Racine and the Tablecloth: This is such a deeply felt story that it’s hard to avoid wondering if the central conflict, between Emily, an awkward, unpopular, bookish girl who writes brilliantly, and the headmistress of her school, who patronizingly distrusts Emily’s narrow focus on writing to the exclusion of traditional feminine virtues, is drawn at least in part from Byatt’s own childhood. Be that as it may, it’s a story about women raging against all the things that trammel them in: the tablecloth, in particular, represents the embroidery that Emily’s aunt, who dreamed of traveling and learning, took refuge in towards the end of a life that turned out to be entirely devoted to caring for others, and included none of what she wanted. Racine, on the other hand, is the teenage Emily’s favorite playwright, and “Phedre” represents a similar struggle of passion and desire against limits. The ending makes it clear that Byatt does not want you to regard this as a tale from a bygone era, describing a problem that no longer exists. A rare story in which writing a brilliant essay on a French play is a blow for the rights of women.
The July Ghost: Manages to achieve a kind of ghostliness itself by not naming its main characters, who are only “the man” and the “the woman”. The woman, still traumatized by the death of her son some years ago, takes the man as a lodger, and he starts seeing her son’s ghost. The ghost assumes an increasingly large role in their household, in a rather inimical way: the ending leaves it unclear not only what path the story will take next, but also what path it should take. The woman is another female character whose family obligations have kept her from achieving her desires, even though in this case the obligation is to a dead family member.
The Next Room: A vicious jab at people who conceive of the afterlife as a sort of suburban paradise, where you will be reunited with your beloved family members. Joanna, the main character, has spent twenty years nursing her mother, suppressing her career, her tastes, and her personality to adjust for her mother’s imperious and abrasive nature. Now that her mother is dead, she hopes to finally escape from the fetters of her family: even at the age of 59, it may still be possible for her to revive her career, which is the main thing she cares about. Instead, she starts hearing her dead parents quarreling, as if in the titular location. The implication that there is no escape from the family-related oppression of women, even in the afterlife, is fairly grim.
The Dried Witch: A sudden left turn, abandoning modern Britain for a small village in an unnamed and probably imaginary Asian country at an unspecified time that’s probably at least a millennium ago. Even grimmer than “The Next Room”, it presents a childless and now probably widowed (the husband of A-Oa, the titular witch, was taken away to be a soldier years ago and never returned) middle-aged woman’s decision to become a witch not as an act of rebellion, a la “Lolly Willowes”, but instead as part of a process by which her village, and by extension the larger society, rids itself of unnecessary women. The whole process has the air of a ritual in which everybody, including A-Oa, is simply playing a part, and the outcome, A-Oa’s death, is never in doubt. The only part that rings a bit false is the ending, in which A-Oa is granted some measure of revenge.
Loss of Face: This takes place in, I think we are meant to understand, a modern version of the country from “The Dried Witch”. Set in a conference on English literature happening in this imaginary Asian country, it implies that while Asians have carefully studied the English, as represented by their expert knowledge of their literature — when our protagonist, Celia, gives a lecture on Milton, one of the host professors presents a learned response — the English know almost nothing about the Asians and are mystified by all aspects of the host country. The title ends up becoming a rather clever pun, flipping a stereotype about Asians into one about how Westerners perceive them. However, using a made-up country naturally encourages the reader (the Western reader, at least) to see it as a stand-in for all of Asia, which seems a bit counterproductive — isn’t Byatt arguing that Westerners should know more about the specificity of Asian countries? — and in general she is more heavy-handed and obvious here than she usually is.
On the Day that E.M. Forster Died: Weird story about a middle-aged female writer who has an epiphany about writing a massive epic story of her times, in the vein of Dickens or Balzac, and then runs into an old acquaintance whose somewhat similar epiphany about devoting his life to art has now degenerated into madness. And then at the end she has cancer, just because. The description of Mrs. Smith’s thoughts about her project is quite interesting, and Conrad’s madness is convincing, but the end just seems to be needlessly malicious.
The Changeling: Another middle-aged writer, this one with a deep, long-lasting fear of, well, it’s not quite clear: the world, other people, life in general, something like that. She has managed, more or less, to sublimate her fear into her writing, constructing what looks, from the outside, like an almost-perfect life for herself, until she meets a young man, a student at a school run by a friend of hers, who has similar fears. The message of the story seems to be that what she most fears is being understood, and so rather than form a bond with this young man, she finds his existence (and uncanny resemblance to the hero of one of her own stories, the one who best incarnates her own fears) to be the most fearful thing of all. He can understand her, and so he can see through her carefully constructed life and the carefully constructed stories she uses to channel her fears, stories which she is no longer able to write. Or at least, cannot write until the news of his suicide arrives: once more safe, she can write again. It’s an interesting idea but I didn’t really believe it, because of the obvious differences between Josephine and Henry: most obviously, Henry is unable to overcome his fears and kills himself, while Josephine has managed, in some fashion, to overcome hers. Her life, she thinks, is not a true expression of her self, but that’s not entirely true: she was able to build it, and Henry can’t do the same, which must mean something.
In The Air: More about fear, this time the obsessive fear of the elderly Mrs. Sugden that she will be raped, probably while out walking her dog. The whole story is suffused with an air of menace, even though nothing much happens: Mrs. Sugden meets a blind woman of a similar age and a young unemployed man who has an odd manner, and they have tea. Is this because Barry, the man in question, is really a serial predator, on the lookout for old ladies living alone, or simply because it is filtered through Mrs. Sugden’s perceptions, and she is completely convinced that a rapist is coming for her? Naturally Byatt isn’t saying. Quite effective.
Precipice-uncurled: This will be more familiar to those who came to Byatt via “Possession” or her other, more historically-minded works. The story proceeds through layers, first a present-day scholar who is studying Robert Browning’s relationship with a woman who lived in Venice, then the woman, then Browning, and then the actual story of the story. However, Browning’s musings about the way he makes puppets of the people (most of them real) he writes about, in a story in which Byatt is doing the same thing to him (even better, doing it via another, imaginary, person, the scholar we start with), make the whole thing seem more like a story-writing exercise than a real story. It’s a well-executed exercise, however.
Sugar: the title story is an autobiographical one, I believe, and again a little too self-consciously self-reflective, as a meditation about the fallibility of memory in reconstructing the past, written by somebody who is using memory to reconstruct the past. Byatt/the narrator’s mother in particular, we are told, invented many of the stories that she used to tell her children about the family’s past, and now Byatt/the narrator, a fiction writer, is writing a story about it! The parallels are a bit too forceful, I feel. Still, even though the story doesn’t have anything new to say on the question of memory, it does give a good sketch of both of Byatt/the narrator’s parents, who are its main subject.