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Irwin Shaw | Open Library.Short stories, five decades
I read about one a day, and just continue with my other reading. I love this collection. I have done some research on these stories. Many were published before World War II. I feel As though I have accidentally discovered a time capsule. I savor the minutes each day I spend reading one of these stories.
Some are quite short, others lengthy. Another story Residents of other Cities is one of the bitterest and intense short stories I have ever read. It reminded me of some small early parts of Exodus by Leon Uris.
The same holds for Gunners' Passage, another short story I enjoyed very much. It is fascinating to me how some short stories become iconic and others, seemingly equally great are forgotten.
Keeping in mind many of these stories are written before America entered World War II, one can sense the prophetic foreboding of the author in some of the stories.
An example of that is the story Weep in Years to Come. We were so excited to get a deep dive into the literary world, her writing process and her experiences as a South Asian female author talking about romance in a love and sex-positive light.
Alisha makes it easy to truly appreciate the importance of the written word. Colette: Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss a major force in French culture in the 20th century.
Episode - Morgan Parker: Welcome back! This week, celebrated poet, author, and essayist Morgan Parker sits with Sam to discuss her latest book, Magical Negro. They talk about what poetry can look and sound like in the Internet era, the loneliness of being a writer in LA, Mor What to read at all?
This is the dilemma of all readers, whether they are reading one or books a year. Voice Catcher Authors Reading: VoiceCatcher presents prose and poetry from its fourth women writers anthology. The work of six contributing authors will be highlighted. VoiceCatcher's mission is to publish an anthology of Portland-area women's writing reflecting a diversity of HAP 32 - Talking Book - Early Africana Writing in English: 18th century black authors touch on philosophical themes in autobiographical narratives, poetry, and other literary genres.
VoiceCatcher Authors Reading: VoiceCatcher presents prose and poetry from its fifth women writers anthology. The work of several contributing authors will be highlighted. Deep Overstock began simply as a journal to support booksellers who dreamed of writing. The editorial team, booksellers themselves, wanted to help their fellow frustrated writers. From this beginning grew the small press which now issues a quarterly.
The Young Walter Scott Prize is for stories by writers aged , set in a time before they were born. Stories should be between and 2, words, and may take any form, ie prose, poetry, drama, fictional diaries, letters or reportage. Winners in. Lume Books is an independent publisher based in London, seeking to publish stories that illuminate new thoughts and ideas.
Their name reflects the brightness they try to bring to the publishing world Lume is Latin for light , being symbolic of chang. The novel, which McKay began writing seven years ago, is set during a global pandemic, tho. The competition invi. One of the most difficult contributors to pin down was partially identified before the project even began.
She translated dozens of French short stories and oriental tales for the. Arthur Jaros is a M. They love exploring interpersonal relationships between people and nature through speculative fiction.
Most of their pieces end up. She lives in Los Angeles and is a poet and writer. As sosadtoday, she has a huge Twitter following that includes several celebrities. Rolling Stone magazine named her one of its 50 Funniest People. This novel was in. I believe the most precious gift one could offer a creative person is time: unscheduled, unencumbered, unhurried time. But when I hear. The European Writing Prize is the most prestigious of the writing competitions organised each year by the European Society of Literature.
The Prize is a free-entry int. A biannual literary magazine featuring stories and poetry from up and coming writers Shooter is now open to submissions for its Winter issue after a one issue hiatus of its summer issue.
The theme had not been decided at the time of writing so c. Jeffrey Feingold is a writer of short stories and essays in Boston. His work appears in magazines, such as the international Intrepid Times, and in The Bark. The entry fee is. His paranormal romance novel On Wings of Pity is availab. The King Lear Prizes Spring are inviting entries.
The national creative arts competition for the overs has categories for poetry and real stories. Review must be at least 10 words. I am a product of my times.
I remember the end of World War I, the bells and whistles and cheering, and as an adolescent I profited briefly from the boom years. I suffered the Depression; exulted at the election of Franklin D. Roosevelt; drank my first glass of legal 3. I have been both praised and blamed, all the while living my private life the best way I could. All these things, in one way or another, are reflected in my stories, which I now see as a record of the events of almost sixty years, all coming together in the imagination of one American.
Of course there are gaps. Other writers have filled many of these but some remain and will never be filled. Why does a man spend fifty years of his life in an occupation that is often painful? I once told a class I was teaching that writing is an intellectual contact sport, similar in some respects to football. In a preface to an earlier collection I described some of those pleasures.
Among them, I wrote, there is the reward of the storyteller, sitting cross-legged in the bazaar, filling the need of humanity in the humdrum course of the ordinary day for magic and distant wonders, for disguised moralizing that will set everyday transactions into larger perspectives, for the compression of great matters into digestible portions, for the shaping of mysteries into sharply edged and comprehensible symbols.
Then there is the private and exquisite reward of escaping from the laws of consistency. Today you are sad and you tell a sad story. Tomorrow you are happy and your tale is a joyful one. You remember a woman whom you loved wholeheartedly and you celebrate her memory. You suffer from the wound of a woman who treated you badly and you denigrate womanhood. A saint has touched you and you are a priest. God has neglected you and you preach atheism. In a novel or a play you must be a whole man.
In a collection of stories you can be all the men or fragments of men, worthy and unworthy, who in different seasons abound in you.
It is a luxury not to be scorned. Originally this book was intended to contain all of my stories, but when the count was made the total came to eighty-four, and to include them all would have meant a formidably bulky and outrageously expensive book.
Since my publishers and I agreed that we did not wish to produce a volume that the reader could neither carry nor afford, we fixed on sixty-three stories as a reasonable number and began the sad process of winnowing out the ones we would leave behind. It was a little like being the commander of a besieged town who knows he cannot evacuate all his troops and is forced to decide who shall go and who shall stay to be overrun by the enemy.
And the enemy in this case might be oblivion. The experience of going through the stories was also something like what is supposed to happen when a man is drowning, as scene after scene of his life passes before his eyes. If the drowning man is devout, it can be imagined that in those final moments he examines the scenes to determine the balance between his sins and his virtues with a view toward eventual salvation.
Since I am not particularly devout, my chances for salvation lie in a place sometime in the future on a library shelf. These stories were selected, often with doubts and misgivings, with the hope that a spot on that distant shelf is waiting for them.
T he pass was high and wide and he jumped for it, feeling it slap flatly against his hands, as he shook his hips to throw off the halfback who was diving at him.
He had ten yards in the clear and picked up speed, breathing easily, feeling his thigh pads rising and falling against his legs, listening to the sound of cleats behind him, pulling away from them, watching the other backs heading him off toward the sideline, the whole picture, the men closing in on him, the blockers fighting for position, the ground he had to cross, all suddenly clear in his head, for the first time in his life not a meaningless confusion of men, sounds, speed.
He smiled a little to himself as he ran, holding the ball lightly in front of him with his two hands, his knees pumping high, his hips twisting in the almost girlish run of a back in a broken field. There was only the safety man now, coming warily at him, his arms crooked, hands spread.
Darling tucked the ball in, spurted at him, driving hard, hurling himself along, his legs pounding, knees high, all two hundred pounds bunched into controlled attack. He was sure he was going to get past the safety man. He pivoted away, keeping the arm locked, dropping the safety man as he ran easily toward the goal line, with the drumming of cleats diminishing behind him. How long ago? It was autumn then, and the ground was getting hard because the nights were cold and leaves from the maples around the stadium blew across the practice fields in gusts of wind, and the girls were beginning to put polo coats over their sweaters when they came to watch practice in the afternoons.
Darling walked slowly over the same ground in the spring twilight, in his neat shoes, a man of thirty-five dressed in a double-breasted suit, ten pounds heavier in the fifteen years, but not fat, with the years between and showing in his face.
The sweat poured off his face and soaked his jersey and he liked the feeling, the warm moistness lubricating his skin like oil. Off in a corner of the field some players were punting and the smack of leather against the ball came pleasantly through the afternoon air. The assistant manager fussed over him, wiping a cut on his leg with alcohol and iodine, the little sting making him realize suddenly how fresh and whole and solid his body felt.
The manager slapped a piece of adhesive tape over the cut, and Darling noticed the sharp clean white of the tape against the ruddiness of the skin, fresh from the shower. He dressed slowly, the softness of his shirt and the soft warmth of his wool socks and his flannel trousers a reward against his skin after the harsh pressure of the shoulder harness and thigh and hip pads.
He drank three glasses of cold water, the liquid reaching down coldly inside of him, soothing the harsh dry places in his throat and belly left by the sweat and running and shouting of practice. The sun had gone down and the sky was green behind the stadium and he laughed quietly to himself as he looked at the stadium, rearing above the trees, and knew that on Saturday when the 70, voices roared as the team came running out onto the field, part of that enormous salute would be for him.
He walked slowly, listening to the gravel crunch satisfactorily under his shoes in the still twilight, feeling his clothes swing lightly against his skin, breathing the thin evening air, feeling the wind move softly in his damp hair, wonderfully cool behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. Louise was waiting for him at the road, in her car. The top was down and he noticed all over again, as he always did when he saw her, how pretty she was, the rough blonde hair and the large, inquiring eyes and the bright mouth, smiling now.
Pretty good, he said. He climbed in, sank luxuriously into the soft leather, stretched his legs far out. He smiled, thinking of the eighty yards. Pretty damn good. She looked at him seriously for a moment, then scrambled around, like a little girl, kneeling on the seat next to him, grabbed him, her hands along his ears, and kissed him as he sprawled, head back, on the seat cushion. She let go of him, but kept her head close to his, over his.
Darling reached up slowly and rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek, lit softly by a street lamp a hundred feet away. They looked at each other, smiling. Louise drove down to the lake and they sat there silently, watching the moon rise behind the hills on the other side. Finally he reached over, pulled her gently to him, kissed her. Her lips grew soft, her body sank into his, tears formed slowly in her eyes. He knew, for the first time, that he could do whatever he wanted with her.
She looked at him. She was smiling, but the tears were still full in her eyes. All right, she said. How about you? Darling grinned. I got the coach in the palm of my hand, he said. Can you wait till seven-thirty? They kissed and she started the car and they went back to town for dinner. He sang on the way home. Christian Darling, thirty-five years old, sat on the frail spring grass, greener now than it ever would be again on the practice field, looked thoughtfully up at the stadium, a deserted ruin in the twilight.
He had started on the first team that Saturday and every Saturday after that for the next two years, but it had never been as satisfactory as it should have been.
Darling was a good blocker and he spent his Saturday afternoons working on the big Swedes and Polacks who played tackle and end for Michigan, Illinois, Purdue, hurling into huge pile-ups, bobbing his head wildly to elude the great raw hands swinging like meat-cleavers at him as he went charging in to open up holes for Diederich coming through like a locomotive behind him.
She bought him crazy presents because her father was rich, watches, pipes, humidors, an icebox for beer for his room, curtains, wallets, a fifty-dollar dictionary. It makes me feel good. Kiss me. I wanted to make sure, Louise said, that you had a token of my esteem. I want to smother you in tokens of my esteem. Her father, who manufactured inks, set up a New York office for Darling to manage and presented him with three hundred accounts, and they lived on Beekman Place with a view of the river with fifteen thousand dollars a year between them, because everybody was buying everything in those days, including ink.
Want a drink? Nineteen twenty-nine came to Darling and to his wife and father-in-law, the maker of inks, just as it came to everyone else. The father-in-law waited until and then blew his brains out and when Darling went to Chicago to see what the books of the firm looked like he found out all that was left were debts and three or four gallons of unbought ink.
I have nothing else to do, Darling said, putting down his glass, emptied of its fourth drink. Please pass the whisky. Louise filled his glass. Come take a walk with me, she said. I want to sit here and drink Scotch whisky, Darling said. Who the hell hung those goddam pictures up on the wall? Leave them there. It gives me something to do in the afternoon. I can hate them. Darling took a long swallow. Is that the way people paint these days?
Darling looked carefully at the prints once more. Little Louise Tucker. The middle-western beauty. I like pictures with horses in them. Why should you like pictures like that? Louise kissed him lightly on the top of his head as he sat there squinting at the pictures on the wall, the glass of whisky held firmly in his hand.
She put on her coat and went out without saying another word. They moved downtown and Louise went out to work every morning and Darling sat home and drank and Louise paid the bills as they came up. She made believe she was going to quit work as soon as Darling found a job, even though she was taking over more responsibility day by day at the magazine, interviewing authors, picking painters for the illustrations and covers, getting actresses to pose for pictures, going out for drinks with the right people, making a thousand new friends whom she loyally introduced to Darling.
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