This book contains seven short stories and a novella by American writer Amy Hempel. Actually, the short stories are more like vignettes; they concern themselves with the minutiae of middle class life in America—what folks talk about and do at a children’s party, for instance. Hempel listens and observes well, but I don’t find these pieces particularly compelling—more like thin slices of life that are quickly scarfed and excreted in toto. No existential tang, little after-taste. All of the stories are in essentially the same style, in which I discern the influence of Gordon Lish (and indeed, according to the book’s jacket Hempel has published in Lish’s magazine The Quarterly), along with the distant voices of Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein.
The novella (Tumble Home) is much more impressive than the vignettes. The story is in letter form (“epistolary novel”): a young woman in a sanitarium is writing to a famous painter she once had coffee with, hoping, by revealing her inner life, to inspire a deeper relationship. She tells about her mother, a loony and apparently unpleasant artist who committed suicide when the writer was sixteen, and a bit about her father, and also about the man she’s addressing the letter to, but mostly she describes the banter in the sanitarium between her best friend Chatty, a zany woman from Texas, and good pal Warren, a man with many jokes and a tart tongue. The sanitarium seems quite a pleasant place and the patients are free to leave whenever they like; the writer never really tells what brought them there. There are many interesting observations in this novella and some fine descriptions: I found that it held my interest throughout.
All of these writing samples are from Tumble Home:
And what if you don’t like the person you are? Where do you find the parts to make yourself into some other kind of person? Can it be something you read in a book, a gesture you see on the street? Half-smile of a teacher, the walk of a girl on the beach.
I would like to go to a matinee with you. Any afternoon, any theatre,
I would not care what we saw. I would like to sit next to you in the dark in a public place and lean over from time to time to better hear your caustic asides.
Surely it is part of the medication, but we have hung our libidos on hooks outside the door. Do men play a version of the game women do, when a woman asks herself in, say, a shopping center, If I had to go to bed with someone in this store, which one would it be? Here, Warren is the best of the lot. If I can return to the high school mixer, a girl would go up to another girl and say of one of the boys, “He’s really cute.” And suddenly the girl to whom this was said, a girl who had not previously noticed this fellow, was taking another look and thinking to herself, “He is really cute.”
It is such a pretty story, told to me by a Cuban woman I met in a bar at the beach. She left the bar before I did; a drunken man took her place. He leaned into me and said, “I see in your dark eyes that you have suffered, and you have compassion, and I have suffered, and I have compassion, and I see in your eyes that I can say things to you—“
“My eyes are blue,” I said.