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Your Duck Is My Duck: Stories
By turns dark and hilarious, at times solemn and mysterious, Your Duck Is My Duck cements Deborah Eisenberg’s reputation as one of America’s greatest living writers of fiction.
“If our culture can produce a writer this wonderful, there must be something beautiful about us yet.”
—George Saunders, author of Lincoln in the Bardo
Each of the six stories that make up this new collection—Deborah Eisenberg’s first for twelve years—has the heft and complexity of a novel. With her own inexorable logic and uncanny ability to conjure up the strange states of mind and emotion that constitute our daily consciousness, Eisenberg pulls us as if by gossamer threads through the lives of her characters. In her world, the forces of money, sex and power cannot be escaped, and the force of history, whether confronted or denied, cannot be evaded. No one writes better about time, tragedy and grief, and the indifferent but beautiful universe around us.
“Shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny.”—New York Times
“The deepest pleasure in Ms Eisenberg’s stories is their vertiginous unpredictability, like obstacle courses the author jumps and rolls and shimmies through, clasping the reader to her like an infant. These are fearless, fierce, light-bearing stories, offered in defense of what still matters.”—New York Observer
“Entering Eisenberg’s fiction is like diving off a cliff into a freezing lake: you are plunged into a world of confusion, with no one to help you get your bearings and no recourse but to struggle your way to the surface. Her openings are trapdoors, pushing the concept of in media res as far as it can go.”—Harper’s
“If our culture can produce a writer this wonderful, there must be something beautiful about us yet.”
—George Saunders, author of Lincoln in the Bardo
Each of the six stories that make up this new collection—Deborah Eisenberg’s first for twelve years—has the heft and complexity of a novel. With her own inexorable logic and uncanny ability to conjure up the strange states of mind and emotion that constitute our daily consciousness, Eisenberg pulls us as if by gossamer threads through the lives of her characters. In her world, the forces of money, sex and power cannot be escaped, and the force of history, whether confronted or denied, cannot be evaded. No one writes better about time, tragedy and grief, and the indifferent but beautiful universe around us.
“Shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny.”—New York Times
“The deepest pleasure in Ms Eisenberg’s stories is their vertiginous unpredictability, like obstacle courses the author jumps and rolls and shimmies through, clasping the reader to her like an infant. These are fearless, fierce, light-bearing stories, offered in defense of what still matters.”—New York Observer
“Entering Eisenberg’s fiction is like diving off a cliff into a freezing lake: you are plunged into a world of confusion, with no one to help you get your bearings and no recourse but to struggle your way to the surface. Her openings are trapdoors, pushing the concept of in media res as far as it can go.”—Harper’s
223 pages, Paperback
First published November 25, 2018
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About the author
Deborah Eisenberg
38 books293 followersBorn in Chicago, Eisenberg moved to New York City in the 1960's where she has lived ever since. She also teaches at the University of Virginia. Her writing has appeared in The New Yorker, The Yale Review, Vanity Fair, and Tin House. She has won the Rea Award for the Short Story, a Whiting Writer's Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and three O. Henry Awards.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 418 reviews
May 7, 2019
Was prepared to love, love, love it, but most of the ingenious writing was used up in the first story.
April 24, 2018
"It's not so hard to figure out why I'm not sleeping. What I can't figure out is why everybody else is sleeping."
"Still, there was always the feeling that one would get around to being young again. And that when one was young again, life would resume the course from which it had so shockingly deviated."
"Still, there was always the feeling that one would get around to being young again. And that when one was young again, life would resume the course from which it had so shockingly deviated."
February 16, 2022
Tytuł intryguje, zwłaszcza w kraju, gdzie mianem “kaczki” określa się pojemnik na mocz. Wyobrażałem sobie ironiczną opowieść o dwójce złośliwych staruszków, którzy w chwili trudnej podkradają sobie tytułową kaczkę i odechciewało mi się lektury. W polskich warunkach mogłaby to być również opowieść o populistycznych rządach, których namnożenie w różnych krajach zatrważa. Tak, czy inaczej - zaintrygowało.
Gorzej było z pierwszymi stronami. Opowieść malarki, która w środku kryzysu twórczego poznaje zamożną parę i przyjmuje zaproszenie do ich domku w Grecji początkowo stawiała przede mną tylko jedno pytanie - co mnie to interesuje? Przygody nadzianych ludzi fraternizujących się z artystyczną bohemą w amerykańskiej prozie pojawia się tak często, że - podobnie jak książki, których akcja zaczyna się podczas pogrzebu lub wesela - przestały mnie interesować. Jednak zanim się zorientowałem, opowiadanie Debory Eisenberg wciągnęło mnie i wyrzuciło na brzeg dopiero, gdy doczytałem ostatnie zdanie. Poprawiłem poduszkę i uznałem, że ten wieczór spędzę z amerykańską pisarką i jej niezrównanym pisaniem. Nie żałuję, choć trochę dzisiaj przysypiam.
Cechą charakterystyczną zebranych w “Twojej kaczce…” opowiadań jest wrzucanie czytelnika w środek akcji bez żadnych wyjaśnień. Jak w opowiadaniu “Tadź Mahal”, gdzie grupa aktorów, którzy dawniej byli skupieni wokół wybitnego reżysera, czyta wspomnienia jego wnuka, Antona. Eisenberg łączy tu fragmenty fikcyjnej książki o dziadku, rozmowy aktorów i Emmę - trzecioosobową narratorkę, córkę nieżyjącej aktorki. Finalnie jest to opowieść o pamięci i o tym, że “sensem przeszłości jest to, że pozostaje niezmienna”.
W innym opowiadaniu, “Było minęło” pisarka opowiada o relacji matka-córka, co samo w sobie jest niezbyt oryginalne, ale jeśli dorzuci się do tej historii trzy siostry nieobecnego ojca i z matki zrobi się emocjonalnego potwora… no to zaczyna się dziać. Historia o wyzwoleniu spod władzy matki, ale też pogodzeniu się z tym, że przeszłości nie wybieramy i nie zmienimy. Z chyba najładniejszymi w całym tym zbiorze zdaniami. Jak choćby to: “W naszym małym mieście, gdzie wiecznie zalegają mrok i chłód, a większość rzeczy pachnie i smakuje jak wata, jęczę z tęsknoty”.
Mógłbym tu zrobić wam zamiast recenzji wypisy z Eisenberg, ale jednak ufam, że sięgnięcie po tę - przełożoną przez Kaję Gucio i Krzysztofa Majera - książkę. Ale jakbyście dalej się zastanawiali nad tym, to mam jeszcze akapit dla Was:
“W młodości wszyscy trzymają się za ręce, wszyscy twoi znajomi, nawet ci, których nie lubisz, wszyscy na świecie, ale w pewnym momencie, kiedy się starzejesz, odrywasz się trochę od ziemi. Wszyscy wznoszą się ponad powierzchnię, coraz dalej od siebie – już nie trzymacie się za ręce, próbujesz, ale nie możesz nikogo dosięgnąć, a kiedy zerkasz w dół, widzisz, że to, co uważałaś za cały świat, to tylko opakowanie, luźne, rozpadające się opakowanie, na którym widnieje wyblakły obraz świata. Świat jest tam, gdzie żyją młodzi ludzie”.
Eisenberg w “Twojej kaczce…” najbardziej zajmuje właśnie czas, zarówno jako problem czysto konstrukcyjny, jak i jego znaczenie dla współczesnego człowieka. Sporo tu o starości i starzeniu się, ale bez mitologizacji, ubierania tego doświadczenia w cukierkowate metafory. Starzy ludzie u Eisenberg bywają wcale nie lepsi niż młodzi. Ba! Bywają okropni i z trudem kibicuje się dalszemu ich istnieniu. Jednocześnie w tej bardzo precyzyjnej prozie, gdzie język bywa jak skalpel, a konstrukcja opowiadania zdaje się być rozpisaną na diagramie, jest sporo miejsca na nagły liryzm, tak piękny, że gdyby wypełniał całą książkę stałby się nieznośny.
Eisenberg się nam należała. Choć debiutowała w latach 80., w Europie jest pisarką mało znaną, a niesłusznie. Czekam na więcej, ale żeby tak się wydarzyło to musimy - jak zawsze - zagłosować wyborami konsumenckimi. Idźcie i kupcie to proszę, chcę więcej Eisenberg po polsku sobie poczytać. Będę zobowiązany. I niewyspany.
Gorzej było z pierwszymi stronami. Opowieść malarki, która w środku kryzysu twórczego poznaje zamożną parę i przyjmuje zaproszenie do ich domku w Grecji początkowo stawiała przede mną tylko jedno pytanie - co mnie to interesuje? Przygody nadzianych ludzi fraternizujących się z artystyczną bohemą w amerykańskiej prozie pojawia się tak często, że - podobnie jak książki, których akcja zaczyna się podczas pogrzebu lub wesela - przestały mnie interesować. Jednak zanim się zorientowałem, opowiadanie Debory Eisenberg wciągnęło mnie i wyrzuciło na brzeg dopiero, gdy doczytałem ostatnie zdanie. Poprawiłem poduszkę i uznałem, że ten wieczór spędzę z amerykańską pisarką i jej niezrównanym pisaniem. Nie żałuję, choć trochę dzisiaj przysypiam.
Cechą charakterystyczną zebranych w “Twojej kaczce…” opowiadań jest wrzucanie czytelnika w środek akcji bez żadnych wyjaśnień. Jak w opowiadaniu “Tadź Mahal”, gdzie grupa aktorów, którzy dawniej byli skupieni wokół wybitnego reżysera, czyta wspomnienia jego wnuka, Antona. Eisenberg łączy tu fragmenty fikcyjnej książki o dziadku, rozmowy aktorów i Emmę - trzecioosobową narratorkę, córkę nieżyjącej aktorki. Finalnie jest to opowieść o pamięci i o tym, że “sensem przeszłości jest to, że pozostaje niezmienna”.
W innym opowiadaniu, “Było minęło” pisarka opowiada o relacji matka-córka, co samo w sobie jest niezbyt oryginalne, ale jeśli dorzuci się do tej historii trzy siostry nieobecnego ojca i z matki zrobi się emocjonalnego potwora… no to zaczyna się dziać. Historia o wyzwoleniu spod władzy matki, ale też pogodzeniu się z tym, że przeszłości nie wybieramy i nie zmienimy. Z chyba najładniejszymi w całym tym zbiorze zdaniami. Jak choćby to: “W naszym małym mieście, gdzie wiecznie zalegają mrok i chłód, a większość rzeczy pachnie i smakuje jak wata, jęczę z tęsknoty”.
Mógłbym tu zrobić wam zamiast recenzji wypisy z Eisenberg, ale jednak ufam, że sięgnięcie po tę - przełożoną przez Kaję Gucio i Krzysztofa Majera - książkę. Ale jakbyście dalej się zastanawiali nad tym, to mam jeszcze akapit dla Was:
“W młodości wszyscy trzymają się za ręce, wszyscy twoi znajomi, nawet ci, których nie lubisz, wszyscy na świecie, ale w pewnym momencie, kiedy się starzejesz, odrywasz się trochę od ziemi. Wszyscy wznoszą się ponad powierzchnię, coraz dalej od siebie – już nie trzymacie się za ręce, próbujesz, ale nie możesz nikogo dosięgnąć, a kiedy zerkasz w dół, widzisz, że to, co uważałaś za cały świat, to tylko opakowanie, luźne, rozpadające się opakowanie, na którym widnieje wyblakły obraz świata. Świat jest tam, gdzie żyją młodzi ludzie”.
Eisenberg w “Twojej kaczce…” najbardziej zajmuje właśnie czas, zarówno jako problem czysto konstrukcyjny, jak i jego znaczenie dla współczesnego człowieka. Sporo tu o starości i starzeniu się, ale bez mitologizacji, ubierania tego doświadczenia w cukierkowate metafory. Starzy ludzie u Eisenberg bywają wcale nie lepsi niż młodzi. Ba! Bywają okropni i z trudem kibicuje się dalszemu ich istnieniu. Jednocześnie w tej bardzo precyzyjnej prozie, gdzie język bywa jak skalpel, a konstrukcja opowiadania zdaje się być rozpisaną na diagramie, jest sporo miejsca na nagły liryzm, tak piękny, że gdyby wypełniał całą książkę stałby się nieznośny.
Eisenberg się nam należała. Choć debiutowała w latach 80., w Europie jest pisarką mało znaną, a niesłusznie. Czekam na więcej, ale żeby tak się wydarzyło to musimy - jak zawsze - zagłosować wyborami konsumenckimi. Idźcie i kupcie to proszę, chcę więcej Eisenberg po polsku sobie poczytać. Będę zobowiązany. I niewyspany.
March 6, 2022
Świetnie napisane opowiadania, ale niestety, odniosłem wrażenie, że to takie pisanie dla samego pisania. Treści nie ma tu zbyt wiele, raczej nie wyniosłem z tej książki niczego i nic ze mną nie zostanie na dłużej. Za każdym razem czytelnik wrzucany jest w sam środek jakiejś sytuacji, bez większego wyjaśnienia, zazwyczaj w środowiska klas wyższych lub związanych z artystyczną bohemą, gdzie łatwo jest zabłądzić w mnogości bohaterów. Nie jest to mój typ literatury, skąd moje delikatne „odbicie się” od książki, ale być może Wy dostrzeżecie w niej coś, czego ja nie widzę.
October 4, 2019
Deborah Eisenberg is definitely a talented writer whose stories are layered nuanced, written with and wonderful sensitivity and eloquence. This collection is comprised of six long stories that are most effective when dealing with characters in the throes of some familial crisis. I liked 3.5 out of the 6 stories (meaning one story was good until about half way through). Overall though, this collection is one that I'm quite sure will not have an enduring place in my mind.
October 31, 2018
Eisenberg is clearly a talented writer, but I'd put her in the category of a writer's writer (comparable to a poet's poet). A writer's writer is someone other writers admire for their style. She doesn't engage her readers with wonderful characters or a compelling plot. Her turns of phrase are original but they don't always work (I don't have the book in front of me, as it was a library book that I've returned, so I can't give examples). For my taste, she's too original: somewhat pretentious and mannered.
January 31, 2019
As with all short story collections, this is rather a mixed bag - some great selections ('Taj Mahal' and 'Recalculating' were the standouts) and a few duds (most notably, the longest story, 'Merge'). This was my first brush with Eisenberg, but on the strength of this, I'd read more.
February 28, 2022
4.5 Deborah Eisenberg pisze tak, jak chciałabym pisać, gdybym tak, jak ona stwierdziła, że potrzebuję nowego zajęcia, aby “nadać trochę sensu trzęsawiskom chlupoczącym w mojej głowie”. Eisenberg jest zabawna, ironiczna i każdym słowem trafia w punkt.
Czas i język to najbardziej powtarzalni bohaterowie jej prozy. I chociaż w sposobie prowadzenia narracji tych opowiadań jest coś serialowego (jak w opowiadaniu o starszych aktorach krytykujących wydaną książkę, w której pojawiają się wzmianki o ich życiu) to wcale nie są spektakularne teksty, nie znajdziecie w nich zwrotów akcji, szokującej puenty, czy wyrafinowanej metaforyki. Angażują swoją przystępnością, żeby zaskoczyć jednym zdaniem tak poetyckim i doskonałym, że odłożycie książkę, aby się przy nim zatrzymać. Uważność na małe zachwyty zalecam wyostrzyć w opowiadaniach Było minęło i Scalanie. Tak, jak już tu pisałam: Deborah Eisenberg mogłaby pisać o moim nudnym życiu, a i tak czytalibyście o tym z zachwytem. Czuję niedosyt i z niecierpliwością czekam na więcej.
Jeśli szukacie lektury, która skutecznie oderwie wasze myśli od rzeczywistości to sięgnijcie po “Twoja kaczka jest moją kaczką”.
Czas i język to najbardziej powtarzalni bohaterowie jej prozy. I chociaż w sposobie prowadzenia narracji tych opowiadań jest coś serialowego (jak w opowiadaniu o starszych aktorach krytykujących wydaną książkę, w której pojawiają się wzmianki o ich życiu) to wcale nie są spektakularne teksty, nie znajdziecie w nich zwrotów akcji, szokującej puenty, czy wyrafinowanej metaforyki. Angażują swoją przystępnością, żeby zaskoczyć jednym zdaniem tak poetyckim i doskonałym, że odłożycie książkę, aby się przy nim zatrzymać. Uważność na małe zachwyty zalecam wyostrzyć w opowiadaniach Było minęło i Scalanie. Tak, jak już tu pisałam: Deborah Eisenberg mogłaby pisać o moim nudnym życiu, a i tak czytalibyście o tym z zachwytem. Czuję niedosyt i z niecierpliwością czekam na więcej.
Jeśli szukacie lektury, która skutecznie oderwie wasze myśli od rzeczywistości to sięgnijcie po “Twoja kaczka jest moją kaczką”.
August 4, 2023
Al borde del lenguaje (Comentario, 2023)
Hay libros que se escriben al borde del lenguaje, cómo si más allá de sus palabras sólo fuera posible el silencio o el grito. Los cuentos de Taj Mahal están compuestos de esa materia voluble: la pregunta por lo que la palabra crea, por lo que la palabra limita, y por lo que desde fuera de la palabra puede volverse sobre ella y devorarla. El primero de los relatos, "Tu pato es mi pato", traza el arco que recorrerán los otros: la realidad de la representación, el arte y el artificio, lo que puede y lo que no puede decirse.
Una autora de cuidado Deborah Eisenberg, una autora que es un caudal al que vale la pena acercarse para dejarse arrastrar. Dice que escribe un cuento al año, y así un libro cada diez. Vale la pena, también, esperarla.
Hay libros que se escriben al borde del lenguaje, cómo si más allá de sus palabras sólo fuera posible el silencio o el grito. Los cuentos de Taj Mahal están compuestos de esa materia voluble: la pregunta por lo que la palabra crea, por lo que la palabra limita, y por lo que desde fuera de la palabra puede volverse sobre ella y devorarla. El primero de los relatos, "Tu pato es mi pato", traza el arco que recorrerán los otros: la realidad de la representación, el arte y el artificio, lo que puede y lo que no puede decirse.
Una autora de cuidado Deborah Eisenberg, una autora que es un caudal al que vale la pena acercarse para dejarse arrastrar. Dice que escribe un cuento al año, y así un libro cada diez. Vale la pena, también, esperarla.
January 4, 2019
I thought the title was the best thing about this.
March 23, 2018
Engrossing stories. Longer than I’m used to for short stories, but they make great use of their length. So much going on, but all tied together meticulously and naturally. Moving and a pleasure to read.
July 10, 2022
Coś w tych opowiadaniach było takiego, co sprawiło, że dobrze się bawiłam. Lekkość stylu, umiejętna kreacja bohaterów, dbałość o szczegóły. Wracałam po wielu godzinach do treści i z łatwością w nią wsiąkałam ponownie. Nie zmieniła mojego życia, ale pozostawiła uczucie zadowolenia, jest idealna jako przerywnik między ciężkimi lekturami.
April 19, 2017
My friend read a collection of this author's short stories, and it was her reaction that got me looking for one. The price was right for this one: 99¢ on Kindle. There's probably an automatic way to find the page count; my estimate is 28 pages.
I am going to say something on the meaning of the title. If you think that would be a spoiler for you, stop here, but there isn't much more I can say about the story per se.
A young artist who's blocked and the benefactors through whose involvement she kick-starts both her creativity and her career: that's the theme.
Here's another author who can write! I figure to write fiction and make your characters real, you have to notice your own reactions and be fearlessly honest on the page.
--------------------
The key word here is one that seems to be on my mind: complicity.
We do not like to see ourselves as entangled with the bad actors. Accordingly, we take steps.
In that vein, here's David Brooks' March 31, 2017 column. He's talking about the inability of post-religious societies to clear away guilt. They attempt to do so, he says, by assuming the mantle of victimhood, or by association with victims as being the only non-guilty actors. https://nyti.ms/2nCnr3R
But I think he misses the actual method by which the clearing of guilt is effected, which is by fixing blame for the victimhood on a perpetrator. In that way, the scapegoat becomes the lightening rod via which guilt is discharged. In that respect, the article on which David Brooks based his March 31st column, written by Wilfred McClay for The Hedgehog Review, does a better job. http://www.iasc-culture.org/THR/THR_a...
Food for thought.
(And, yes, I know that Brooks and this McClay are conservatives, and I'm not sure that religious societies functioned any differently regarding blame and scapegoating from what they're terming post-religious societies, i.e., modernity, although Brooks and McClay are making that assumption.)
I am going to say something on the meaning of the title. If you think that would be a spoiler for you, stop here, but there isn't much more I can say about the story per se.
"Gentleman," he said, with a tiny bow, "I have a great deal to gain from this transaction, assuming it all proceeds as anticipated. But if at zero hour, by some mishap, it should fall through, let me remind you that, owing to the billable hours clause you were so kind as to append to our contract, only you will be the losers. ... But perhaps a moment of sobriety is in order at this point, a moment of reflection about the tenuous nature of careers. Or, to put it another way, don't think for a moment that if the boat is scuttled I'll throw you my rope. I'm sure you all recall the Zen riddle about the great Zen master, his disciple, and the duck trapped in the bottle?"
He drained his large glass of wine, glug glug glug. "Everyone recall the Master's lesson? It's not my duck, it's not my bottle, it's not my problem?"
A young artist who's blocked and the benefactors through whose involvement she kick-starts both her creativity and her career: that's the theme.
Here's another author who can write! I figure to write fiction and make your characters real, you have to notice your own reactions and be fearlessly honest on the page.
--------------------
The key word here is one that seems to be on my mind: complicity.
We do not like to see ourselves as entangled with the bad actors. Accordingly, we take steps.
In that vein, here's David Brooks' March 31, 2017 column. He's talking about the inability of post-religious societies to clear away guilt. They attempt to do so, he says, by assuming the mantle of victimhood, or by association with victims as being the only non-guilty actors. https://nyti.ms/2nCnr3R
But I think he misses the actual method by which the clearing of guilt is effected, which is by fixing blame for the victimhood on a perpetrator. In that way, the scapegoat becomes the lightening rod via which guilt is discharged. In that respect, the article on which David Brooks based his March 31st column, written by Wilfred McClay for The Hedgehog Review, does a better job. http://www.iasc-culture.org/THR/THR_a...
Food for thought.
(And, yes, I know that Brooks and this McClay are conservatives, and I'm not sure that religious societies functioned any differently regarding blame and scapegoating from what they're terming post-religious societies, i.e., modernity, although Brooks and McClay are making that assumption.)
July 14, 2020
Last week I watched a movie at home that I hadn’t seen in years and as it was playing, my memory recalled the first and only time I had seen it at Film Forum, the emblematic movie theater when it was still on Watts Street (that’s how long ago it was…) in SOHO on a cold NYC winter night. My dinner with Andre, directed by Louis Malle is a cult film which I thought I had entirely forgotten, but to my surprise, it was just waiting to be revived in the labyrinthic aisles of my mind. The plot is simple: the reunion of two friends that haven’t seen each other for a long time. In a little less than two hours they engage in an engrossing and philosophical conversation at their table, in the Café des Artistes on West 67th Street. The two actors who play themselves are Shawn Wallace and Andre Gregory. They talk at length about the theater, religion and the spontaneity of life, in a material world. At the end, after realizing they are the last costumers in the restaurant, Andre pays the bill and they say goodbye and go home. “When I finally came in, says Wallace in the last scene of the film, as he is riding a cab to Chelsea and Satie’s melancholic first Gymnopédie plays in the background, “Debbie was home from work, and I told her everything about my dinner with Andre.” Well, Debbie is his longtime companion Deborah Eisenberg.
At the time of my regular visits to Film Forum, I had read Transactions in a foreign currency in The New Yorker and had been impressed by the quality of the writing and particularly by the unique way in which the story unfolds, about an on and off couple living in different cities, that meets again when she flies to Montreal to join him. “Strange, that I missed Ivan so much more when we were together than when we were apart”, she admits. Debbie describes an empty relationship in a busy world by placing here and there a phrase, like the image of a leafless plant in the lover’s NYC apartment, that surely will die by the time she gets back. And this is the way her stories work, as if by focusing on details one can eventual see their unique place in the whole canvas. But she will never reveal more than is necessary.
There seems to be a structured plan traced in advance and necessarily varied as she goes on, adapting to each new element as the story develops. But what is essential is that the variations seem to be the result of passionate and painful negotiations, in which I can well imagine all the suffering she goes through, until the moment the final dot appears in the piece of paper. Years later, I got more acquainted with her production and her meticulous and peculiar working habits. It is said, for example, that her first story Days took her three years to complete. And it is not surprising that in thirty-five years, she has published only five books of short stories.
And so, as Shawn Wallace mentioned her at the end, a spark was produced as the right cables connected with each other in my mind. One of those particularly luminous moments that turn a dull day into something special. How long had it been since I had read her? And so, the following morning I looked for my copy of Your duck is my duck, and embarked in an incredible journey with a list of characters that could well be part of the Macy's Parade: a painter in search for inspiration, a socialist puppeteer, a putative grandson, a famous film director, a group of declining actors, three crazy sisters, a world famous violinist, a dog called Moppet, a neighbor that writes strange postcards, the son of a wealthy industrialist, a patient in a waiting room that feels like a lab rat, a peculiar uncle, her lovers and a curious nephew. There are six stories in the book, and I will just concentrate on the first one, to avoid revealing too much and spoil the interest of potential readers. It happens to be my favorite and I believe it has important elements that can accurately describe Debbie’s writing style.
Before the main characters meet, there’s mention of puppet penguins, puppet dolphins and puppet explorers “fighting their way through blizzards and under brilliant, starry skies”, on their way to the South Pole, while dogs sing a choral commentary, that sounded like “choirs of drugged angels”. An extravagant description of the no less extravagant Amos Voinovich’s deluxe puppet show. The painter, who in the very first line tells us that once upon a time she used to go to a lot of parties, lives in NY and has arrived, after a long flight at the wealthy home of her friends in some unnamed place. Brief pieces of information that the reader will complete using a good deal of imagination.
At dinner on the first night, Christa, the wealthy host, is wearing a little vintage sundress “the color of excellent butter”, as Ray, her husband, tells the story of the Zen master, his disciple and the duck trapped in the bottle. “Everyone recall the master’s lesson?”, asks the host insistently as the puzzled eyes of the guests and their silence are fixed on him. “It’s not my duck, it’s not my bottle, it’s not my problem?”. And here, by adding a small detail as the question mark at the end, Debbie Eisenberg turns a statement into a moral question of Dostoyevskian proportions that she answers cleverly, with what turns to be the title of the story and the book itself. Yes, in this diversely rich world of ours, and contrary to the dubious Zen master’s assumption, somehow, we are all morally attached to each other.
When they finally meet, the description of Amos as a bony little person, watching her with “huge black eyes that looked as though they were rimmed with kohl”, mysteriously turns the puppeteer himself into one of his puppets: he had a lovely, large nose and a face “so waxen and intense in its penumbra of black curls, that it left an afterimage”. And that could be a perfect description of this passage, that somehow, and quite magically, stays in the mind of the reader like a cloud that takes a long time to dissolve. Portrayals like this one abound in the book and they all follow more or less the same logic of using words that have been chosen for their resonance, meaning and weight. Amos then talks about his new show, that he will run there, for the rich audience. The weird description that follows mentions bats, puppet bats of course, that turn into drone aircraft and back again. Fantasy in her writing seems to know no bounds.
As the nameless painter complains about sleeping problems “I’m hurtling through time, strapped to an explosive device, my life”, Christa gives her a pill she takes before going to bed. The pill (there’s mention of Crestilin, Levelal, Vexnix and Hedonalex) turns to be a strong drug that produces hallucinations that lead to her unconsciously writing and sending an e-mail in the middle of the night, to her long-gone lover. The result is a bizarre exchange of messages (each transcribed word by word) that somehow fill in the blanks of their story. Again, it is through fragments that we arrive at understanding the whole and as it often happens in her fiction, relationships are unfinished puzzles where the missing pieces are nowhere to be found.
The responsibility of the artist toward the hosts, in a context where each character has a role to play is a seminal idea in the story. And it is reinforced when they look through the window and see people ready to get into boats to leave. The dearth surrounding the property of the rich is striking, as well as the dramatic consequences of climate change in the fields. All the social concerns are put into the new puppet play that Amos presents at the end, to the astonishing reaction of the rich, that do not know what to make of it. The ominous scenario centered in an insurrection of the serfs against the greedy king and trophy queen and their puppet government (the cursives are the author's), turns disastrous as a bunch of corporate executives take over and destroy the castle and kill the serfs. The story in within a story is a concept close to Debbie’s idea of fiction. If we assume that the characters have their own life stories, the moment they meet a new story is created and if it is told by someone else, carrying a story as well, then the juxtaposition of all of them offers a rich mosaic of creative potential for the writer.
As the story is about to end, I rarely go to parties any longer is the line that connects with the beginning in a luminous rainbow-like design. The painter and the puppeteer are having coffee in New York. She is back to painting again and in fact just had a successful show in a gallery, while he has returned from a tour of his play in Europe. Remembering Christa and Ray they both realize their stay at their beach house was an exchange of some sort, since at the end “It keeps a little bit of you and you keep a little bit of it”, she admits, reinforcing the idea of the moral argument (in which the Zen master’s only duty was to selfishly dismiss the equation) that is central to the story. Your duck is my duck...
My dinner with Andre: ending
__
At the time of my regular visits to Film Forum, I had read Transactions in a foreign currency in The New Yorker and had been impressed by the quality of the writing and particularly by the unique way in which the story unfolds, about an on and off couple living in different cities, that meets again when she flies to Montreal to join him. “Strange, that I missed Ivan so much more when we were together than when we were apart”, she admits. Debbie describes an empty relationship in a busy world by placing here and there a phrase, like the image of a leafless plant in the lover’s NYC apartment, that surely will die by the time she gets back. And this is the way her stories work, as if by focusing on details one can eventual see their unique place in the whole canvas. But she will never reveal more than is necessary.
There seems to be a structured plan traced in advance and necessarily varied as she goes on, adapting to each new element as the story develops. But what is essential is that the variations seem to be the result of passionate and painful negotiations, in which I can well imagine all the suffering she goes through, until the moment the final dot appears in the piece of paper. Years later, I got more acquainted with her production and her meticulous and peculiar working habits. It is said, for example, that her first story Days took her three years to complete. And it is not surprising that in thirty-five years, she has published only five books of short stories.
And so, as Shawn Wallace mentioned her at the end, a spark was produced as the right cables connected with each other in my mind. One of those particularly luminous moments that turn a dull day into something special. How long had it been since I had read her? And so, the following morning I looked for my copy of Your duck is my duck, and embarked in an incredible journey with a list of characters that could well be part of the Macy's Parade: a painter in search for inspiration, a socialist puppeteer, a putative grandson, a famous film director, a group of declining actors, three crazy sisters, a world famous violinist, a dog called Moppet, a neighbor that writes strange postcards, the son of a wealthy industrialist, a patient in a waiting room that feels like a lab rat, a peculiar uncle, her lovers and a curious nephew. There are six stories in the book, and I will just concentrate on the first one, to avoid revealing too much and spoil the interest of potential readers. It happens to be my favorite and I believe it has important elements that can accurately describe Debbie’s writing style.
Before the main characters meet, there’s mention of puppet penguins, puppet dolphins and puppet explorers “fighting their way through blizzards and under brilliant, starry skies”, on their way to the South Pole, while dogs sing a choral commentary, that sounded like “choirs of drugged angels”. An extravagant description of the no less extravagant Amos Voinovich’s deluxe puppet show. The painter, who in the very first line tells us that once upon a time she used to go to a lot of parties, lives in NY and has arrived, after a long flight at the wealthy home of her friends in some unnamed place. Brief pieces of information that the reader will complete using a good deal of imagination.
At dinner on the first night, Christa, the wealthy host, is wearing a little vintage sundress “the color of excellent butter”, as Ray, her husband, tells the story of the Zen master, his disciple and the duck trapped in the bottle. “Everyone recall the master’s lesson?”, asks the host insistently as the puzzled eyes of the guests and their silence are fixed on him. “It’s not my duck, it’s not my bottle, it’s not my problem?”. And here, by adding a small detail as the question mark at the end, Debbie Eisenberg turns a statement into a moral question of Dostoyevskian proportions that she answers cleverly, with what turns to be the title of the story and the book itself. Yes, in this diversely rich world of ours, and contrary to the dubious Zen master’s assumption, somehow, we are all morally attached to each other.
When they finally meet, the description of Amos as a bony little person, watching her with “huge black eyes that looked as though they were rimmed with kohl”, mysteriously turns the puppeteer himself into one of his puppets: he had a lovely, large nose and a face “so waxen and intense in its penumbra of black curls, that it left an afterimage”. And that could be a perfect description of this passage, that somehow, and quite magically, stays in the mind of the reader like a cloud that takes a long time to dissolve. Portrayals like this one abound in the book and they all follow more or less the same logic of using words that have been chosen for their resonance, meaning and weight. Amos then talks about his new show, that he will run there, for the rich audience. The weird description that follows mentions bats, puppet bats of course, that turn into drone aircraft and back again. Fantasy in her writing seems to know no bounds.
As the nameless painter complains about sleeping problems “I’m hurtling through time, strapped to an explosive device, my life”, Christa gives her a pill she takes before going to bed. The pill (there’s mention of Crestilin, Levelal, Vexnix and Hedonalex) turns to be a strong drug that produces hallucinations that lead to her unconsciously writing and sending an e-mail in the middle of the night, to her long-gone lover. The result is a bizarre exchange of messages (each transcribed word by word) that somehow fill in the blanks of their story. Again, it is through fragments that we arrive at understanding the whole and as it often happens in her fiction, relationships are unfinished puzzles where the missing pieces are nowhere to be found.
The responsibility of the artist toward the hosts, in a context where each character has a role to play is a seminal idea in the story. And it is reinforced when they look through the window and see people ready to get into boats to leave. The dearth surrounding the property of the rich is striking, as well as the dramatic consequences of climate change in the fields. All the social concerns are put into the new puppet play that Amos presents at the end, to the astonishing reaction of the rich, that do not know what to make of it. The ominous scenario centered in an insurrection of the serfs against the greedy king and trophy queen and their puppet government (the cursives are the author's), turns disastrous as a bunch of corporate executives take over and destroy the castle and kill the serfs. The story in within a story is a concept close to Debbie’s idea of fiction. If we assume that the characters have their own life stories, the moment they meet a new story is created and if it is told by someone else, carrying a story as well, then the juxtaposition of all of them offers a rich mosaic of creative potential for the writer.
As the story is about to end, I rarely go to parties any longer is the line that connects with the beginning in a luminous rainbow-like design. The painter and the puppeteer are having coffee in New York. She is back to painting again and in fact just had a successful show in a gallery, while he has returned from a tour of his play in Europe. Remembering Christa and Ray they both realize their stay at their beach house was an exchange of some sort, since at the end “It keeps a little bit of you and you keep a little bit of it”, she admits, reinforcing the idea of the moral argument (in which the Zen master’s only duty was to selfishly dismiss the equation) that is central to the story. Your duck is my duck...
My dinner with Andre: ending
__
March 25, 2022
Deborah Eisenberg to autorka, która do swoich opowiadań dodaje kąśliwy humor, a na świat patrzy uważnym okiem. Jej bohaterowie często obserwują z boku życie bohemy, tkwią w trudnych relacjach (szczególnie rodzinnych) czy przyglądają się przemijaniu. Kolejne teksty to zapis codziennych scen, które razem tworzą opowiadania nie dążące do żadnego punktu kulminacyjnego. Ot, toczące się powoli życie, które pozbawia ludzi ich masek. Czyta się to przyjemnie i trudno nie zachwycić się niektórymi fragmentami (autorka wie jak operować piórem, by nasze oczy zalśniły), ale moim głównym problemem z Eisenberg jest to, że wyżej od inteligencji autora często stawiam jego wrażliwość. W zbiorze „Twoja kaczka jest moją kaczką" nie brakuje trafnie ujętych spojrzeń, gestów czy słów, ale niekoniecznie działają one na serce. Czyta się to dobrze, ale czuję przy tym niewiele. Kończyłam kolejne opowiadania bardziej lub mniej usatysfakcjonowana i czasami zostawałam z niczym. Analizowałam jeszcze przez moment pewne zachowania bohaterów, ale nie towarzyszyły temu większe uczucia. Proza Eisenberg nie jest bowiem czymś, z czym łatwo się dogaduję. Dostrzegam wyjątkowość autorki i nie mogę odmówić jej umiejętnego ujęcia podejmowanych tematów, ale jednocześnie nie jest to część świata mojej wrażliwości. Na pewno jednak warto sprawdzić jej teksty na własnej duszy, bo istnieje duże prawdopodobieństwo, że znajdziecie w tym zbiorze coś, czego w literaturze Wam brakowało, a nawet nie zdawaliście sobie z tego sprawy. Potencjał w tym jest, zdecydowanie.
przekł. Kaja Gucio, Krzysztof Majer
„Uwięź pękła i wystrzeliłam w górę, unosząc się przez chwilę poza zasięgiem ziemskiej grawitacji, po czym ciężko opadłam z powrotem na krzesło, a na moim spokoju wykwitła gwałtownie siatka pęknięć, z których sączyła się moja rodzina, taka, jaka była”.
(cytat z opowiadania „Było, minęło")
przekł. Kaja Gucio, Krzysztof Majer
„Uwięź pękła i wystrzeliłam w górę, unosząc się przez chwilę poza zasięgiem ziemskiej grawitacji, po czym ciężko opadłam z powrotem na krzesło, a na moim spokoju wykwitła gwałtownie siatka pęknięć, z których sączyła się moja rodzina, taka, jaka była”.
(cytat z opowiadania „Było, minęło")
October 20, 2018
The past week I have been in thrall to Deborah Eisenberg’s new book of just six stories. I could have finished the book more quickly, but each of the stories in Your Duck is My Duck was so complex, so suggestive of multiple ideas, that I never read more than one story each evening. Then I reread a couple. In fact, I began with the audio version, read by the author and other distinguished voices, but I quickly checked out a library copy so that I could both read and listen. In “Taj Mahal,” for example, there are shifting voices and times, and I appreciated the visual clues – horizontal lines and italics – which guided my reading. In this story about the unreliability of memory, the principal character seemed at first to be the memoirist, but the characters in his memoir took the story away from him. It was unclear whose memories were “right.”
I read somewhere that Eisenberg’s stories are as dense as novels. I wish I knew who said that, for I would like to give credit. It is exactly what I kept thinking. They are also stories for someone who does not mind ambiguity.
Usually, the premise is simple, and a scene unfolds. Then the story takes a turn, probably darkening. Frequently the real topic is power – political or financial – but the power is unseen, hidden, ominous. A son has a glimpse of a more moral life, but his father holds the purse strings. A simple girl with uncommon imagination is considered “not normal” by a harsh medical system. In other stories, lingering memories and family have a powerful grip.
The title of the book is the same as that of the first story. It is from a Zen riddle. A Zen master, his disciple and a duck are trapped in a bottle. The master’s lesson is this: “It’s not my duck, it’s not my bottle, it’s not my problem.” The two artists in this story, a painter and a puppeteer, benefit from the largesse of patrons who have done all manner of bad deeds – desecrating the landscape, uprooting peasants. They are unsure what to do: "It's not so hard to figure out why I'm not sleeping. What I can't figure out is why everybody else is sleeping." Your duck is my duck. We must all take responsibility.
I had a rather personal reaction to “The Third Tower,” which may be the case for many readers, because Eisenberg leaves gaps for one to fill in. A teenage girl who resides in a fantasy world but has a remarkable imagination is seen by a harsh physician as having “aberrant cortical activity” and is put through treatment to make her “normal.” But almost immediately her flights of fancy struck me as being much like what I would imagine dementia to be. A beloved relative, in her 90s and on the precipice of losing her grip on reality, told me with sadness and wonder that she was no longer sure what was real and what was a dream. It was a profoundly melancholy moment. What is normal? How do we show kindness to those whose minds are different?
Deborah Eisenberg bears witness to a corrupt world but also to a deep humanity. The library book will go back, but fortunately the audio stays on my phone. I will listen occasionally, when my heart can stand it.
I read somewhere that Eisenberg’s stories are as dense as novels. I wish I knew who said that, for I would like to give credit. It is exactly what I kept thinking. They are also stories for someone who does not mind ambiguity.
Usually, the premise is simple, and a scene unfolds. Then the story takes a turn, probably darkening. Frequently the real topic is power – political or financial – but the power is unseen, hidden, ominous. A son has a glimpse of a more moral life, but his father holds the purse strings. A simple girl with uncommon imagination is considered “not normal” by a harsh medical system. In other stories, lingering memories and family have a powerful grip.
The title of the book is the same as that of the first story. It is from a Zen riddle. A Zen master, his disciple and a duck are trapped in a bottle. The master’s lesson is this: “It’s not my duck, it’s not my bottle, it’s not my problem.” The two artists in this story, a painter and a puppeteer, benefit from the largesse of patrons who have done all manner of bad deeds – desecrating the landscape, uprooting peasants. They are unsure what to do: "It's not so hard to figure out why I'm not sleeping. What I can't figure out is why everybody else is sleeping." Your duck is my duck. We must all take responsibility.
I had a rather personal reaction to “The Third Tower,” which may be the case for many readers, because Eisenberg leaves gaps for one to fill in. A teenage girl who resides in a fantasy world but has a remarkable imagination is seen by a harsh physician as having “aberrant cortical activity” and is put through treatment to make her “normal.” But almost immediately her flights of fancy struck me as being much like what I would imagine dementia to be. A beloved relative, in her 90s and on the precipice of losing her grip on reality, told me with sadness and wonder that she was no longer sure what was real and what was a dream. It was a profoundly melancholy moment. What is normal? How do we show kindness to those whose minds are different?
Deborah Eisenberg bears witness to a corrupt world but also to a deep humanity. The library book will go back, but fortunately the audio stays on my phone. I will listen occasionally, when my heart can stand it.
May 19, 2017
A quality I find most arresting in women is a certain kind of intellect. I am not sure I can adequately describe it. It is sort of edgy, drollery packaged in a faux-innocence, wit that slices profoundly yet does not maim, both languid and alluring. She reeks of smart but remains a lady, fully in control of her femininity, confident in herself. And she realizes how fractured and fragile she is and you are and will convey that to you with or without words, or conditions, on either partner. You understand that she is real and that veracity can infatuate a simpleton such as I am.
Ms. Eisenberg is that. In fact, many of my GR female friends are like that (please, take the compliment). I consider myself fortunate to have scoped this not well known writer out. She is very literate, very amusing (but not in a comic’s way) and she writes beautifully. I am feeling her, just like I do with all the authors I cannot get enough of. My new BFF’s Oscar Wilde and P.G. Wodehouse fall into different categories, but are equally adored.
So, Deborah, if I may call you that, would you mind it if I read more of your work? I want to learn you. I will share with you a sliver of my heart and the change in my pocket and I will always act respectfully towards the words on the pages you produce. So, do we have a date? And yes, I am well aware, that “My duck is your duck.”
Ms. Eisenberg is that. In fact, many of my GR female friends are like that (please, take the compliment). I consider myself fortunate to have scoped this not well known writer out. She is very literate, very amusing (but not in a comic’s way) and she writes beautifully. I am feeling her, just like I do with all the authors I cannot get enough of. My new BFF’s Oscar Wilde and P.G. Wodehouse fall into different categories, but are equally adored.
So, Deborah, if I may call you that, would you mind it if I read more of your work? I want to learn you. I will share with you a sliver of my heart and the change in my pocket and I will always act respectfully towards the words on the pages you produce. So, do we have a date? And yes, I am well aware, that “My duck is your duck.”
April 26, 2022
Una pintora que se hace amiga de una pareja rica y de un titiritero genial pero deprimente. Un grupo de viejos actores de cine que vuelven a reunirse gracias a un libro que habla sobre ellos, y que repudian. Una mujer que rememora su infancia, refugiada en la casa de sus tres tías, y la complicada relación con su madre. Un chico que intenta sobrevivir por cuenta propia sin la ayuda de su padre millonario, y acaba trabajando como asistente personal de una anciana. Una adolescente con un desorden hiperasociativo, para quien cada palabra puede explotar en un montón de imágenes. Un joven que viaja a Europa para el homenaje de un tío suyo que le fascinaba aunque no conoció, y una vieja exnovia de ese tío que acaba acostándose con ese sobrino que se parece al hombre que amó.
Eisenberg es brillante. Cada uno de sus cuentos es una sorpresa. Escribe con un ritmo que engancha desde el principio, es imposible soltarla. Sus historias y sus estructuras son impredecibles dentro de su sutileza. Y sus personajes —incluso los más desagradables— resultan entrañables. Salgo de este libro fascinado y muy feliz con este descubrimiento.
Además, me gusta mucho Federico Falco, así que leerlo como traductor fue un disfrute adicional.
Mis favoritos: “Taj Mahal”, “Tachar y seguir” y, sobre todo, “Recalculando”.
Eisenberg es brillante. Cada uno de sus cuentos es una sorpresa. Escribe con un ritmo que engancha desde el principio, es imposible soltarla. Sus historias y sus estructuras son impredecibles dentro de su sutileza. Y sus personajes —incluso los más desagradables— resultan entrañables. Salgo de este libro fascinado y muy feliz con este descubrimiento.
Además, me gusta mucho Federico Falco, así que leerlo como traductor fue un disfrute adicional.
Mis favoritos: “Taj Mahal”, “Tachar y seguir” y, sobre todo, “Recalculando”.
October 12, 2024
As always with Eisenberg, there were a couple of stories in this collection that I absolutely loved--enough to keep me reading all the way through in the hope of finding another gem--but so many struck me as self-indulgent exercises, clever in that precious New Yorker way I no longer have time for. There's a brittleness to Eisenberg's characters, a lack of genuine feeling that keeps readers at arm's length. Occasionally we break through to find the vulnerability that redeems the story. "Transactions in a Foreign Currency," the title story of her first collection (which I read in the 1990s), is still my all-time favorite: exquisite writing, and a depth of insight that grows slowly upon the reader.
Eisenberg, in life, has spoken forcefully and courageously against "anti-Islamic and nationalist sentiments already widely shared in the Western world" [re: PEN's decision to award its annual Freedom of Expression Courage Award to Charlie Hebdo in the wake of the 2015 massacre in Paris]. I admire her for this, but too often when politics intrude in her stories it comes across as heavy-handed and lecturing.
The art, of art that aims to do more than merely entertain, is to provoke reflection without neglecting to delight and inspire. It's one of the things I admire about the French Philosophes, their skill with the stiletto. Eisenberg's preference, alas, appears to be the meat cleaver.
Eisenberg, in life, has spoken forcefully and courageously against "anti-Islamic and nationalist sentiments already widely shared in the Western world" [re: PEN's decision to award its annual Freedom of Expression Courage Award to Charlie Hebdo in the wake of the 2015 massacre in Paris]. I admire her for this, but too often when politics intrude in her stories it comes across as heavy-handed and lecturing.
The art, of art that aims to do more than merely entertain, is to provoke reflection without neglecting to delight and inspire. It's one of the things I admire about the French Philosophes, their skill with the stiletto. Eisenberg's preference, alas, appears to be the meat cleaver.
July 8, 2019
"Comic, elegant, and pitch-perfect." -- Vanity Fair
"There aren't many contemporary novels as shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny as Eisenberg's best stories." -- The New York Times Book Review
"Eisenberg's stories possess all the steely beauty of a knife wrapped in velvet." -- Boston Globe
These are some examples of the lavish praise that dots the book jacket of Eisenberg's most recent short story collection. As you may have surmised from my charitable 2-star review, I do not agree with the tastemakers who've anointed Ms. Eisenberg a master of the form. This collection features six stories, and I had to quit after just three. Eisenberg's prose has all the hallmarks of a postmodern flimflam artist. It's full of clever tricks but seldom goes anywhere worth visiting.
"There aren't many contemporary novels as shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny as Eisenberg's best stories." -- The New York Times Book Review
"Eisenberg's stories possess all the steely beauty of a knife wrapped in velvet." -- Boston Globe
These are some examples of the lavish praise that dots the book jacket of Eisenberg's most recent short story collection. As you may have surmised from my charitable 2-star review, I do not agree with the tastemakers who've anointed Ms. Eisenberg a master of the form. This collection features six stories, and I had to quit after just three. Eisenberg's prose has all the hallmarks of a postmodern flimflam artist. It's full of clever tricks but seldom goes anywhere worth visiting.
December 31, 2018
Lots to love in these stories. Gorgeous writing: a tornado is a "dancer filled with God." Oh!! And weighty themes, like the destructiveness of late capitalism, are subtly woven into the narrative.
But I am an old-fashioned lover of plot, and the plots in these stories were mostly thin. Also, in most of the stories, you're not sure where you are in time and place, and I find that disconcerting. I felt especially at sea reading "The Third Tower," in which a teenage girl is sent to "the city" (which she never glimpses) to be treated for dizziness. I can see what Eisenberg is trying to do. I think she is trying to tempt her readers to just experience the stories, without the preconceived notions that a firmly-drawn setting might inspire. I can respect that. It just made the stories less enjoyable for me.
There were a couple of stories in this collection that I enjoyed more than others. My favorite was "Recalculating," about a farm boy attending the funeral of a gay uncle who had long ago left the American prairie for Europe. I also liked "Merge." The contrast between Celeste's depth and Keith's shallowness was very poignant.
Many of these stories involve subtle confrontations between younger people and the aged: Keith and Celeste caring for Cordis in "Merge," Adam's becoming acquainted with his uncle's friends in "Recalculating," the conflict between the narrator and her mother in "Cross Off and Move On." In "Taj Mahal," Emma is the daughter of a late movie star who reunites with her mother's version of the Brat Pack when another younger relative writes a cheesy expose about them.
Although these aren't the kind of stories I generally love, I'm glad I read them and I respect Eisenberg's artistry.
Like my reviews? Check out my blog at http://www.kathrynbashaar.com/blog/
Author of The Saint's Mistress: https://www.bing.com/search?q=amazon....
But I am an old-fashioned lover of plot, and the plots in these stories were mostly thin. Also, in most of the stories, you're not sure where you are in time and place, and I find that disconcerting. I felt especially at sea reading "The Third Tower," in which a teenage girl is sent to "the city" (which she never glimpses) to be treated for dizziness. I can see what Eisenberg is trying to do. I think she is trying to tempt her readers to just experience the stories, without the preconceived notions that a firmly-drawn setting might inspire. I can respect that. It just made the stories less enjoyable for me.
There were a couple of stories in this collection that I enjoyed more than others. My favorite was "Recalculating," about a farm boy attending the funeral of a gay uncle who had long ago left the American prairie for Europe. I also liked "Merge." The contrast between Celeste's depth and Keith's shallowness was very poignant.
Many of these stories involve subtle confrontations between younger people and the aged: Keith and Celeste caring for Cordis in "Merge," Adam's becoming acquainted with his uncle's friends in "Recalculating," the conflict between the narrator and her mother in "Cross Off and Move On." In "Taj Mahal," Emma is the daughter of a late movie star who reunites with her mother's version of the Brat Pack when another younger relative writes a cheesy expose about them.
Although these aren't the kind of stories I generally love, I'm glad I read them and I respect Eisenberg's artistry.
Like my reviews? Check out my blog at http://www.kathrynbashaar.com/blog/
Author of The Saint's Mistress: https://www.bing.com/search?q=amazon....
February 20, 2024
Dziwny był ten zbiór i zapomnę go raczej szybko. Były dwa bardzo dobre opowiadania, reszta średnia, generalnie nie mam wrażenia, żebym coś więcej wyniosła z przeczytania tej książki, także duży zawód, bo szykowałam się po poleceniu na perełkę.
March 11, 2022
Jestem wielką fanką opowiadań, a jeszcze fajniej jeśli są napisane przez kobiety. Dlatego na zbiór sześciu opowiadań Deborah Eisenberg „Twoja kaczka jest moją kaczką”, pisarki popularnej w USA, a u nas dotąd nie znanej, czekałam z dużym zainteresowaniem. Czułam się zachęcona pozytywnymi opiniami recenzentów, lubianym przeze mnie wydawnictwem, a przede wszystkim Eisenberg jako osobą, kiedy już sobie o niej trochę poczytałam. Niestety po rozpoczęciu lektury emocje szybko mi opadły, a kaczka okazała się gumowa i mdła. Trochę szkoda.
Na samym początku chcę podkreślić, że Eisenberg pisze bardzo dobrze. Ładne i zgrabne zdania, trochę humoru, dopracowany język. Z pewnością jest świetną pisarką. Gdyby tylko to wystarczyło żeby opowiadanie mogło mnie kupić…
Ale akurat mam wobec tego gatunku dość wygórowane wymagania: opowiadanie musi być jak iskra, od razu mnie zapalić, wciągnąć, przytrzymać. Krótkie formy Eisenberg pozostawiły mnie doskonale obojętną. Lektura ciągnęła mi się jak flaki z olejem i wydawała banalna. Nie poczułam żadnego związku z ich bohaterami, wręcz przeciwnie, zero zainteresowania.
Czytając otwierające zbiór tytułowe opowiadanie o relacjach sztuki z biznesem, etyce socjety i gonitwie życia, czułam się jak przy lekturze „Do latarni morskiej” - zadawałam sobie pytanie co mnie to obchodzi, kim są ci ludzie i po co w ogóle ktoś mi znów opowiada tę samą historię. Nawet lekki rys katastrofy klimatycznej w tle nie dodał jej ciężaru. Podobnie kolejna opowieść - o starszych aktorach złotej ery Hollywood, którym nie podoba się jak w książce przedstawił ich autor spędzający z nimi czas jako dziecko. Trochę o pamięci i różnicach pomiędzy tym jak my widzimy siebie, a jak widzą nas inni, tematy o których lubię czytać, ale tu pozostawiły mnie bez refleksji. „Było, minęło”, trzecie w kolejności, na moment przyciągnęło moją uwagę, bo w końcu poczułam, że wiem o czym mowa - rodzinne tajemnice, ukryty antysemityzm w gronie najbliższych, trudna relacja matki i córki, obudowana poczuciem winy, to rzeczy, z którymi już się zetknęłam.
Od początku do końca podobało mi się jedno opowiadanie w tym zestawie - „Trzecia wieża” - dystopijna historia Therese, która wyrusza ze wsi do wielkiego miasta, aby poddać się kuracji. Dokucza jej tajemnicza choroba. Dostaje dziwnych ataków i omdleń, widzi i słyszy rzeczy, których nie widzą inni. Rzeczy pokazujące inną rzeczywistość. Nie dało się nie czytać tego opowiadania przez pryzmat rosyjskiej propagandy i bieżącej sytuacji, zresztą analogie występujące choćby w postaci dworku pojawiającego się nie wiadomo skąd w wizjach dziewczyny, która spędziła całe dotychczasowe życie w swego rodzaju kołchozie, wykonując pracę jako tryb jakiejś większej maszyny, dość jednoznacznie kojarzą się z totalitarnym uwięzieniem. A wybuchy bomb, które wszyscy uważają za fajerwerki, przeszywają dreszczem. Ciekawe było to, że w przeciwieństwie do większości literatury, w której występuje motyw osoby oświeconej, Therese nie próbuje zgłębić co oznaczają te wizje, niczego nie kwestionuje, chce być jak reszta, myśleć jak reszta. Świadomie zgadza się na symboliczną lobotomię.
Pewnego rodzaju konformizm jest tematem, który przewija się w większości tekstów Eisenberg. Mierzy się z nim prawie każdy bohater i bohaterka, tylko w rożnym stopniu i inne są warunki, do których musi się dostosować. Próby dopasowania się do świata, czy to w skali mikro czy makro i decydowanie czy i co chcemy poświęcić, to coś z czym zmagamy się codziennie i coś, co kreuje świat, w którym żyjemy. To było dla mnie w „Twoja kaczka jest moją kaczką” ważne.
Pomimo wyraźnego braku chemii nie mam zamiaru skreślać Deborah Eisenberg i przy kolejnej okazji sprawdzę czy nie uda nam się ocieplić relacji. Myślę, że czytałam tę książkę w bardzo złym momencie - przytłoczona okropieństwem wojny nie umiałam znaleźć się w tych zwykłych rozterkach, w internecie nazywa się je „problemami pierwszego świata”. To wszystko wydawało mi się strasznie błahe, nieważne i bardzo odległe od mojego mikrokosmosu. Jednak wielu znajomych opowiadania Amerykanki kupiły, więc zostawiam otwartą furtkę i czekam na lepsze czasy.
Ebooka dostałam od księgarni Woblink:
https://woblink.com/ebook/twoja-kaczk...
May 1, 2022
Pozycja zupełnie spoza mojej strefy komfortu, która usatysfakcjonowała mnie w (prawie) całej swojej rozciągłości. Było w niej coś niesłychanie świeżego i wsysającego. A takim hipnotyzującym rytmem przekładu można mnie karmić o każdej porze dnia i nocy!
January 22, 2019
Deborah Eisenberg is a master of her craft. I was amazed by how layered and intricate each story was, characters so complex and developed in such a short span of time.
These stories achieve depth and meaning which many authors spend a whole novel to achieve, Cross Off and Move On & The Third Tower were two stand outs for me in this collection, both ones I'll be coming back to. A clear choice for the NYT Notable Books of 2018.
These stories achieve depth and meaning which many authors spend a whole novel to achieve, Cross Off and Move On & The Third Tower were two stand outs for me in this collection, both ones I'll be coming back to. A clear choice for the NYT Notable Books of 2018.
November 8, 2018
I love short stories, but each one of these left me wishing I hadn’t wasted those precious hours of my life on this weird, disjointed trash. I have never given a book one star before or written a bad review before, but I am making an exception for this one. It was special-level terrible.
September 5, 2024
Nie taję, że po tę książkę sięgnąłem tylko i wyłącznie ze względu na intrygujący tytuł. Jak na ironię tytułowe opowiadanie okazało się w tym zbiorze najsłabsze. Na szczególną uwagę moim zdaniem zasługują jedynie trzy: Tadź Mahal, Było, minęło oraz Przeliczanie. Jako że na sześć tekstów, tylko trzy przypadły mi do gustu, uważam, że całościowa ocena powinna plasować się gdzieś pośrodku. Nie mam pojęcia, czy Deborah Eisenberg jest mistrzynią krótkiej formy, jak można przeczytać na tylniej okładce. Sześć opowiadań to jednak niezbyt miarodajny materiał porównawczy. Wiem natomiast, że głos Eisenberg wypada najlepiej i najciekawiej, gdy pisze o związkach: rodzinnych, miłosnych, przyjacielskich. Niczym doświadczona laborantka umiejętnie wypreparowuje drobne historie i umieszcza je pod mikroskopem, pokazując całą złożoność tego, co na pierwszy rzut oka wygląda na zwykłą opowiastkę obyczajową.
October 1, 2019
I'm not a great fan of audiobooks: I find it more difficult to concentrate than when reading a regular paper book or ebook and I often don't like the voices so get irritated easily.
Your Duck Is My Duck was like that for me. On top of that, I found the stories not very interesting. I'm just not interested in clever intellectuals talking about nothing. Ah well, maybe I just missed bits because I was falling asleep...
Your Duck Is My Duck was like that for me. On top of that, I found the stories not very interesting. I'm just not interested in clever intellectuals talking about nothing. Ah well, maybe I just missed bits because I was falling asleep...
June 15, 2025
Toyed with giving this four stars because 'The Third Tower' is a bit of a dud, but the other five stories are perfection itself - funny without being glib, ironic in a principled way, mercilessly honest about power and privilege and other such topics that endlessly nag at me but still animated by a sense of wonder at life's plenitude and oddness. The language is exquisitely honed - you feel the weight of every adverb - but she also knows how to let enough air in that it never seems overwritten. Called to mind Nell Zink, Cynthia Ozick and Joy Williams, though really Debby E. belongs to a genre of one. Thanks to Herr Biscuits for pressing this into my hands.
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