I remember this one like a peach — soft in memory, ripened by time. It was 1996 when I first stumbled upon Robert Coover’s world, sitting cross-legged on a friend’s floor with two high school buddies, the air thick with the smell of instant coffee and adolescence.
We were too young to know what metafiction meant, too naïve to sense how fiction could bend time like light through a prism.
However, Coover’s stories — even in their cryptic, elliptical forms — felt like whispers from a realm where storytelling was both game and gospel. A decade later, in 2006, when Going for a Beer: Selected Short Fictions came into my hands, it arrived not as a rediscovery, but as a quiet continuation of something begun long ago — the same stories, older now, refracted through the prism of a changed reader.
Coover’s fiction is an endless carnival of narrative invention. He takes the ordinary — a man, a marriage, a moment — and stretches it till it fractures into shimmering fragments of irony, myth, and memory. The title story, “Going for a Beer,” is a masterpiece of temporal compression, where life itself becomes a seamless montage of events: the protagonist goes for a beer and finds himself swept through years of marriage, fatherhood, divorce, and death — all without punctuation, as if time itself were a single, collapsing sentence.
Reading it feels like watching one’s life flicker by too fast to grasp — funny, tragic, and profoundly human.
Coover’s genius lies in his audacious play with form. He dismantles the mechanics of narrative and rebuilds them in impossible shapes — short stories that read like stage plays, fairy tales retold with the cruelty of realism, myths rewritten by the chaos of modernity.
In “The Babysitter,” one of his most celebrated stories, a seemingly domestic evening fractures into countless versions of itself — a Möbius strip of fantasy, fear, and forbidden desire. The reader becomes complicit in its voyeurism, turning the page with equal parts dread and fascination. By the end, you’re unsure what truly happened — only that you’ve been altered by the act of imagining.
What makes Going for a Beer more than a retrospective is its emotional rhythm — the way Coover’s mischief is haunted by melancholy. His humor, as biting as it is brilliant, always circles back to a sense of loss: the futility of language, the absurdity of desire, the fleetingness of stories themselves. “All narratives are doomed,” he once wrote, “but that is their beauty.”
Reading him during the quiet, locked-down months of the pandemic, I felt that sentence echo in my bones. The world itself had become a Coover story — time melting, reality doubling, irony indistinguishable from tragedy.
And yet, there is joy here. Coover’s prose moves like jazz — riffs, ruptures, sudden silences. He writes with a kind of delighted blasphemy, mocking God, genre, and grammar alike. His characters — clowns, lovers, tricksters, even the reader — stumble through a universe where meaning is always slipping away, but beauty, somehow, still glimmers.
He reminds me of what Milton wrote in Paradise Lost: “Chaos umpire sits, / And by decision more embroils the fray.” Coover thrives in that very chaos — not to resolve it, but to make art of it.
When I revisited Going for a Beer in 2006, it felt like meeting an old friend who still knew the secret language of my youth — only now, I understood the ache beneath the laughter.
Coover’s stories do not comfort; they disturb, seduce, and unravel. They tell us that the act of reading, like the act of living, is always a leap into uncertainty. And yet, what a leap it is.
If I had to sum up the experience, I would borrow Shakespeare’s words: “‘We are such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep.’
Robert Coover, in his sly, shimmering way, makes us see that dreams — and stories — are not escapes from reality, but the only ways we ever truly touch it.