{"id":4389,"date":"2019-10-21T10:00:12","date_gmt":"2019-10-21T10:00:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/floridareview.cah.ucf.edu\/?post_type=article&p=4389"},"modified":"2019-10-21T10:00:12","modified_gmt":"2019-10-21T10:00:12","slug":"pushing-against-the-familiar","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/pushing-against-the-familiar\/","title":{"rendered":"Pushing against the Familiar"},"content":{"rendered":"

Termination Shocks<\/em> by Janice Margolis<\/strong><\/p>\n

University of Massachusetts Press, 2019<\/strong><\/p>\n

Paperback, 258 pages, $13<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Famous Children and Famished Adults<\/em> by Evelyn Hampton<\/strong><\/p>\n

FC2, 2019<\/strong><\/p>\n

Paperback, 160 pages, $13<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em> by Sarah Pinsker<\/strong><\/p>\n

Small Beer Press, 2019<\/strong><\/p>\n

Paperback, 288 pages, $17<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"\"\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There is a familiar and sort of empty phrase that we come across from time to time in blurbs and reviews. This book left me wanting more<\/em>. It\u2019s an odd notion. Applied to novels, it\u2019s essentially unfathomable: what more could be asked of Moby-Dick<\/em>\u2014Ishmael\u2019s intervening years? Or Invisible Man<\/em>: do we need \u201cPart 2: Still Down Here in the Coal Bin\u201d? Perhaps, while only seeming to laud, the critic-reviewer is giving a sneaky backhand, and that I want more<\/em> actually implies there\u2019s not enough here<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Maybe when applied to collections of short stories and poems, the phrase \u201cthis book left me wanting more\u201d has somewhat sturdier\u2014if still wobbly\u2014legs. Perhaps the reader\u2013critic enjoys the author\u2019s use of language or metaphor so greatly that reading even more would simply be lovely . . . so, really, all that\u2019s happened is that the critic\u2013reader has tapped into his pleasure principle. Or maybe it\u2019s something else; maybe it\u2019s the setting of the scenes or the fascinating characters that entrance our reader\u2013critic: a bit dulled by his own daily life spent watching baseball and eating Doritos, he\u2019d prefer to linger in the well-imagined fictional setting, in a space richer and with people more interesting than those in his own poor surroundings. But if that\u2019s the case, it\u2019s not so much that the critic\u2013reader wants more of the book\u2014the poor fella just wants less of his current existence.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Left me wanting more<\/em>. When describing authors\u2019 first books, it takes on even trickier meaning (because if we don\u2019t want more now . . .). As luck would have it, under review here are three such debuts: Termination Shocks<\/em> by Janice Margolis, Famous Children and Famished Adults<\/em> by Evelyn Hampton, and Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em> by Sarah Pinsker. Having read all three, I can honestly say one thing. I want more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Quick admission: a few years ago, a collection of mine received the Juniper Prize. While Termination Shocks<\/em> has also received the Juniper Prize, I don\u2019t know Janice Margolis, and my current ties to UMass Press are more or less non-existent. That\u2019s not a complaint, just a fact. UMass is an academic press, and it doesn\u2019t have the family feel that many literary presses strive for. My point is that there\u2019s no conflict of interest in my discussion of Termination Shocks<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I began Termination Shocks<\/em> with hopeful anticipation. Here was a book chosen for its prize by Sabina Murray, a talented writer interested in language, tone, and structure. And the book begins strong\u2014the first of its five stories, \u201c21 Days,\u201d is impressive in its reach. The story is a feverish first-person history of Liberia as told through the point of view of an orphan stuck in her family hut for Ebola quarantine in the days following the death of her mother. The title refers to the length of her quarantine, and the story foregrounds language, form, and meaning (social commentary) over plot and even characterization. Here a rat has as complex a characterization as the narrator\u2019s romantic interest, or her teacher, or her mother (it\u2019s a cool rat). Margolis relays the narrator\u2019s experience cleanly and beautifully:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Everything crackles inside me. I could be made of lightning. A dying bird beats against my brain, swoops between my ears, pecking songs Mama sang me. It makes the notes bleed between my legs, and I cut the gold-and-green dress into beautiful rags to catch the falling sounds.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Of course, the situation Margolis has chosen to write about is one of intensity, sorrow, and fear, and the narrator\u2019s feverish reveries lead to wonderfully revelatory moments, such as, \u201c[My teacher] tells me how animals groom each other in the most vulnerable positions. How humans groom each other with language. Miss Browne grooms me for hours.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201c21 Days\u201d is a beautiful work. And it does raise questions of appropriation, too\u2014a white American author writing about a Liberian girl possibly stricken with Ebola. But to my reading, the story seeks authenticity, and it tries to dramatize the moment in brutality more than in beauty; the only villains are, if anyone, the white medical staff. It\u2019s a challenging story to read and a challenging story to write, and credit goes to Margolis for taking the challenge on.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

After \u201c21 Days,\u201d I read the second story in the collection, \u201cBeing Tom Waits.\u201d This is a story narrated by a person who has become Tom Waits. I know very little about Tom Waits. He seems to need a shave. And I like the song about Singapore. But I also feel that what I enjoy about Tom Waits is not what fans of Tom Waits enjoy. This did not interfere with my enjoyment of the story. If you want to read a story version of Being John Malkovich<\/em> transferred to the mind of Mr. Waits, here you go, minus the scheming plot. We are immersed fully in the head of the fictional Tom Waits. The story is plotless, but no matter\u2014it\u2019s funny, irreverent, referential, absurd, and loving:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Speaking of Normal Mailer, he and I had a brief correspondence in the \u201970s. For some reason, a fan letter I\u2019d written gave him the impression I was a tall dirty blonde. I didn\u2019t disabuse him of his mistake, and allowed a non-existent part of my body to be described in a particularly lascivious exchange he later insisted was meant for Gloria Steinem. As requested, I destroyed the letter, which, as a lover of history, I deeply regret.<\/p>\n

Incidentally, am I the only one who notices that incessant ringing?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The story veers between confused recollection, wanderings of Los Angeles, Waits\u2019s frustrations, paranoias, conceptual albums, lost genitals, and more. Between it and \u201c21 Days,\u201d my expectations for the final three stories in Termination Shocks<\/em> were considerable, but the returns diminish a bit. The fourth story in the collection is narrated by the Berlin Wall, an interesting concept that becomes a bit static (and very removed from the present day). The concluding title story is another structural experiment, wedding the stages of rocket liftoff with personal relationships; by the story\u2019s end, the design feels more scattered than accumulative. The collection\u2019s middle story, \u201cLittle Prisoners,\u201d is an interesting outlier: a 170-page novel-length piece written as straight realism, even as historical fiction, following an archaeology student in Syria who falls in with government protesters and becomes accused of spying, which leads ultimately to a big reveal about her past.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Termination Shocks<\/em> is an odd collection that creates, at its best, wonderful literature. It features two challenging, strange stories\u2014one risky and rewarding, and the other inanely effusive and immersive. While the final two stories also lean toward innovation\u2014of structure, of concept\u2014they, and certainly the very long \u201cLittle Prisoners,\u201d don\u2019t quite match the sheer ambition and exuberance in the first two pieces. It\u2019s fair to say that the collection left me wanting more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In her debut Famous Children and Famished Adults,<\/em> recipient of the FC2\u2019s Ronald Sukenick Innovation Fiction Prize, Evelyn Hampton includes quite a few stories: twenty-two that collectively span just 160 pages. Given the stories\u2019 relative brevity, it\u2019s only logical that this is a very different book from Termination Shocks<\/em>, especially in terms of the foregrounded fiction elements. Rather than progressive narrative tensions (\u201cplot\u201d is a four-letter word here), or characters existing over long periods of time feeling the deep impacts of upsetting life events, the stories in Famous Children and Famished Adults<\/em> are swifter, stranger, and more concerned with language and the mindsets of their many strong-voiced narrators. These stories are elusive in terms of being plot-reducible; that the collection was chosen as FC2\u2019s Sukenick prize-winner by Flournoy Holland is no surprise, since she is a writer as much immersed in mood and the line and deep evocations of point of view as anything else. Hampton\u2019s fiction seems very Holland\u2019s type of fiction.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Which is great. It leads to the publication of stories like Hampton\u2019s, works that push against the familiar. It\u2019s hard to group the collection: these are stories as glimpses, hints at strange characters in stranger relationships\u2014and we\u2019re only ducking in to watch them a few moments. This is seen often, in stories such as \u201cChoo and Cream\u201d (a couple joined together by a \u201ca nearly transparent child who clapped its hands not out of glee or approval, but because of the awkward way its body was dangling\u201d); \u201cThe End of History\u201d (a nameless female narrator \u201cwants to discover . . . a framework for her content\u201d); \u201cEvery Day an Epic\u201d (among other things, we learn that the narrator has \u201cbeen looking at the world through a lens,\u201d enters into it, and \u201copen[s] intervals and unravel[s] across them\u201d); and many more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There\u2019s a slightly tendency in Famous Children and Famished Adults<\/em> toward the surreal parable in metaphorical situations that explore more mundane experiences (\u201cChoo and Cream\u201d could be read as a metaphorical description of what it\u2019s like to have a newborn). But even that tendency isn\u2019t very pronounced; more than anything, it\u2019s easier to say what isn\u2019t in the collection. Throughout, Hampton shows an impatience for context and clarity, which makes the normal experience of fiction\u2014enjoyment, emotional impact\u2014a bit hard to come by. One piece, \u201cAt the Center of the Wasp,\u201d goes thusly: someone who bottled and sold scents has died; there\u2019s an island that is either literally or figuratively made of shit; the dead person has to be buried; the narrator doing the burying (and complaining all the while about the shit and the island and the smell and burying) is related to the dead person. The story is an effusion of frustration with context barely provided; it\u2019s like stepping onto an elevator with a person on a cell phone engaged in a furious conversation you cannot quite piece together. Which can be enjoyable and meaningful, especially if you sit back and enjoy the lines, the point of view, the strangeness.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cAt the Center of the Wasp\u201d lies at the far end of the collection; most of the stories have a bit more clarity, and the strangeness shines rather than muddies. In \u201cCell Fish,\u201d the narrator learns that her significant other is dying, and Hampton tells this story through elision rather than a more predictable head-on style. Her patience and ability to let white space do work is admirable, as is her ability to let small gestures convey tone, character, emotion: \u201cThe doctor pressed her fingers together, enclosing the space in front of her face. When she spoke, the voice seemed to come from the space enclosed by her hands.\u201d Rather than pursuing the story into the territory we might generally expect\u2014hospitals, progression of disease, the impact on day-to-day life\u2014Hampton more often keeps us caught in the impending doom rather than stepping into the more familiar literary ground of the doom itself. This is a harder task; with most writers, it\u2019s not intuitive. That Hampton prefers in her fiction to move us into\u2014and to remain in\u2014those quiet spaces before the dam breaks is impressive and admirable.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A great thing about story collections is that they rest on their strongest pieces. For me, the greatest works in Famous Children and Famished Adults<\/em> are the ones that, perhaps begrudgingly, do allow more narrative context. A bit of familiarity, for me, makes strangeness even stranger, as it allows situation, voice, and language to become more uncanny rather than entirely uprooting the reader. The story \u201cJay\u201d is the easiest example: the narrator\u2019s friend, a possible spy, has vanished from her life, and we see the impact of the two\u2019s strange interactions play out over a longer period of time. Other stories, too, give us more context: \u201cFishmaker,\u201d \u201cCell Fish,\u201d \u201cThe Slow Man,\u201d \u201cSince All the Cats have Vanished,\u201d for instance, let the reader in a bit more and so, at least for me, have greater impact. At its best, Famous Children and Famished Adults<\/em> is a successful, unique, and commanding collection, though sometimes it\u2019d be nice to get a larger picture of a given story\u2019s disaster, a larger sense for how it plays out on the characters\u2019 lives. Just a little more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sarah Pinsker\u2019s debut, Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em>, is less like the other two collections here under review. Foremost, it\u2019s not a contest winner chosen by an academia-established literary author; rather, it\u2019s published by Small Beer Press, an indie known for works that, while literary, lean toward the fantastic. It\u2019s no surprise that the stories in Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em> were previously published in genre-aligned journals including Asimov\u2019s Science Fiction<\/em> and Lightspeed<\/em>. While Hampton and Margolis certainly feature experimental-leaning fictions, their works are, at least to me, a more familiar type of literary experimentation\u2014more academic than commercial.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I opened Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em> with a feeling I had when I was much younger and reading books not as a writer but simply as a reader, with no expectations, no hopes or skepticisms, no begrudging or apprehension. Pinsker\u2019s stories only magnified my childlike sense of excitement and wonder: the worlds they contain are imaginative, vivid, and well-designed, almost like Cornell boxes\u2014vividly adorned and other-worldly while still being tilted versions of our own. \u201cA Stretch of Highway Two Lanes Wide,\u201d about a young man who loses an arm in a work accident, sadly and poignantly captures the longing, interestingly, of his replacement robotic arm:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It didn\u2019t just want to be a road. It knew it was one. Specifically, a stretch of asphalt two lanes wide, ninety-seven kilometers long, in eastern Colorado. A stretch that could see all the way to the mountains, but was content not to reach them. Cattleguards on either side, barbed wire, grassland.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Other stories throughout the collection twin the surreal with the poignant ordinary. \u201cRemembery Day\u201d features an annual parade for military veterans; the twist is that on this day, the veterans vote whether or not to lift their \u201cVeil,\u201d a perpetual forgetting of their war traumas. In \u201cNo Lonely Seafarer,\u201d a genderless narrator confronts sirens who have laid waste to a town\u2019s shipping industry. \u201cWind Will Rove\u201d asserts the need for people to hang onto the seemingly unimportant textures of their shared history\u2014especially while stuck on a spaceship adrift in the universe. The title story features a scavenger who finds a woman stranded ashore in a boat; we learn from a slightly unwieldy narrative style that the lost woman was living, as many do in the story\u2019s world, on a cruise ship, playing bass in a house band that exists to entertain the privileged wealthy. In the quietude of the scavenger\u2019s abode, we see a collision between consumerism (the musician) and being a hermit (the scavenger), between a life of accumulation and a life, if lacking in material things, more attentively lived.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The stories in Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em> remind me in style, tone, and world-construction of the stories collected in Ray Bradbury\u2019s The Illustrated Man<\/em>; this is true of their thematic underpinnings, as well. If Evelyn Hampton\u2019s stories lean toward the parable, Pinsker\u2019s don\u2019t lean so much as announce meaning via loudspeaker. As with Bradbury\u2019s, these are message-driven works of fiction. Their intricate architectures are often overlaid onto moralistic messages, and at times this serves to reduce the stories\u2019 emotional valence. There are cautioning moments, as well. \u201cThe Low Hum of Her\u201d is implicitly a Holocaust story in which a father has built for his daughter a replacement robotic grandmother; this story, too, is poignant, as the daughter begrudgingly comes to love the robot, but as the story doesn\u2019t once mention the horrible sufferings of the Holocaust, the fraught setting seems almost whimsically chosen.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Of course these aren\u2019t boxes\u2014they\u2019re stories, ranging from as brief as three to as long as forty-plus pages. But to carry the Cornell comparison further, as with the artist\u2019s famous boxes, the stories in Sooner or Later Everything Falls into the Sea<\/em> rely on the reader to infer from or project emotional complexity upon their dazzling arrangements, and as we gaze at the design elements, some of the more literary elements\u2014especially character complexity\u2014get shorter shrift. For a debut collection, Sooner or <\/em>Later shows remarkable promise\u2014if only the real complex human stuff of it were given a little more attention.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

One last side-note: while these three collections are very diverse in terms of form and craft, it\u2019s important to observe diversity of both voice and represented experience, as well. Other than \u201c21 Days,\u201d I\u2019m not sure these collections are expanding diversity in those ways. These are three very white collections, very middle class. That\u2019s just an observation, not a criticism. Of course, writers can only write best what writers can only write best, and Janice Margolis, Evelyn Hampton, and Sarah Pinsker are writing awfully damn good fiction. There is plenty here\u2014plenty to admire, to envy, and to praise. These three collections are pushing against the ordinary, pushing against the familiar (if imaginary) line that wraps neatly around what fiction, what literary fiction, should be.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And they should be pushing against that line; they should be pushing against any expectations. That\u2019s what we should expect from these books given to us by such innovative and important presses. While the reader\u2013critic in me thinks, I really hope Pinsker\/Hampton\/Margolis goes out now and writes a greater novel with more emotional impact<\/em>, the teacher\u2013writer part of me rolls his eyes and disagrees. Shut up, critic\u2013reader. To hell with your notion that fiction should conform to your expectations. You\u2019re not in charge. They are, these three talented authors. Let them keep on doing their work. They\u2019re doing a great job\u2014well more than enough.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I can honestly say one thing. 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