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Stories
“He told the truth about his time,” reads the epitaph on John O’Hara’s gravestone. “He wrote honestly and well.” O’Hara sought in his fiction to capture experience without pretension or literary affectation. A modernist like his contemporaries Hemingway and Fitzgerald, he drew on the plainspoken directness of the American vernacular to fashion a sharp-edged, urbane mode of storytelling distinctly his own—forthright, attentive to the smallest detail, unsentimental but powerfully sympathetic. Offering a fresh perspective on O’Hara’s brilliance as a short-story writer, editor Charles McGrath has chosen sixty stories in a selection that spans the entire remarkable career of one of twentieth-century America’s greatest social chroniclers.
The oldest son of a well-to-do Irish Catholic doctor, O’Hara was born and raised in Pottsville, the small city at the center of eastern Pennsylvania’s anthracite region. Renamed “Gibbsville” after his friend the writer Wolcott Gibbs, the city and surrounding countryside provided a rich storehouse of material for O’Hara’s fiction. Like William Faulkner and William Kennedy, he was keenly alert to the particularities of his home region and to the manifold ways that locale shapes human behavior. The Pennsylvania setting is the backdrop for one of his most enduring stories, “The Doctor’s Son”—a long tale with roots in O’Hara’s own childhood that stands, along with Katherine Anne Porter’s “Pale Horse, Pale Rider,” as one of the most powerful literary treatments of the devastating 1918 flu pandemic in America—as well as “Imagine Kissing Pete,” a novella that follows a tumultuous marriage through its surprising twists and turns, and the poignant story placed last in this volume, “Christmas Poem.”
The Gibbsville stories included here are joined by sketches, tales, and novellas that unfold in more glittering settings: Manhattan in the years following the repeal of Prohibition, and Hollywood, where O’Hara worked fitfully as a screenwriter. Often conveying the follies and illusions of worldly sophisticates never very far from their next drink, these stories offer a larger, more searching picture of American life, a Balzacian account of people from every station struggling with thwarted hopes and unresolved disappointments. O’Hara’s own sense of himself as a literary outsider, despite his success, enabled him to dissect the intricacies of class in America with singular insight. As Charles McGrath writes: “He knew, probably better than any other American writer, about social class in this country: about all the subtle markers and distinctions used to indicate rungs in the hierarchy, and about how rigid and how fragile the system is, a maze of envy, snobbery, and insecurity.”
This revelatory collection is accompanied, for the first time, by extensive notes clarifying O’Hara’s many allusions to music, movies, fashion, and topical events, as well as a concise chronology providing crucial biographical context for many of the stories.
The oldest son of a well-to-do Irish Catholic doctor, O’Hara was born and raised in Pottsville, the small city at the center of eastern Pennsylvania’s anthracite region. Renamed “Gibbsville” after his friend the writer Wolcott Gibbs, the city and surrounding countryside provided a rich storehouse of material for O’Hara’s fiction. Like William Faulkner and William Kennedy, he was keenly alert to the particularities of his home region and to the manifold ways that locale shapes human behavior. The Pennsylvania setting is the backdrop for one of his most enduring stories, “The Doctor’s Son”—a long tale with roots in O’Hara’s own childhood that stands, along with Katherine Anne Porter’s “Pale Horse, Pale Rider,” as one of the most powerful literary treatments of the devastating 1918 flu pandemic in America—as well as “Imagine Kissing Pete,” a novella that follows a tumultuous marriage through its surprising twists and turns, and the poignant story placed last in this volume, “Christmas Poem.”
The Gibbsville stories included here are joined by sketches, tales, and novellas that unfold in more glittering settings: Manhattan in the years following the repeal of Prohibition, and Hollywood, where O’Hara worked fitfully as a screenwriter. Often conveying the follies and illusions of worldly sophisticates never very far from their next drink, these stories offer a larger, more searching picture of American life, a Balzacian account of people from every station struggling with thwarted hopes and unresolved disappointments. O’Hara’s own sense of himself as a literary outsider, despite his success, enabled him to dissect the intricacies of class in America with singular insight. As Charles McGrath writes: “He knew, probably better than any other American writer, about social class in this country: about all the subtle markers and distinctions used to indicate rungs in the hierarchy, and about how rigid and how fragile the system is, a maze of envy, snobbery, and insecurity.”
This revelatory collection is accompanied, for the first time, by extensive notes clarifying O’Hara’s many allusions to music, movies, fashion, and topical events, as well as a concise chronology providing crucial biographical context for many of the stories.
880 pages, Hardcover
Published September 13, 2016
13 people are currently reading
96 people want to read
About the author
John O'Hara
226 books297 followersAmerican writer John Henry O'Hara contributed short stories to the New Yorker and wrote novels, such as
BUtterfield 8
(1935) and
Ten North Frederick
(1955).
Best-selling works of John Henry O'Hara include Appointment in Samarra . People particularly knew him for an uncannily accurate ear for dialogue. O'Hara, a keen observer of social status and class differences, wrote frequently about the socially ambitious.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_O&#...
Best-selling works of John Henry O'Hara include Appointment in Samarra . People particularly knew him for an uncannily accurate ear for dialogue. O'Hara, a keen observer of social status and class differences, wrote frequently about the socially ambitious.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_O&#...
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Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews
July 13, 2017
John O’Hara was an Irish Catholic and doctor’s son from Eastern Pennsylvania who believed—apparently for much of his life—that he would have been a happy man if he had just gone to Yale. That didn’t keep him from getting booted from three prep schools, one on the night before his graduation, where he was to have been valedictorian. He bounced around in various journalism jobs before he began writing fiction—always his true ambition—and invented what is known as the New Yorker story, or at least became one of its earliest practitioners. He made a big splash with his first novel, Appointment in Samarra, became notorious with his second, Butterfield 8, and eventually became known for mammoth bestsellers like From the Terrace and A Rage to Live.
O’Hara believed he was a serious writer, the legitimate heir to Fitzgerald, but his huge commercial success and sometimes raunchy subject matter seemed to work against him (toward the end of his life, a reviewer in the Times called him “the most authentically dirty mind in American fiction”). He actually believed he was a candidate for the Nobel Prize, and said he would buy a Rolls Royce when he won it; eventually he just bought the Rolls anyway. Toward the end of his life his work got seriously kinky, with stories about gay and lesbian sex, cross dressers, various other subjects that were shocking in serious fiction in the sixties. Because of his journalistic training, he had always worked at night; in April of 1970 he complained one evening of chest pains and went to bed early. He was found dead the next morning. He was 65 years old.
O’Hara was the dirty author of my youth, all we had in the early sixties before the Supreme Court decisions made Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Henry Miller available.[1] Our parents all had O’Hara’s bestselling novels around; I can still remember my friend Stan Hahn telling me there was a passage in From the Terrace—which I soon found—where a new bride says, “Can’t you put it in me?” and her husband says, “I can and will, right now.” We found that hilarious, and used to repeat those phrases to each other at various choice moments. From the Terrace was a treasure in that regard, along with various other volumes. Though I loved literature and began thinking of myself as a writer around the age of fifteen, and I too was the son of a Pennsylvania doctor[2], I didn’t take O’Hara seriously. I put him in a category with someone like Irving Wallace.
But in my freshman year at Duke, when I was studying for exams in the spring, I was sitting in what was called the Undergraduate Reading Room, and adjacent to it was a small annex with couches and shelves full of current literature. One of the books there was an O’Hara volume of stories, Waiting for Winter. Whatever I was studying was boring as hell to me, and I worked through it by deciding that, every half hour, I could go into that annex and read a short story. I had spent that year trying to learn to write stories myself, studying with Reynolds Price and Wallace Kaufmann, and I was amazed at the quality of O’Hara’s stories, how fascinating and effortless they were, how great the dialogue was, and how much O’Hara knew (including the skeletons in the closet) about people from my background. I instantly became an O’Hara fan, eventually read everything he’d written, including From the Terrace, which is far from just a dirty book. O’Hara was actually quite brave to get into the seamier side of his characters’ lives. He probably would have had a better reputation if he hadn’t.[3]
If O’Hara has a claim to greatness, it is probably in the short story form, and this volume—superbly culled by Charles McGrath, with excellent notes and an informative Chronology[4]—should open people’s eyes to how great he was. It is in effect a new work by John O’Hara. Those early New Yorker stories had an incredible range in types of characters, everything from small time grifters and barflies to society people; they were also incredibly compressed, told a lot of story in a short space. As O’Hara got older he relaxed into a longer story, not so tight and stark, but that seemed a natural development to his talent, and the longer stories offer a relaxed pleasure that the shorter ones do not (though many of them were published in the New Yorker as well). This volume contains 60 stories, which have a remarkable range, through types of people and narrative techniques, and they were chosen from the 374 stories that O’Hara published in his lifetime. He wrote on a typewriter in short nocturnal bursts, could finish a story in two hours, and rarely made changes, or allowed changes to be made (he had a difficult relationship with editors). “I don’t consult dictionaries,” he said at one time. “Dictionaries consult me.”
That arrogant remark calls to mind his reputation—I can’t remember where I read this phrase—as the master of the imagined slight. One time he was coming to New York to see his famous editor, Bennet Cerf, and Cerf was delighted because Faulkner was going to be in town at the same time and the three of them could get together. O’Hara wasn’t interested in sharing Cerf with another author, especially not one who had actually won the Nobel, so he told Cerf he wanted to meet with him alone. Cerf understood. At the end of the evening, O’Hara went up to bed, but after a while walked back out in the hallway and called down to his host. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t sneak out to see Faulkner,” he said.
On another occasion a woman told him how much she loved his most recent book of stories. She liked it even more than his last book. “What was wrong with the last book?” he said. When O’Hara published a novella called A Small Hotel, he called the composer Richard Rogers to let him know, because he’d taken the title from a Rogers tune. Rogers was pleased, but mentioned that the song title was actually There’s a Small Hotel. “When I want you to name a book for me I’ll let you know,” O’Hara said, and hung up.
There was something about this extreme sensitivity—often to slights that the other person didn’t intend—that was part of his gift. He knew what all the small thing meant, the make of the car, the small gold pig on the watch chain, the worthless titles that people took so seriously, and he knew some of it because he wanted those things himself. To say that he was the Irish Catholic son of a doctor describes the problem in a nutshell. His father was well off when he was alive and had great respect in the Eastern Pennsylvania towns where he worked, but he wasn’t a part of the WASP establishment, as—for instance—Hemingway had been, however much Hemingway rejected it. O’Hara never forgot that, and neither, apparently, did the people around him.
I have a special affection for The Doctor’s Son, which was the title story in an early volume of stories and paints a picture of an era long forgotten, when a doctor made house calls during a flu epidemic, when he sometimes got paid and sometimes didn’t, when he visited slums where people didn’t speak English, when his fifteen year old son—before the age of the driver’s license, apparently—drove him around to make those calls and saw some things he shouldn’t have. I actually love all the Jimmy Malloy stories, O’Hara’s autobiographical character, especially The Doctor’s Son and another long one in this volume, Imagine Kissing Pete, which was part of a trilogy of novellas called Sermons and Soda Water. That whole trilogy is marvelous. I’ve read it multiple times.
I think it is the autobiographical stories that hold the key to the real John O’Hara, including his famous sensitivity. Saying that O’Hara had the most authentically dirty mind in American fiction is funny—it’s a great phrase—but it shouldn’t be the way we remember him. O’Hara wrote about supposedly dirty things because they were a part of life, as much a part of life as the cars and clothes and stick pins that he catalogued so well. He was never judgmental about his characters’ sexual proclivities, but he thought they were part of the story, as they are. And while the Jimmy Malloy character notices all the things that are going on around him, he’s not a priapic hero like Henry Miller. He’s an incurable romantic, the guy all the girls tell their sad stories to, not knowing he would write them up later. He’s also the man who bursts into tears in We’re Friends Again when someone alludes to the death of his second wife (that novella is largely the story of how he met his third).
The chip he always had on his shoulder, I think, had to do with never being able to please his father, who is always presented as stern and difficult, who wanted his son to follow him into medicine, for whom nothing his son did was ever enough, and who finally sealed his son’s fate by dying without a will at the age of 57, so O’Hara couldn’t go to any college, much less Yale (his dying words to his son are said to have been, “Poor John”). There is a three page story early in this volume called It Must Have Been Spring where the doctor’s son is heading off to go riding, and he encounters his father along the way. I’ve never forgotten the way that story ends.
“I started to go. I went down the porch steps and we both said goodbye, and then, when I was a few steps away, he called to me to wait.
“‘You look fine,’ he said. ‘You really look like something. Here.’ He gave me a five-dollar bill. ‘Save it. Give it to your mother to put in the bank for you.’
‘‘Thank you,’ I said, and turned away, because suddenly I was crying. I went up the street to the stable with my head bent down, because I could let the tears roll right out of my eyes and down to the ground without putting my hand up to my face. I knew he was still looking.”
O’Hara didn’t want people to know how strongly he felt things. But that strong feeling is all through his best stories.
[1] My older sister had traveled to Europe and returned with a copy of Lady Chatterley; my brother and I discovered it among her books in the attic. My surreptitious forays up to the attic to read that novel singed my eyebrows.
[2] I believe that my father identified with O’Hara. He had wished to be a writer as a young man, but like O’Hara had an overbearing father who would only pay for college if he would agree to become a doctor. My father finally agreed to that, as O’Hara had not. The Doctor’s Son was always a part of his library.
[3] Late in his life he gave a speech to that effect, when he received an award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. “Some of the liberties that the younger writers enjoy today were paid for by me, in vilification of my work and abuse of my personal character.”
[4] The Chronologies at the end of the Library of America volumes are among my favorite parts of the books. I read them avidly before I begin the text.
www.davidguy.org
O’Hara believed he was a serious writer, the legitimate heir to Fitzgerald, but his huge commercial success and sometimes raunchy subject matter seemed to work against him (toward the end of his life, a reviewer in the Times called him “the most authentically dirty mind in American fiction”). He actually believed he was a candidate for the Nobel Prize, and said he would buy a Rolls Royce when he won it; eventually he just bought the Rolls anyway. Toward the end of his life his work got seriously kinky, with stories about gay and lesbian sex, cross dressers, various other subjects that were shocking in serious fiction in the sixties. Because of his journalistic training, he had always worked at night; in April of 1970 he complained one evening of chest pains and went to bed early. He was found dead the next morning. He was 65 years old.
O’Hara was the dirty author of my youth, all we had in the early sixties before the Supreme Court decisions made Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Henry Miller available.[1] Our parents all had O’Hara’s bestselling novels around; I can still remember my friend Stan Hahn telling me there was a passage in From the Terrace—which I soon found—where a new bride says, “Can’t you put it in me?” and her husband says, “I can and will, right now.” We found that hilarious, and used to repeat those phrases to each other at various choice moments. From the Terrace was a treasure in that regard, along with various other volumes. Though I loved literature and began thinking of myself as a writer around the age of fifteen, and I too was the son of a Pennsylvania doctor[2], I didn’t take O’Hara seriously. I put him in a category with someone like Irving Wallace.
But in my freshman year at Duke, when I was studying for exams in the spring, I was sitting in what was called the Undergraduate Reading Room, and adjacent to it was a small annex with couches and shelves full of current literature. One of the books there was an O’Hara volume of stories, Waiting for Winter. Whatever I was studying was boring as hell to me, and I worked through it by deciding that, every half hour, I could go into that annex and read a short story. I had spent that year trying to learn to write stories myself, studying with Reynolds Price and Wallace Kaufmann, and I was amazed at the quality of O’Hara’s stories, how fascinating and effortless they were, how great the dialogue was, and how much O’Hara knew (including the skeletons in the closet) about people from my background. I instantly became an O’Hara fan, eventually read everything he’d written, including From the Terrace, which is far from just a dirty book. O’Hara was actually quite brave to get into the seamier side of his characters’ lives. He probably would have had a better reputation if he hadn’t.[3]
If O’Hara has a claim to greatness, it is probably in the short story form, and this volume—superbly culled by Charles McGrath, with excellent notes and an informative Chronology[4]—should open people’s eyes to how great he was. It is in effect a new work by John O’Hara. Those early New Yorker stories had an incredible range in types of characters, everything from small time grifters and barflies to society people; they were also incredibly compressed, told a lot of story in a short space. As O’Hara got older he relaxed into a longer story, not so tight and stark, but that seemed a natural development to his talent, and the longer stories offer a relaxed pleasure that the shorter ones do not (though many of them were published in the New Yorker as well). This volume contains 60 stories, which have a remarkable range, through types of people and narrative techniques, and they were chosen from the 374 stories that O’Hara published in his lifetime. He wrote on a typewriter in short nocturnal bursts, could finish a story in two hours, and rarely made changes, or allowed changes to be made (he had a difficult relationship with editors). “I don’t consult dictionaries,” he said at one time. “Dictionaries consult me.”
That arrogant remark calls to mind his reputation—I can’t remember where I read this phrase—as the master of the imagined slight. One time he was coming to New York to see his famous editor, Bennet Cerf, and Cerf was delighted because Faulkner was going to be in town at the same time and the three of them could get together. O’Hara wasn’t interested in sharing Cerf with another author, especially not one who had actually won the Nobel, so he told Cerf he wanted to meet with him alone. Cerf understood. At the end of the evening, O’Hara went up to bed, but after a while walked back out in the hallway and called down to his host. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t sneak out to see Faulkner,” he said.
On another occasion a woman told him how much she loved his most recent book of stories. She liked it even more than his last book. “What was wrong with the last book?” he said. When O’Hara published a novella called A Small Hotel, he called the composer Richard Rogers to let him know, because he’d taken the title from a Rogers tune. Rogers was pleased, but mentioned that the song title was actually There’s a Small Hotel. “When I want you to name a book for me I’ll let you know,” O’Hara said, and hung up.
There was something about this extreme sensitivity—often to slights that the other person didn’t intend—that was part of his gift. He knew what all the small thing meant, the make of the car, the small gold pig on the watch chain, the worthless titles that people took so seriously, and he knew some of it because he wanted those things himself. To say that he was the Irish Catholic son of a doctor describes the problem in a nutshell. His father was well off when he was alive and had great respect in the Eastern Pennsylvania towns where he worked, but he wasn’t a part of the WASP establishment, as—for instance—Hemingway had been, however much Hemingway rejected it. O’Hara never forgot that, and neither, apparently, did the people around him.
I have a special affection for The Doctor’s Son, which was the title story in an early volume of stories and paints a picture of an era long forgotten, when a doctor made house calls during a flu epidemic, when he sometimes got paid and sometimes didn’t, when he visited slums where people didn’t speak English, when his fifteen year old son—before the age of the driver’s license, apparently—drove him around to make those calls and saw some things he shouldn’t have. I actually love all the Jimmy Malloy stories, O’Hara’s autobiographical character, especially The Doctor’s Son and another long one in this volume, Imagine Kissing Pete, which was part of a trilogy of novellas called Sermons and Soda Water. That whole trilogy is marvelous. I’ve read it multiple times.
I think it is the autobiographical stories that hold the key to the real John O’Hara, including his famous sensitivity. Saying that O’Hara had the most authentically dirty mind in American fiction is funny—it’s a great phrase—but it shouldn’t be the way we remember him. O’Hara wrote about supposedly dirty things because they were a part of life, as much a part of life as the cars and clothes and stick pins that he catalogued so well. He was never judgmental about his characters’ sexual proclivities, but he thought they were part of the story, as they are. And while the Jimmy Malloy character notices all the things that are going on around him, he’s not a priapic hero like Henry Miller. He’s an incurable romantic, the guy all the girls tell their sad stories to, not knowing he would write them up later. He’s also the man who bursts into tears in We’re Friends Again when someone alludes to the death of his second wife (that novella is largely the story of how he met his third).
The chip he always had on his shoulder, I think, had to do with never being able to please his father, who is always presented as stern and difficult, who wanted his son to follow him into medicine, for whom nothing his son did was ever enough, and who finally sealed his son’s fate by dying without a will at the age of 57, so O’Hara couldn’t go to any college, much less Yale (his dying words to his son are said to have been, “Poor John”). There is a three page story early in this volume called It Must Have Been Spring where the doctor’s son is heading off to go riding, and he encounters his father along the way. I’ve never forgotten the way that story ends.
“I started to go. I went down the porch steps and we both said goodbye, and then, when I was a few steps away, he called to me to wait.
“‘You look fine,’ he said. ‘You really look like something. Here.’ He gave me a five-dollar bill. ‘Save it. Give it to your mother to put in the bank for you.’
‘‘Thank you,’ I said, and turned away, because suddenly I was crying. I went up the street to the stable with my head bent down, because I could let the tears roll right out of my eyes and down to the ground without putting my hand up to my face. I knew he was still looking.”
O’Hara didn’t want people to know how strongly he felt things. But that strong feeling is all through his best stories.
[1] My older sister had traveled to Europe and returned with a copy of Lady Chatterley; my brother and I discovered it among her books in the attic. My surreptitious forays up to the attic to read that novel singed my eyebrows.
[2] I believe that my father identified with O’Hara. He had wished to be a writer as a young man, but like O’Hara had an overbearing father who would only pay for college if he would agree to become a doctor. My father finally agreed to that, as O’Hara had not. The Doctor’s Son was always a part of his library.
[3] Late in his life he gave a speech to that effect, when he received an award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. “Some of the liberties that the younger writers enjoy today were paid for by me, in vilification of my work and abuse of my personal character.”
[4] The Chronologies at the end of the Library of America volumes are among my favorite parts of the books. I read them avidly before I begin the text.
www.davidguy.org
December 31, 2017
I must thank Dan Leo for leading me directly into the path of John O'Hara. I say it that way because Dan didn't exactly introduce me to O'Hara (I've known of him for many years) but his admiration for O'Hara helped me commit to reading his work.
Like some other writers who also published novels, it's been said that O'Hara's real strength is in his short stories. Along with some stage and screen work, O'Hara wrote 17 novels (and I'll have to take on one of them in the near future) but he also published 13 short story collections - that could be several hundred stories right there. (~an amount that's kind of exhausting to contemplate.)
For this wildly impressive Library of America release, NYT editor Charles McGrath assembled 60 stories, pulling from various collections and (I believe) putting some in book form for the first time. Though this collection climbs to 800 pages, I found the read completely effortless; this is some of the smoothest, breeziest writing I have ever come across. Friendly, inviting, intimate prose.
In the penultimate tale, O'Hara writes: "In those days, on that job, I was fascinated by many things, but most of all by the subtleties and complexities of the relations among my superiors...". That line sums up O'Hara's approach in every story in this volume. He was passionately interested in what makes people tick - especially emotionally, as they grapple with what it really means to be human.
It would be impossible to pick a favorite story in this big bunch. Most of them are on the short side (from 5 to 10 pages) but, along the way, we also get more than a handful of stories that run to considerable (almost novella) length. Among the latter is one that could easily be a contender for my favorite: 'Imagine Kissing Pete'. It follows a marriage that begins as nothing more than a haphazard rebound romance, goes on to be fraught with difficulty but - oddly enough - leads to what might be thought of as a happy ending.
There's a lot of sex in this book. I don't mean graphic depictions of carnal lust but surprising thumbs-to-the-nose re: sexual attitudes and conventions during times of repressed sexuality. As well, as the volume continues, we begin to see a steady flow of either talk about gay sex or characters who are gay, lesbian or bisexual. A delicate seasoning throughout (since heterosexuals dominate here) but very present nevertheless.
O'Hara's talent for detail should not go unmentioned; his writing overflows with visual power. But he sure as hell has a way with dialogue. I simply adore how his characters talk - they are often hilarious, and very often wise.
All told, this is one crackerjack collection - a treat from start to finish. So, thanks again, Dan - for putting me on friendly terms with a new favorite author!
Like some other writers who also published novels, it's been said that O'Hara's real strength is in his short stories. Along with some stage and screen work, O'Hara wrote 17 novels (and I'll have to take on one of them in the near future) but he also published 13 short story collections - that could be several hundred stories right there. (~an amount that's kind of exhausting to contemplate.)
For this wildly impressive Library of America release, NYT editor Charles McGrath assembled 60 stories, pulling from various collections and (I believe) putting some in book form for the first time. Though this collection climbs to 800 pages, I found the read completely effortless; this is some of the smoothest, breeziest writing I have ever come across. Friendly, inviting, intimate prose.
In the penultimate tale, O'Hara writes: "In those days, on that job, I was fascinated by many things, but most of all by the subtleties and complexities of the relations among my superiors...". That line sums up O'Hara's approach in every story in this volume. He was passionately interested in what makes people tick - especially emotionally, as they grapple with what it really means to be human.
It would be impossible to pick a favorite story in this big bunch. Most of them are on the short side (from 5 to 10 pages) but, along the way, we also get more than a handful of stories that run to considerable (almost novella) length. Among the latter is one that could easily be a contender for my favorite: 'Imagine Kissing Pete'. It follows a marriage that begins as nothing more than a haphazard rebound romance, goes on to be fraught with difficulty but - oddly enough - leads to what might be thought of as a happy ending.
There's a lot of sex in this book. I don't mean graphic depictions of carnal lust but surprising thumbs-to-the-nose re: sexual attitudes and conventions during times of repressed sexuality. As well, as the volume continues, we begin to see a steady flow of either talk about gay sex or characters who are gay, lesbian or bisexual. A delicate seasoning throughout (since heterosexuals dominate here) but very present nevertheless.
O'Hara's talent for detail should not go unmentioned; his writing overflows with visual power. But he sure as hell has a way with dialogue. I simply adore how his characters talk - they are often hilarious, and very often wise.
All told, this is one crackerjack collection - a treat from start to finish. So, thanks again, Dan - for putting me on friendly terms with a new favorite author!
August 19, 2018
I have not finished this collection yet. The stories I have are good, perhaps a bit dated, but I don’t think an author should be punished for writing about the time he is in. I am choosing to begin this review so that I can add to it as I read these stories and not try to remember that all much later.
As much as I like a hard, physical copy of a book, there is a real benefit to the highlight feature on the Kindle, for example.
Thus far the stories are a bit nondescript, there is nothing that has thus far exhibited a “ WOW “ factor but that does not mean they are not interesting.
Some of the early stories are really just undeveloped pictures of relationships between young urban couples in the twenties and thirties. Not so much stories so much as what I would call “ look ins.”
“ It Must Have Been Spring “ visits a young boy who revels in the obvious pride his Father shows in his accomplishment, the boy walks away with a tear in his eye that he does not wipe for he does not want his Father to see.
“ Over the River and Thru the Wood “ is the first real keeper. In it a young woman brings home some friends from her girls school for a weekend visit. Her Grandfather, a debonair gentleman, engages with the girls and is a bit taken with the most articulate, the prettiest, the standout. It is not portrayed as lecherous more like an enchantment at the proximity to youth and beauty. His world unravels when in high spirits he knocks on her door to bring her a cup of tea and hearing “ come in “ instead of the voiced “ just a minute “ he sees the young girl all but nude. “ Mr Winfield knew this was the end of any worthwhile life he has left. “ She spoke to him “ Get out of here, you dirty old man.”
“ The Doctor’s Son “ is a much better, much more developed story. In it our protagonist is just that, a local Doctor’s son. His Father, after working himself flat on his back in a flu epidemic is sent a young man fresh out of medical school to take on his patients until her recovers. It is our hero’s job to move him around, introduce him, smooth his way. Along the way we see the young woman he pines for, and we witness him witnessing the young Doctor’s attentions to a married woman.
“Price’s Always Open “ addresses the constant social disturbance that arises between the locals and summer people. A diner on the beach has become a hotbed of activity for all the summer kids from the country club and shore set. The owner is happy for the business and even likes most of the kids. That all ends one evening when a fight over a girl ends up with a local townie about to get beat up in his restaurant. When he intervenes and strikes down one of the rich young men it will be the end of his most profitable summer.
“ The Cold House “ is very short. A woman has her driver take her to what appears to be her family’s summer house. The keepers are not expecting them, it is early in the season. When she discovers that her sons room has had things moved she rebukes the staff and we are led to believe that the cause of her erratic behavior is the recent death of this son. We do not know why, could have been war, or one of the accidents of youth, but after staring at his room with his items still alive as he should be she leaves quickly and has her driver take her back to town even as lunch is being prepared for her.
Three short stories, again too short, but with worthy ideas. “ Trouble in 49 “ centers around the meeting of a couple from long ago. Now married with two children each ( to others ) they spend an afternoon reminiscing and thinking of what might have been. “ “Too Young “ is the second story with a young man infatuated with a woman a couple of years older than he, at a time when those years are magnified greatly. And “ Bread Alone “ features a Negro car washer, as he is described, who earns a small windfall in a bet and keeps the money for himself instead of adding to his pay that he gives to his wife each week. He takes his son to the Yankees game but, feeling guilty, can’t really enjoy himself. His mood changes when at the end of the game and after the crowd has thinned out his son reveals a could ball he had gathered discreetly when a bunch of white fans were clamoring for it.
“ Graven Image “ is a stellar story. It appears to be a time of downturn, The Depression perhaps. An Undersecretary in Govt is having lunch with an old college acquaintance. He is, as he says, hat in hand. After he is told that it is quite likely that he could be found employment he relaxes a bit and thanks his benefactor for not holding a college incident of prejudice against him. He realizes immediately however in looking at his “friend “ his Jewish acquaintance blackballed from the Porcellian Club that by bringing this up in this fashion that he will be leaving lunch with his hat still empty.
Two stories back to back deal with Middle Aged men feeling their own mortality as they admire young women. In “The Pretty Daughter “ we see a military man in town on business decide to visit an old flame and end up admiring and then offending her grown step daughter. When the young woman leaves him to wait by himself he feels a million years old. And in “ Common Sense Should Tell You “ a famous player from Hollywood in town in Chicago is gladhanded by the local dance hall owner, a long time stop when he is in town. He, however, is remembering a recent visit with his Doctor who told him only abstentions from wine, women, and song will lengthen his life. After a couple of drinks and inviting a dancer to his table he feels doomed.
In “ Ellie “ a New York man entertains friends of his sisters from Texas. The evening goes well, he even ponders setting up a later licentious meeting with Ellie the next day. It all ends badly however when the Southerners almost cause a racial incident at a Harlem club.
More unrequited love revolving around age difference. At a party an older married man tells a young woman that were he decades younger he would be courting her, that he would give up a good year of his life for a kiss. But, as that was impossible, he urges her to leave the party as fast as she can. She, like most young people, does not want advice, certainly not from an old man she does not know. In “ Time To Go “ a devoted Father is throwing a wedding for his beloved daughter. Since his wife died his life had revolves around her. Sharing a drink with an older family friend he acknowledges that man’s feelings as well in watching the young woman depart. Both have lost a light in their lives.
This is where I am up to thus far. This review will continue.
New additions to this review :
Encounter : 1943 is a brief look at Harry and Mildred two former lovers who run into each other in the city. Clearly years have passed and hard feelings are in place. They agree to have a drink but during the whole encounter Mildred is harsh, clearly there was a bad end. By the end, however, she leaves on more amicable terms. Harry, however, is in bad shape, he needs more drink than his bar tab can hold.
The Heart of Lee W Lee is an interesting look at a man of some consequence in New York of the time. Not much of his known of his background but he is a physically imposing man who prides himself on being a great eater. The story is narrated by a man named Milton Black and is written in the same way that Milton talks, dialect and spelling included. The major play of the story is when Lee W Lee orders Milton to stroll with him one evening ( Milton had never spoke to,him before ) and, after quizzing him about himself, confronts him for always being “ where he is, looking at him. “ When Milton assures him of no ill will they move to the Copa Club where Mr. Lee brings a young high school prom couple hoping to get in and installs them ringside. The rest of the evening is spent between the two men who watch the young couple. Mr Lee, enamored of the girls “ jugs “ wonders if the young man is getting those benefits while Milton counters maybe they are a young couple that wants to wait. Finally Lee acknowledges this possibility, but still he thinks of those jugs.
In “ The War “ a young man rises in the middle of the night to raid the icebox. We never know where he is but it must be some common room. An older man confronts him and his right to be there. Eventually we learn the older man knew the young man’s Uncle who had recently died in an insane asylum. Undercurrents of espionage and spy craft underneath this story.
In “ The Time Element “we again see a meeting between two old lovers. Rob sees his former lover get out of an airport taxi and quickly avoids her. After fortifying himself with several drinks at a bar he calls the hotel where she had always stayed before and is connected to her room. We find out it’s been nine years and she is shocked to hear from him. After much prodding, almost begging, she agrees to meet him in the downstairs lounge. We learn that the man had really done a number on her years ago. Significantly older than her ( implied not stated ) he had feigned being single in their relationship. When she discovered his marriage, three kids, and unwillingness to leave them she had contemplated suicide. Now, years later, married with kids of her own she is happy. He tells her he is not and that meeting her this day, evens the score as he now wants to contemplate suicide. He says this jokingly but we see that he has never found the happiness since he lost her. After departing he returns to the bar to drink some more.
Requiescat : In a typical town on a typical morning three different vehicles sidle up and park across the road from the home of one of the leading citizens of the town. Leading, not by wealth alone, but in respect. A former politician even. In the three cars are three tradesmen in the town. They did not arrange or schedule this meeting. They do not even speak of why they all three are there. When the hearse approaches they all can speak it out loud. There has been a death, not a natural death, not an accident but a death nonetheless which has shaken these men to their very core.
Imagine Kissing Pete : In a much longer story, a fully developed story, one could envision a screenplay coming from it we meet Pete McCrea and Bobbie Hammersmith on their wedding day. Both from the in crowd in their hometown their friends are still surprised by this wedding. Bobbi, a very popular girl had dated many of the boys at one time or another but not Pete, in fact she had an engagement broken off before Pete. In most eyes this a settle on her part while for Pete, a nice enough fellow most concede, for Pete this is a reach. Our narrator is one of the youthful friends, now living in New York, serving as an usher at the wedding. He is, in fact, surprised at this, Pete and he are hardly friends now and had never been close. At the wedding he finds out that Bobbie had been seeking communication with her ex, he who broke it off, to seek a reprieve but, when it did not come, she moved forward.
Once married Pete changes. The dreams of repressed sexuality forgotten he becomes animalistic. Hitting on women, rudeness at parties, a hand covertly in the wrong place, Pete is not the boy they remembered.
As the story progresses our narrator visits the couple when he returns to town. Pete, sensing the closeness of he and Bobbie, is at times hostile, other times friendly but Pete’s life is hard. Success never comes. Over the years he always has another woman, Bobbi is that girl we all know, the beauty who hooked her wagon to the wrong star, the beauty fades, the children come, hope sets soon in that generation.
Told before the time of easy divorce Pete and Bobbi make it. They flitter in and out of closeness or, at least, a mutual peace and acceptance of each other. By the time the story ends they are joined together perhaps stronger than in decades in pride of their son and daughter and their resolve to be loyal to their marriage. A very strong story.
One can see traces of John Updike’s Couples in this story , almost a straight line.
In “ Call Me, Call Me, “ we follow an elderly stage actress as she goes to see her agent. He had called her and asked her to come in. He has an offer for her to take a small part, small but still with her well regarded name as a feature player. She, filled with pride, does not, cannot, take the role. The lines limited to just one act, the limited compensation ( though still much more than has been offered in a long time ) she is concerned her reputation will suffer. The agent, obviously a man who cares for this woman, does not tell her the truth of the situation, that this role is a boon that might not come again.
Update : August 10, 18. Now I am coming upon some stories that truly does make one sit up and take notice. Longer, more well drawn character studies such as :
Mrs. Stratton of Oak Knoll : Georgia and Evan Reese, he a fairly successful painter have lived in this small town development for about a decade. One night, late, after eleven, a knock sounds on the door. It is a limo driver looking for the Stratton place. His passenger is loud, obviously alcohol impaired, and Mr Reese directs the driver across the way. Later they learn from friends that their house, in fact the whole neighborhood is born in the slowly sold off estate of the Stratton’s. The widow, an elderly lady the have never met more than with a passing nod is quiet to the point of incommunicado. Their friends tell them her story, the family story, the children, both troubled, it is the typical small town holding long secrets that suddenly they now know. Mr Reese decides he would like to meet this bedraggled son, rarely home to visit, a d so sets up the next morning outside to paint a winterscape. Sure enough this leads to the forty year old Stratton male to appear and the man, desperate for friendship of any kind, soon becomes a semi fixture at the Reese’s house. When an invitation comes to come have tea with his Mother from the Stratton heir Reese learns even more about the family secrets. Financial ones, like the secretly fake paintings in the hall, and personal ones, such as when Mrs. Stratton confides in him about her sons peculiar tendencies. Later when she has him over for a private audience the old woman asks him to speak frankly of her son. What he tells her she does not want to hear, she denies its truth, but finally must co e t9 the realization. Her son will soon die from the love of alcohol and she will let him stay there with her, even though she, and Reese, agree, it is the intensity of his love for his mother that has led to his problems.
Note: Clearly this story was written at a time when it was generally accepted thought that relationships with ones Mother could often lead to an “ abnormal “ sexuality of some kind. While this has been voided as acceptable thought and theory this is still an interesting character study. It is just as relatable as a story about how a parent, despite her self protecting wish to, often cannot forbear to completely give up on a painful child.
You Can Always Tell Newark : This is an even better story whose relationships kind of fold in on each other. Mr. Williams is at a tennis match with a friend of his. Some young men, two of the best players in the state are playing. He observes a young woman further down on the bleachers who appears uncomfortable, pregnant she cannot recliner and is clearly feeling awkward. One of the tennis players is making statements to her as he plays, never looking directly to her, but keeping up a running commentary just the same. After the match as they make their way to the bar he is filled in on the woman, she is married, ( not to the tennis player ) wealthy, a d it seems, bored. Her young husband, diligent in all things, not raised from wealth, is working and studying most of each day toward becoming a Doctor.
At the bar Williams is introduced to the young woman and realizes he knew the for.s Mother twenty years ago. In fact, as he recalls later with his companion, there is the more than slight chance, knowing what he knows about his relationship with her Mother that he is, in fact, her Father. And he had never been told, the girls Mother had married a rich man and if any e knew different it was most likely on'y her.
That evening on the train back north the young tennis player, her friend sits with him. He recognized him from the match and as they speak asks to confide in him and seek his guidance. He advises that he is in love wit( a young woman, she, however is married., and pregnant. Not knowing that Williams had met the young pregnant woman and will know who he is speaking of he goes on surprisingly to say that , despite her wanting to leave her husband for him, he is hesitating. He loves her, she is the one in his eyes, but he feels that her husband will come out of the deal much abused, and seems righteous that this should not happen. He, the husband, after all is doing a good thing, studying, working hard, and it is the girl’s family money that is allowing him to do so. No, he just does not think letting her divorce him is right. When asked if the child could be his, the young man says yes it certainly could, but again, states that the child would be better off with the Father he will have currently. In the end the young man makes a mature decision to break it off and the older man, now thinking of the girl as his daughter, does so in his mind too.
In the Silence is another strong story. In it a man sitting at his club one day reads an obituary showing that an elderly man from a near town has passed. He remembers the man, goes on to explain to the gentleman he is sitting with that he man was a lifelong member of that very club. This, even though the other man had never seen him at the club. A story is related about when our narrator, many years ago as a young man, had been on a story in the back country and his car broke down. Spending a night with this gentleman it became apparent that he and his wife had located themselves in isolation due to a war injury the man had suffered. A kind man, his brain had been scrambled a bit, and, in fact his wife advised, he soon would be having a surgery to hope to make his life more tenable. Remembering the distinguished man, and the lonely wife, now, years later, he hopes that that surgery had lessened the burden on both of them.
Winter Dance is a lesser, but still thoughtful story. A young boy, 15 or 16 names Ted sees a young woman go into a shop downtown. Nat, is beautiful and he is smitten. She is also two years older, which, at that age, can seem a lifetime. His friend kids him to go in and “ bump “ in to her but he cannot be persuaded to risk embarrassing himself in her eyes. That night at the dance he does dance with her and is apparent that the feelings between the two, if not totally reciprocated, are at least mutually warm. Still, she admonishes him that it could never work, assures him she is not annoyed with him, and, after their dance, asks him to walk her over to her older friends table and leave her there.
Can that above really be 20 K words. Seems hard to believe. The continuation of this review shall have to be in my own word document. If anyone, for some strange reason wants to read more O’Hara blather just ask
As much as I like a hard, physical copy of a book, there is a real benefit to the highlight feature on the Kindle, for example.
Thus far the stories are a bit nondescript, there is nothing that has thus far exhibited a “ WOW “ factor but that does not mean they are not interesting.
Some of the early stories are really just undeveloped pictures of relationships between young urban couples in the twenties and thirties. Not so much stories so much as what I would call “ look ins.”
“ It Must Have Been Spring “ visits a young boy who revels in the obvious pride his Father shows in his accomplishment, the boy walks away with a tear in his eye that he does not wipe for he does not want his Father to see.
“ Over the River and Thru the Wood “ is the first real keeper. In it a young woman brings home some friends from her girls school for a weekend visit. Her Grandfather, a debonair gentleman, engages with the girls and is a bit taken with the most articulate, the prettiest, the standout. It is not portrayed as lecherous more like an enchantment at the proximity to youth and beauty. His world unravels when in high spirits he knocks on her door to bring her a cup of tea and hearing “ come in “ instead of the voiced “ just a minute “ he sees the young girl all but nude. “ Mr Winfield knew this was the end of any worthwhile life he has left. “ She spoke to him “ Get out of here, you dirty old man.”
“ The Doctor’s Son “ is a much better, much more developed story. In it our protagonist is just that, a local Doctor’s son. His Father, after working himself flat on his back in a flu epidemic is sent a young man fresh out of medical school to take on his patients until her recovers. It is our hero’s job to move him around, introduce him, smooth his way. Along the way we see the young woman he pines for, and we witness him witnessing the young Doctor’s attentions to a married woman.
“Price’s Always Open “ addresses the constant social disturbance that arises between the locals and summer people. A diner on the beach has become a hotbed of activity for all the summer kids from the country club and shore set. The owner is happy for the business and even likes most of the kids. That all ends one evening when a fight over a girl ends up with a local townie about to get beat up in his restaurant. When he intervenes and strikes down one of the rich young men it will be the end of his most profitable summer.
“ The Cold House “ is very short. A woman has her driver take her to what appears to be her family’s summer house. The keepers are not expecting them, it is early in the season. When she discovers that her sons room has had things moved she rebukes the staff and we are led to believe that the cause of her erratic behavior is the recent death of this son. We do not know why, could have been war, or one of the accidents of youth, but after staring at his room with his items still alive as he should be she leaves quickly and has her driver take her back to town even as lunch is being prepared for her.
Three short stories, again too short, but with worthy ideas. “ Trouble in 49 “ centers around the meeting of a couple from long ago. Now married with two children each ( to others ) they spend an afternoon reminiscing and thinking of what might have been. “ “Too Young “ is the second story with a young man infatuated with a woman a couple of years older than he, at a time when those years are magnified greatly. And “ Bread Alone “ features a Negro car washer, as he is described, who earns a small windfall in a bet and keeps the money for himself instead of adding to his pay that he gives to his wife each week. He takes his son to the Yankees game but, feeling guilty, can’t really enjoy himself. His mood changes when at the end of the game and after the crowd has thinned out his son reveals a could ball he had gathered discreetly when a bunch of white fans were clamoring for it.
“ Graven Image “ is a stellar story. It appears to be a time of downturn, The Depression perhaps. An Undersecretary in Govt is having lunch with an old college acquaintance. He is, as he says, hat in hand. After he is told that it is quite likely that he could be found employment he relaxes a bit and thanks his benefactor for not holding a college incident of prejudice against him. He realizes immediately however in looking at his “friend “ his Jewish acquaintance blackballed from the Porcellian Club that by bringing this up in this fashion that he will be leaving lunch with his hat still empty.
Two stories back to back deal with Middle Aged men feeling their own mortality as they admire young women. In “The Pretty Daughter “ we see a military man in town on business decide to visit an old flame and end up admiring and then offending her grown step daughter. When the young woman leaves him to wait by himself he feels a million years old. And in “ Common Sense Should Tell You “ a famous player from Hollywood in town in Chicago is gladhanded by the local dance hall owner, a long time stop when he is in town. He, however, is remembering a recent visit with his Doctor who told him only abstentions from wine, women, and song will lengthen his life. After a couple of drinks and inviting a dancer to his table he feels doomed.
In “ Ellie “ a New York man entertains friends of his sisters from Texas. The evening goes well, he even ponders setting up a later licentious meeting with Ellie the next day. It all ends badly however when the Southerners almost cause a racial incident at a Harlem club.
More unrequited love revolving around age difference. At a party an older married man tells a young woman that were he decades younger he would be courting her, that he would give up a good year of his life for a kiss. But, as that was impossible, he urges her to leave the party as fast as she can. She, like most young people, does not want advice, certainly not from an old man she does not know. In “ Time To Go “ a devoted Father is throwing a wedding for his beloved daughter. Since his wife died his life had revolves around her. Sharing a drink with an older family friend he acknowledges that man’s feelings as well in watching the young woman depart. Both have lost a light in their lives.
This is where I am up to thus far. This review will continue.
New additions to this review :
Encounter : 1943 is a brief look at Harry and Mildred two former lovers who run into each other in the city. Clearly years have passed and hard feelings are in place. They agree to have a drink but during the whole encounter Mildred is harsh, clearly there was a bad end. By the end, however, she leaves on more amicable terms. Harry, however, is in bad shape, he needs more drink than his bar tab can hold.
The Heart of Lee W Lee is an interesting look at a man of some consequence in New York of the time. Not much of his known of his background but he is a physically imposing man who prides himself on being a great eater. The story is narrated by a man named Milton Black and is written in the same way that Milton talks, dialect and spelling included. The major play of the story is when Lee W Lee orders Milton to stroll with him one evening ( Milton had never spoke to,him before ) and, after quizzing him about himself, confronts him for always being “ where he is, looking at him. “ When Milton assures him of no ill will they move to the Copa Club where Mr. Lee brings a young high school prom couple hoping to get in and installs them ringside. The rest of the evening is spent between the two men who watch the young couple. Mr Lee, enamored of the girls “ jugs “ wonders if the young man is getting those benefits while Milton counters maybe they are a young couple that wants to wait. Finally Lee acknowledges this possibility, but still he thinks of those jugs.
In “ The War “ a young man rises in the middle of the night to raid the icebox. We never know where he is but it must be some common room. An older man confronts him and his right to be there. Eventually we learn the older man knew the young man’s Uncle who had recently died in an insane asylum. Undercurrents of espionage and spy craft underneath this story.
In “ The Time Element “we again see a meeting between two old lovers. Rob sees his former lover get out of an airport taxi and quickly avoids her. After fortifying himself with several drinks at a bar he calls the hotel where she had always stayed before and is connected to her room. We find out it’s been nine years and she is shocked to hear from him. After much prodding, almost begging, she agrees to meet him in the downstairs lounge. We learn that the man had really done a number on her years ago. Significantly older than her ( implied not stated ) he had feigned being single in their relationship. When she discovered his marriage, three kids, and unwillingness to leave them she had contemplated suicide. Now, years later, married with kids of her own she is happy. He tells her he is not and that meeting her this day, evens the score as he now wants to contemplate suicide. He says this jokingly but we see that he has never found the happiness since he lost her. After departing he returns to the bar to drink some more.
Requiescat : In a typical town on a typical morning three different vehicles sidle up and park across the road from the home of one of the leading citizens of the town. Leading, not by wealth alone, but in respect. A former politician even. In the three cars are three tradesmen in the town. They did not arrange or schedule this meeting. They do not even speak of why they all three are there. When the hearse approaches they all can speak it out loud. There has been a death, not a natural death, not an accident but a death nonetheless which has shaken these men to their very core.
Imagine Kissing Pete : In a much longer story, a fully developed story, one could envision a screenplay coming from it we meet Pete McCrea and Bobbie Hammersmith on their wedding day. Both from the in crowd in their hometown their friends are still surprised by this wedding. Bobbi, a very popular girl had dated many of the boys at one time or another but not Pete, in fact she had an engagement broken off before Pete. In most eyes this a settle on her part while for Pete, a nice enough fellow most concede, for Pete this is a reach. Our narrator is one of the youthful friends, now living in New York, serving as an usher at the wedding. He is, in fact, surprised at this, Pete and he are hardly friends now and had never been close. At the wedding he finds out that Bobbie had been seeking communication with her ex, he who broke it off, to seek a reprieve but, when it did not come, she moved forward.
Once married Pete changes. The dreams of repressed sexuality forgotten he becomes animalistic. Hitting on women, rudeness at parties, a hand covertly in the wrong place, Pete is not the boy they remembered.
As the story progresses our narrator visits the couple when he returns to town. Pete, sensing the closeness of he and Bobbie, is at times hostile, other times friendly but Pete’s life is hard. Success never comes. Over the years he always has another woman, Bobbi is that girl we all know, the beauty who hooked her wagon to the wrong star, the beauty fades, the children come, hope sets soon in that generation.
Told before the time of easy divorce Pete and Bobbi make it. They flitter in and out of closeness or, at least, a mutual peace and acceptance of each other. By the time the story ends they are joined together perhaps stronger than in decades in pride of their son and daughter and their resolve to be loyal to their marriage. A very strong story.
One can see traces of John Updike’s Couples in this story , almost a straight line.
In “ Call Me, Call Me, “ we follow an elderly stage actress as she goes to see her agent. He had called her and asked her to come in. He has an offer for her to take a small part, small but still with her well regarded name as a feature player. She, filled with pride, does not, cannot, take the role. The lines limited to just one act, the limited compensation ( though still much more than has been offered in a long time ) she is concerned her reputation will suffer. The agent, obviously a man who cares for this woman, does not tell her the truth of the situation, that this role is a boon that might not come again.
Update : August 10, 18. Now I am coming upon some stories that truly does make one sit up and take notice. Longer, more well drawn character studies such as :
Mrs. Stratton of Oak Knoll : Georgia and Evan Reese, he a fairly successful painter have lived in this small town development for about a decade. One night, late, after eleven, a knock sounds on the door. It is a limo driver looking for the Stratton place. His passenger is loud, obviously alcohol impaired, and Mr Reese directs the driver across the way. Later they learn from friends that their house, in fact the whole neighborhood is born in the slowly sold off estate of the Stratton’s. The widow, an elderly lady the have never met more than with a passing nod is quiet to the point of incommunicado. Their friends tell them her story, the family story, the children, both troubled, it is the typical small town holding long secrets that suddenly they now know. Mr Reese decides he would like to meet this bedraggled son, rarely home to visit, a d so sets up the next morning outside to paint a winterscape. Sure enough this leads to the forty year old Stratton male to appear and the man, desperate for friendship of any kind, soon becomes a semi fixture at the Reese’s house. When an invitation comes to come have tea with his Mother from the Stratton heir Reese learns even more about the family secrets. Financial ones, like the secretly fake paintings in the hall, and personal ones, such as when Mrs. Stratton confides in him about her sons peculiar tendencies. Later when she has him over for a private audience the old woman asks him to speak frankly of her son. What he tells her she does not want to hear, she denies its truth, but finally must co e t9 the realization. Her son will soon die from the love of alcohol and she will let him stay there with her, even though she, and Reese, agree, it is the intensity of his love for his mother that has led to his problems.
Note: Clearly this story was written at a time when it was generally accepted thought that relationships with ones Mother could often lead to an “ abnormal “ sexuality of some kind. While this has been voided as acceptable thought and theory this is still an interesting character study. It is just as relatable as a story about how a parent, despite her self protecting wish to, often cannot forbear to completely give up on a painful child.
You Can Always Tell Newark : This is an even better story whose relationships kind of fold in on each other. Mr. Williams is at a tennis match with a friend of his. Some young men, two of the best players in the state are playing. He observes a young woman further down on the bleachers who appears uncomfortable, pregnant she cannot recliner and is clearly feeling awkward. One of the tennis players is making statements to her as he plays, never looking directly to her, but keeping up a running commentary just the same. After the match as they make their way to the bar he is filled in on the woman, she is married, ( not to the tennis player ) wealthy, a d it seems, bored. Her young husband, diligent in all things, not raised from wealth, is working and studying most of each day toward becoming a Doctor.
At the bar Williams is introduced to the young woman and realizes he knew the for.s Mother twenty years ago. In fact, as he recalls later with his companion, there is the more than slight chance, knowing what he knows about his relationship with her Mother that he is, in fact, her Father. And he had never been told, the girls Mother had married a rich man and if any e knew different it was most likely on'y her.
That evening on the train back north the young tennis player, her friend sits with him. He recognized him from the match and as they speak asks to confide in him and seek his guidance. He advises that he is in love wit( a young woman, she, however is married., and pregnant. Not knowing that Williams had met the young pregnant woman and will know who he is speaking of he goes on surprisingly to say that , despite her wanting to leave her husband for him, he is hesitating. He loves her, she is the one in his eyes, but he feels that her husband will come out of the deal much abused, and seems righteous that this should not happen. He, the husband, after all is doing a good thing, studying, working hard, and it is the girl’s family money that is allowing him to do so. No, he just does not think letting her divorce him is right. When asked if the child could be his, the young man says yes it certainly could, but again, states that the child would be better off with the Father he will have currently. In the end the young man makes a mature decision to break it off and the older man, now thinking of the girl as his daughter, does so in his mind too.
In the Silence is another strong story. In it a man sitting at his club one day reads an obituary showing that an elderly man from a near town has passed. He remembers the man, goes on to explain to the gentleman he is sitting with that he man was a lifelong member of that very club. This, even though the other man had never seen him at the club. A story is related about when our narrator, many years ago as a young man, had been on a story in the back country and his car broke down. Spending a night with this gentleman it became apparent that he and his wife had located themselves in isolation due to a war injury the man had suffered. A kind man, his brain had been scrambled a bit, and, in fact his wife advised, he soon would be having a surgery to hope to make his life more tenable. Remembering the distinguished man, and the lonely wife, now, years later, he hopes that that surgery had lessened the burden on both of them.
Winter Dance is a lesser, but still thoughtful story. A young boy, 15 or 16 names Ted sees a young woman go into a shop downtown. Nat, is beautiful and he is smitten. She is also two years older, which, at that age, can seem a lifetime. His friend kids him to go in and “ bump “ in to her but he cannot be persuaded to risk embarrassing himself in her eyes. That night at the dance he does dance with her and is apparent that the feelings between the two, if not totally reciprocated, are at least mutually warm. Still, she admonishes him that it could never work, assures him she is not annoyed with him, and, after their dance, asks him to walk her over to her older friends table and leave her there.
Can that above really be 20 K words. Seems hard to believe. The continuation of this review shall have to be in my own word document. If anyone, for some strange reason wants to read more O’Hara blather just ask
May 20, 2018
There’s an intelligent cohesion in his short fiction (especially the Gibbsville stories) that puts O’Hara in a class with Flannery O’Connor, John Cheever, and Raymond Carver (maybe at the head of the class).
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December 20, 2024John O’Hara was a prodigiously prolific writer, and the Library of America collection of his stories, spanning more more than 800 pages, has impressive range and as much literary merit as the novels of his I’ve read. He’s a careful and meticulous writer, rarely taking chances and almost always staying within the limits of decorum and taste that the New Yorker, his most important outlet, famously imposed on its content. Within those boundaries he paints a detailed and persuasive picture of the midcult American characters who fascinated him, and occasionally he reaches real artistic heights. Definitely recommended.
October 24, 2021
I prefer his novellas. There are about twenty, really remarkable stories. The rest could have been as great had they been longer. Some of the cabaret girls and bonvivant ones lack something in depth. The titles are great though, since many of the stories are not what one would expect and one is in for a great surprise.
February 11, 2019
Loved these stories, many of which are set in the coal-mining region of northeastern Pennsylvania where O'Hara grew up. O'Hara focuses on the sordid underbelly of modern life and relentlessly picks away at its pretenses like scabs that won't stop itching.
December 26, 2025
A fascinating collection of short stories - though I didn't like all of them (inevitable, really!). There's a lot of drinking in here, and a lot of rich people, and a lot of stories that feel more like open-ended vignettes.
May 31, 2017
Short stories
October 4, 2021
Without knowing anything about O'Hara, his stories just reeked of this quintessential New Yorker vibe. I liked a lot of these stories and can easily see myself coming back to them.
December 8, 2021
Great collection of O'Hara's' stories from the 30's to the 50's. 'Real people, great writing, and a window on history.
July 23, 2022
Perfect short stories by the person who has more published in the New Yorker than anyone else.
August 10, 2017
I read this after reading Appointment in Samarra. And for some reason John O'Hara escaped all reading lists throughout college and graduate school. I only heard of BUtterfield 8 because of the film. I think it was a New Yorker review of this collection that got me reading O'Hara. Now you will not find the lyricism of Fitzgerald or the complexity of Steinbeck here. I don't recall reading a single sentence that seemed "beautiful" or "deep." There is no excess description. Many of his stories feature pages of dialogue, which some writers may say to cut. But what I found so refreshing about his style was the story itself. As I writer, I tend to overload with detail. But O'Hara, I hope, has taught me, as he can teach other young writers, to get to the story. Even if it's bare bones. His characters are convincing, especially the ones he knew so well in Pottsville, PA (Gibbsville). It took a while to read all 800 pages, and I took breaks. Some stories were somewhat forgettable, but many linger. It's true that he focuses on sexual infidelity and many of his characters seem sex obsessed, but they never cease being human. The adage, write what you know is alive and well in O'Hara's writing.
May 12, 2022
Brilliant. O’Hara’s famed ear for dialogue is always engaging. A few of the shorter pieces aren’t blow-you-away great, but overall wonderful. The longer ones, novellas essentially, are uniformly brilliant. One could argue that O’Hara’s stories are often not packed with drama or plot, but then he’s one of the writers, if not the writer, who pioneered the New Yorker type/modern short story with little Incident, maybe but not always a reveal or turn at the end (softer than O Henry for sure), and essentially talking heads & monologues. But the personality and realness of the characters. Amazing.
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December 2, 2016Fiction O36m 2016
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