The Orchid Stories

by Kenward Elmslie

A classic work of American fiction and a masterpiece of eccentric detail. Praised by John Ashbery as evoking “a rococo world of banality and nightmare which . . . comes in the end to seem like paradise.“ The Orchid Stories presents us with interwoven stories as delicate and exquisite as the flowers for which theyâ€re named, conveying an almost otherworldly beauty. Images, moods, and characters recur with the clarity of a Phil, the little boy gigolo; Mummers and Mummy, who “adopt†him; the alluring Diana Vienna; and the eccentric Dr. Schmidlapp, who plans to capture the rare “Native Innards†orchid precisely at the stroke of midnight.

Genres: Fiction, Short Stories, Literature, LGBT, American

247 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1973

About the author

American poet, performer, and writer.

Reviews

[Jordan West · Rating 4 out of 5]

William Burroughs + Guy Maddin + Bruno Schulz + Black Spring + CivilWarLand in Bad Decline + Atrocity Exhibition + Kathy Acker = this book, a continually baffling, frequently beguiling work that feels like it requires multiple, immersive readings to truly appreciate.

[S̶e̶a̶n̶ · Rating 5 out of 5]

What if you read just one book over and over again for the rest of your life. What if this book were The Orchid Stories by Kenward Elmslie. Would you ever parse it with aplomb. Would you. Would you. UNLIKELY. But not entirely impossible. And imagine what it would do to your brain—carving heretofore uncharted pathways through your pathetically staid grey matter. The expansion potential is limitless. YOU WILL COME OUT THE OTHER END (I.E., WHEN YOU’RE DEAD) A DIFFERENT PERSON (CORPSE) ALTOGETHER. It could be your own mental A Humument. At times I soared on the pointed wings of its paper wordplanes. At times I stared with unfocused apathy at the page. MANY TIMES, IN FACT. Why did I bother continuing. A good question. Timely, appropriate, yes…but far too logical a query. The next page could be pure literary bliss so how can one turn away. How, how, how. Of course more likely the next page will be another frenetic sea of frothy gibberish. Oh, but it doesn’t matter. You’re not going to read this. UNLESS. Maybe you’re into threesomes (or foursomes). Can I entice you with that, at least, you filthy pervert? MAYBE you want to read about the erotic misadventures of our bold and vaguely Walserian narrator as he finds himself under the sheets wedged between the mysterious upper respiratory specialist Dr. Schmidlapp and his former and current wives, Helga and Gertrud, respectively; OR perhaps you’d prefer to see him curled between hunky Blue Institute Guard Barry Wingate and that slippery coquette Diana Vienna. OF COURSE YOU WOULD, YOU DIRTY BIRD. Just read the book. Or not. I don’t care. Five stars, I guess, although I really hated it at times and never thought it would end. ROUNDING THE LEAF! SAFELY ON MY WAY! ROUNDING THE LEAF!

[Nate D · Rating 4 out of 5]

For a work so seemingly random in its actual assortment of objects and events (could these have suggested by automatism? Cut-ups? Dreams? Roussellian word games?) this is a strange pleasure to read, with an unusual inner coherency. For which reason, perhaps Roussell's elaborate development of arbitrary starting positions actually is the strongest comparison however this may actually have been composed. Anyway, it works, even when the earlier self-contained cogent episodes melt into a discontinuous slurry wherein any stray metaphor may spin off its own excessive digression and text formatting moves into mysterious spaces. Through it all, the erotic orchid as locus for adolescent fascination and familial conflict alike.

[Alan · Rating 3 out of 5]

reading slowly and circling it and going back and reading again

'Ah, for the simplicity of white clouds, white rain, mists enveloping clean white cities. Crazy white boulevards slanting up and up into silver fogs, fogs that hide people's heads and ankles in one lane, and in an adjacent lane only middle sections are visible: pregnant women and men with huge bellies, laughing and holding hands.'

'... Try not to blink. Hold breath. When box starts to shimmer with favorite color (crimson in my case, color of blood coming out of a gash on one's arm on sparkly blue day) - resume blinking and breathe deeply.'

'... Next week 'Fog Toots' would be playing, a horror film about night-flying lepers who arouse Air Force pilots with their strong foxy odor.'

'... sickly smell of the air above subway gratings, like the vomit of mutants who've gorged on synthetic electricity.'

'... Try to describe road sign to pet: regard this as serious assignment. It's raining and the drops drip down sign's surface like transparent bugs in sportive chase, enlarging the printed matter on the sign as they race about. Next, wait for the shutter to close in pet's eyes. Look into its eyes. When they glow like glass road markers, peer into them.'

Well, despite those great passages I didn't in the end finish this, got to p180, I gave up because it got too boring, albeit punctuated by fantastic passages. These are my notes as I was reading:
the undercurrent – overcurrent often – is the erotic, albeit weird and infantile obsessions
theatre props/moons with chambers holding a girl
a growing up novel really for stretches boring then comes alive with detail and character
we’re let in on a whole private universe with costume and theatre, war and museums, buttons and dolls
sometimes felt a bit queasy reading it, some kind of unspecified sexual abuse seems to be going on, an orgy of sorts, I think, and a suggestion of racism and the passages I like are longer to wait for, so I might give up go back to it again later
a bit unwholesome like Henry Darger’s collages
very strange mix of dreams and middle-class laughter and high japes, the incredible tingles of happiness.

[Tosh · Rating 4 out of 5]

Remarkable book. To me, it's poetic prose than narrative.

[Mack · Rating 3 out of 5]

I had a hard time with this one. Experimental fiction like The Orchid Stories is usually my thing, I like untangling convoluted, lucid narratives and often don't feel that the practice of giving loads of context is necessary, but for some reason these stories just didn't stick. There were moments that were fascinating, images that drew me in, but overall I found myself just reading through this and daydreaming about the next book I would move on to.

[Emilie]

Strange book was hard for me to read but beautiful

[cori · Rating 5 out of 5]

somewhere between w. burroughs and g. stein

[Eric Cecil]

Couldn't finish it. Tapped out somewhere around page 90.