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L'ospite d'onore. Racconti scelti
Poco nota in Italia, Joy Williams è universalmente riconosciuta come una delle maestre del racconto americano insieme a scrittori quali Raymond Carver, John Cheever, Grace Paley e Ann Beattie.
L’ospite d’onore riunisce gran parte dei racconti, alcuni apparsi in precedenti raccolte, altri inediti, composti dall’autrice nell’arco di quasi cinquant’anni. Le sue storie ruotano tutte intorno a un momento di trasformazione, che spesso ha luogo al di fuori della pagina scritta e di cui intravediamo solo un barlume: il mistero ribolle in superficie, per un istante, e poi torna a inabissarsi. Il mondo di Joy Williams è pervaso di un orrore esistenziale, che tuttavia trova redenzione in lampi di feroce umorismo. Che siano ambientate nei paesaggi riarsi del Sud-ovest, in una piccola isola al largo delle coste del New England o del Massachusetts, o ancora, in un’auto malconcia che sfreccia su un’interstatale polverosa, le sue storie mettono a nudo l’inadeguatezza umana dinanzi al cambiamento e alla perdita. Leggerle è come affacciarsi sull’orlo di un precipizio: spaventoso e al contempo illuminante.
L’ospite d’onore riunisce gran parte dei racconti, alcuni apparsi in precedenti raccolte, altri inediti, composti dall’autrice nell’arco di quasi cinquant’anni. Le sue storie ruotano tutte intorno a un momento di trasformazione, che spesso ha luogo al di fuori della pagina scritta e di cui intravediamo solo un barlume: il mistero ribolle in superficie, per un istante, e poi torna a inabissarsi. Il mondo di Joy Williams è pervaso di un orrore esistenziale, che tuttavia trova redenzione in lampi di feroce umorismo. Che siano ambientate nei paesaggi riarsi del Sud-ovest, in una piccola isola al largo delle coste del New England o del Massachusetts, o ancora, in un’auto malconcia che sfreccia su un’interstatale polverosa, le sue storie mettono a nudo l’inadeguatezza umana dinanzi al cambiamento e alla perdita. Leggerle è come affacciarsi sull’orlo di un precipizio: spaventoso e al contempo illuminante.
664 pages, Paperback
First published September 8, 2015
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About the author
Joy Williams
77 books853 followersWilliams is the author of four novels. Her first, State of Grace (1973), was nominated for a National Book Award for Fiction. Her most recent novel, The Quick and the Dead (2000), was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Her first collection of short stories was Taking Care, published in 1982. A second collection, Escapes, followed in 1990. A 2001 essay collection, Ill Nature: Rants and Reflections on Humanity and Other Animals, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for Criticism. Honored Guest, a collection of short stories, was published in 2004. A 30th anniversary reprint of The Changeling was issued in 2008 with an introduction by the American novelist Rick Moody.
Her stories and essays are frequently anthologized, and she has received many awards and honors, including the Harold and Mildred Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Rea Award for the Short Story.
Her stories and essays are frequently anthologized, and she has received many awards and honors, including the Harold and Mildred Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Rea Award for the Short Story.
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July 29, 2023In the very first story in this book, there’s an abandoned dog, delivered along with an abandoned baby into the care of a tired grandfather who is already caring for his ailing wife. That remarkable story sets the tone for the entire collection—I've never read so many powerful stories about the lost, the sick, the exhausted, the forgotten, the miserable, the dying. And that’s just the dogs.
Dogs feature in almost all of the forty-something stories, and since the collection is dedicated to Rust, who I chose to think might be a dog, I thought I’d do an inventory of the many dog characters in the book, all quite minor of course, because these stories are very much about people, it’s just that the people happen frequently to be dog owners, such as vegetarian Tracy, who is saddled with an epileptic labrador called Scooter, or Jane, whose dog sheds, so that Jane is obliged to interview prospective adopters in an effort to shed the dog herself.
On the other hand, there are characters such as the little girl called Dan, who love their dogs so much that they would never abandon them, even in their scariest dreams. Dan has a dog called Jim Anderson and she sends postcards to him almost every day while she is away on an extended vacation with relatives, though whether he ever receives them, we are not told. There are many 'untold things' in Joy Williams’ stories—she frequently leaves it to the reader to finish the story for themselves, so I told myself that Jim Anderson still lived at Dan’s house, in spite of her parents having divorced while she is away, and and in spite of their having sold off the family home, and that he had received all of Dan’s postcards and lined them up in his basket to have something new to look at when he opens a weather eye every now and then, and I even scribbled a sketch in the margin of my book, of Jim Anderson in his basket, head on his paws, one eyebrow cocked as he contemplated the latest postcard:
That’s how much that story got under my skin. ‘Best so far’ is scribbled at the end of it (I wrote something similar after reading several later stories, convinced each time that I had now read the 'best' story. Joy Williams just continued to surprise and amaze me, time after time).
As, for instance, with the story where a German shepherd with no name drowns even before the story he’s in has begun, or with the story featuring a dog called Tonto, or the story where a dog just appears out of nowhere. One of the best stories had a stolen dog that liked to drink from a toilet bowl, one of two dogs that drink from toilet bowls in the collection. That’s the sort of detail Joy Williams tosses at the reader every now and again, and the reader picks those details up every time, chews on them for a bit, then buries them for future use.
Details like the Doberman puppy with bandages on his ears and tail, and a name that sounds like an amphetamine, or the drug-sniffing dog that gets killed by a man who is later executed for his crimes, yet those two stories are in no way about either dog. No way. It's just that the details about the dogs really stick in our minds, unless of course Joy Williams doesn't want them to—as in the case of the golden retriever that looks exactly like all other golden retrievers.
But right after such a forgettable dog she gives us a dog we can't possibly forget, a dog absolutely unlike any other dog, a particular brand of watchdog, not a pretty dog, it's true, being a bit box-like, but capable of detecting intruders up to thirty feet, except it no longer detects them, or barks, even when it's, you know, wired up, because, of course, its owner has died.
There are other super sensitive dogs, like the dog that knows his owner is ill and growls in a particular way when she’s nearby, though that story is neither about illness nor dogs, but instead about a girl with an overactive imagination.
Then there’s the dog who would set out every day to meet a child on her way home from school, always stopping at a certain point and waiting there till she arrived. Good Dog she’d say every time, and stroke his ears before they both set out on the homeward journey, safely past the darkness of the trees overhanging the road which seemed a lot less scary when the dog was trotting along beside her, and safely past the huge shire-horse that was always cropping grass in the field near her house, and safely through the garden gate and home at last.
There are dogs with odd names, Broom, for example, a dog that has been willed to a girl called Louise by her friend who has died, except that Louise doesn't know what to do with a dog called Broom.
And there's an oblivious dog sincere in its unfamiliarity with the name Peaches. This was clearly a name the dog felt did not indicate his true nature, and it was not going to respond to it, and another dog with an even odder name: Mountain came to Lamaze class with us. Lamaze encourages you to focus on something other than birth and I focused on Mountain week after week, but when it was time to deliver ZoeBella they wouldn’t let Mountain into the delivery room. A violation of infection-control procedures, they said. Well, I freaked. Here I went the whole pregnancy with no cigarettes or liquor and then they won’t let the goddamn dog into the delivery room.
In the same story, there was mention of big-headed dogs, lying on their stomachs, sharing something eviscerated. Joy Williams has a way of creating unforgettable images—I didn’t feel the urge to sketch those big-headed dogs, nevertheless.
There’s 'Emily Brontë’s' bulldog, a dog with only one bad habit: sleeping on the beds. Doggone it, there are dogs who jump up on sofas and chairs, no manners at all, plus a long-legged fawn Guatemalan dog with fleas and warts but no name, though the parrot in the same story is called Nevertheless, incidentally.
Then there's a dog from a pound that spends her time desperately looking for someone, and there’s a someone who spends her time desperately looking for the brick in a wall that was made from her dead dog’s ashes. How do you bury a detail like that? No possible way.
There’s a dog that fell overboard on a ferry-crossing, a much-loved chocolate-coloured Lab named Turner, and there’s a dog that gets rescued on the ferry’s next crossing, but which is no longer chocolate-coloured Turner somehow, just an almost exhausted brown dog that nobody wants. Sometimes it's hinted that Joy Williams just might love dogs more than people.
There’s a found-dog called Vega/Amy that gets trained, all the way up to Day Fifteen, which is pretty much the end of it. That’s when you get them to sit and stay and you disappear and say hello to an imaginary person at the door and you come back and then disappear again and talk to people who aren’t there. That was amusing to me because no one ever came to our door…
There’s a huge dark Newfoundland dog that gets to listen to Rilke while his owner strokes his ears, and a blue Airedale with stitches, plus a sad abandoned Great Dane. There’s a dog walking a girl on a beach, and there are Cornish dogs, which, though courteous, didn’t work as hard as the dogs of Wales.
And finally, there’s the strangest dog of all, a small dog with black saucery eyes, thick ears and double dewclaws, a Lundehund, used for hunting puffins in Norway.
Plus, of course, the thousands of dogs that die every year from being pitched out of the back of pickups.
A character in one of the stories says, It takes sixty-three days to make a dog, two hundred and seventy days to make a human being.
Another character says, the best place to bury a dog is in your heart.
…………………………………………………………………..
One of the dogs in the list is a stray—he doesn’t belong in The Visiting Privilege. Can you spot the intruder?
Dogs feature in almost all of the forty-something stories, and since the collection is dedicated to Rust, who I chose to think might be a dog, I thought I’d do an inventory of the many dog characters in the book, all quite minor of course, because these stories are very much about people, it’s just that the people happen frequently to be dog owners, such as vegetarian Tracy, who is saddled with an epileptic labrador called Scooter, or Jane, whose dog sheds, so that Jane is obliged to interview prospective adopters in an effort to shed the dog herself.
On the other hand, there are characters such as the little girl called Dan, who love their dogs so much that they would never abandon them, even in their scariest dreams. Dan has a dog called Jim Anderson and she sends postcards to him almost every day while she is away on an extended vacation with relatives, though whether he ever receives them, we are not told. There are many 'untold things' in Joy Williams’ stories—she frequently leaves it to the reader to finish the story for themselves, so I told myself that Jim Anderson still lived at Dan’s house, in spite of her parents having divorced while she is away, and and in spite of their having sold off the family home, and that he had received all of Dan’s postcards and lined them up in his basket to have something new to look at when he opens a weather eye every now and then, and I even scribbled a sketch in the margin of my book, of Jim Anderson in his basket, head on his paws, one eyebrow cocked as he contemplated the latest postcard:
That’s how much that story got under my skin. ‘Best so far’ is scribbled at the end of it (I wrote something similar after reading several later stories, convinced each time that I had now read the 'best' story. Joy Williams just continued to surprise and amaze me, time after time).
As, for instance, with the story where a German shepherd with no name drowns even before the story he’s in has begun, or with the story featuring a dog called Tonto, or the story where a dog just appears out of nowhere. One of the best stories had a stolen dog that liked to drink from a toilet bowl, one of two dogs that drink from toilet bowls in the collection. That’s the sort of detail Joy Williams tosses at the reader every now and again, and the reader picks those details up every time, chews on them for a bit, then buries them for future use.
Details like the Doberman puppy with bandages on his ears and tail, and a name that sounds like an amphetamine, or the drug-sniffing dog that gets killed by a man who is later executed for his crimes, yet those two stories are in no way about either dog. No way. It's just that the details about the dogs really stick in our minds, unless of course Joy Williams doesn't want them to—as in the case of the golden retriever that looks exactly like all other golden retrievers.
But right after such a forgettable dog she gives us a dog we can't possibly forget, a dog absolutely unlike any other dog, a particular brand of watchdog, not a pretty dog, it's true, being a bit box-like, but capable of detecting intruders up to thirty feet, except it no longer detects them, or barks, even when it's, you know, wired up, because, of course, its owner has died.
There are other super sensitive dogs, like the dog that knows his owner is ill and growls in a particular way when she’s nearby, though that story is neither about illness nor dogs, but instead about a girl with an overactive imagination.
Then there’s the dog who would set out every day to meet a child on her way home from school, always stopping at a certain point and waiting there till she arrived. Good Dog she’d say every time, and stroke his ears before they both set out on the homeward journey, safely past the darkness of the trees overhanging the road which seemed a lot less scary when the dog was trotting along beside her, and safely past the huge shire-horse that was always cropping grass in the field near her house, and safely through the garden gate and home at last.
There are dogs with odd names, Broom, for example, a dog that has been willed to a girl called Louise by her friend who has died, except that Louise doesn't know what to do with a dog called Broom.
And there's an oblivious dog sincere in its unfamiliarity with the name Peaches. This was clearly a name the dog felt did not indicate his true nature, and it was not going to respond to it, and another dog with an even odder name: Mountain came to Lamaze class with us. Lamaze encourages you to focus on something other than birth and I focused on Mountain week after week, but when it was time to deliver ZoeBella they wouldn’t let Mountain into the delivery room. A violation of infection-control procedures, they said. Well, I freaked. Here I went the whole pregnancy with no cigarettes or liquor and then they won’t let the goddamn dog into the delivery room.
In the same story, there was mention of big-headed dogs, lying on their stomachs, sharing something eviscerated. Joy Williams has a way of creating unforgettable images—I didn’t feel the urge to sketch those big-headed dogs, nevertheless.
There’s 'Emily Brontë’s' bulldog, a dog with only one bad habit: sleeping on the beds. Doggone it, there are dogs who jump up on sofas and chairs, no manners at all, plus a long-legged fawn Guatemalan dog with fleas and warts but no name, though the parrot in the same story is called Nevertheless, incidentally.
Then there's a dog from a pound that spends her time desperately looking for someone, and there’s a someone who spends her time desperately looking for the brick in a wall that was made from her dead dog’s ashes. How do you bury a detail like that? No possible way.
There’s a dog that fell overboard on a ferry-crossing, a much-loved chocolate-coloured Lab named Turner, and there’s a dog that gets rescued on the ferry’s next crossing, but which is no longer chocolate-coloured Turner somehow, just an almost exhausted brown dog that nobody wants. Sometimes it's hinted that Joy Williams just might love dogs more than people.
There’s a found-dog called Vega/Amy that gets trained, all the way up to Day Fifteen, which is pretty much the end of it. That’s when you get them to sit and stay and you disappear and say hello to an imaginary person at the door and you come back and then disappear again and talk to people who aren’t there. That was amusing to me because no one ever came to our door…
There’s a huge dark Newfoundland dog that gets to listen to Rilke while his owner strokes his ears, and a blue Airedale with stitches, plus a sad abandoned Great Dane. There’s a dog walking a girl on a beach, and there are Cornish dogs, which, though courteous, didn’t work as hard as the dogs of Wales.
And finally, there’s the strangest dog of all, a small dog with black saucery eyes, thick ears and double dewclaws, a Lundehund, used for hunting puffins in Norway.
Plus, of course, the thousands of dogs that die every year from being pitched out of the back of pickups.
A character in one of the stories says, It takes sixty-three days to make a dog, two hundred and seventy days to make a human being.
Another character says, the best place to bury a dog is in your heart.
…………………………………………………………………..
One of the dogs in the list is a stray—he doesn’t belong in The Visiting Privilege. Can you spot the intruder?
November 30, 2015
There are thirteen 'new' stories in this collection, along with 33 others culled from previous books. As I had never read any Joy Williams until now, all 46 stories were 'new' to me. I read each one; not in order, of course. And they were spectacular.
The stories are minimalist, mostly, so easy to inhale. They are set in Maine, in Arizona, in Florida a lot, and in unnamed pockets of America, where photographs fade, drywall rots, and floral dresses bear the stains of yesterday. The weather informs:
The cold didn't invent anything like the summer has a habit of doing and it didn't disclose anything like the spring. It lay powerfully encamped--waiting, altering one's ambitions, encouraging ends.
The people are not quite happy. They are on their second, third, or fourth marriage. They have one child. They drink, are drunk, often, invariably from gin. Some are fully fractured, others just a heartbeat away from reason. One says:
I might have been nice once but I get by the best I can now.
The stories, from the first lines, place us:
She was in the airport....
Lucy was watching the street....
Miriam was living with a man named Jack Dewayne....
It was a dark night in August....
Or define:
Jenny lies a little....
The yard boy was a spiritual materialist....
Angela had only one child, a daughter who abhorred her....
Lillian was telling her daughter about the period in her life when she killed cats....
(Hopefully a helpful tangent:
I was reading Karen's wonderful review of Far from the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity and what really struck me was how the author there talked about parents of children with autism, dwarf children, children who are gay or dyslexic. Included with these parents of children with 'issues' were the parents of one of the children who murdered other children at Columbine. That really struck me. Well, the penultimate story here is 'The Mother Cell' about mothers of children who have murdered and how seven such mothers were drawn to each other to talk, an unsupervised, ad lib therapy session. It was as though some mysterious word had gotten out. These things happen, like when highly allergic people, practically allergic to life itself, all gravitate to some mountain in Arizona, or when a bayside town in Maine becomes the locus for lipstick lesbians overnight. Having placed us, and defined, Williams can then go about the business of conversation, with shifting characters, scarred reflection, a shared numbness. One mother laments not saving her son's kindergarten handprint. Another wonders what its value would be on eBay.)
I often will stumble across a phrase or platitude that upon first reading sounds like an absolute truth, ready for a stitched sampler. Read again, though, and it is simply clever; read a third time and it turns to bromide. But I can't find intellectual fault with this:
Men go odd differently than women.
I am quoting more than writing here, and that's how it should be, getting out of the way of someone who can write this:
From the time I was ambulatory until I was fourteen and refused to participate, every year on my birthday my father would video me going around an immense organ-pipe cactus in the city's botanical garden. ... My father would splice the frames and speed them up so I would start off the circuit, disappear for a moment and emerge a year older, again and again a year older, taller and less remarkable. I began as a skipping and smiling creature and gradually emerged as a slouching and scowling one. Still, my parents appeared unaware of the little film's existential horror. My mother claims she no longer has it, that it no longer exists, and I have chosen to believe her.
You should read this right away.
The stories are minimalist, mostly, so easy to inhale. They are set in Maine, in Arizona, in Florida a lot, and in unnamed pockets of America, where photographs fade, drywall rots, and floral dresses bear the stains of yesterday. The weather informs:
The cold didn't invent anything like the summer has a habit of doing and it didn't disclose anything like the spring. It lay powerfully encamped--waiting, altering one's ambitions, encouraging ends.
The people are not quite happy. They are on their second, third, or fourth marriage. They have one child. They drink, are drunk, often, invariably from gin. Some are fully fractured, others just a heartbeat away from reason. One says:
I might have been nice once but I get by the best I can now.
The stories, from the first lines, place us:
She was in the airport....
Lucy was watching the street....
Miriam was living with a man named Jack Dewayne....
It was a dark night in August....
Or define:
Jenny lies a little....
The yard boy was a spiritual materialist....
Angela had only one child, a daughter who abhorred her....
Lillian was telling her daughter about the period in her life when she killed cats....
(Hopefully a helpful tangent:
I was reading Karen's wonderful review of Far from the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity and what really struck me was how the author there talked about parents of children with autism, dwarf children, children who are gay or dyslexic. Included with these parents of children with 'issues' were the parents of one of the children who murdered other children at Columbine. That really struck me. Well, the penultimate story here is 'The Mother Cell' about mothers of children who have murdered and how seven such mothers were drawn to each other to talk, an unsupervised, ad lib therapy session. It was as though some mysterious word had gotten out. These things happen, like when highly allergic people, practically allergic to life itself, all gravitate to some mountain in Arizona, or when a bayside town in Maine becomes the locus for lipstick lesbians overnight. Having placed us, and defined, Williams can then go about the business of conversation, with shifting characters, scarred reflection, a shared numbness. One mother laments not saving her son's kindergarten handprint. Another wonders what its value would be on eBay.)
I often will stumble across a phrase or platitude that upon first reading sounds like an absolute truth, ready for a stitched sampler. Read again, though, and it is simply clever; read a third time and it turns to bromide. But I can't find intellectual fault with this:
Men go odd differently than women.
I am quoting more than writing here, and that's how it should be, getting out of the way of someone who can write this:
From the time I was ambulatory until I was fourteen and refused to participate, every year on my birthday my father would video me going around an immense organ-pipe cactus in the city's botanical garden. ... My father would splice the frames and speed them up so I would start off the circuit, disappear for a moment and emerge a year older, again and again a year older, taller and less remarkable. I began as a skipping and smiling creature and gradually emerged as a slouching and scowling one. Still, my parents appeared unaware of the little film's existential horror. My mother claims she no longer has it, that it no longer exists, and I have chosen to believe her.
You should read this right away.
November 9, 2024
Joy Williams.
I've been living in Joy Williams' head for months now (it's taken me much of this year to complete the reading of this collection), and that's both an exhilarating and devastating place to be. She's one of the best writers you'll encounter, but her world will make you pretty queasy. It's a dangerous, gin-soaked world.
Gin is my favourite poison, as it happens. I love a good G&T. Long Table Gin with a slice of cucumber, a few mint leaves, and some juniper berries. Or, in the summer, Malfi Con Arancia, with a wedge of orange. Copperpenny No. 005 Gin with a dash of their Provence syrup (lavender and grapefruit). Always Fever-Tree tonic, of course.
The gin drinkers in Joy Williams' stories are different from me, though. They drink carelessly, excessively, relentlessly, constantly, with existential abandon. Anything can happen in her stories, and anything often does, which leads me to believe that her stories aren't consciously created or planned. It seems to me that the author herself is following the story unfold almost in the same way the reader does. And the effect is simply breathtaking.
My favourite of the stories, (examples being 'Escapes' and 'The Farm', which are simply BRILLIANT, and will haunt and rivet me for the rest of my days) feature mothers who drink. The drinking is different from other writers, like Ray Carver, Robert Stone, and Denis Johnson, who show addiction as self destruction, the bottle as something to climb out of (and Carver and Johnson eventually did). Joy Williams writes about it almost like a higher consciousness, and although it does do harm, and I don't believe she glamourizes it, she doesn't show any desire to stop it. It's almost as though alcohol is Joy Williams' religion, an integral part of her philosophy, a sacred way to survive, and I find it endlessly fascinating.
As the drunken mother in 'Escapes' appears on the magician's stage, weaving and asking to be sawed in half, asking for the trick to be explained because everyone just needed an explanation, I felt the pain of living so keenly. I felt the story touch me in a way only a few have.
As the drunken mother in 'The Farm' drove toward a tragedy, the way she couldn't feel her hands on the wheel or her foot on the accelerator, like she was floating soundlessly along, I felt her momentary and ecstatic lift from reality, a temporary gift she may never feel again.
I just realized, reading my review thus far, that maybe it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. It's impossible to "explain" these stories, but they are full of real and true (and gin, and quite a few dogs, one of which goes by the name Jim Anderson). I think Joy Williams is one of our greatest living writers. She's a bafflingly brilliant human, and more people should know her name.
I've been living in Joy Williams' head for months now (it's taken me much of this year to complete the reading of this collection), and that's both an exhilarating and devastating place to be. She's one of the best writers you'll encounter, but her world will make you pretty queasy. It's a dangerous, gin-soaked world.
Gin is my favourite poison, as it happens. I love a good G&T. Long Table Gin with a slice of cucumber, a few mint leaves, and some juniper berries. Or, in the summer, Malfi Con Arancia, with a wedge of orange. Copperpenny No. 005 Gin with a dash of their Provence syrup (lavender and grapefruit). Always Fever-Tree tonic, of course.
The gin drinkers in Joy Williams' stories are different from me, though. They drink carelessly, excessively, relentlessly, constantly, with existential abandon. Anything can happen in her stories, and anything often does, which leads me to believe that her stories aren't consciously created or planned. It seems to me that the author herself is following the story unfold almost in the same way the reader does. And the effect is simply breathtaking.
My favourite of the stories, (examples being 'Escapes' and 'The Farm', which are simply BRILLIANT, and will haunt and rivet me for the rest of my days) feature mothers who drink. The drinking is different from other writers, like Ray Carver, Robert Stone, and Denis Johnson, who show addiction as self destruction, the bottle as something to climb out of (and Carver and Johnson eventually did). Joy Williams writes about it almost like a higher consciousness, and although it does do harm, and I don't believe she glamourizes it, she doesn't show any desire to stop it. It's almost as though alcohol is Joy Williams' religion, an integral part of her philosophy, a sacred way to survive, and I find it endlessly fascinating.
As the drunken mother in 'Escapes' appears on the magician's stage, weaving and asking to be sawed in half, asking for the trick to be explained because everyone just needed an explanation, I felt the pain of living so keenly. I felt the story touch me in a way only a few have.
As the drunken mother in 'The Farm' drove toward a tragedy, the way she couldn't feel her hands on the wheel or her foot on the accelerator, like she was floating soundlessly along, I felt her momentary and ecstatic lift from reality, a temporary gift she may never feel again.
I just realized, reading my review thus far, that maybe it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. It's impossible to "explain" these stories, but they are full of real and true (and gin, and quite a few dogs, one of which goes by the name Jim Anderson). I think Joy Williams is one of our greatest living writers. She's a bafflingly brilliant human, and more people should know her name.
January 14, 2016
"We are here to prepare for not being here."
(The Country.)
Can we incorporate and treasure and be nourished by that which we do not understand? Of course. Understanding something, especially in these tech times, seems to involve ruthless appropriation and dismantlement and diminishment.
Joy Williams in The Paris Review
The Bible is constantly making use of image beyond words. A parable provides the imagery by means of words. The meaning, however, does not lie in the words but in the imagery. What is conjured, as it were, transcends words completely and speaks in another language. This is how Kafka wrote, why we are so fascinated by him, why he speaks so universally. On the other hand, there’s Blake, who spoke of the holiness of minute particulars. That is the way as well, to give voice to those particulars. Seek and praise, fear and seek. Don’t be vapid.
Joy Williams in The Paris Review
Vapid is a fine word, one that deserves more frequent use. Akin to vapor, a gaseous state lacking substance, vapid means lacking strength, sharpness, flavour. Something bland or insipid. Lifeless. Dull.
Dull she is not.
I have this thing with short stories. I just open the book and read. Now there are 46 stories here of which I had previously only read one (The Farm) in The New Granta Book of the American Short Story, so 45 stories that were new to me. It would frequently happen that I would not remember from the title alone if I had already read this one, and would have to start reading to see - the edition itself is just too gorgeous to mark it in ANY way at all - and then I would happily end up reading the whole thing anyway, even if it wasn't for the first time. For they are astounding, devious tales, beyond description, beyond categorization, beyond appropriation... yes, sometimes beyond comprehension. But Ms Williams tells me I can be nourished by that which I do not understand, so I shall not ruthlessly dismantle and diminish.
It's hard though, not to try to understand.
Am I allowed to look for common themes, at least?
Ah yes, that certainly. These stories are populated by people who feel an emptiness, a hollowness at the core, some void inside that they are desperately trying to fill. With gin; with love affairs or marriage (makes no difference); with a dog; with a black Ford Thunderbird sitting in the living room; with visiting a home for the depressed; with joining groups of the similarly bereft; with Rilke or Kant; with charity (disastrous); with building a tortoise enclosure; with connecting to a spiritual guru who is in fact a taxidermist sitting at the centre of a museum of dead stuffed animals and desperately looking for a replacement. Miriam, unbeknown to herself, qualifies for the position of spiritual leader by slapping on the jaw a father who tries to inject life into one of the tableaux.
Perfect as spiritual guide.
Because this is it. You're here, and then you are not. Then you're in the other here, where the funny thing is no one realizes you've arrived. (The Country)
None of it matters. All of it matters.
Sometimes she is just hilarious. For a while, while I was feeling a little besieged myself and decided that all her characters were decidedly unsuccessful at being happy, I felt that there was something very incongruous about the remarkably cheerful portrait of the author on the back inside flap, grinning in her signature dark glasses. But there is something very stalwart about staring life and death in the face without flinching, the way she does.
The Little Winter:
Shower for me, thanks.
(The Country.)
Can we incorporate and treasure and be nourished by that which we do not understand? Of course. Understanding something, especially in these tech times, seems to involve ruthless appropriation and dismantlement and diminishment.
Joy Williams in The Paris Review
The Bible is constantly making use of image beyond words. A parable provides the imagery by means of words. The meaning, however, does not lie in the words but in the imagery. What is conjured, as it were, transcends words completely and speaks in another language. This is how Kafka wrote, why we are so fascinated by him, why he speaks so universally. On the other hand, there’s Blake, who spoke of the holiness of minute particulars. That is the way as well, to give voice to those particulars. Seek and praise, fear and seek. Don’t be vapid.
Joy Williams in The Paris Review
Vapid is a fine word, one that deserves more frequent use. Akin to vapor, a gaseous state lacking substance, vapid means lacking strength, sharpness, flavour. Something bland or insipid. Lifeless. Dull.
Dull she is not.
I have this thing with short stories. I just open the book and read. Now there are 46 stories here of which I had previously only read one (The Farm) in The New Granta Book of the American Short Story, so 45 stories that were new to me. It would frequently happen that I would not remember from the title alone if I had already read this one, and would have to start reading to see - the edition itself is just too gorgeous to mark it in ANY way at all - and then I would happily end up reading the whole thing anyway, even if it wasn't for the first time. For they are astounding, devious tales, beyond description, beyond categorization, beyond appropriation... yes, sometimes beyond comprehension. But Ms Williams tells me I can be nourished by that which I do not understand, so I shall not ruthlessly dismantle and diminish.
It's hard though, not to try to understand.
Am I allowed to look for common themes, at least?
There’s a word in German, Sehnsucht. No English equivalent, which is often the case. It means the longing for something that cannot be expressed, or inconsolable longing. There’s a word in Welsh, hwyl, for which we also have no match. Again, it is longing, a longing of the spirit. I just think many of my figures seek something that cannot be found.
Joy Williams in The Paris Review
Ah yes, that certainly. These stories are populated by people who feel an emptiness, a hollowness at the core, some void inside that they are desperately trying to fill. With gin; with love affairs or marriage (makes no difference); with a dog; with a black Ford Thunderbird sitting in the living room; with visiting a home for the depressed; with joining groups of the similarly bereft; with Rilke or Kant; with charity (disastrous); with building a tortoise enclosure; with connecting to a spiritual guru who is in fact a taxidermist sitting at the centre of a museum of dead stuffed animals and desperately looking for a replacement. Miriam, unbeknown to herself, qualifies for the position of spiritual leader by slapping on the jaw a father who tries to inject life into one of the tableaux.
"She's protecting her newborn cubs, that's why she's snarling like that," the man said.
"It's dead," Miriam remarked. "The whole little family."
Perfect as spiritual guide.
Because this is it. You're here, and then you are not. Then you're in the other here, where the funny thing is no one realizes you've arrived. (The Country)
"I suspect there's only one thing to know about that other world," Deke opined. "You don't go to it when you're dead. That other world only exists when you're in this one."
(Hammer)
None of it matters. All of it matters.
Sometimes she is just hilarious. For a while, while I was feeling a little besieged myself and decided that all her characters were decidedly unsuccessful at being happy, I felt that there was something very incongruous about the remarkably cheerful portrait of the author on the back inside flap, grinning in her signature dark glasses. But there is something very stalwart about staring life and death in the face without flinching, the way she does.
The Little Winter:
She went to the bathroom and shut the door. The tile was turquoise and the stopper to the tub hung on a chain. This was the Motel Lark, she thought. She dropped the rubber stopper in the drain and ran the water. A few tiles were missing and the wall showed a gray, failed adhesive. She wanted to say something but even that wasn't it. She didn't want to say anything. She wanted to realize something she couldn't say. She heard a voice, it must have been Gwendal's, in the bedroom. Gloria lay down in the tub. The water wasn't as warm as she expected. Your silence is no deterrent to me, Gloria, the voice said. She reached for the hot-water faucet but it ran in cold. If she let it run, it might get warm, she thought. That's what they say. Or again, that might be it.
Shower for me, thanks.
December 29, 2021
Both this and the Lucia Berlin collection are absolutely indispensable for those who love short fiction, and those who want to but don't quite. Plus very few writers can get away with so much hyperbole. And here it always works.
***
I re-read a few of these over the weekend. They were all brilliant, truly brilliant (not 'brilliant' as in, 'Yeah, that was great again,' but seriously brilliant as in 'Oh my days, Joy Williams is doing something nobody else can here, and it's spectacular') but The Excursion is still without doubt one of the very best stories I've ever (re-)read.
***
I re-read a few of these over the weekend. They were all brilliant, truly brilliant (not 'brilliant' as in, 'Yeah, that was great again,' but seriously brilliant as in 'Oh my days, Joy Williams is doing something nobody else can here, and it's spectacular') but The Excursion is still without doubt one of the very best stories I've ever (re-)read.
July 18, 2022
This story collection contains one of those perfect stories that comes along very rarely and almost, you might say, by accident: where every relentless and unique and masterful power a writer possesses manifests itself in the smallest of spaces, in a story that is short. The story here is called "Marabou." It's now on my list of perfect stories, along with "Reunion" by John Cheever and "Signs and Symbols" by Nabokov and "Cathedral" by Raymond Carver and "Dédé" by Mavis Gallant.
January 22, 2021
A nearly flawless collection. I try to use superlatives sparingly in reviews but Joy Williams is really one of America’s greatest living short story writers. Many of these were rereads for me, but they were all just as enjoyable this time around, if not more so. I did find that I was slightly less enamored of the new stories here (mostly from the last decade), though they were all still above average. A couple of them seemed out of her usual wheelhouse, and others were even more explicitly fixated on death than usual. These qualities on their own can have their merits, but I didn’t think they worked to the advantage of the stories in question. Mostly, though, it was the edgy unexpectedness I love in her earlier stories that was either less frequently on display and/or muted when it did appear. Her endings are still always perfect, though. All in all, it is an impressive summation of her short fiction work thus far. And yet, when you compare the number of ratings on Goodreads for Williams’s collections to those of her contemporary Ray Carver, they are abysmally low. This is a travesty. I don’t deny Carver is good, but in terms of consistency Williams has him beat dead on. Please read her if you haven't already.
I think the beauty of the short story is that it finds the moment in the character’s life where the past and future combine, usually in a terrible instance in the present that illuminates everything and yet shuts everything off, too.—Joy Williams, interview in Vogue
April 22, 2017
Pulitzer in 2016, or I self-immolate.
October 2, 2015
My pre-ordered copy just arrived. Notwithstanding how wonderful the stories are, the book itself is a lovely thing - nice thick paper with those rough edges, and the dust jacket has a great rough texture to it.
13 of the stories are new to me, and I plan to read them slowly as a treat in between my other books. The rest are probably due a re-read but, seeing she is the best living short story writer, I can give this five stars simple on principle.
If you have not read her yet, this is a great place to start (or just get Taking Care, which is a masterpiece).
Lots of your favorite writers think her a genius. Read her and find out why.
13 of the stories are new to me, and I plan to read them slowly as a treat in between my other books. The rest are probably due a re-read but, seeing she is the best living short story writer, I can give this five stars simple on principle.
If you have not read her yet, this is a great place to start (or just get Taking Care, which is a masterpiece).
Lots of your favorite writers think her a genius. Read her and find out why.
July 15, 2022
حیف شد تموم شد. چندین شب خیلی خوب خوابم برد باهاش.
December 6, 2022
reading a Joy Williams short story is like spending all day putting on a full face of high glam drag makeup, a sequined bodycon amiclubwear minidress and 6-inch Valentino red stiletto pumps to be shot out of a clown cannon through rings of fire, over tanks of sharks, and above school buses full of children into a pile of dead bodies you realize are all you
July 6, 2022
The first 2 or 3 stories didn't leave a good impression. They all seemed very similar with characters spouting non sequiturs at each other. However after that I really got into the world Joy Williams populates with (mostly) women at the end of their tethers in some way or other. All laced with light black humour. Excellent stuff.
July 5, 2017
Una recopilación magnífica. A la altura de los otros dos libros de esta magnífica colección de Seix Barral.
Imprescindibles. Los tres en realidad
Imprescindibles. Los tres en realidad
February 25, 2022
This was somehow both worth my time and grueling at the same time. I leave this anthology knowing that Joy Williams is incredibly talented while also knowing that I will remember almost none of these stories and their particularities. I will remember vague etchings and outlines but no character names. Maybe Broom the dog. The fact that she gets so much praise from Delillo and Saunders makes so much sense in that she describes a certain middle-class American ennui with absurdist irony and a touch of genuine horror without losing a sense of heart (most of the time). But I also just didn't care half the time while reading this. Endings are never resolute, which is fine, but it was the type of irresolution where frequently the stories just end seemingly spontaneously. Makes me think I'd prefer her novels given she has more space to figure the narrative out, but everyone seems to prefer her stories, so I'm a bit wary.
January 31, 2022
Her prose is so good. The older, collected stories were much better than the new ones.
July 23, 2015
Joy Williams appears to be one of the most accomplished short story writers I never heard of. The comparisons to giants such as Flannery O’Connor, Raymond Carver, Alice Munroe and Tobias Wolff really peaked my interest and I was not disappointed.
There are many stories here – four dozen, to be precise – and I am savoring them. These little gems are not meant to be devoured one after the other, but I’ve read at least half of them and will continue to read consistently over the weeks ahead.
For those who like their short stories tied up in a little red bow, this is not a collection for you. There is little in way of plotting or likeable characters. Joy Williams excels in ambiguity and her endings are open-ended. In the sobering and heartbreaking story Honored Death, for example, a woman on the cusp of her own life stands by helplessly as her narcissistic mother gradually fades into nothingness. The title alludes to an ancient Japanese ritual: a bear cub is captured and treated like royalty, until he is dragged out and killed.
In the title story, a woman who appears to be devoid of meaning befriends an old woman in a mental hospital while visiting a friend. She is asked to look after the poor old soul’s dog, actually, a gray barking machine. In a few well-crafted sentences, Joy Williams sums up this woman’s life: “But it sounded so real, so remarkably real, and the disorder she felt was so remarkably real as well that she hesitated. She could not go forward. Then, she couldn’t go back.”
Another favorite is Fortune, a short story about a self-involved group of 20-somethings who feign concern in an unnamed country, presumably in Central America. Their parents descend on them like swarms, with their skewered values and shattered lives. “They felt that their lives were now beginning. At the same time, they felt it was possible that their actual lives were still waiting for them, and that they involved different people. This was something they found themselves thinking about more and more, usually with unhappiness, as the parents kept coming.”
Over and over in these stories, there is a search for what’s true and what’s real, the randomness of life, the effects of dislocation and discontent. All of it is done almost as if by sleight of hand, vignettes that make you feel and make you think. For the short story reader, this collection is a must.
There are many stories here – four dozen, to be precise – and I am savoring them. These little gems are not meant to be devoured one after the other, but I’ve read at least half of them and will continue to read consistently over the weeks ahead.
For those who like their short stories tied up in a little red bow, this is not a collection for you. There is little in way of plotting or likeable characters. Joy Williams excels in ambiguity and her endings are open-ended. In the sobering and heartbreaking story Honored Death, for example, a woman on the cusp of her own life stands by helplessly as her narcissistic mother gradually fades into nothingness. The title alludes to an ancient Japanese ritual: a bear cub is captured and treated like royalty, until he is dragged out and killed.
In the title story, a woman who appears to be devoid of meaning befriends an old woman in a mental hospital while visiting a friend. She is asked to look after the poor old soul’s dog, actually, a gray barking machine. In a few well-crafted sentences, Joy Williams sums up this woman’s life: “But it sounded so real, so remarkably real, and the disorder she felt was so remarkably real as well that she hesitated. She could not go forward. Then, she couldn’t go back.”
Another favorite is Fortune, a short story about a self-involved group of 20-somethings who feign concern in an unnamed country, presumably in Central America. Their parents descend on them like swarms, with their skewered values and shattered lives. “They felt that their lives were now beginning. At the same time, they felt it was possible that their actual lives were still waiting for them, and that they involved different people. This was something they found themselves thinking about more and more, usually with unhappiness, as the parents kept coming.”
Over and over in these stories, there is a search for what’s true and what’s real, the randomness of life, the effects of dislocation and discontent. All of it is done almost as if by sleight of hand, vignettes that make you feel and make you think. For the short story reader, this collection is a must.
Read
September 8, 2015There is a good chance you don't know this, but Joy Williams is a genius. I myself was not aware of this until a couple years ago, when she was recommended to me by Paul Lisicky (PS - He's wonderful, Google him.). Williams is a writer's writer, which I think means "brilliant and under the radar." In this new collection of stories, you can glimpse her brilliance in forty-six (!!!) stories, both old and new. Her writing is elegant and dark, fantastical and sharp. She's soooo good. Think Alice Munro and Elizabeth McCracken. Williams is that good - and soon to be one of your new favorite writers.
Tune in to our weekly podcast dedicated to all things new books, All The Books: http://bookriot.com/category/all-the-...
Tune in to our weekly podcast dedicated to all things new books, All The Books: http://bookriot.com/category/all-the-...
October 4, 2024
I’m afraid Joy Williams just does nothing for me. I can recognize the technical virtuosity of her sentence- or paragraph-level writing but, despite all the pointed gestures towards God and nature and death, to me it all feels devoid of actual content. New Yorker writing epitomized, which is to say a lot of quirky assemblages of white middle-class signifiers and formulaically "surprising" juxtapositions which I guess are supposed to make us think about the wonderful and perverse idiosyncrasy of life but don’t feel remotely similar to any form of life I’ve ever personally taken part in. Revoke my MFA if you have to.
Three stars in recognition of the previously-mentioned virtuosity and some pretty funny lines.
Three stars in recognition of the previously-mentioned virtuosity and some pretty funny lines.
June 16, 2020
Me encanta compaginar siempre un libro de cuentos con una novela, y tengo claro cuál es mi momento favorito del día para leerlo: por la mañana, con mi primer café.
🥀
Empecé con Joy Williams justo al anunciarse el confinamiento y me ha estado acompañado todos los días desde entonces. Creo que dentro de muchos años, cuando recuerde todo lo que está pasando, lo asociaré ineludiblemente a ese momento de #CaféJoywilliamsiano (si me permiten la expresión).
🥀
En sus relatos las mujeres beben, y mucho, les hijes son abandonados por los progenitores, los personajes muestran una inercia exasperante. Es como si ella quisiera reflejar el fracaso de la sociedad estadounidense (y, por extensión, la de cualquier sociedad occidental) tanto a nivel económico como emocional.
🥀
Joy Williams recorre el país en su coche varías veces al año. Escribe en moteles, en bares de carretera y en merenderos. La imagino observando, captando al vuelo conversaciones, tomando notas, seguramente alguna vez con un whisky en la mano. Y quizás sea así como crea esa atmósfera tan embriagadora, onírica a veces, que nos envuelve con un melancólico sopor causado ya por el calor de Arizona, ya por los vapores del alcohol, viéndonos empujadas a saborear sus relatos. Algunos a sorbos, otros de un trago. ¿Se nota mucho que soy fan total de esta señora?
#JoyWilliams #CuentosEscogidos #AutorasEstadounidenses #AutorasReferentes
🥀
Empecé con Joy Williams justo al anunciarse el confinamiento y me ha estado acompañado todos los días desde entonces. Creo que dentro de muchos años, cuando recuerde todo lo que está pasando, lo asociaré ineludiblemente a ese momento de #CaféJoywilliamsiano (si me permiten la expresión).
🥀
En sus relatos las mujeres beben, y mucho, les hijes son abandonados por los progenitores, los personajes muestran una inercia exasperante. Es como si ella quisiera reflejar el fracaso de la sociedad estadounidense (y, por extensión, la de cualquier sociedad occidental) tanto a nivel económico como emocional.
🥀
Joy Williams recorre el país en su coche varías veces al año. Escribe en moteles, en bares de carretera y en merenderos. La imagino observando, captando al vuelo conversaciones, tomando notas, seguramente alguna vez con un whisky en la mano. Y quizás sea así como crea esa atmósfera tan embriagadora, onírica a veces, que nos envuelve con un melancólico sopor causado ya por el calor de Arizona, ya por los vapores del alcohol, viéndonos empujadas a saborear sus relatos. Algunos a sorbos, otros de un trago. ¿Se nota mucho que soy fan total de esta señora?
#JoyWilliams #CuentosEscogidos #AutorasEstadounidenses #AutorasReferentes
November 25, 2015
In a weird distinction, I thought the stories in this collection were really well done, but didn't enjoy the experience of reading it. I think because it was a library book, and I felt a certain pressure to soldier through it, when I would have really liked to read one or two at a time and put the book down for a bit to absorb them. Each one was so dense and unsettling–like eating a flourless chocolate cake, but more depressing.
Still, glad I read it, and thinking maybe I'll revisit some of the work another time.
Still, glad I read it, and thinking maybe I'll revisit some of the work another time.
February 13, 2025
Just perfection
December 16, 2022
Muchos de sus cuentos son 5 estrellas o más.
Otros, la verdad, incluso con el conocimiento de que su estilo es de no saber de qué va la situación, no me atrajeron nada, llevan pinceladas de buena narrativa y poco más. Suelen aburrirme ese tipo de historias en apariencia anodinas, aunque gracias a narradoras como Joy Williams les voy agarrando el gusto poco a poco.
Pero sus cuentos buenos ni falta decir que son superlativos, de otro nivel, el de los grandes cuentistas. Siento que el error (editorial) está en embutir en 700 páginas cuentos que no parecen seleccionados por nadie, simplemente parece un volumen de obras completas que puede prescindir de varias historias que personalmente ni siquiera recordaré en unas horas.
Joy Williams es un demonio de narradora, me impresionó en muchas páginas.
Otros, la verdad, incluso con el conocimiento de que su estilo es de no saber de qué va la situación, no me atrajeron nada, llevan pinceladas de buena narrativa y poco más. Suelen aburrirme ese tipo de historias en apariencia anodinas, aunque gracias a narradoras como Joy Williams les voy agarrando el gusto poco a poco.
Pero sus cuentos buenos ni falta decir que son superlativos, de otro nivel, el de los grandes cuentistas. Siento que el error (editorial) está en embutir en 700 páginas cuentos que no parecen seleccionados por nadie, simplemente parece un volumen de obras completas que puede prescindir de varias historias que personalmente ni siquiera recordaré en unas horas.
Joy Williams es un demonio de narradora, me impresionó en muchas páginas.
March 30, 2020
‘The Visiting Privilege’ is a collection of old and new stories and probably not the best possible collection. I enjoyed individual stories, but the whole thing became quite repetitive. Sometimes less is better and more is too much. Great writer to read in short bursts. Positive review, but no more than that.
June 19, 2017
it's come - just in time for Christmas, A present to myself.. and one that looks great.
I tried very hard to slow down reading this book because it is so wonderful. I managed 6 months. Now I'll start again. Truly exceptional.
I tried very hard to slow down reading this book because it is so wonderful. I managed 6 months. Now I'll start again. Truly exceptional.
March 3, 2016
I think all the miserable people living in the eastern half of the United States also live in the short stories in this book.
January 14, 2023
Here we have a 4 star collection of a 5 star writer. There is an excellent review on here by a Fionnuala that talks all about the dogs that feature prominently in most of the stories in this book, so go search out and read that. It’s an important theme in this book, but she did a better job than I will, so I’m not going to mention it beyond this. What I WOULD like to talk about is how there are MANY 5 star stories in here and how this could have been a greatest hits collection but it’s a little bloated with some less memorable ones, and also how I hated the titular story and how choosing it for this collection and the title of this book chapped my ass enough to knock a star off this collection.
First I just want to say, that the great stories here are REALLY great. Like, pantheon of literary genius short story writers great. People say Carver and Flannery O’Conner a lot and I absolutely agree. There is a lot in these stories but she only says a little. Incredibly complex emotions are somehow distilled into twenty-ish pages of dialog and near-plotlessness. It’s fascinating, and we should all celebrate Joy Williams as the genius she is while she is alive and still knocking out books.
I wish I had the time to talk in detail about all the ones I loved, but I just don’t have the patience to go on and on. Some real highlights culled from her previously published books for me were “Taking Care”, ”Yard Boy”, “Health”, “Rot”, “Escapes”, “The Last Generation”, “Winter Chemistry”, “Congress”, “Marabou”, and “Fortune”, just off the top of my head. These are unquestionably excellent short stories. The kind of stories that keep you thinking about them and make you want to write. Unfortunately though, some of the others were just not quite as strong for me.
As for the new material here, they are about as equally mixed. The style is more distilled and the focus is heavier on damaged characters, particularly alcoholics. “Brass”, “The Mission”, “Souvenir”, and the books final story and my favorite of the collection “Craving”, all felt immediately classic. “Craving” in particular was one of the best depictions of the madness surrounding being an alcoholic I’ve ever read captured on the page. But again some of the others were not quite as striking and I’d be hard pressed to remember them in a month. That is not to say they are not good, the prose is always masterful and maybe they’ll make more of an impression on you.
My biggest qualm though, was the choice of titular story. A story that was not particularly poignant and in my opinion had some frustrating fat-phobic content. This particular story contained a set of similar looking plus-sized women who were only referred to as “fat twins” over and over it even proposed nicknames for them “Dim and Dee” (also negative) but then abandons this only to continue to just refer to them as fat. The characters were also particularly unlikeable. It just bothers the hell out of me when the only fat characters in books are these negative stereotypes that are defined only by their size. Its not the most egregious depiction I’ve read, but It’s lazy and harmful nonetheless. Now look I’m going to say no one can ever write about negative fat characters or something so extreme. I’m fully aware too that when writing characters, they may have biases and opinions I don’t agree with, but this didn’t feel like that to me. In this case, I just wish there were some positive traits or another big endearing character to add some balance. On top of this they chose this as the centerpiece story, giving it even more credence. This easily could have been replaced with the much better story “Claro” from Honored Guest, and been given this a different title. I would have just as likely read this collection had it been titled “Another Season” or “The Last Generation”
Ultimately, I still feel Joy Williams is treasure and this collection proves it. I just thought it could have done a bit better. This book might have also been a little too much of a good thing, and some of the stories I felt less memorable may actually be excellent, but need another reading or some time away from writing this dense to be truly appreciated. I’d like to come back to these in time, because I did find the experience of reading these stories constantly thought provoking. So, honestly I would still recommend this, but maybe take it slower than I did.
First I just want to say, that the great stories here are REALLY great. Like, pantheon of literary genius short story writers great. People say Carver and Flannery O’Conner a lot and I absolutely agree. There is a lot in these stories but she only says a little. Incredibly complex emotions are somehow distilled into twenty-ish pages of dialog and near-plotlessness. It’s fascinating, and we should all celebrate Joy Williams as the genius she is while she is alive and still knocking out books.
I wish I had the time to talk in detail about all the ones I loved, but I just don’t have the patience to go on and on. Some real highlights culled from her previously published books for me were “Taking Care”, ”Yard Boy”, “Health”, “Rot”, “Escapes”, “The Last Generation”, “Winter Chemistry”, “Congress”, “Marabou”, and “Fortune”, just off the top of my head. These are unquestionably excellent short stories. The kind of stories that keep you thinking about them and make you want to write. Unfortunately though, some of the others were just not quite as strong for me.
As for the new material here, they are about as equally mixed. The style is more distilled and the focus is heavier on damaged characters, particularly alcoholics. “Brass”, “The Mission”, “Souvenir”, and the books final story and my favorite of the collection “Craving”, all felt immediately classic. “Craving” in particular was one of the best depictions of the madness surrounding being an alcoholic I’ve ever read captured on the page. But again some of the others were not quite as striking and I’d be hard pressed to remember them in a month. That is not to say they are not good, the prose is always masterful and maybe they’ll make more of an impression on you.
My biggest qualm though, was the choice of titular story. A story that was not particularly poignant and in my opinion had some frustrating fat-phobic content. This particular story contained a set of similar looking plus-sized women who were only referred to as “fat twins” over and over it even proposed nicknames for them “Dim and Dee” (also negative) but then abandons this only to continue to just refer to them as fat. The characters were also particularly unlikeable. It just bothers the hell out of me when the only fat characters in books are these negative stereotypes that are defined only by their size. Its not the most egregious depiction I’ve read, but It’s lazy and harmful nonetheless. Now look I’m going to say no one can ever write about negative fat characters or something so extreme. I’m fully aware too that when writing characters, they may have biases and opinions I don’t agree with, but this didn’t feel like that to me. In this case, I just wish there were some positive traits or another big endearing character to add some balance. On top of this they chose this as the centerpiece story, giving it even more credence. This easily could have been replaced with the much better story “Claro” from Honored Guest, and been given this a different title. I would have just as likely read this collection had it been titled “Another Season” or “The Last Generation”
Ultimately, I still feel Joy Williams is treasure and this collection proves it. I just thought it could have done a bit better. This book might have also been a little too much of a good thing, and some of the stories I felt less memorable may actually be excellent, but need another reading or some time away from writing this dense to be truly appreciated. I’d like to come back to these in time, because I did find the experience of reading these stories constantly thought provoking. So, honestly I would still recommend this, but maybe take it slower than I did.
August 5, 2018
“Siamo soli in un mondo senza senso”
C’è solitudine nei racconti di Joy Williams, storie abitate da personaggi che sembrano non saper più comprendere l’altro, incapaci di condividere, chiusi nel loro bozzolo come se una frattura impossibile da rimarginare li separasse dal resto del mondo.
Spesso il motore della trama è un trauma, una tragedia che le persone non riescono ad affrontare, come se non avessero gli strumenti adeguati per farlo. Storie di disagio, di alcolismo (Ossa di balena, Foglie), di incomunicabilità, caratterizzate dal bisogno che qualcuno dica qualcosa e insieme dalla consapevolezza che la gente non sa più parlare: “Parlami” – dice la protagonista di Estate, ma quello che sa dirgli suo marito non è sufficiente. “È stenografia, solo squallida stenografia”.
Tutto è difficile a definire, da mettere a fuoco, anche i sentimenti (“Constance ci pensò su. Forse l’amore non era né l’obiettivo né la risposta. Forse la comprensione era più importante dell’amore, e forse la forma più alta di comprensione era la comprensione di se stessi, delle proprie motivazioni, dei propri desideri e delle proprie capacità. Constance si costrinse a rifletterci, ma l’idea non le piaceva in granché. Lasciò perdere”).
Sono i bambini quelli che incarnano al meglio il contrasto tra ciò che sono e ciò che vorrebbero essere e l’autrice è maestra nel descrivere quel momento della vita in cui le pulsioni non hanno ancora preso la forma di sentimenti, quello stato di provvisorietà in cui sogno e realtà si mescolano. Si tratta di una condizione propria dell’infanzia e dell’adolescenza e che con il tempo dovrebbe portare i personaggi ad evolvere, a definire i propri contorni acquisendo la consapevolezza propria della maturità, ma i personaggi di Joy Williams non sembrano in grado di fare questo passo, rimanendo condannati a vivere in una specie di limbo (“Avrebbe voluto dire qualcosa,” – pensa la protagonista de Il piccolo inverno – “ma no, non era nemmeno quello. Non voleva dire niente. Voleva capire qualcosa che non era in grado di dire.”).
Se la quotidianità si rivela un terreno sterile, nel quale gli attori di queste storie faticano a ritrovarsi, allora il surreale costituisce una via d’uscita quasi obbligata, un modo per spostare le cose su un piano diverso, un piano nel quale una pianta può diventare l’unica compagna di vita (ne Il giardiniere una felce “è circondata da tanto spazio in cui tutto può succedere, ma di sentimenti sa poco o nulla, perché è matta. Quindi è una confidente perfetta.”), una macchina sgangherata può finire in salotto (Ruggine) e una lampada può accompagnare una donna in giro per l’America alla ricerca della sua vera vocazione (Congresso).
Joy Williams racconta le sue storie con frasi brevi, secche, affilate come lame, attenta a lasciar emergere i caratteri dei personaggi più dalle descrizione dei loro comportamenti che da quello che dicono o pensano, seguendo i canoni di un minimalismo che ricorda Carver pur mantenendo una propria originalità.
C’è solitudine nei racconti di Joy Williams, storie abitate da personaggi che sembrano non saper più comprendere l’altro, incapaci di condividere, chiusi nel loro bozzolo come se una frattura impossibile da rimarginare li separasse dal resto del mondo.
Spesso il motore della trama è un trauma, una tragedia che le persone non riescono ad affrontare, come se non avessero gli strumenti adeguati per farlo. Storie di disagio, di alcolismo (Ossa di balena, Foglie), di incomunicabilità, caratterizzate dal bisogno che qualcuno dica qualcosa e insieme dalla consapevolezza che la gente non sa più parlare: “Parlami” – dice la protagonista di Estate, ma quello che sa dirgli suo marito non è sufficiente. “È stenografia, solo squallida stenografia”.
Tutto è difficile a definire, da mettere a fuoco, anche i sentimenti (“Constance ci pensò su. Forse l’amore non era né l’obiettivo né la risposta. Forse la comprensione era più importante dell’amore, e forse la forma più alta di comprensione era la comprensione di se stessi, delle proprie motivazioni, dei propri desideri e delle proprie capacità. Constance si costrinse a rifletterci, ma l’idea non le piaceva in granché. Lasciò perdere”).
Sono i bambini quelli che incarnano al meglio il contrasto tra ciò che sono e ciò che vorrebbero essere e l’autrice è maestra nel descrivere quel momento della vita in cui le pulsioni non hanno ancora preso la forma di sentimenti, quello stato di provvisorietà in cui sogno e realtà si mescolano. Si tratta di una condizione propria dell’infanzia e dell’adolescenza e che con il tempo dovrebbe portare i personaggi ad evolvere, a definire i propri contorni acquisendo la consapevolezza propria della maturità, ma i personaggi di Joy Williams non sembrano in grado di fare questo passo, rimanendo condannati a vivere in una specie di limbo (“Avrebbe voluto dire qualcosa,” – pensa la protagonista de Il piccolo inverno – “ma no, non era nemmeno quello. Non voleva dire niente. Voleva capire qualcosa che non era in grado di dire.”).
Se la quotidianità si rivela un terreno sterile, nel quale gli attori di queste storie faticano a ritrovarsi, allora il surreale costituisce una via d’uscita quasi obbligata, un modo per spostare le cose su un piano diverso, un piano nel quale una pianta può diventare l’unica compagna di vita (ne Il giardiniere una felce “è circondata da tanto spazio in cui tutto può succedere, ma di sentimenti sa poco o nulla, perché è matta. Quindi è una confidente perfetta.”), una macchina sgangherata può finire in salotto (Ruggine) e una lampada può accompagnare una donna in giro per l’America alla ricerca della sua vera vocazione (Congresso).
Joy Williams racconta le sue storie con frasi brevi, secche, affilate come lame, attenta a lasciar emergere i caratteri dei personaggi più dalle descrizione dei loro comportamenti che da quello che dicono o pensano, seguendo i canoni di un minimalismo che ricorda Carver pur mantenendo una propria originalità.
September 26, 2015
Though I haven't read it, I have to imagine September's big cover story in the NYT Magazine section has to do with how Joy Williams went from being perhaps THE great, unappreciated American author of the last thirty years to this ruminative, death-obsessed drunk who has pushed the boundaries of her signature style past any point of necessity. Five stars for the selections from her past collections, zero for everything new (Maybe three for the story about the desert tortoise sanctuary, but it's not really a story.)
August 9, 2017
No one writes short stories better, except for Alice Munro. Williams is the master and crazy good! 13 new stories in this volume as well as a collection of great old favorites. You simply can't go wrong here.
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