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I don't truly need to justify any of the things I assert here because all writings on writing are purely about personal taste.

Some pretentious arsehole whose name I cannot remember - and this because his pretensions have drifted into obscurity along with Jack London and What's New,Pussy Cat?, as sung by Tom Jones - once tried to tell me that a good short story should be about a very ordinary person who has spent their whole life, like Humpty Dumpty, on a sort of wall. Then, said this Dorkface, pompous screwball, the story should be about the day that he falls off.

[The thing I've never really understand is: what leads anyone to think that Humpty is an egg? Never, while reciting the old verse, have I noticed anything that made me consider that a possibility.]

Truly, now - and we must show some self-restraint here, so as to stick to our point, I do not agree with this idea at all - either the egg or the idea that a story should be about a monumental happening in a particularly dull person's life.

Personally, the most wonderful stories I have ever read are not, as this Dorkface has cited, such works as Alice Walker's short about some boring girl who finds a lynched body in the woods.

Stories like Walker's, which start very cheerfully and then end with a few lines designed purely to shock the reader into: sighing, weeping, screaming, checking under their mattresses for monsters; or, in my case, vomiting, are, I think, a kind of proletarian literature - a Stephen King piece of garbage that no one will ever remember in a hundred years. Or, if anyone does remember them, they will sigh and weep and scream and vomit, but their lives will not be beautifully moved.

These stories build up quaintly, and then always end with a chilling, hitherto unrevealed detail which makes you reel from your Dover-Thrift in horror. But this is nothing.

A good short story is something like "On the Quai at Smyrna" or "A Very Short Story" or one of the stories about Nick - "The Three Day Blow" or "The End of Something", etc. The greatest stories are things like One Day in the Life of Ivan Deniscovitch, which detail a single day, and a very insignificant day, in a very insignificant man's very, very insignificant life. These stories maintain their insight into the mundane evenly throughout, without need for dramatic endings (and though Ivan's conclusion is troubling, it is also poetic). The truth is this: that no one ever falls off a wall, and if they do, then they do so very rarely, or they probably just fall off onto another wall, or the ledge is too big to ever fall off of to begin with, and you'll probably just stay there untill you die, anyway, so the only story which can really have anything in it, anything which will impact the common man, must be about sitting on the wall.

I use the word impact in a purely spiritual way. The hollow stories of Ken Kalfus, of whom you've probably never heard and I hadn't either until I found some of his short stories at a library book sale - only one of which was very good, and that one I liked a lot --- The hollow stories of Ken Kalfus, and all prole-writers like him, aim for a physical impact. They expertly craft their stories so as to gain a sob --- the book Kissing in Manhattan is an example of this --- each chapter ending in a clever, single sentence which produces a tremor in your spine --------

[I picked up an advanced-reading copy of Kissing for free at Brodart's, along with a history of China under Mao, which was pretty interesting.]

Proletarian literature, Romance novels as an example, cheaply force the reader to be jarred bodily, while literature forces the reader to be jarred - brought to a better understanding - in an emotional chakra of his being. (He may, of course, weep at this understanding, or show physical manifestation). But the physical manifestation is no longer the goal. The top of the heart may be moved in turn, but the bottom is the target.

The Hemingway type of authoring is the only type of writing which matters, because this is the one which writes about things that are so absolutely stupid that they're real and definite and human.

(One might say that Old Man and the Sea is about a boring person who finally gets a big fish, or falls of the wall, etc.: but I say, Hemingway was insane by this point in his life, so that doesn't count.)(I jest.)

This is not to say that I am not entertained by people falling off of walls, because I assure you that I am. This is to say that that guy, whoever he is, is a Dorkface.

But, again, human life does not end dramatically, life ends like this:

Outside the room, in the hall, I spoke to the doctor, "Is there anything I can do to-night?"

"No. There is nothing to do. Can I take you to your hotel?"

"No, thank you. I am going to stay here a while."

"I know there is nothing to say. I cannot tell you ---."

"No," I said. "There's nothing to say."

"Good-night," he said. "I cannot take you to your hotel?"

"No, thank you."

"It was the only thing to do," he said. "The operation proved ---"

"I do not want to talk about it," I said.

"I would like to take you to your hotel."

"No, thank you."

He went down to the hall. I went to the door of the room.

"You can't come in now," one of the nurses said.

"Yes I can," I said.

"You can't come in yet."

"You get out," I said. "The other one too."

But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn't any good. It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.

THE END


	Deadly Ivy \| home Minority Report \| bog \| the rise and fall and subsequent resurrection of David Bowie \| hippies \| story \| mug \| s.a. \| allen \| the case against books by girls story I don't truly need to justify any of the things I assert here because all writings on writing are purely about personal taste. Some pretentious arsehole whose name I cannot remember - and this because his pretensions have drifted into obscurity along with Jack London and What's New,Pussy Cat?, as sung by Tom Jones - once tried to tell me that a good short story should be about a very ordinary person who has spent their whole life, like Humpty Dumpty, on a sort of wall. Then, said this Dorkface, pompous screwball, the story should be about the day that he falls off. [The thing I've never really understand is: what leads anyone to think that Humpty is an egg? Never, while reciting the old verse, have I noticed anything that made me consider that a possibility.] Truly, now - and we must show some self-restraint here, so as to stick to our point, I do not agree with this idea at all - either the egg or the idea that a story should be about a monumental happening in a particularly dull person's life. Personally, the most wonderful stories I have ever read are not, as this Dorkface has cited, such works as Alice Walker's short about some boring girl who finds a lynched body in the woods. Stories like Walker's, which start very cheerfully and then end with a few lines designed purely to shock the reader into: sighing, weeping, screaming, checking under their mattresses for monsters; or, in my case, vomiting, are, I think, a kind of proletarian literature - a Stephen King piece of garbage that no one will ever remember in a hundred years. Or, if anyone does remember them, they will sigh and weep and scream and vomit, but their lives will not be beautifully moved. These stories build up quaintly, and then always end with a chilling, hitherto unrevealed detail which makes you reel from your Dover-Thrift in horror. But this is nothing. A good short story is something like "On the Quai at Smyrna" or "A Very Short Story" or one of the stories about Nick - "The Three Day Blow" or "The End of Something", etc. The greatest stories are things like One Day in the Life of Ivan Deniscovitch, which detail a single day, and a very insignificant day, in a very insignificant man's very, very insignificant life. These stories maintain their insight into the mundane evenly throughout, without need for dramatic endings (and though Ivan's conclusion is troubling, it is also poetic). The truth is this: that no one ever falls off a wall, and if they do, then they do so very rarely, or they probably just fall off onto another wall, or the ledge is too big to ever fall off of to begin with, and you'll probably just stay there untill you die, anyway, so the only story which can really have anything in it, anything which will impact the common man, must be about sitting on the wall. I use the word impact in a purely spiritual way. The hollow stories of Ken Kalfus, of whom you've probably never heard and I hadn't either until I found some of his short stories at a library book sale - only one of which was very good, and that one I liked a lot --- The hollow stories of Ken Kalfus, and all prole-writers like him, aim for a physical impact. They expertly craft their stories so as to gain a sob --- the book Kissing in Manhattan is an example of this --- each chapter ending in a clever, single sentence which produces a tremor in your spine -------- [I picked up an advanced-reading copy of Kissing for free at Brodart's, along with a history of China under Mao, which was pretty interesting.] Proletarian literature, Romance novels as an example, cheaply force the reader to be jarred bodily, while literature forces the reader to be jarred - brought to a better understanding - in an emotional chakra of his being. (He may, of course, weep at this understanding, or show physical manifestation). But the physical manifestation is no longer the goal. The top of the heart may be moved in turn, but the bottom is the target. The Hemingway type of authoring is the only type of writing which matters, because this is the one which writes about things that are so absolutely stupid that they're real and definite and human. (One might say that Old Man and the Sea is about a boring person who finally gets a big fish, or falls of the wall, etc.: but I say, Hemingway was insane by this point in his life, so that doesn't count.)(I jest.) This is not to say that I am not entertained by people falling off of walls, because I assure you that I am. This is to say that that guy, whoever he is, is a Dorkface. But, again, human life does not end dramatically, life ends like this: Outside the room, in the hall, I spoke to the doctor, "Is there anything I can do to-night?" "No. There is nothing to do. Can I take you to your hotel?" "No, thank you. I am going to stay here a while." "I know there is nothing to say. I cannot tell you ---." "No," I said. "There's nothing to say." "Good-night," he said. "I cannot take you to your hotel?" "No, thank you." "It was the only thing to do," he said. "The operation proved ---" "I do not want to talk about it," I said. "I would like to take you to your hotel." "No, thank you." He went down to the hall. I went to the door of the room. "You can't come in now," one of the nurses said. "Yes I can," I said. "You can't come in yet." "You get out," I said. "The other one too." But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn't any good. It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain. THE END