New Stories from the South: The Year's Best 1998

New Stories from the South: The Year's Best 1998

by Shannon Ravenel
     
 

The literature of the South is full of people running around admitting or denying their whippedness.

Whether you buy his explanation or not, Padgett Powell is here in full force to explain Southern literature. And just as his preface will make you rethink what that term means, so will the nineteen stories forming the collection this year. Culled from journals

Overview


The literature of the South is full of people running around admitting or denying their whippedness.

Whether you buy his explanation or not, Padgett Powell is here in full force to explain Southern literature. And just as his preface will make you rethink what that term means, so will the nineteen stories forming the collection this year. Culled from journals and magazines across the country, Shannoln Ravenel's choices illustrate the ongoing evolution of literature from and about the South. Whether it's a surreal mediation by a man on night watch in contact with everything from space aliens to a charming Southern bellle, or how life looks to two stock boys in a grocery store, or the stories hidden within captions in a book of daguerreotypes, this newest collection is proof positive that the literature of the South refuses to be pigeonholed.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
"I say to those who read this volume, let there be peace now about what the South is or isn't.... The `South' is just a great excuse to bring some wonderful artists together to peer deep into the yearnings of the human heart." As contributor Robert Olen Butler's preface suggests, both newcomers and natives, stalwarts and up-and-comers, show up in these 19 splendid stories, and the quality of their work should overwhelm all geo-historical niggling. For some, place is a central character; for others, a necessary but ethereal backdrop. More constant than any version of Southernness is a preoccupation with mortality. Many of the tales concern characters who, in the face of death, must take stock of their lives. In Patricia Elam Ruff's affecting "The Taxi Ride," we watch 75-year-old Helen as she nurses her husband through his final weeks, then share her exhilaration, grief and anguish when she is befriended by an elderly cab driver. In Marc Vassallo's "After the Opera," the ghost of old love inhabits the body of the living, as a man learns that his widowed mother has secretly married his father's rival colleague. Family estrangements aren't the only distances covered in this collection. Race relations take center stage in several of the stories; so does frustrated passion. Dale Ray Phillips's "Corporal Love" gives a brilliant look at the emotion that lingers after a marriage has ended. On a lighter note, Butler's "Help Me Find My Spaceman Lover" is a hilarious, touching story about a relationship between a lonely divorce and an alien she meets in the parking lot of a 24-hour Wal-Mart in Bovary, Ala. Pathos, levity, sarcasm and social commentary mix gracefully in this 11th annual edition. (Sept.)
Library Journal
In his preface, Padgett Powell attempts to pin down the source, if not the overriding theme, of what is called Southern literature. Whether the anthologized stories prove his thesis correct will be left to the reader, but the volume demonstrates the difficulty in defining a body of work that seems to have nothing but geography in common. The 19 pieces range from the Southern Gothic of Mark Richard's "Memorial Day" and Nancy Richard's "The Order of Things" to the earthy humor of Frederick Barthelme's "The Lesson" to Powell's own entry, the bizarre tour de force "Angels of Affection." Special mention must be made of Sara Powers's moving and ultimately happy love story, "The Baker's Wife." Recommended for most academic and public libraries.--Christine DeZelar-Tiedman, Univ. of Idaho Lib., Moscow
Kirkus Reviews
The 11th installment in this excellent series is certainly one of the strongest, with 19 stories that capture the diversity of the South in voice and place, drawing on a range of old and new talents.

The Old South of decaying mansions, men in seersucker, and women in lace is well recalled in first-rate tales by Charles East ("Pavane for a Dead Princess"), who meditates on the phenomenon of elderly ladies and their young male companions; by Pam Durban ("Gravity"), who beautifully records the decline of a once- distinguished Charleston family; and by Ellen Douglas ("Julia and Nellie"), who offers a tale of friendship transcending serious religious conflict. The rural and working-class South provides its own meaning and wistfulness: In Judy Troy's "Ramone," a young girl relocates to the small Texas town where her stepfather's father lies dying; in Patricia Elam Ruff's moving and elegiac "The Taxi Ride," an elderly woman, tired but happy in her long marriage, finds a welcome friend in a courtly cab-driver; in Janice Daugharty's "Along a Wider River," a former sharecropper watches his old boss fumble and die while fishing; and in Rhian Margaret Ellis's "Every Building Wants to Fall," a fatherless girl, feeling powerless and hopeless as well, discovers a perverse strength in causing her friend's epileptic seizures. Some inspired low comedy (and more class conflict) comes from two familiar experts: Tim Gautreaux's "Little Frogs in a Ditch" is a droll tale concerning a no-account loser who sells common roof pigeons as homing pigeons; and Lee Smith's unsparing "Native Daughter" turns on the conceit of its haughty narrator, a pretty girl from Kentucky who doesn't realize that her clubby male companions consider her easy trash.

Robert Olen Butler's tetchy introduction—with its bristling at the notion of "Southern" fiction—insists on the universality of art, but his fears are misplaced. The superb stories here quietly demonstrate that the universal always resides in the particular.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781565122192
Publisher:
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Publication date:
09/28/1998
Series:
New Stories from the South Series
Pages:
299
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 9.02(h) x 0.88(d)

Read an Excerpt

New Stories from the South

The Year's Best, 1998
By Shannon Ravenel

Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

Copyright © 1998 Shannon Ravenel
All right reserved.

ISBN: 1565122194


Preface


Letter from Sister--What We Learned at the P.O.


I have a theory--perhaps unformed and, without question, unsubstantiated--that most bad Southern writing is descended directly from Eudora Welty"s "Why I Live at the P.O." Welty"s story smacks of a certain now-familiar sensibility, rife with caricature, overstated eccentricity, and broadly drawn humor, that has come to represent Southern writing and, through that representation, the South itself.

It would be difÞcult, if not impossible, to read much Southern Þction and not come upon story after story faithfully cut from our landscape and culture, using the template provided by Welty in 1941. The characters in "Why I Live at the P.O." possess the prototypical, colorful Southern names that, in the musical sound of their regional speciÞcity, have come to promise colorful Southern doings: Papa-Daddy, Uncle Rondo, Stella-Rondo, Shirley-T., Sister. They eat green-tomato pickle and, on the Fourth of July, sport about in þesh-colored kimonos while impaired by prescription drugs. They live in Mississippi. They grow long beards and illegitimate children and mismatched sets of breasts.

In delicious, honey-coated accents they utter the delicious, honey-coated statements, void of any real importance, that fall sweetly on the ears of book-buying lovers of stereotype everywhere. "Papa-Daddy," Stella-Rondo says, when she"s looking to stir up trouble, "Papa-Daddy! . . . Sister says she fails to understand why you don"t cut off your beard." Uncle Rondo, after he has donned Stella-Rondo"s þesh-colored kimono and illegally ingested God knows what prescription narcotic (he"s a pharmacist), cries, "Sister, get out of my way, I"m poisoned."

So faithfully have the conventions of "Why I Live at the P.O." been copied by succeeding generations of writers, so dominant has the regionally identiÞed literature laid out by the story become, that Welty might well have titled it "How to Exploit the People of the Nation"s Poorest Region and Get a Really Big Book Advance." All of which is at least shameful, if not artistically criminal, because "Why I Live at the P.O." is a bona Þde work of genius, not only one of the best short stories produced by a Southern writer, but one of the best stories by any writer, anywhere.

The genius of "Why I Live at the P.O." lies not in the story that the narrator, Sister, tells us--which is, without question, broadly told, colorful, eccentric, and side-splittingly funny--but in the story Sister does not know she is telling us. In her hysterical attempt to win us over to her side in a seemingly inconsequential family dispute, Sister inadvertently reveals the emotional and spiritual burdens that she and the members of her family must pull through their lives. Stella-Rondo has been abandoned by a traveling salesman who might or might not be her husband, leaving her to raise a daughter who might or might not be illegitimate. Uncle Rondo is a shell-shocked veteran of World War I who once had a breakdown because one of his nieces broke a chain letter from Flanders Field. Mama is a tired woman--a widow, one presumes--who knows that she must spend the rest of her days caring for and keeping peace among, the rapidly aging daughters she can"t marry off; her senile father; and her shell-shocked, drug-addled brother. Papa-Daddy"s rages are directed not so much at Sister, but at what a colorful writer who wasn"t from around here famously called the "dying of the light" (Sister tells us he"s "just about a million years old").

And Sister, poor Sister. She thinks she is simply justifying to us her reasons for choosing to live in the second smallest post ofÞce in the state of Mississippi. But what she doesn"t know she is telling us is that she is horribly alone, that she realizes she will spend the rest of her life in a tiny, tiny place, with no chance of escape, unloved and unmarried, dependent upon the charity of her family. Her monologue to us, unbeknownst to her, is at once a comedic tour de force and a heartrending cry in the wilderness.

While these aren"t new critical insights, they are, I think, important ones. The bright surface of "Why I Live at the P.O." is so extraordinarily attractive that it is easy to see why it has been so often imitated. But it is also easy to see why, if only the surface of Welty"s story is imitated, the result is but a shallow and often exploitative parody of a great work of art. It is easy to make up characters who live in double-wide mobile homes, wear beehive hairdos and feed caps, never put a g on the end of a participle, have sex with their cousins, voted for George Wallace; who squint and spit whenever an out-of-towner uses a polysyllabic word; who aspire only to own a bass boat, scare a Yankee, have sex with their cousins again, burn a cross, eat something fried, speak in tongues, do anything butt nekkid, be a guest on a daytime talk show, and make the next payment on a satellite dish that points toward Venus and picks up 456 separate channels on a clear day. What is difÞcult is to take the poor, the uneducated, the superstitious, the backward, the redneck, the "trailer-trash," and make them real human beings, with hopes and dreams and aspirations as real and valid, and as worthy of our fair consideration, as any Cheeverian Westchester County housewife.

While I can forgive our brothers and sisters from other parts of the country for taking pleasure in, or even creating, a Southern literature based on stereotype, I Þnd it harder to forgive Southerners who do the same thing, particularly if they are capable of writing with greater understanding but choose not to. What Welty"s more cynical impersonators* choose to ignore is that the eccentricities portrayed in "Why I Live at the P.O." are character-speciÞc and not indicative of any larger pattern of regional or cultural behavior or belief. The humor in the words Uncle Rondo arises not from the words themselves, but from the way Sister says them.

While the sound of Sister"s voice has become the matriarch of all the shrill, self-absorbed voices we hear in Southern Þction, yammering on about nothing at all, we should remember that her voice is also one of agenda and calculation. Sister wants to make her family look bad; she wants us to believe that they are stupid and that, in their stupidity, they have treated her unfairly. What worries me is the possibility that Sister"s voice, with all its layers of complexity, will become lost in the din raised by its imitators, and that din will become, if it hasn"t already, the only voice we hear in our heads when we think about the nature of the word Southern.

I am often asked if I consider myself a Southern writer, and, to be honest, my answer depends on--to borrow a line from Owen Wister"s Virginian, one of the most famously one-dimensional Southern stereotypes--whether or not my questioner smiles when he calls me that. If he means, do I make fun of my characters because they are Southern and because there is a bottomless market for that sort of thing, then the answer is no. But if he means, do I consider myself someone who at least attempts to portray the people of my native region in all their complexity and diversity and Christ-hauntedness and moral ambiguity, the answer is yes, I consider myself a Southern writer.

And as a Southern writer--even one who tends to be as thin-skinned, testy, and self-righteous about this issue as I am--I have been tempted to lower the IQs of my characters, name them Something-or-Other Bob, and stick their illiterate backsides to a Naugahyde La-Z-Boy in order to make myself popular and sell some books. The real danger arises when too many of us at once give in to this invidious urge. In creating our own literature, a Southern literature, we often go for the quick laugh, the easy buck, the cardboard character. When we do that, we eat away the foundation of that literature from the inside. My fear is that, eventually, because of our willingness to feed on, without replacing, the tenets and traditions and subjects given to us by our predecessors--Welty, Flannery O"Connor, and William Faulkner most prominent among them--Southern writing will collapse and bury all of us, leaving only kudzu, grits, and a certain vaguely familiar voice to mark the spot.

Continues...


Excerpted from New Stories from the South by Shannon Ravenel Copyright © 1998 by Shannon Ravenel. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author


Shannon Ravenel has edited New Stories from the South since 1986. Formerly editorial director of Algonquin Books, she now directs her Algonquin imprint, Shannon Ravenel Books. She lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >