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Eyes: Novellas and Stories
A dazzling new collection—two novellas and four short stories from one of the most revered writers of our time, author of seven books of fiction, among them The Tunnel (“An extraordinary achievement”—Michael Dirda, The Washington Post); Middle C (“Exhilaratingly ingenious”—Cynthia Ozick, The New York Times Book Review, cover); and Cartesian Sonata (“The finest prose stylist in America”—The Washington Post). It begins with "In Camera," the first of the two novellas, and tells the story, which grows darker and dustier by the speck, of a Mr. Gab (who doesn’t have the gift) and his photography shop (in a part of town so drab even robbers wouldn’t visit), a shop stuffed with gray-white, gray-bleach photographs, each in its own cellophane sheet, loosely side-filed in cardboard boxes, tag attached . . . an inner sanctum where little happens beyond the fulsome, deep reverence for Mr. Gab’s images and vast collection, a homemade museum in the midst of the outer maelstrom . . . until a Mr. Stu (as in u-stew-pid) enters the shop, inspecting the extraordinary collection, and Mr. Gab’s treasure-filled, dust-laden, meticulously contained universe begins to implode . . . In the story “Don’t Even Try, Sam,” the upright piano from the 1942 Warner Bros. classic Casablanca is interviewed (“I know why you want to talk to me,” the piano says. “It’s because everybody else is dead. Stars go out. Directors die. Companies fold. But some of the props get preserved. I’ve seen my friend the Vichy water bottle in the storeroom as wrapped up as the Maltese Falcon. We’d fetch a price now”) . . . In another story, “Charity,” a young lawyer, whose business it is to keep hospital equipment honestly produced, offers a simple gift and is brought to the ambiguous heart of charity itself. In “Soliloquy for a Chair,” a folding chair does just that—talks in a barbershop that is ultimately bombed . . . and in “The Toy Chest,” Disneylike creatures take on human roles and concerns and live in an atmosphere of a child’s imagination.An enchanting Gassian journey; a glorious fantasia; a virtuoso delight.
249 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 13, 2015
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About the author
William H. Gass
64 books710 followersWilliam Howard Gass was an American novelist, short story writer, essayist, critic, and former philosophy professor.
Gass was born in Fargo, North Dakota. Soon after his birth, his family moved to Warren, Ohio, where he attended local schools. He has described his childhood as an unhappy one, with an abusive, racist father and a passive, alcoholic mother; critics would later cite his characters as having these same qualities.
He attended Wesleyan University, then served as an Ensign in the Navy during World War II, a period he describes as perhaps the worst of his life. He earned his A.B. in philosophy from Kenyon College in 1947, then his Ph.D. in philosophy from Cornell University in 1954, where he studied under Max Black. His dissertation, "A Philosophical Investigation of Metaphor", was based on his training as a philosopher of language. In graduate school Gass read the work of Gertrude Stein, who influenced his writing experiments.
Gass taught at The College of Wooster, Purdue University, and Washington University in St. Louis, where he was a professor of philosophy (1969 - 1978) and the David May Distinguished University Professor in the Humanities (1979 - 1999). His colleagues there have included the writers Stanley Elkin, Howard Nemerov (1988 Poet Laureate of the United States), and Mona Van Duyn (1992 Poet Laureate). Since 2000, Gass has been the David May Distinguished University Professor Emeritus in the Humanities.
Earning a living for himself and his family from university teaching, Gass began to publish stories that were selected for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories of 1959, 1961, 1962, 1968 and 1980, as well as Two Hundred Years of Great American Short Stories. His first novel, Omensetter's Luck, about life in a small town in Ohio in the 1890s, was published in 1966. Critics praised his linguistic virtuosity, establishing him as an important writer of fiction. In 1968 he published In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, five stories dramatizing the theme of human isolation and the difficulty of love. Three years later Gass wrote Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife, an experimental novella illustrated with photographs and typographical constructs intended to help readers free themselves from the linear conventions of narrative. He has also published several collections of essays, including On Being Blue (1976) and Finding a Form (1996). His latest work of fiction, Cartesian Sonata and Other Novellas, was published in 1998. His work has also appeared in The Best American Essays collections of 1986, 1992, and 2000.
Gass has cited the anger he felt during his childhood as a major influence on his work, even stating that he writes "to get even." Despite his prolific output, he has said that writing is difficult for him. In fact, his epic novel The Tunnel, published in 1995, took Gass 26 years to compose. An unabridged audio version of The Tunnel was released in 2006, with Gass reading the novel himself.
When writing, Gass typically devotes enormous attention to the construction of sentences, arguing their importance as the basis of his work. His prose has been described as flashy, difficult, edgy, masterful, inventive, and musical. Steven Moore, writing in The Washington Post has called Gass "the finest prose stylist in America." Much of Gass' work is metafictional.
Gass has received many awards and honors, including grants from the Rockefeller Foundation in 1965, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation in 1970. He won the Pushcart Prize awards in 1976, 1983, 1987, and 1992, and in 1994 he received the Mark Twain Award for Distinguished Contribution to the Literature of the Midwest. He has teaching awards from Purdue University and Washington University; in 1968 the Chicago Tribune Award as One of the Ten Best Teachers in the Big Ten. He was a Getty Foundation Fellow in 1991-1992. He received the Lannan Lifetime Achievement Award in 1997; and the American Book Award for The
Gass was born in Fargo, North Dakota. Soon after his birth, his family moved to Warren, Ohio, where he attended local schools. He has described his childhood as an unhappy one, with an abusive, racist father and a passive, alcoholic mother; critics would later cite his characters as having these same qualities.
He attended Wesleyan University, then served as an Ensign in the Navy during World War II, a period he describes as perhaps the worst of his life. He earned his A.B. in philosophy from Kenyon College in 1947, then his Ph.D. in philosophy from Cornell University in 1954, where he studied under Max Black. His dissertation, "A Philosophical Investigation of Metaphor", was based on his training as a philosopher of language. In graduate school Gass read the work of Gertrude Stein, who influenced his writing experiments.
Gass taught at The College of Wooster, Purdue University, and Washington University in St. Louis, where he was a professor of philosophy (1969 - 1978) and the David May Distinguished University Professor in the Humanities (1979 - 1999). His colleagues there have included the writers Stanley Elkin, Howard Nemerov (1988 Poet Laureate of the United States), and Mona Van Duyn (1992 Poet Laureate). Since 2000, Gass has been the David May Distinguished University Professor Emeritus in the Humanities.
Earning a living for himself and his family from university teaching, Gass began to publish stories that were selected for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories of 1959, 1961, 1962, 1968 and 1980, as well as Two Hundred Years of Great American Short Stories. His first novel, Omensetter's Luck, about life in a small town in Ohio in the 1890s, was published in 1966. Critics praised his linguistic virtuosity, establishing him as an important writer of fiction. In 1968 he published In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, five stories dramatizing the theme of human isolation and the difficulty of love. Three years later Gass wrote Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife, an experimental novella illustrated with photographs and typographical constructs intended to help readers free themselves from the linear conventions of narrative. He has also published several collections of essays, including On Being Blue (1976) and Finding a Form (1996). His latest work of fiction, Cartesian Sonata and Other Novellas, was published in 1998. His work has also appeared in The Best American Essays collections of 1986, 1992, and 2000.
Gass has cited the anger he felt during his childhood as a major influence on his work, even stating that he writes "to get even." Despite his prolific output, he has said that writing is difficult for him. In fact, his epic novel The Tunnel, published in 1995, took Gass 26 years to compose. An unabridged audio version of The Tunnel was released in 2006, with Gass reading the novel himself.
When writing, Gass typically devotes enormous attention to the construction of sentences, arguing their importance as the basis of his work. His prose has been described as flashy, difficult, edgy, masterful, inventive, and musical. Steven Moore, writing in The Washington Post has called Gass "the finest prose stylist in America." Much of Gass' work is metafictional.
Gass has received many awards and honors, including grants from the Rockefeller Foundation in 1965, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation in 1970. He won the Pushcart Prize awards in 1976, 1983, 1987, and 1992, and in 1994 he received the Mark Twain Award for Distinguished Contribution to the Literature of the Midwest. He has teaching awards from Purdue University and Washington University; in 1968 the Chicago Tribune Award as One of the Ten Best Teachers in the Big Ten. He was a Getty Foundation Fellow in 1991-1992. He received the Lannan Lifetime Achievement Award in 1997; and the American Book Award for The
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October 23, 2015Gass has still got it. Still brings it.
October 22, 2015
My experience with Gass is fairly predictable: tremendous excitement, astonishment, the feeling that nobody else should try to write at all... then eyebrow raising, questioning why he would choose to do something so dull when he's capable of so much... then skimming... then the book ends.
This is less so with a book of short stories, but it says something that even here I had much the same feeling. The first novella, 'In Camera,' is an almost perfect work in the tradition of James's long stories about art; I'm both happy and sad to say that it could form an ideal capstone to Gass's career. Happy, because it's so good and sheds so much light on the rest of his work; sad, because we can't expect too many more writings from him.
As always with Gass, we have a situation rather than a story: a young man and an old man run a photography store. There is much talk about what a photograph (read: any work of art) should do. And then a concluding image (obviously the origin of the tale) so striking and so perfect in its relationship to what preceded it that I hesitate to spoil it. Please, go read it. I have ideas about it, but I want you to read it first.
The ideas are fairly clear, of course: the two men sit, watching the street outside their shop via a camera obscura that they have built out of what they have left of their lives. The imagine is in color, against the elder gent's preference, but he admits color is okay in this case. The image is also upside down.
They are in Plato's cave, but they have *built* the cave intentionally, to appreciate what is outside the cave more fully. The artwork is like Stendhal's mirror, but inverted, even perverted; there is no sense of direct reflection here. What is being depicted is change by the depiction.
After that, the rest of the book is a bit of a disappointment. 'Charity' is a good idea (investigate the varieties of 'charity,' from love through sex to giving away money) that isn't any fun to read. 'Soliloquy for a Chair' and 'Don't even try, Sam' are fine, but I have no knowledge of or interest in Casablanca, and I'm not particularly nostalgic for ye goode olde days when barbers were barbers and chairs were chairs (though I suspect I'm missing something in the chair soliloquy; the conclusion is rather portentous). The concluding 'The Toy Chest' is almost unreadable and probably could have been consigned to an 'Uncollected Stories' volume in a few decades.
On the other hand, 'The Man Who Spoke With His Hands' is a lovely reminder of how good Gass can be; it takes place in the world of 'Middle C,' and replicates that book's many excellences: sensitivity, humor, clarity, and style.
This is less so with a book of short stories, but it says something that even here I had much the same feeling. The first novella, 'In Camera,' is an almost perfect work in the tradition of James's long stories about art; I'm both happy and sad to say that it could form an ideal capstone to Gass's career. Happy, because it's so good and sheds so much light on the rest of his work; sad, because we can't expect too many more writings from him.
As always with Gass, we have a situation rather than a story: a young man and an old man run a photography store. There is much talk about what a photograph (read: any work of art) should do. And then a concluding image (obviously the origin of the tale) so striking and so perfect in its relationship to what preceded it that I hesitate to spoil it. Please, go read it. I have ideas about it, but I want you to read it first.
The ideas are fairly clear, of course: the two men sit, watching the street outside their shop via a camera obscura that they have built out of what they have left of their lives. The imagine is in color, against the elder gent's preference, but he admits color is okay in this case. The image is also upside down.
They are in Plato's cave, but they have *built* the cave intentionally, to appreciate what is outside the cave more fully. The artwork is like Stendhal's mirror, but inverted, even perverted; there is no sense of direct reflection here. What is being depicted is change by the depiction.
After that, the rest of the book is a bit of a disappointment. 'Charity' is a good idea (investigate the varieties of 'charity,' from love through sex to giving away money) that isn't any fun to read. 'Soliloquy for a Chair' and 'Don't even try, Sam' are fine, but I have no knowledge of or interest in Casablanca, and I'm not particularly nostalgic for ye goode olde days when barbers were barbers and chairs were chairs (though I suspect I'm missing something in the chair soliloquy; the conclusion is rather portentous). The concluding 'The Toy Chest' is almost unreadable and probably could have been consigned to an 'Uncollected Stories' volume in a few decades.
On the other hand, 'The Man Who Spoke With His Hands' is a lovely reminder of how good Gass can be; it takes place in the world of 'Middle C,' and replicates that book's many excellences: sensitivity, humor, clarity, and style.
March 21, 2023
Gass makes impressive use of language to describe the thoughts and feelings of inanimate objects. By exploring perspectives in this way, he is able to layer on a bunch of observations.
It would appear that he holds plot and character development in contempt. Instead, he maneuvers the reader through a skewed world fraught with satire and emotional resonance.
The first story relates the exploits of photographers. There is a lot of learned interpolations and name-dropping. Photography is a theme and a visual technique in the story. Images take on life in more than one way.
The next story is stream of consciousness, one long paragraph stretching 70 pages, containing the rambling eloquence of a moneyed person as he is variously assaulted by charity requests. A relatable situation for most middle-income and higher people in America. It calls into question many institutions and beliefs. It is an intimate, even embarrassing experiment in detailed reaction and commentary.
Then follows a story from the viewpoint of the piano in Casablanca. It has seen many sets, but Bogey's presence and the ambiance of the famous film left an indelible impression on it. This bit player gives us enough tidbits about cinema to tickle any cinephile.
After that we are treated to a story from the perspective of a chair in a barbershop. You might call what happens at the end plot, but it is more of an event. People are described in all of their faults. And one might draw any number of analogies toward linking the plight of chairs with that of people. But honestly, Gass just likes polishing sentences, varying the word choice and structure, and syncopating with syntax. He verges from maestro to anacreontic. He wheels and deals, roping in disparate impressions, glomming them into his minute portrayal of a moment.
The final enigma of a story is the most experimental. Gass chops sentences and rearranges them, in cut-up fashion, describing a kid's train set, and the kid's odd behavior, eerily conjuring that hazy naivete of childhood, combined with the stylistic choices, which suffer from ADHD.
All of these novella/ stories offer unique critiques on modern society. The only genre Gass fits into is good writing.
These are not as bloated and self-indulgent as his book The Tunnel, nor as nonsensical as some of his other productions.
Nice touch - those the photographs before each story, reminiscent of Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife or whatever that other book was called.
It would appear that he holds plot and character development in contempt. Instead, he maneuvers the reader through a skewed world fraught with satire and emotional resonance.
The first story relates the exploits of photographers. There is a lot of learned interpolations and name-dropping. Photography is a theme and a visual technique in the story. Images take on life in more than one way.
The next story is stream of consciousness, one long paragraph stretching 70 pages, containing the rambling eloquence of a moneyed person as he is variously assaulted by charity requests. A relatable situation for most middle-income and higher people in America. It calls into question many institutions and beliefs. It is an intimate, even embarrassing experiment in detailed reaction and commentary.
Then follows a story from the viewpoint of the piano in Casablanca. It has seen many sets, but Bogey's presence and the ambiance of the famous film left an indelible impression on it. This bit player gives us enough tidbits about cinema to tickle any cinephile.
After that we are treated to a story from the perspective of a chair in a barbershop. You might call what happens at the end plot, but it is more of an event. People are described in all of their faults. And one might draw any number of analogies toward linking the plight of chairs with that of people. But honestly, Gass just likes polishing sentences, varying the word choice and structure, and syncopating with syntax. He verges from maestro to anacreontic. He wheels and deals, roping in disparate impressions, glomming them into his minute portrayal of a moment.
The final enigma of a story is the most experimental. Gass chops sentences and rearranges them, in cut-up fashion, describing a kid's train set, and the kid's odd behavior, eerily conjuring that hazy naivete of childhood, combined with the stylistic choices, which suffer from ADHD.
All of these novella/ stories offer unique critiques on modern society. The only genre Gass fits into is good writing.
These are not as bloated and self-indulgent as his book The Tunnel, nor as nonsensical as some of his other productions.
Nice touch - those the photographs before each story, reminiscent of Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife or whatever that other book was called.
November 21, 2015
Camera Obscura
In Camera is a tale of a shop selling black and white art photography, rare and exclusive:
“Color is consternation. Color is a lure. Color is candy. It makes sensuality easy. It leads us astray. Color is oratory in the service of the wrong religion. Color makes the camera into a paintbrush. Color is camouflage. That was Mr. Gab’s catechism: what color was. Color was not what we see with the mind. Like an overpowering perfume, color was vulgar. Like an overpowering perfume, color lulled and dulled the senses. Like an overpowering perfume, color was only worn by whores.”
The narration is somewhere between William Faulkner and Vladimir Nabokov.
Charity is about a lawyer – it is a story of philanthropy and sex:
“Hardy, unlike her other lovers, knew how to love her; he followed her desires the way a weathercock sniffs the wind.”
Blatant demanding of charity may turn into blackmail… Sex also may be either charity or blackmail.
Don’t Even Try, Sam is a tale told by the saloon piano about filmmaking:
“I know why you want to talk to me. It’s because everybody else is dead. Stars go out. Directors die. Companies fold. But some of the props get preserved.”
Soliloquy for a Chair is a fable told by the old chair about a barbershop:
“As for my tribe of folding chairs—well, to us, asses differ only by weight. We ask two questions of our customers: how thin? how large? how small? how fat? how light? how heavy? That is that.”
The Man Who Spoke with His Hands is about strange habits and The Toy Chest is about strange child’s strange games.
And all is duly and outlandishly postmodern.
In Camera is a tale of a shop selling black and white art photography, rare and exclusive:
“Color is consternation. Color is a lure. Color is candy. It makes sensuality easy. It leads us astray. Color is oratory in the service of the wrong religion. Color makes the camera into a paintbrush. Color is camouflage. That was Mr. Gab’s catechism: what color was. Color was not what we see with the mind. Like an overpowering perfume, color was vulgar. Like an overpowering perfume, color lulled and dulled the senses. Like an overpowering perfume, color was only worn by whores.”
The narration is somewhere between William Faulkner and Vladimir Nabokov.
Charity is about a lawyer – it is a story of philanthropy and sex:
“Hardy, unlike her other lovers, knew how to love her; he followed her desires the way a weathercock sniffs the wind.”
Blatant demanding of charity may turn into blackmail… Sex also may be either charity or blackmail.
Don’t Even Try, Sam is a tale told by the saloon piano about filmmaking:
“I know why you want to talk to me. It’s because everybody else is dead. Stars go out. Directors die. Companies fold. But some of the props get preserved.”
Soliloquy for a Chair is a fable told by the old chair about a barbershop:
“As for my tribe of folding chairs—well, to us, asses differ only by weight. We ask two questions of our customers: how thin? how large? how small? how fat? how light? how heavy? That is that.”
The Man Who Spoke with His Hands is about strange habits and The Toy Chest is about strange child’s strange games.
And all is duly and outlandishly postmodern.
January 6, 2016
This is a welcome collection of fiction by William H Gass. Eventually the faucet is going to turn off so we should appreciate the drippings we get at this point. I guess that's my way of saying that after the opening novellas this collection gets a little thin.
“In Camera” 5 stars
“Charity” 4.5 stars
“Don’t Even Try, Sam” 3 stars
“Soliloquy for a Chair” 3 stars
“The Man Who Spoke with His Hands” (An Exercise) 4 stars
“The Toy Chest” 2 stars
Overall 4 stars
In Camera looks at beauty and art through the eyes of two grotesque characters in a run down photo gallery. It's the stand out to me.
Charity was a philosophical meditation on the nature of charity as told by a collections and enforcement attorney. It took me a bit to get into the groove here, but it was worth it.
Don’t Even Try, Sam is an interview with the set piano from Casablanca. Enjoyable but a little fluffy.
Soliloquy for a Chair follows in the footsteps of Don’t Even Try, Sam by expanding on the personal history of an inanimate object. Gass takes a photo and delves into the true lives of the folding chairs present. It was ok, but a little to cutesy for my tastes.
The Man Who Spoke with His Hands” (An Exercise) seems to be the road not taken with Middle C. I like it.
The Toy Chest left me cold. There might be some charms that eluded my first reading, or it might just be filler.
“In Camera” 5 stars
“Charity” 4.5 stars
“Don’t Even Try, Sam” 3 stars
“Soliloquy for a Chair” 3 stars
“The Man Who Spoke with His Hands” (An Exercise) 4 stars
“The Toy Chest” 2 stars
Overall 4 stars
In Camera looks at beauty and art through the eyes of two grotesque characters in a run down photo gallery. It's the stand out to me.
Charity was a philosophical meditation on the nature of charity as told by a collections and enforcement attorney. It took me a bit to get into the groove here, but it was worth it.
Don’t Even Try, Sam is an interview with the set piano from Casablanca. Enjoyable but a little fluffy.
Soliloquy for a Chair follows in the footsteps of Don’t Even Try, Sam by expanding on the personal history of an inanimate object. Gass takes a photo and delves into the true lives of the folding chairs present. It was ok, but a little to cutesy for my tastes.
The Man Who Spoke with His Hands” (An Exercise) seems to be the road not taken with Middle C. I like it.
The Toy Chest left me cold. There might be some charms that eluded my first reading, or it might just be filler.
Want to read
December 20, 2015
Blue Doodle Doo Indeed
It's colored through.
Yes, Mr. Stu,
And what colors too.
Oh, Mr. Stu,
This will indeed do.
July 3, 2016
My review appears in New York Journal of Books. Read that review first. Additional remarks (including a longer excerpt from the book and additional biographical info about Gass) that appeared in a different and now defunct publication begin with the next paragraph.
91 year old William Gass' prose is still gorgeous in Eyes: Novellas and Stories
“The brown paper wall bore tears and peels and spots made by drops of who knew what — expectorations past. Yet in such stains lay lakes full of reeds and floating ducks and low loglike boats. Instead of the sort of wall which furnished a rich many-toned background for so many of Atget’s documents: instead of the cobbled courtyard that the remainder of the photo surrounded, shadowed, or stood on; instead of gleaming disks of stone with their dark encircling lines; instead of the leaves of trees in a flutter about a field of figures; there might be — instead — a single pock, the bottom of it whitish with plaster: that’s what he had to look at, descend into, dream about, not a rhyming slope of rock, its layers threaded and inked; not the veins of a single leaf like roads on a map, or a tear of paper resembling a tantrum — his rips didn’t even resemble rips — or faded petals that have fallen like a scatter of gravel at the foot of a vase; not an errant flash of light centered and set like a jewel: instead he had a crack, just a crack in a window, a cob’s web, or that of a spider, dewdrop clinging like an injured climber to its only rope of escape; not a clay flowerpot given the attention due to a landscape; not a scratch on the hood of some vehicle, not directional signs painted on the pavement, instructions worn by the wheels of countless cars; not a black eye enlarged to resemble the purple of a blown rose. These were the images in his borrowed books, the material of his mind’s eye, the Lilliputian world grown taller than that tattered Peruvian giant.” — William H. Gass, “In Camera,” Eyes: Novellas and Stories
Literary critic Steven Moore once called William H. Gass "the finest prose stylist in America." The paragraph quoted above from the first novella in Eyes: Novellas and Stories, 91 year old Gass’ new book of short fiction, is evidence that Moore’s assessment is still accurate. In my New York Journal of Books review of Gass’ new book I write: “The two novellas and four short stories in Eyes show his prose virtuosity and his dim view of human nature undiminished at age 91.”
As in his other works of fiction, the characters in the two novellas and four short stories that comprise Eyes have flawed personalities and most are racist. Gass, who grew up with a racist and abusive father and has cited childhood anger as a major influence on his fiction, has said that he writes “to get even.”
Yet though Gass has an adversarial relationship with his characters they also have some of his own attributes, especially a love of aesthetics with respect to a variety of artistic genres and a tendency to discourse at length on favorite artists and the criteria that define their work.
Eyes’ characters include an unscrupulous fine art photography gallery owner who both verbally abuses and educates his protege/employee, a corporate lawyer overwhelmed by requests for charitable donations and other monetary assistance, the piano from the set of the movie Casablanca, a folding chair, a music professor, and a tween-age boy.
I conclude my NYJB review of Eyes with an enthusiastic recommendation “to readers who enjoy dense prose and experimental fiction” for whom “the attentive reading it requires is amply rewarded.” For a fuller discussion of Eyes see that review.
91 year old William Gass' prose is still gorgeous in Eyes: Novellas and Stories
“The brown paper wall bore tears and peels and spots made by drops of who knew what — expectorations past. Yet in such stains lay lakes full of reeds and floating ducks and low loglike boats. Instead of the sort of wall which furnished a rich many-toned background for so many of Atget’s documents: instead of the cobbled courtyard that the remainder of the photo surrounded, shadowed, or stood on; instead of gleaming disks of stone with their dark encircling lines; instead of the leaves of trees in a flutter about a field of figures; there might be — instead — a single pock, the bottom of it whitish with plaster: that’s what he had to look at, descend into, dream about, not a rhyming slope of rock, its layers threaded and inked; not the veins of a single leaf like roads on a map, or a tear of paper resembling a tantrum — his rips didn’t even resemble rips — or faded petals that have fallen like a scatter of gravel at the foot of a vase; not an errant flash of light centered and set like a jewel: instead he had a crack, just a crack in a window, a cob’s web, or that of a spider, dewdrop clinging like an injured climber to its only rope of escape; not a clay flowerpot given the attention due to a landscape; not a scratch on the hood of some vehicle, not directional signs painted on the pavement, instructions worn by the wheels of countless cars; not a black eye enlarged to resemble the purple of a blown rose. These were the images in his borrowed books, the material of his mind’s eye, the Lilliputian world grown taller than that tattered Peruvian giant.” — William H. Gass, “In Camera,” Eyes: Novellas and Stories
Literary critic Steven Moore once called William H. Gass "the finest prose stylist in America." The paragraph quoted above from the first novella in Eyes: Novellas and Stories, 91 year old Gass’ new book of short fiction, is evidence that Moore’s assessment is still accurate. In my New York Journal of Books review of Gass’ new book I write: “The two novellas and four short stories in Eyes show his prose virtuosity and his dim view of human nature undiminished at age 91.”
As in his other works of fiction, the characters in the two novellas and four short stories that comprise Eyes have flawed personalities and most are racist. Gass, who grew up with a racist and abusive father and has cited childhood anger as a major influence on his fiction, has said that he writes “to get even.”
Yet though Gass has an adversarial relationship with his characters they also have some of his own attributes, especially a love of aesthetics with respect to a variety of artistic genres and a tendency to discourse at length on favorite artists and the criteria that define their work.
Eyes’ characters include an unscrupulous fine art photography gallery owner who both verbally abuses and educates his protege/employee, a corporate lawyer overwhelmed by requests for charitable donations and other monetary assistance, the piano from the set of the movie Casablanca, a folding chair, a music professor, and a tween-age boy.
I conclude my NYJB review of Eyes with an enthusiastic recommendation “to readers who enjoy dense prose and experimental fiction” for whom “the attentive reading it requires is amply rewarded.” For a fuller discussion of Eyes see that review.
September 17, 2015
To say these stories are quirky would be understating it. Each is a challenge, each is original. The fact that the author is 91 years old does not interfere with his modernist approach or material. They are not to be devoured, but savored, since they obviously were crafted with care. I particularly liked "Don't Even Try, Sam" since it is an interview with the piano Dooley Wilson plays in Casablanca. I don't think there has ever been such a sideways look at a beloved film as this.
December 9, 2017
I like to imagine Gass passed like he wrote: pungently, rapturously pissed off.
A pleasant vexation, the attempt to find something good to say about an author who says everything good. Not that what Gass says will make you feel good--you should know better--but rather that the manner in which he says anything, even the worst, is better than anyone else's best. So man can't survive on language alone? That's a dare I'll take, and I'll take Gass first.
P.S. 09Dec2017 Death dared take Gass yet leaves his language to enliven all our lonely lives. Don't die without it; you aren't living without it.
A pleasant vexation, the attempt to find something good to say about an author who says everything good. Not that what Gass says will make you feel good--you should know better--but rather that the manner in which he says anything, even the worst, is better than anyone else's best. So man can't survive on language alone? That's a dare I'll take, and I'll take Gass first.
P.S. 09Dec2017 Death dared take Gass yet leaves his language to enliven all our lonely lives. Don't die without it; you aren't living without it.
January 14, 2020
nice but...
it is something like his illustrated novella (1968) plus one Danish author of fairy tales plus probably Byron the Bulb:
photo and talking chairs and piano.
his ability to create different voices ("eyes") is the most interesting so the story about chairs is very funny but... tragical.
P.S. After second reading I`d like to add that Gass is a great essayist but a lousy fiction writer
it is something like his illustrated novella (1968) plus one Danish author of fairy tales plus probably Byron the Bulb:
photo and talking chairs and piano.
his ability to create different voices ("eyes") is the most interesting so the story about chairs is very funny but... tragical.
P.S. After second reading I`d like to add that Gass is a great essayist but a lousy fiction writer
June 5, 2016
This is a book that I like by a writer I like. It's got pictures in it, and a couple of stories where objects talk.
December 26, 2021
buenisimo. reading it via chi library loan on a phone, of all things.
not what this nerdy 80s girl would prefer.
if i had a hardcopy i'd be underlinin' every other page.
great from the sentence level to the paragraph to the overarching world building and story.
somehow GR led me to gass, can't remember who... but ta, GR.
final thoughts: i find myself agreeing with a number of people here who say that 'in camera' was absolutely stunning, because it was, it truly was, but the short stories, some great lines and wording not withstanding are not as strong as far as world building or character. i mean, i've played piano nearly my whole life but the stories from the perspective of the piano and chairs...I just don't care about chairs the way I cared about the dad and surrogate son in 'in camera.' and that whole section on color?! how color 'pales' compared to blk/wht? ay ay ay! beautiful.
overall, i really enjoyed the book and his writing and will definitely read something by him again.
not what this nerdy 80s girl would prefer.
if i had a hardcopy i'd be underlinin' every other page.
great from the sentence level to the paragraph to the overarching world building and story.
somehow GR led me to gass, can't remember who... but ta, GR.
final thoughts: i find myself agreeing with a number of people here who say that 'in camera' was absolutely stunning, because it was, it truly was, but the short stories, some great lines and wording not withstanding are not as strong as far as world building or character. i mean, i've played piano nearly my whole life but the stories from the perspective of the piano and chairs...I just don't care about chairs the way I cared about the dad and surrogate son in 'in camera.' and that whole section on color?! how color 'pales' compared to blk/wht? ay ay ay! beautiful.
overall, i really enjoyed the book and his writing and will definitely read something by him again.
January 9, 2019
Gass offers some of the more interesting and off-beat similes I've ever read. I think it will take me a while to get my head around these novellas and stories.
November 1, 2018
Lovely writing.
April 7, 2021
FROM THE NOVELLA, In Camera:
The assistant believed that the entire furnishings of the store: the old oak desk where Mr. Gab presided, the swivel chair, alike in oak, the rose-colored puff upon which he sat when he was seated, the smeary windows, a door which uttered a needless warning, the faded facade from former days, which incorporated a large dim sign spelling P H O T O G R A P H Y in letters that looked as if they wanted nothing to do with one another, the scuffed and cracked linoleum floor, the pocked walls with their swaying trophies, the trestle tables upon which the cardboard boxes stood, or under which they hid, or beside which they huddled, the dumb homely handmade lamps that filled the room with the rattle of tinlight, the tall stool in a back corner where the stupid assistant perched, the rug, instead of a door, which hung over the entrance to Mr. Gab’s private quarters: they were all meant to deceive detectives and most untrained and idle inspection. For the truth was - since the assistant harbored the same opinion as Mr. Gab’s once-a-time rival - the stock was stupendous, of varied kind and exquisite quality, a condition which was quite unaccountable unless the prints had, at one time or other, by someone or other, been pinched. [10-11]
I love the author’s prose, and this is just a small sample from the first novella in the recently released collection, eyes: novellas & short stories. William H. Gass first came to my attention a few years ago when I stumbled across mentions of his novel THE TUNNEL [1995] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_T.... Immediately it found a prominent place in my reading queue (though I haven’t managed to get to it just yet [update: since rectified... THE TUNNEL is amazing]). According to the author, it took him 26 years to write it. It sounds big, dark, dense, and challenging. In the meantime, I found this collection of stories on the new fiction shelves of the local library and decided to give his prose a test run before I got around to his novel. And I couldn’t be more pleased. On every page I find a gem, a sentence, paragraph or turn of phase I want to linger over.
... a woman whose gaze was one of total intensity, though her mouth expressed quizzicality, while on the sill lay an aristocracy of fingers, age infecting everything else - her fingers positioned as if she were emerging from the grave of days... [11]
The assistant believed that the entire furnishings of the store: the old oak desk where Mr. Gab presided, the swivel chair, alike in oak, the rose-colored puff upon which he sat when he was seated, the smeary windows, a door which uttered a needless warning, the faded facade from former days, which incorporated a large dim sign spelling P H O T O G R A P H Y in letters that looked as if they wanted nothing to do with one another, the scuffed and cracked linoleum floor, the pocked walls with their swaying trophies, the trestle tables upon which the cardboard boxes stood, or under which they hid, or beside which they huddled, the dumb homely handmade lamps that filled the room with the rattle of tinlight, the tall stool in a back corner where the stupid assistant perched, the rug, instead of a door, which hung over the entrance to Mr. Gab’s private quarters: they were all meant to deceive detectives and most untrained and idle inspection. For the truth was - since the assistant harbored the same opinion as Mr. Gab’s once-a-time rival - the stock was stupendous, of varied kind and exquisite quality, a condition which was quite unaccountable unless the prints had, at one time or other, by someone or other, been pinched. [10-11]
I love the author’s prose, and this is just a small sample from the first novella in the recently released collection, eyes: novellas & short stories. William H. Gass first came to my attention a few years ago when I stumbled across mentions of his novel THE TUNNEL [1995] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_T.... Immediately it found a prominent place in my reading queue (though I haven’t managed to get to it just yet [update: since rectified... THE TUNNEL is amazing]). According to the author, it took him 26 years to write it. It sounds big, dark, dense, and challenging. In the meantime, I found this collection of stories on the new fiction shelves of the local library and decided to give his prose a test run before I got around to his novel. And I couldn’t be more pleased. On every page I find a gem, a sentence, paragraph or turn of phase I want to linger over.
... a woman whose gaze was one of total intensity, though her mouth expressed quizzicality, while on the sill lay an aristocracy of fingers, age infecting everything else - her fingers positioned as if she were emerging from the grave of days... [11]
November 30, 2015
One of the short stories is told from the point of a view of a chair. Yes, the chair is speaking in the first person. Gass of course pulls it off.
There are two Novellas in the book. Both are excellent but "Charity" was the home run for me. It's one continuous paragraph in a stream of consciousness rant.
There are two Novellas in the book. Both are excellent but "Charity" was the home run for me. It's one continuous paragraph in a stream of consciousness rant.
November 5, 2015
The breadth of variety in the narrative voices in each story, coupled with Gass's marvelous imagination made this a delightful read.
December 11, 2015
One reads William Gass for his sentences.
June 26, 2025
The book's blurb sums up the five entries. It's churlish to fuss over that three stars for a Gass title doesn't equal, say, the same rating given for Neil Gaiman's American Gods, a thousand times better known, a few days ago. But despite the heartland professor's craft with musical patterns (I reviewed Middle C earlier this year) on the page, his fiction in short spurts feels the grip of the MFA seminar.
That's a remove from recognizable characters. Reminds me of surely an influence, Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson (which I doubt ever gets assigned to college freshman comp as it did mine, if an Honors section, fall semester 1979). Gass revels in grotesques rather than folks you'd wait beside in an airport or big-box checkout lane. I don't expect Kafka, Dostoevsky, or Pynchon to deliver my neighbors either, but none of them carry the airs of the writer's workshop as their arch atelier, still...
So I will try his work, as dipping into his Reader didn't dissuade, and Carpenter's Gothic got me curious if I can handle the reprint ahead of his harrowing The Tunnel. Yet I get weighed down by his prissy hand. I know what's going on in his mentality, his melange as he meddles with his mandarin prose. But as a egghead reader however sympathetic to his mission, so far I haven't been won over.
That's a remove from recognizable characters. Reminds me of surely an influence, Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson (which I doubt ever gets assigned to college freshman comp as it did mine, if an Honors section, fall semester 1979). Gass revels in grotesques rather than folks you'd wait beside in an airport or big-box checkout lane. I don't expect Kafka, Dostoevsky, or Pynchon to deliver my neighbors either, but none of them carry the airs of the writer's workshop as their arch atelier, still...
So I will try his work, as dipping into his Reader didn't dissuade, and Carpenter's Gothic got me curious if I can handle the reprint ahead of his harrowing The Tunnel. Yet I get weighed down by his prissy hand. I know what's going on in his mentality, his melange as he meddles with his mandarin prose. But as a egghead reader however sympathetic to his mission, so far I haven't been won over.
October 16, 2017
[rating = B-]
I love William H Gass for his experimenting with fiction; he pushes it to its bounds in such a tasteful and interesting way. Although, with that unique use of language, their is a degree of loss in coherence, a confusion not easily overcome. And sometimes, I'm sad to say, the stories were just boring ("Charity" especially). I liked the soliloquy for a chair (funny, quirky, inventive), though the plot was, as usual, not as beginning-middle-end as one might like. Other stories were fun and witty; no one can say that Gass is not a man of style and language: he bends and shapes sentences with ease and makes such intelligent connections. The last four stories were the best. It is not always easy to read Gass, but if you've got the time such wonders are revealed! The main message I got, if their really is a message, was that life if full of trials and tribulations and that each person or object has as much as part in it as the next.
I love William H Gass for his experimenting with fiction; he pushes it to its bounds in such a tasteful and interesting way. Although, with that unique use of language, their is a degree of loss in coherence, a confusion not easily overcome. And sometimes, I'm sad to say, the stories were just boring ("Charity" especially). I liked the soliloquy for a chair (funny, quirky, inventive), though the plot was, as usual, not as beginning-middle-end as one might like. Other stories were fun and witty; no one can say that Gass is not a man of style and language: he bends and shapes sentences with ease and makes such intelligent connections. The last four stories were the best. It is not always easy to read Gass, but if you've got the time such wonders are revealed! The main message I got, if their really is a message, was that life if full of trials and tribulations and that each person or object has as much as part in it as the next.
October 26, 2025
Uneven in a similar way to his earlier collection of short stories, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, which opened with a tremendous novella-length piece "The Pedersen Kid" but lost steam with some half-realized experiments. Here, the opener about a photography shop is incredible, as is the follow-up "Charity", both novella-length works with their own style and deep characters. Then we get stories from the perspective of a piano and a chair, which I wish were as interesting as they sound, but are mediocre. The final two stories are better but don't climb to the earlier peaks. Gass is a tremendous writer, he writes poetry in prose with gorgeous rhythm and plentiful alliteration, but his more experimental works lose their footing.
June 5, 2020
IN CAMERA - a grand irony not to be spoiled here...
CHARITY - angry & scared little racist bitch. excellent pomo that i had to read twice.
"[He] felt worse about the shame than the truancy. Shame was like a sun rising inside you, wet and steaming from the sea. You grew warm, oddly feverish, your heart beat so fast and began to sweat, maybe it was like a hot flash, camera popping off to light your dark insides. And observing, sharing someone's embarrassment - secondhand shame - also brought blood to the cheeks. Was it the same blood, he wondered, that gave you an erection or was it blood from a different section of the system? Burn always with a bright shame-like flame."
The final four feel like early pomo writing samples, more gimmicky than interesting; good thing they are much shorter than the first two.
DO NOT make this your first Gass foray.
CHARITY - angry & scared little racist bitch. excellent pomo that i had to read twice.
"[He] felt worse about the shame than the truancy. Shame was like a sun rising inside you, wet and steaming from the sea. You grew warm, oddly feverish, your heart beat so fast and began to sweat, maybe it was like a hot flash, camera popping off to light your dark insides. And observing, sharing someone's embarrassment - secondhand shame - also brought blood to the cheeks. Was it the same blood, he wondered, that gave you an erection or was it blood from a different section of the system? Burn always with a bright shame-like flame."
The final four feel like early pomo writing samples, more gimmicky than interesting; good thing they are much shorter than the first two.
DO NOT make this your first Gass foray.
January 26, 2018
When Gass is good in this collection, he's fantastic. In Camera and Soliloquy of a Chair are both imaginative and captivating. The other stories in this collection fell short of expectations, but that happened when I read In the Heart of the Heart of the Country too, so maybe I'm only a sometimes-Gass-fan. Who knows? The three star rating reflects the unevenness of the collection. If it were based on the brilliance of the first story it'd be 5 stars.
May 13, 2018
Very disappointing. This collection of 2 novellas and 4 short stories is dense, baffling and relatively pointless. I gave up on "Charity" about halfway through, and would have done the same on a couple of the short stories had I not arrived at their end before becoming overly frustrated.
If there is a high point in the collection, it might be "Soliloquy for a Chair;" in spite of a clever premise that garners a chuckle or two, it is still uneven and doesn't seem to know where it is going.
If there is a high point in the collection, it might be "Soliloquy for a Chair;" in spite of a clever premise that garners a chuckle or two, it is still uneven and doesn't seem to know where it is going.
September 24, 2021
Oh gosh, where has this book been all my life...well, since 2015 I should say.
Fabulous. This is a book to read carefully, no skimming allowed. Hmmm.
My favorite was In Camera, 77pp of pure attention getting ideas and emotions and slight weirdness. What is life w/o weirdness. As Rupert said, best think I've read in quite a while, although I've read some good books this year. Gass is all over the place too...every paragraph has something worth writing down.
~ Linda Campbell Franklin
Fabulous. This is a book to read carefully, no skimming allowed. Hmmm.
My favorite was In Camera, 77pp of pure attention getting ideas and emotions and slight weirdness. What is life w/o weirdness. As Rupert said, best think I've read in quite a while, although I've read some good books this year. Gass is all over the place too...every paragraph has something worth writing down.
~ Linda Campbell Franklin
November 19, 2024
stories that range from the best you’ll read all month to the kind your uncle will forward to you via email even now, when we don’t do that
the first novellas really good, in that way that makes you think new things, have new questions. it really drops after that though, which is fine. our boy gass is from my grandpas generation, he’s gonna like some things that to me seem ridiculous. it’s fine. you need some padding to publish a novella
the first novellas really good, in that way that makes you think new things, have new questions. it really drops after that though, which is fine. our boy gass is from my grandpas generation, he’s gonna like some things that to me seem ridiculous. it’s fine. you need some padding to publish a novella
May 7, 2017
I read only the novella "in Camera" from this collection by the nonagenarian professor. It is so dense and musical that I read it aloud. That has been a very satisfying experience. I will pick up this book another time and try its other offerings. Recommend.
August 2, 2017
Completely unreadable. Don't like his writing style at all. Couldn't get through the first short story.
December 30, 2019
Didn't realise I was signing up to read about a vaguely racist piano.
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