Some excellent stories, some nonstarters, and a couple of masterpieces likely to stand the test of time. That’s my assessment of Twin Study, and it’s honestly the most one can hope for from any single author anthology. Except among the most protean and varied of writers, one voice over the long haul starts to become grating, no matter how good or fresh it is.
Standouts include Velvet and Caveman in the Hedges. Velvet takes the mandate of “a dog’s life” literally and gives us the story of a tiny coddled toy who dreams of running with the coyotes. When his dream comes true, we feel his peril and rejoice at his triumphs. This thing could have easily become maudlin, sappy, worthy of a Hallmark movie in almost any other hands. I guess the only conclusion to draw is that author Stacey Richter’s hands are preternaturally deft and gifted. Alas, like most writers who can write worth a darn, she is not prolific. At least when it comes to publishing, so maybe she’s got a vault in the wall like Prince or a safe in the floor like Salinger reputedly had?
Also worthy of mention is The Cavemen in the Hedges. It’s not my favorite tale but is the most impressive in a technical sense, demonstrating Richter’s range as regards both plot and voice. This “serious” “literary” MFA-style writing usually concerns itself with the mundane details of daily life, mostly among semi-affluent, overeducated suburbanites. Topics such as divorce, alcoholism, impotence, and matrimonial strife typically rule the day. As an impotent alcoholic (though one who’s never been married) I can relate, but “quiet desperation” is not really my métier.
We get that here, but there’s the added surreal detail of a convoy of cavemen inserting themselves into the burbs. That Richter is able to keep a straight face and give us the facts of this primordial invasion has a touch of the genuinely magical realist about it. I went in expecting Cheever and Carver, and instead got Borges. Also, unlike most writers, she shows a faculty for “head-hopping” and writing from the perspective of the opposite sex. Women succeed in writing from the male perspective more often than the inverse, but still they mostly fail. Richter succeeds here, in giving us a tale of sexual jealousy and emotional loss caused by the arrival of a troglodytic lothario. Turns out no modern male can compete with the primal attraction of a man capable of felling a mastodon with a bone-made spear, no matter how “alpha.”
Ritcher (or whoever sequenced the stories) saves the best for last. It would seem obvious but you’d be surprised at how often editors hose this part of the fight, what boxers call “championship rounds,” here an anthology’s most pivotal moment. “Duet” concerns one of the most cliched characters in the stock sad sack repertoire: the parent-pleasing, socially sheltered Asian child prodigy cellist. That Richter manages to breathe not just some pneuma into this usually inanimate clay, but makes the stiff figure dance is worthy of something more than praise. Maybe awe. It’s good, like Ivan Bunin good in terms of its beauty, insight, and pacing, and despite its modern setting it reads more like a fairytale or parable about friendship.
Director Martin Scorsese once said words to the effect that a good artist’s job was to make you care about their obsessions. If a writer can make you become invested in a subject which you find tedious, they’re doing something right. I personally love classical music but hate the culture around it, the way it’s become a status symbol for careerist “tiger moms” and another bourgeoise trophy for the case. So making me care about the songs would have been easy, as even the most philistinian of us can hum a few bars of Bach or Mozart. Making me care about the people who play the songs—and even more, understand them—is quite a feat.
What was it Bukowski said about the time he snuck into the concert hall to hear the symphony performing? “I liked the music but I didn’t like the people listening to it or the people playing it.” Something like that. Here I like it all, which I never did before.
Having thus far gushed so effusively, I should point out that Richter is better at third person than first. Her own voice has its own distinct cadence and rhythms, but it has an omniscience about it, a Zola-like distance that finds the emotion rather than being possessed by it. That works when watching someone, but less when being—or trying to be—them. If she were an actor, she’d be the kind whose personal traits and tics are incorporated in the character, rather than being subsumed by them. Think more like a classical talent like Bogart than a method madman like De Niro who genuinely disappears into the role.
Also a couple stories felt overly familiar, like exercises done by an exceptionally gifted young student who had the knack, but not yet the proper material. “The Long Hall,” for instance, while well-written, is the kind of angsty teen story that’s been written too many times before for it to matter again.
Still, all in all, very good, and I’ll definitely check out Richter’s other book of shorts, My Date with Satan.