The concept behind this collection is ambitious and heartfelt: to portray in sequence the course of life from birth to death through various moments, mundane yet intense, that end up defining that life. Though there is a poignancy to many of these moments, all of which involve either miscommunication, mixed messages, things left unsaid, and a general isolation and sadness; the abiding poignancy for me as a reader, was to see sincere heartfelt intentions and feelings of the author fall short due to awkward language, cliché, and a lack of specificity. Too much of the language read like an awkward translation, and too many of the moments felt borrowed from other works, or were melodramatic tropes, rather than arising from specific personal experiences.
I will focus on one story, the title story, as an illustration. It is about a middle-aged man who lives alone and seems to exist only between his residence and his office. The story takes place during a single day. On this day he is hoping to get a promotion. While walking to work he becomes enraptured with the sight of raindrops in a woman’s raven hair. He is so enraptured during the ten seconds he is looking at this woman that she becomes a veritable goddess, and he feels a love and adoration for this woman that he has never felt in his life. Then it’s over and he is at work. He does not get the promotion and that night he goes to sleep dreaming of the woman.
There are a number of sentences in this story that read awkwardly to me. He was moving through the same streets for twenty-five years, since he was hired… Smith’s parents were dead, and he lived alone now, but his predicament suited him equally… The woman coughed with a strong voice… The story also lacks the details that would define it as a specific place. Street names and other descriptors are used as the man walks to work, but the setting reminds me more of The Truman Show than any place real. Even the description of the man’s lunch struck me as very odd and unreal: At noon he went to the restaurant on Fourth Street, ordering a medium-rare steak with baked potatoes on the side. I could not help but wonder who eats a steak and multiple baked potatoes for lunch? It struck me as perhaps something seen in a movie or TV show from the 1950’s, or maybe is the kind of lunch Truman Burbank ate. Still, though, even through this awkwardness and unreality the poignancy of the character’s yearning for something more managed to come through, as I could identify with the ten seconds of near-hallucinatory details as he stared at the woman and the raindrops in her hair. The fantastical sequence was the truest part of the story for me.
The author was, I am sure, aspiring to make the reader feel a poignant sadness, but not in the way I felt this poignant sadness. I could feel the emotion behind the work, but to feel it myself I had to practically ignore the work itself. That I felt the author falling so short of his goal made me feel sad for him, rather than his characters. At times I almost reached the point that I thought there was a meta-intent behind the work: that the work itself was a larger example of the miscommunication and disconnect illustrated in each story, and that the author had intended the work to have the failings it has, and that I was intended to feel a sadness for the author rather than the characters, that the author was the real main character of the work. I am not trying to be convoluted or cleaver here. I am honestly portraying my own internal acrobatics as I wrestled with how to evaluate the collection.
Since the author contacted me to ask if I would honestly review his work, I ended up having some back and forth with him, and so the author became a person to me, rather than just a faceless author on the internet, and so my interpersonal emotions came into play as I evaluated the book. I began asking myself: is Lucian attempting to distill a lifetime of wisdom into a collection of flash fiction, and since he mentions Stoner by John Williams as a major influence of his, are Lucian’s stories not only trafficking in the same sublime sadness, dogged isolation, and poignant personal failure of the Williams novel, but also is Ten Seconds Lucian’s own version of the book authored by Stoner, which was for all intents and purposes a failure, but which nevertheless was the crowning achievement and essence of Stoner’s life? I began feeling for Lucian as I felt for Stoner and his book, which unfortunately was the only way I could experience the emotions I think Lucian was attempting to get into the stories themselves, with no metacritical acrobatics required.