I’ve
just begun to plow through William Trevor’s massive The Collected Stories, a treasure house of some eighty five short
stories, all 1,250 pages of them. One can appreciate why he has been called one of the greatest UK short story writers. They
are masterful stories and although my preference for American literature had – until now
-- overridden my desire to read Trevor, I knew Updike had a high regard
for his work (and Trevor reciprocated his admiration for Updike’s). It took the mention of a Trevor short story in an Ian McEwen novel, Sweet Tooth, to
remind me that there is a world of literature out there I haven’t yet
uncovered and as I’m trying to write some of my own short stories, I picked up
this gem from one of Amazon’s partners for less than a buck plus shipping. An incredible bargain, if you have the
strength to hold book, especially when reading in bed, a habit I’ve developed
in the quiet of the night. But this 2 plus
lb book requires support on a pillow on my stomach as I read in bed! Sometimes, as much as I enjoy reading at that
particular time, I find myself falling asleep with my glasses on, still holding
the book on the pillow, my wife finally turning off the light, removing the
book from my sleeping hands, marking the page, and removing my glasses.
It’ll
be some time before I’m “finished” with these stories (other than for
reasons of occasionally falling asleep!).
First, they are to be savored and thought about. It’s not a fast read, particularly for
someone who is trying to better understand the short story craft and is taking
notes here and there. Some stories are
best appreciated when reread as well. Furthermore, I have other things to read
so I’ll put this down from time to time to get to those other works, novels
generally. And of course, there is life
to attend to. Reading is what is left
over to do after a busy day. Therefore,
these early comments on what I’ve read thus far.
How
do I possibly categorize these stories? As
Updike had his characters -- such as The
Maples --- mostly modeled after friends and family, highly educated, upper
middle class folk with an excessive libido, Trevor has his “little people,”
people eking out a life in the UK after WW II, some of whom have allowed their
fantasy lives to take over, living with illusions frequently to the very end of
the story, ones of which they may not even be aware. It leaves the reader with a sense of wonder,
about human nature, about the miracle of day to day existence in general. How do we all get by, burdened by the past or
by expectations? Trevor once defined the
short story as ''an art of the glimpse,'' whose ''strength lies in what it
leaves out.” It’s the reader’s job to
fill in the latter.
Many
of the characters begin at one level of a story, exemplary folk in the reader’s
mind, only to have life take them down a peg or two, then three, to the end of the
story. One such story, “The General’s
Day,” concerns a retired General, well known in his town, who leaves his
housekeeper during the day to explore the town, usually with fantasies of
meeting a younger woman, or seeing friends (who assiduously avoid him),
meanwhile suspecting his housekeeper of stealing from him or secretly imbibing
his liquor. And yet he goes off, and not
everything goes as he’s imagined. But
there is the past to cling to, as do many of Trevor’s characters, along with
their hopes. Here’s just a piece of
Trevor’s prose which makes this point:
The General
walked on, his thoughts rambling. He
thought of the past; of specific days, of moments of shame or pride in his
life. The past was his hunting ground;
from it came his pleasure and a good deal of everything else. Yet he was not proof against the moment he
lived in. The present could snarl at him; could drown his memories so
completely that when they surfaced again they were like the burnt tips of
matches floating on a puddle, finished and done with. He walked through the summery day, puzzled
that all this should be so.
Not
wanting to give away spoilers, it’s hard to go on with this story gem. Suffice it to say, the General’s day ends not
as he hoped, but apparently as it always has, and the reader observes human
nature stripped threadbare. In fact, if
anything characterizes Trevor’s stories, it is his unrelenting dissection of
lives, bit by bit, getting to core truths, ones not evident at the
beginning.
Thus
far my favorite story is “In at the Birth” but to try to analyze it or say
anything about it is just to spoil another reader's enjoyment of the story. But I will say it is constructed with such care
that the outcome, surreal in many respects, is still in keeping with Trevor’s
love of his “little people.” Meanwhile,
I still have scores of his stories to read and perhaps I’ll revisit Trevor in
these “pages” sometime again in the future.
Must confess, the sheer bulk of the collection starts to make sense reading on a Kindle, something I have resisted, not because I am a Luddite, but I’ve
been a book person all my life (personally and professionally).
I
remember commuting to my first publishing job in 1964 from Brooklyn to
Manhattan on the BMT. As any veteran
“strap-holder” will know, it took a certain skill to hold on with one hand,
and read a paperback book with the other, turning the pages with that one hand. It’s a skill that is not applicable to this
book! Nonetheless, The Collected Stories of William Trevor is highly recommended if
you like the genre.
PS Trevor is "revisited" in this entry
PS Trevor is "revisited" in this entry
