest of my life, while washing dishes, jiggling drops of rain hanging on the points of every maple leaf in the window, or in a meeting when someone writes on a flowchart and the room fills with the smell of felt-tip marker - during those liminal non-moments fertile with emptiness - I will be overtaken by swift collages of memory. A heady disorientation, seared with pleasure, jarring. Among those memories: Melody's kiss. Because it was a kiss of revelatory beauty. I realized I had never initiated anything in my life. Melody acted; I was acted upon. - Melody
The sound as desperate and restrained as that of a whale exhausted in a net. - Melody
The thick film of water sloshing over the windshield makes their bodies wiggle like sun-drugged snakes. - Melody
The gull screeches. Metallic squawk, claws outstretched, reaching for the sand. The sun through the grass on the hill laserbeams the gull's eye, a red holograph. The gull's pupil is a long midnight corridor to some prehistoric crimson flash deep in the skull. - Melody
We are in Cuba. The lawn sprinkler beside the pool whispering rounds of silver ammunition that pock the sand. A cockroach with an indigo shell. Banana leaves as sharp as switchblades. The plastic of my recliner sweating against my cheek. The pool as solid as a bowl of Jell-O, a jar of Dippity-Do. The Italian transsexuals lower their bodies until they are submerged to the neck, careful of their curls. They have the most beautiful nipples. I can't take my eyes off their more-than-perfect breasts. - Mouths, Open
There is a white statue of a woman with a basket on her shoulder at the end of the pool. Bernini talked about the paleness of marble. The absence of flesh tone makes it difficult to capture likeness. Would you recognize someone who had poured a bag of flour over his head? To compensate, Bernini suggests drawing the face just as it is about to speak, or after it has just spoken. That's when the face is most characteristic of itself. He's responsible for the sixteenth-century fashion of portraits with the lips parted. We are most ourselves when we are changing. - Mouths, Open
Her feet are bare. She's been wearing that bathing suit all summer, sleeping in it, picking blackberries that stain her teeth, leaping off a boulder into the river. Her long hair in a loose ponytail. She throws a baton. Far up in the blue sky it becomes liquid, a rope of mercury, but it comes down fast, bouncing off the pavement on its white rubber ends. There's no way to keep this moment in the present. - The Way The Light Is
There are vampires, sacrificed lambs. A crow with a giant beak. Bodies draped in white sheets lying on slabs of stone, desolate fields of snow seeping into the mud. Trudging, a lot of trudging. Then, like a jewel, a flashing ruby dropped in a bucket of tar, Bergman offers a bowl of strawberries, or a child. A greenish cast over Mina O'Leary's cheeks from the streetlight through the silk umbrella. - The Way The Light Is
Jessica admired the characters of her Siamese cats, haughty and lascivious. She could suss out the swift-forming passions of the gang of boys we knew, and make them heel. She knew the circuit of their collective synaptic skittering and played it like pinball. She couldn't be trusted with secrets, and we couldn't keep them from her. - Craving
He's a herd of wild horses, he's already abandoned her. - Natural Parents
It takes an incredible will to do the right thing, he says. Everybody must try. The courage you must summon. - Azalea
The kitchen echoing itself, concentric rings of kitchen pulsing from the kitchen. This would be the moment my husband and I have worked toward all day, every day, for fourteen years, more or less. The dryer going. The kettle. The rest of the house detaching like the burnt-out parts of a rocket. - If You're There
Your breasts are tender, a rumour, the beginning of a long story, a page-turner. It's the worst when you're speaking with your coach. The bathing suit transparent as the skin of a grape you peel with your teeth. - The Stylist
The kittens knocking over the jade plant. Giant piles of laundry. A stack of books about the plague, one on alchemy. She'd had four children, each a year apart. Alchemy she knew; the Pill she didn't bother with. - Grace
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These are only a handful of excerpts from Open, which reads like a classic art film on paper, and is easily one of my favourites of all time.
I recommend this for anyone who enjoys short story collections, Canadian talent, poetic writing, experimental narration, themes of loss, themes of falling in and out of love, themes of identity and discovery.
January 25, 2018
I find it extraordinary that I don't connect with Ms. Moore's writing since we are of the same age although I am a mainlander Canadian-Irish transported to Newfoundland. I just am not into her skimming sweeping style with elusive depths suggested from the very heavy topics she covers.
These are the type of stories that remind me of high school english classes. So much to discuss but I just wanted the next story or book. That is why I am giving it two stars - I allow that the stories have artistic merit in the craft of writing but they are not my cup of tea.
In 2018 I wanted to consume more short stories and poetry (genres I have generally veered away from). I am glad I started with an Alice Munro collection and now have read this. I think they'll both make good comparative bookends for the year.
These are the type of stories that remind me of high school english classes. So much to discuss but I just wanted the next story or book. That is why I am giving it two stars - I allow that the stories have artistic merit in the craft of writing but they are not my cup of tea.
In 2018 I wanted to consume more short stories and poetry (genres I have generally veered away from). I am glad I started with an Alice Munro collection and now have read this. I think they'll both make good comparative bookends for the year.
April 8, 2021
DNF at the halfway mark. Read five of the ten stories. Moore's pervasive lack of concern for whether the reader actually knows what's going on quickly became tiresome. Connections between paragrpahs are frequently tenuous. Even to the extent I followed, I found myself struggling to either relate to or care about the characters. Lots of sex and drug use, very little insight into internal motivations. References to specific places in St. John's are ploddingly tacked-on, and serve as a poor substitute for actual setting development. Some readers seem to have gotten something out of this, and perhaps they saw something I did not. But I doubt there shall be another foray into Moore's writings for me; we are too mismatched.
2/5, at best
NTS: The next time you're wondering if you should take that extra book on the road, take the extra book. Would not have read this had I had Dostoevsky with me, as I had originally planned.
2/5, at best
NTS: The next time you're wondering if you should take that extra book on the road, take the extra book. Would not have read this had I had Dostoevsky with me, as I had originally planned.
April 13, 2024
CW: abortion, betrayal, parent death, spouse death
This is a book about pain and grief, particularly about the loss of a spouse through betrayal. It’s almost more personal because it’s stories instead of memoir. Pain is inflected in lots of different ways. There is a lot of sex but it’s often in memories, producing longing and anguish more than lust.
Some stories are very fragmentary. Lists of moments that accumulate into something meaningful. Moore is good at describing the flash of something and making it have weight and meaning.
I keep thinking about chickens eating lobster shells and red egg yolks. It is not important to the collection but I found it very evocative.
This is a book about pain and grief, particularly about the loss of a spouse through betrayal. It’s almost more personal because it’s stories instead of memoir. Pain is inflected in lots of different ways. There is a lot of sex but it’s often in memories, producing longing and anguish more than lust.
Some stories are very fragmentary. Lists of moments that accumulate into something meaningful. Moore is good at describing the flash of something and making it have weight and meaning.
I keep thinking about chickens eating lobster shells and red egg yolks. It is not important to the collection but I found it very evocative.
Read
November 12, 2021Not for me. I don't want to dissuade curious readers from checking this out, but I could not get into these stories. Lisa Moore is clearly a gifted writer but my experience with these stories felt like I was looking at a Pointillist painting with my nose two inches from the canvas--I was reading tiny details with no clue as to the bigger picture. I didn't understand what was happening most of the time. Much of the writing is in sentence fragments and I just couldn't put it together. But I'm glad I have now completed the 2002 Giller Prize shortlist (over the course of 19 years).
June 7, 2019
These stories all start like a scatter of puzzle pieces that only gradually comes together into a picture, not a story really. The characters live everyday lives but are at a stress point, a fracture point, and seem in a trance, with memories rushing and tumbling, vivid memories, much more colourful than the current life. Many of these stories are difficult, and not every picture satisfies perhaps by having too few pieces, but the ones that do are luminous, intricate, perfect.
January 13, 2022
I should say that the prose in this collection is a 5/5. I only gave it a 3 because I had to force myself to finish it after about 3 stories. I have trouble abandoning books. She has this disjointed style that almost always mixes up the story as if it went through a blender, but she does it so beautifully.
December 30, 2019
First of all, I didn't realize I was reading a collection of short stories, but when I finally did, it helped explain my confusion...a bit. All in all, excellent writing, but I did find it hard to follow.
gave-up-on
August 31, 2018DNF (30% read).
Beautifully poetic; lyrical descriptions.
But I don’t get it- at all.
Beautifully poetic; lyrical descriptions.
But I don’t get it- at all.
November 14, 2020
Short seductive stories for storm season. A unique writing style for sure, and I’m really enjoying Canadian authour Lisa Moore.
September 13, 2024
she’s undeniably an artful writer it just didn’t work for me
January 14, 2025
Many of these short stories were too abstract for me. The writing is good, I just enjoy it when a short story is a bit more linear. I enjoyed the last story "Grace" the most.
April 16, 2025
sophie finally enjoyed a book about her hometown! tell the world!
July 1, 2012
The poetical aspects in Lisa Moore's novels (which I love) almost becomes too much for the short stories, in my opinion. She does have such a way with words and I love how she describes suspended moments of clarity. Most of these stories are about relationships between women and men (and mostly wife/husband). She uses an event, like a party, as the beginning point and the thoughts--real and imagined--of the female character flick between present day and past memories. The bonds between best friends is also a theme. The mood: these short stories are fraught with secret intimacies.
October 7, 2013
I use the term "read" lightly. Unfortunately, I just didn't get this book. I started off each short story hoping for the great feeling I got while reading "February" and "Alligator", but after a couple pages into each short story I would just forward to the next story, unable to get a grip on what was happening. Maybe its just the whole short story thing, or maybe these stories are a bit to abstract for me, not sure, but just could not get into it at all. I did enjoy the other books enough, though, for forge forward with Degrees of Nakedness, hoping for a better result.
Read
January 5, 2024This collection of short stories grips you, takes you, shakes you to the core. Lisa Moore has a way of executing such precise, vivid language that you are immediately transported into the emotional lives of the complex, melancholy, solitary characters that populate her stories. I'm only half-way through because I can only take them in in small doses, savouring every page and word and image that is seared onto my brain.
July 30, 2012
Well, this style of writing is certainly different.. her sentences, or thoughts of her characters bounce back and forth like a ping pong ball with lots of them going astray. I can guess that a lot of people wouldn't have the patience to read her work. I found most of her stories ended in mid air. Myself? I'll get one of her longer books before I decide. Lots of dialogue is not my favourite kind of writing.
September 2, 2012
There is no question that Lisa Moore is a talented writer. I just felt a little dissatisfied with these stories. So many of them seemed to do that Canadian Literary thing where a story doesn't amount to much more than a great big stack of terrific sentences. What was the story about? I don't know. But my, what clever sentences!
Feels sort of like a few hundred fabulous one-liners that don't build toward anything in particular. Canadians seem to love this technique. I'm not crazy about it.
Feels sort of like a few hundred fabulous one-liners that don't build toward anything in particular. Canadians seem to love this technique. I'm not crazy about it.
March 30, 2007
One of the most suprising, awake and alive books of short stories I have ever read. Lisa Moore is a Newfoundland writer and her work is truly unusual. Her voice feels sharp, her rhythms unexpected, the lives of her character's are painfully authentic and her stories resonate with meaning. Highly recommend discovering this author's work.
July 17, 2014
Reading this book was frustrating because I experienced brief moments of intense interest that were spaced by long moments of not having any idea where the story was going. This approach will sometimes work for in a novel, but most of these short stories just weren't worth my time to pay attention to them. I don't think that I'll read this author again.
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