February 2015 favorites

February2015

February 2015

The February stories ordered solely on my personal tastes.

  1. ‘Death In The Woods’ by Sherwood Anderson
  2. ‘Cheap In August’ by Graham Greene
  3. ‘Debarking’ by Lorrie Moore
  4. ‘The Juniper Tree’ by Lorrie Moore
  5. ‘Flight’ by John O’Hara
  6. ‘To Build A Fire’ by Jack London
  7. ‘Harvey’s Dream’ by Stephen King
  8. ‘The Keyhole Eye’ by John Stewart Carter
  9. ‘The First Flower’ by Augusta Wallace Lyons
  10. ‘Subject To Search’ by Lorrie Moore
  11. ‘Thank You For Having Me’ by Lorrie Moore
  12. ‘Foes’ by Lorrie Moore
  13. ‘Spring In Fialta’ by Vladimir Nabokov
  14. ‘Talk To The Music’ by Arna Bontemps
  15. ‘The Contest For Aaron Gold’ by Philip Roth
  16. ‘The Old Army Game’ by George Garrett
  17. ‘Alma’ by Junot Diaz
  18. ‘Children Are Bored On Sunday’ by Jean Stafford
  19. ‘A Long Day’s Dying’ by William Eastlake
  20. ‘To The Wilderness I Wander’ by Frank Butler
  21. ‘Mammon And The Archer’ by O. Henry

‘A Long Day’s Dying’ by William Eastlake

Eastlake, William 1963

A Long Day’s Dying by William Eastlake, 1963

The magic trick:

Separating the action into two separate, coexisting scenes

I don’t think Eastlake is doing anything particularly complicated here, but it’s still a magic trick worth noting. He splits the story into two scenes with the action happening at the same time in two different places. A boy is sinking into quicksand, fighting for his life. Meanwhile, his father is riding with a friend, arguing about philosophy. Because the reader knows what is happening to the child, it gives us insight into which man is arguing the correct viewpoint. Eastlake then brings the characters together in the concluding scene and performs a final twist on the philosophical debate. He is able to make a point about nature, the West, and the perils of letting racism dismiss Native American culture by keeping the debate separate from the conflict until the end. And that’s quite a trick on Eastlake’s part.

The selection:

Little Sant felt himself sink a little more into the heavy fluid sand. He waved his slim arms, fluttered them like a wounded bird, but he could feel himself being pulled down deeper. No, no, no, he told himself. You are behaving like an Indian, thinking like a Navajo. You’ve been around them too long, like father, like Big Sant says, you should associate more with white boys. But where did the funeral-black horse come from? Why does Luto wait there in the solemn dappled shadows, and where is he going soon?