Amazon Quick Linker

Disable Copy Paste

Free Fiction Writing Tips: Where Modern and Classic Writing Crafts Collide


Header

Liquid Story Binder XE by Black Obelisk Software
Showing posts with label Studying the Short-Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Studying the Short-Story. Show all posts

Sunday, January 26, 2025

How to Study the Best Short Stories: A Guide for Fiction Writers

 

Remember, practice is key. The more you write, the better you'll become. Don't be afraid to experiment with different styles and genres. Most importantly, enjoy the process of creating stories that captivate your reader.


How to Study the Best Short Stories: A Guide for Fiction Writers


By Olivia Salter


Short stories are a literary playground where writers can stretch the limits of their imagination, experiment with unconventional forms, and condense emotional depth into a limited space. Unlike novels, which allow for extended character arcs and elaborate world-building, short stories demand precision and intentionality. Every word, sentence, and detail must serve a purpose, creating a narrative that is both concise and compelling. This makes short fiction an ideal medium for exploring innovative storytelling techniques and pushing creative boundaries.

For fiction writers, studying the best short stories is more than just reading for enjoyment—it’s an opportunity to unravel the secrets behind their success. Each story becomes a blueprint, offering lessons in pacing, character development, and emotional resonance. From the haunting atmosphere of a Shirley Jackson tale to the minimalist elegance of Raymond Carver’s prose, there’s an endless variety of styles and approaches to learn from.

But how do you approach this study effectively? Diving into short fiction without a strategy can be overwhelming, especially when faced with the sheer diversity of themes, genres, and voices. To truly understand and absorb the craft of short story writing, you need a systematic approach—one that breaks down the elements of storytelling into manageable, actionable insights.

Below is a step-by-step guide designed to help fiction writers unlock the magic of great short stories, apply those techniques to their own work, and develop a deeper appreciation for the art form. Whether you’re an aspiring writer or a seasoned storyteller looking for fresh inspiration, these steps will help you learn from the masters and elevate your craft.

1. Read Like a Writer

Reading as a writer is a skill that transforms how you approach stories. It’s about going beyond the surface enjoyment of a story and delving into its inner workings, examining how the author crafts their narrative to achieve specific effects. While reading for pleasure immerses you in the story’s world, reading as a writer allows you to dissect and understand the choices that make the story effective—or not. This process helps you uncover techniques and strategies you can adapt to your own writing.

To read like a writer, engage with the text critically, asking targeted questions about how it’s constructed. Let’s break down this approach further:

What Hooks Me in the First Sentence?

The opening line is a story’s first impression—it sets the tone, establishes intrigue, and invites the reader in. Pay close attention to how authors use the first sentence to grab your attention:

  • Does it present an unusual or striking image?
  • Does it pose a question or suggest a mystery that compels you to keep reading?
  • Does it introduce a character or situation in a way that immediately sparks curiosity?

For example, the opening line of Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery—“The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day
”—appears ordinary at first glance but lulls the reader into a false sense of security, heightening the impact of the story’s shocking events. By studying openings, you can learn how to craft your own irresistible beginnings.

How Does the Author Create Tension or Evoke Emotion?

Tension and emotion are the lifeblood of any compelling story. As you read, analyze the techniques the author uses to build suspense or elicit a strong emotional response:

  • Does the tension arise from the stakes of the plot, the complexity of the characters, or the mood of the setting?
  • How does the pacing affect the buildup of suspense? Does the story accelerate toward a climax, or does it maintain a slow, simmering intensity?
  • What specific word choices, metaphors, or descriptions contribute to the emotional tone?

Consider Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find. The rising tension is masterfully constructed through unsettling foreshadowing, the gradual unraveling of the family dynamic, and the ominous presence of the Misfit, culminating in a harrowing and emotionally charged climax. By dissecting such moments, you can learn how to replicate this intensity in your own work.

What Makes the Ending Memorable?

Endings are where the emotional and thematic impact of a story is solidified. A great ending leaves a lasting impression, whether it’s through a surprising twist, a poignant revelation, or a sense of ambiguity that invites reflection. Ask yourself:

  • How does the story’s conclusion tie back to its central theme or message?
  • Does the ending resolve the plot, leave it open-ended, or challenge the reader’s expectations?
  • How does the emotional arc of the characters align with the final moments?

For example, in Kate Chopin’s The Story of an Hour, the ending delivers a devastating irony: the protagonist, newly liberated by the thought of her husband’s death, dies herself when she learns he’s still alive. The twist reinforces the story’s themes of freedom and confinement, making it both shocking and thematically resonant.

Reverse-Engineering the Story’s Success

When you approach a story analytically, you’re essentially reverse-engineering its mechanics—breaking it down into components to see how they work together. This means paying attention to details such as:

  • Structure: How is the story organized? Does it follow a traditional arc or experiment with form?
  • Point of View: Whose perspective is the story told from, and how does this choice shape the narrative?
  • Language: What tone and style does the author use, and how do these choices affect the mood and readability of the story?

By actively engaging with these elements, you not only gain a deeper appreciation for the story but also build your toolbox as a writer. Reading like a writer isn’t just about emulating great authors—it’s about understanding their techniques and adapting them to fit your unique voice and creative vision.

As you develop this skill, you’ll find yourself approaching stories with a sharper eye, uncovering insights that elevate your own work. Remember, every great writer was once a great reader—so immerse yourself in the best stories, read critically, and let them inspire and inform your craft.

2. Examine Structure and Pacing

Short stories are masterpieces of economy, packing an emotional punch and narrative depth into a limited space. The constraints of the form force writers to prioritize what matters most, making every scene, line, and word purposeful. To master the craft of short fiction, it's essential to study how structure and pacing work together to create stories that are both engaging and impactful.

Where Does the Inciting Incident Occur?

The inciting incident is the spark that sets the story in motion. In a short story, this moment often occurs early—sometimes even in the opening paragraph—because there’s little room to meander. Ask yourself:

  • Does the inciting incident happen immediately, drawing the reader into the conflict right away?
  • How does the timing of the inciting incident affect the story’s pacing and tension?

For example, in Tobias Wolff’s Bullet in the Brain, the inciting incident happens almost instantly when the protagonist finds himself caught in a bank robbery. This early disruption not only grabs the reader’s attention but also sets the stage for the story’s deeper exploration of memory and mortality.

How Is Backstory Woven in Without Overwhelming the Main Plot?

In short stories, backstory is often a supporting player rather than a primary focus. Effective short fiction uses subtle hints or fragmented details to reveal a character’s history without detracting from the forward momentum of the plot. Consider:

  • Does the author use dialogue, flashbacks, or internal monologue to reveal backstory?
  • Are these elements delivered in small doses, leaving room for the reader to piece things together?
  • How does the backstory serve the story’s central theme or conflict?

Take Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies as an example. The backstory of Mr. Kapasi’s failed marriage is skillfully interwoven into the narrative through his thoughts and observations, enhancing the story’s themes of miscommunication and unfulfilled desires without overshadowing the central plot.

Does the Story Rely on a Single Climax or Multiple Moments of Tension?

Short stories often build toward a single, powerful climax, but some feature multiple smaller moments of tension that keep the reader engaged. Examine how the story maintains its momentum:

  • Is the tension a slow, steady buildup leading to a single turning point?
  • Are there smaller peaks and valleys of conflict that sustain interest throughout?
  • How does the resolution (or lack thereof) provide emotional payoff?

In Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find, for instance, the story escalates through a series of increasingly tense moments—beginning with the family’s bickering, continuing with their car accident, and culminating in the grandmother’s fatal encounter with the Misfit. Each moment contributes to the rising tension, making the climax devastatingly effective.

Balance Between Action, Reflection, and Resolution

A well-structured short story balances action, reflection, and resolution, creating a rhythm that keeps the reader engaged while delivering thematic depth.

  • Action: These are the moments when things happen—conflicts arise, decisions are made, or events unfold. Action drives the plot forward, providing momentum and stakes.
  • Reflection: Reflection allows characters to process what’s happening, giving readers insight into their emotions, motivations, and inner conflicts. Reflection also slows the pacing at critical moments, allowing the tension to simmer.
  • Resolution: A short story’s resolution is often brief but impactful, leaving a lasting impression on the reader. Consider whether the ending ties up loose ends, provides a twist, or leaves questions unanswered.

In Raymond Carver’s Cathedral, the balance between action and reflection is masterful. The narrator’s interactions with the blind man are simple and mundane—pouring drinks, eating dinner—but his inner reflections and emotional shift during the climactic drawing scene provide profound depth. The understated resolution leaves readers contemplating the story’s themes of connection and perception.

Applying These Lessons

When analyzing structure and pacing, keep in mind that every decision serves the story’s overall impact. As you study, ask yourself:

  • What could have been left out without affecting the story’s power?
  • How do the story’s structural choices contribute to its emotional weight?
  • What lessons can you apply to your own writing to make your stories leaner, sharper, and more resonant?

By closely examining how the masters of short fiction construct their narratives, you’ll gain a deeper understanding of how structure and pacing work together to create stories that leave a lasting impression.

3. Analyze Characterization

Short stories excel at creating vivid, complex characters with minimal exposition, turning the constraints of brevity into opportunities for ingenuity. In this compact form, there’s no room for extensive backstory or drawn-out character arcs. Instead, writers rely on precise and deliberate choices to bring their characters to life. Every word, action, and detail is carefully selected to reveal the essence of a character in a way that feels immediate and impactful.

One of the most powerful tools for characterization in short stories is dialogue. What a character says—or chooses not to say—can speak volumes about their personality, motivations, and relationships. Pay attention to the rhythm and subtext of conversations in short stories. For instance, a single line of dialogue filled with hesitation, repetition, or abruptness can hint at inner conflict or unresolved tension.

Actions, too, are a window into a character’s soul. In short stories, actions often carry more weight than words. A small, seemingly inconsequential gesture—like a character nervously tapping their foot, clutching an object, or avoiding eye contact—can convey their emotional state or hint at a hidden truth. These subtle details encourage readers to read between the lines, creating a sense of intimacy and engagement with the narrative.

Authors also use specific, evocative details to define their characters. A character’s choice of clothing, the way they interact with their surroundings, or the objects they keep close can reveal layers of their identity without overt explanation. For example, a character who carefully arranges flowers in a vase might suggest an obsession with control or a longing for beauty in their life.

Consider how Ernest Hemingway, in his famous short story Hills Like White Elephants, uses sparse dialogue and loaded silences to reveal the complexities of a strained relationship without ever explicitly stating the conflict. Similarly, in Alice Walker’s Everyday Use, the interactions between the mother and her two daughters reveal their clashing values and attitudes toward heritage through actions and conversations rather than long-winded descriptions.

By studying these techniques, writers can learn to make every word count, crafting characters who feel real and resonate deeply with readers. The power of short stories lies in their ability to suggest entire lives, histories, and relationships in just a few strokes—challenging writers to find meaning in the smallest details.

4. Study Style and Voice

A writer’s style and voice are what make their work distinctive, creating a signature that resonates with readers and sets their stories apart. Style refers to the way a story is written—its tone, word choice, rhythm, and use of literary devices. Voice encompasses the personality, perspective, and attitude behind the narrative. By studying these elements in short stories, you can uncover how authors craft their unique identities and learn to refine your own.

Analyze Tone, Diction, and Rhythm

Every story’s style begins with tone, diction, and rhythm, which work together to create the mood and pace. As you read, pay attention to these key elements:

  • Tone: Tone reflects the author’s attitude toward the subject matter or characters. It might be somber, playful, ironic, hopeful, or detached. For example, the tone in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart is frantic and paranoid, mirroring the protagonist’s unraveling mind.

  • Diction (Word Choice): The choice of words contributes to the story’s atmosphere and the reader’s experience. Is the language formal or conversational? Simple or complex? Consider how diction shapes the narrative. In Zora Neale Hurston’s Sweat, for instance, the use of dialect and vivid imagery immerses readers in the protagonist’s world, making the story feel authentic and immediate.

  • Rhythm: Rhythm is the flow of sentences and paragraphs, influencing how the story feels as it’s read. Short, choppy sentences can create urgency or tension, while longer, flowing ones can evoke introspection or calm. Ernest Hemingway’s rhythmic, sparse prose in A Clean, Well-Lighted Place mirrors the quiet melancholy of the characters’ inner lives.

Imagery, Metaphor, and Symbolism

The use of literary devices like imagery, metaphor, and symbolism is often central to an author’s style:

  • Imagery: Look for vivid descriptions that appeal to the senses, bringing scenes to life. In Gabriel GarcĂ­a MĂĄrquez’s A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, the striking image of a decrepit angel creates an atmosphere that is both magical and unsettling.
  • Metaphor: Metaphors can enrich a story’s emotional depth by drawing unexpected connections. For example, in Sandra Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street, the house serves as a metaphor for the protagonist’s dreams and limitations.
  • Symbolism: Symbols can imbue a story with layered meanings, inviting readers to look beyond the surface. Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery uses the ritual of the lottery as a symbol of blind tradition and collective violence.

As you study, ask yourself:

  • How do these devices enhance the story’s themes?
  • Do they evoke a specific emotional response?
  • What makes them memorable or unique?

The Influence of Narrative Voice

The narrative voice is the lens through which the story is told, and it shapes how readers perceive the events and characters.

  • First-Person Voice: A first-person narrator offers intimacy and subjectivity, often revealing their biases or unreliability. In Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper, the narrator’s descent into madness is conveyed through a fragmented, confessional voice that draws the reader into her perspective.
  • Third-Person Voice: A third-person narrator can be omniscient, providing insights into multiple characters, or limited, focusing on one perspective. Alice Munro’s third-person voice in Runaway balances detachment and empathy, allowing the reader to understand the protagonist’s choices without judgment.
  • Stylistic Variations: Some authors experiment with unconventional voices, such as stream-of-consciousness or second-person narration, to create a distinct experience. Jamaica Kincaid’s Girl, written as a single monologue, uses second-person voice to explore themes of identity and societal expectations.

Questions to consider when analyzing voice:

  • How does the narrator’s perspective shape your understanding of the story?
  • Is the voice conversational, formal, introspective, or detached?
  • How does the narrative voice align with or contrast the story’s tone and subject matter?

Refining Your Own Style and Voice

Studying the style and voice of great short stories can help you hone your own:

  1. Experiment with Tone and Diction: Write a single scene in different tones—somber, playful, or mysterious—and experiment with varying levels of formality in your word choice.
  2. Play with Rhythm: Revise a paragraph to vary sentence length and structure. Notice how changes in rhythm affect the pacing and mood.
  3. Use Literary Devices Intentionally: Practice incorporating metaphors, imagery, or symbolism into your writing. Reflect on how these elements support the themes or enhance the emotional impact.
  4. Find Your Voice: Voice develops through practice and self-awareness. Write from different perspectives or experiment with unconventional narrators to discover what feels authentic to you.

Learning Through Imitation and Innovation

One way to refine your style is by imitating the voices of writers you admire. Try rewriting a scene from a story in their style, focusing on tone, diction, and rhythm. Then, rewrite it again in your own voice, incorporating what you’ve learned. This practice helps you absorb techniques while staying true to your unique perspective.

By studying how authors craft their style and voice, you’ll not only deepen your appreciation for short fiction but also develop the tools to create work that is unmistakably your own.

5. Focus on Themes

The best short stories resonate deeply with readers because they explore universal themes—love, loss, identity, justice, or moral dilemmas—while presenting them in fresh and thought-provoking ways. These themes often tap into shared human experiences, making the story relatable even if its setting, characters, or plot are highly specific. A powerful theme not only grounds the story but also gives it depth, inviting readers to reflect on their own lives and perspectives.

To understand how themes operate in a short story, begin by identifying the central theme and examining how all the story’s elements—plot, character, setting, and style—work together to support it.

Plot and Theme

The plot serves as the vehicle for the theme, delivering the story’s emotional and intellectual impact. Whether it’s a tale of forbidden love, a moment of self-discovery, or a struggle for justice, the events of the story should reinforce its core message. Consider how the progression of the plot creates opportunities to explore different facets of the theme.

  • In Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery, the plot centers on a seemingly ordinary town’s ritual, revealing the theme of blind tradition and societal violence. The shocking twist forces readers to confront uncomfortable truths about human behavior.
  • In Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find, the escalating conflict between the grandmother and the Misfit explores themes of redemption, faith, and moral ambiguity, culminating in a moment of grace amidst violence.

Character and Theme

Characters are often the lens through which themes are explored. A well-crafted character doesn’t just act within the story—they embody the theme in some way. Their desires, flaws, and decisions highlight different aspects of the central idea.

  • In Alice Walker’s Everyday Use, the mother and her daughters Dee and Maggie symbolize conflicting approaches to heritage and identity. Their interactions bring the theme of cultural preservation to life, with each character offering a different perspective.
  • In James Joyce’s Araby, the unnamed narrator’s youthful infatuation and eventual disillusionment reflect themes of romantic idealism, loss of innocence, and the harsh realities of adulthood.

Setting and Theme

The setting plays a crucial role in reinforcing the theme, grounding abstract ideas in tangible environments. A story’s location, time period, or cultural context can enhance its thematic resonance by reflecting or challenging the characters’ experiences.

  • In Raymond Carver’s Cathedral, the mundane, domestic setting contrasts with the profound emotional connection formed between the narrator and the blind man, emphasizing themes of perception, empathy, and human connection.
  • In Zora Neale Hurston’s Sweat, the oppressive heat and rural Southern setting mirror the protagonist’s struggles and the simmering tension of her abusive marriage, amplifying the theme of resilience and justice.

Style and Theme

The author’s stylistic choices—tone, symbolism, and imagery—add another layer to the exploration of the theme. Subtle metaphors or recurring motifs can deepen the reader’s understanding of the story’s central message.

  • In Gabriel GarcĂ­a MĂĄrquez’s A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, the use of magical realism invites readers to reflect on themes of human compassion, faith, and the mundane reactions to the miraculous.
  • In Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants, the minimalist style mirrors the tension and unsaid emotions between the characters, reinforcing the theme of communication and personal choice.

Making Themes Fresh

What sets the best short stories apart is their ability to present universal themes in ways that feel new and engaging. Writers achieve this by:

  • Adding cultural specificity: Tying universal ideas to unique cultural or historical contexts can make familiar themes feel fresh and relevant.
  • Focusing on the ordinary: Highlighting small, everyday moments allows readers to find meaning in the mundane, as seen in Carver’s works.
  • Subverting expectations: Challenging traditional interpretations of a theme or delivering an unexpected resolution can breathe new life into timeless ideas.

By analyzing how the elements of a story work together to support its theme, writers can learn to craft narratives that resonate on multiple levels—emotionally, intellectually, and thematically. A story’s theme is its heart, and when every element beats in rhythm with that heart, it creates a piece of fiction that lingers long after the last word is read.

6. Take Note of Economy of Words

In short fiction, every word carries weight. With limited space to tell a complete story, authors must choose their words with precision, ensuring that each one contributes to the narrative, character development, or theme. There is no room for redundancy, filler, or overly elaborate descriptions. Instead, the best short stories use concise language to convey meaning in ways that are both powerful and efficient.

Studying how authors achieve this economy of words can teach you to write more intentionally and make every sentence count. Let’s explore how to observe and learn from this skill:

Concise Language and Efficiency

In short stories, descriptive language is often pared down to its essence, allowing the reader to fill in the gaps. This doesn’t mean sacrificing detail but rather delivering it with precision and clarity.

  • Pay attention to how authors describe characters, settings, or emotions in a single sentence or phrase instead of paragraphs.
  • Notice how sensory details—sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste—are used sparingly yet vividly to immerse the reader in the story’s world.

For example, in Ernest Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants, the descriptions are sparse but loaded with meaning. A single line, such as “The girl looked at the bead curtain,” speaks volumes about her hesitancy and inner turmoil without explicitly stating it. Hemingway’s minimalist style, often referred to as the “iceberg theory,” demonstrates how much can be left unsaid while still resonating deeply.

The Power of Subtext

Subtext is a hallmark of great short fiction. It refers to the meaning that lies beneath the surface of the words—what is implied rather than explicitly stated. Subtext engages the reader by requiring them to read between the lines, creating a more interactive and emotionally rich experience.

  • Look for moments where dialogue reveals more than it appears to. What characters avoid saying or how they phrase their words can hint at hidden motivations, relationships, or conflicts.
  • Observe how gestures, silences, and small details carry emotional weight, revealing what characters feel without directly stating it.

In Alice Munro’s The Bear Came Over the Mountain, subtext permeates the interactions between characters. The story’s exploration of love, memory, and betrayal unfolds subtly through what is left unsaid, allowing readers to piece together the emotional depth of the narrative on their own.

Every Word Serves a Purpose

In the best short stories, every word serves a clear purpose—whether it’s advancing the plot, deepening characterization, or reinforcing the theme. When reading, analyze:

  • Word Choice: How do the author’s word choices create mood, tone, or tension? Are there repeated words or phrases that act as motifs?
  • Sentence Structure: Short fiction often relies on varied sentence lengths to control pacing and emphasize key moments. How does the author use brevity or elongation to create impact?
  • Implied Context: How do seemingly small details hint at a larger story beyond the page?

In Raymond Carver’s Why Don’t You Dance?, every word feels deliberate. The story’s brief descriptions of a yard sale and an awkward encounter between two characters reveal unspoken loneliness, disappointment, and yearning. Carver trusts the reader to infer meaning from what’s not explicitly described, making the story feel both intimate and expansive.

Learning from Economy of Words

When reading short fiction, practice identifying examples of economical storytelling:

  • Highlight sentences or passages where the author conveys a complex idea or emotion in just a few words. What makes these moments so effective?
  • Compare sections of dialogue or description to see how much information is packed into seemingly simple phrases.
  • Note when the story implies more than it states outright and how this deepens your engagement as a reader.

Applying Economy to Your Writing

As you absorb these lessons, try applying them to your own work:

  • Cut unnecessary words: Edit ruthlessly, asking whether each word is essential to the story.
  • Trust your reader: Resist the urge to over-explain. Let subtext and implication do some of the heavy lifting.
  • Experiment with brevity: Challenge yourself to describe a scene, character, or emotion in as few words as possible while maintaining its impact.

Mastering the economy of words allows you to create short fiction that is concise yet profound, where every line resonates with meaning. By studying how the best authors use language sparingly but effectively, you’ll develop a sharper, more intentional approach to your writing.

7. Pay Attention to Openings and Endings

Openings and endings are the bookends of a short story, carrying an outsized weight in determining its overall impact. The opening sets the tone, draws the reader in, and establishes the narrative's stakes, while the ending leaves a lasting impression, often shaping how the story is remembered and interpreted. By studying how masterful authors craft their beginnings and conclusions, you can learn to make your own stories more compelling and memorable.

Crafting a Compelling Opening

The opening of a short story is the gateway to its world. It must grab the reader’s attention quickly while laying the foundation for what’s to come. Strong openings often achieve this by:

  • Introducing Intrigue or Conflict: Many great stories start with a sense of mystery, tension, or curiosity that propels the reader forward.
    • Example: “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.” (Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway) This line invites questions: Who is Mrs. Dalloway, and why is this simple decision significant?
  • Setting the Tone: The first sentences establish the story’s mood, style, and pace, preparing the reader for the journey ahead.
    • Example: “They shoot the white girl first.” (Toni Morrison, Paradise) This stark, unsettling line sets an ominous tone, compelling readers to continue.
  • Introducing the Protagonist or Context: Some openings immediately immerse the reader in the life of the main character or a vivid setting.
    • Example: “In the town, there were two mutes, and they were always together.” (Carson McCullers, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter) This opening not only introduces the characters but also hints at their relationship, piquing curiosity.

When analyzing openings, ask yourself:

  • How does the author create immediate interest or connection?
  • What information is revealed upfront, and what is withheld to build suspense?
  • How does the opening establish the story’s stakes, tone, or theme?

Crafting a Memorable Ending

A short story’s ending is its final impression—the moment that lingers in the reader’s mind. Memorable endings often achieve their power through one of the following techniques:

  • A Twist: A surprising or ironic turn can reframe the entire story, leaving the reader stunned or contemplative.
    • Example: In O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi, the twist reveals that both characters have sacrificed their most prized possessions for each other, highlighting the depth of their love and the bittersweet irony of their actions.
  • An Emotional Revelation: A poignant or transformative moment can bring the story’s themes to a powerful conclusion.
    • Example: In James Joyce’s The Dead, Gabriel’s realization of his own mortality and the fleeting nature of life delivers an emotional resonance that lingers well beyond the final sentence.
  • Ambiguity or Reflection: Some endings leave questions unanswered, inviting the reader to reflect on the story’s meaning.
    • Example: In Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, the unresolved nature of the characters’ conversation about love mirrors the complexity of the topic itself, leaving readers pondering long after the story ends.

When analyzing endings, consider:

  • How does the conclusion tie back to the story’s central theme or conflict?
  • Does the ending resolve the narrative, or does it leave room for interpretation?
  • What emotions or thoughts does the final sentence evoke?

The Connection Between Openings and Endings

In many great short stories, the opening and ending are closely connected, creating a sense of cohesion and resonance.

  • Circular Structure: Some stories begin and end with similar images, phrases, or ideas, reinforcing a theme or creating a feeling of closure.
    • Example: In Kate Chopin’s The Story of an Hour, the story begins with the news of the protagonist’s husband’s death and ends with the shock of his return, bookending the narrative with contrasting emotions of freedom and despair.
  • Contrast or Transformation: A story’s ending can reflect how far the characters have come since the opening, highlighting their growth, change, or disillusionment.
    • Example: In Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery, the cheerful, seemingly idyllic opening contrasts sharply with the violent, shocking ending, amplifying the story’s critique of societal norms.

Applying These Lessons to Your Writing

To craft stronger openings and endings, practice the following:

  1. Experiment with Starting Points: Begin your story at different moments—mid-action, with dialogue, or with a vivid description—and see which one creates the strongest hook.
  2. Write the Ending First: Sometimes, knowing how your story ends can help you shape the beginning more effectively, ensuring the two are in harmony.
  3. Revise for Impact: After drafting, revisit your opening and ending to ensure they are as strong as possible. Ask yourself:
    • Does the opening pull the reader in immediately?
    • Does the ending leave a lasting impression or emotional payoff?

By paying close attention to how master storytellers handle their beginnings and conclusions, you can refine your ability to open with intrigue and close with resonance, leaving your readers hooked from the first line and haunted by the last.

8. Revisit and Reflect

The beauty of great short stories lies in their depth—they often reveal new layers and insights with each rereading. A single reading might leave you captivated by the plot or characters, but revisiting the story allows you to uncover the subtleties of its craft: the deliberate choices in structure, language, and theme that make it impactful. Reflection is a vital step in growing as a writer, helping you internalize techniques and adapt them to your own style.

Why Revisit Stories?

Each time you revisit a favorite story, you bring a new perspective shaped by your evolving experiences, knowledge, and understanding of writing. Stories that once moved you simply as a reader may now teach you as a writer. Here’s why revisiting is essential:

  • Discovering Hidden Techniques: On a second or third reading, you may notice foreshadowing, symbolism, or thematic nuances you missed before.
  • Appreciating Craftsmanship: Revisiting allows you to focus on the mechanics of the story—how the author builds tension, develops characters, or uses language.
  • Deepening Emotional Connection: Stories often resonate differently as you grow and change. What seemed poignant in the past may take on a new, richer meaning later.

How to Reflect on What Resonates

As you revisit a story, reflect deeply on why it continues to impact you. Use these guiding questions:

  • What lingers? Think about the moments, characters, or emotions that stay with you long after finishing the story. Is it the way a conflict was resolved? A line of dialogue? The story’s atmosphere?
  • Which techniques stand out? Analyze the elements that make the story effective. Does the structure surprise you? Are the characters especially vivid or relatable?
  • How does it connect to your own work? Consider which aspects of the story align with your personal interests or style. How can you adapt these techniques in your writing without mimicking?

What to Focus On When Revisiting

  1. Language and Style:

    • Pay attention to the author’s word choices. What makes their language striking or memorable? Are they sparse or lyrical in their descriptions?
    • Reflect on how the author uses repetition, rhythm, or sentence structure to create a specific mood.
  2. Theme and Meaning:

    • With subsequent readings, themes often become clearer. What does the story say about universal experiences like love, fear, or loss?
    • Consider how the theme is supported by the plot, characters, and symbols.
  3. Character Development:

    • Revisit how the author reveals character traits. Are there subtle hints in dialogue, body language, or interactions?
    • Reflect on how the characters’ journeys resonate with you. Do they grow, change, or remain static in meaningful ways?
  4. Pacing and Structure:

    • Examine how the story is constructed. Where does the tension peak? How does the pacing affect your engagement?
    • Reflect on the ending. Does it tie back to the beginning, offer resolution, or leave room for interpretation?

Adapting What You Learn

The ultimate goal of revisiting and reflecting is to grow as a writer by integrating lessons into your own work. Here’s how:

  • Adapt Techniques: Identify specific strategies you admire—such as how an author introduces a character or builds suspense—and try them in your own stories.
  • Experiment with Structure: If a story’s structure stands out, experiment with similar approaches, such as nonlinear timelines or circular endings.
  • Refine Your Voice: Reflect on how your favorite stories use tone, diction, and perspective. What feels natural to you, and what can you develop further?

The Value of Repetition

Revisiting doesn’t mean reading a story once or twice—it means returning to it throughout your life and career. Each rereading offers new insights, deepens your understanding of the craft, and inspires fresh ideas for your own work.

Practical Exercise: Reflection Journal

To make the most of your reflections, keep a journal specifically for analyzing stories. After revisiting a favorite, write down:

  • A summary of the story’s plot, themes, and characters.
  • Key techniques or moments that resonated with you.
  • Ideas for incorporating these elements into your own writing.

Over time, your journal will become a rich resource, filled with tools and inspiration drawn from the masters of short fiction.

Why Reflection Matters

Reflection bridges the gap between admiration and application. It’s not enough to simply love a story—understanding why you love it, and learning how to adapt its strengths, is what makes you a better writer. By revisiting and reflecting, you’ll not only deepen your appreciation for short stories but also transform those lessons into tools for your creative growth.

9. Engage with Critical Analysis

Engaging with critical analysis is a powerful way to deepen your understanding of short stories. Essays, reviews, and interviews provide fresh perspectives, uncovering layers of meaning and craft you might not notice on your own. By exploring the insights of literary critics, scholars, or even the authors themselves, you can expand your knowledge of storytelling techniques, themes, and the historical or cultural contexts that shape a work.

Why Engage with Critical Analysis?

Critical analysis adds depth to your study of short stories by:

  • Revealing Hidden Layers: Critics and scholars often highlight nuances in a story’s themes, symbolism, or structure that may not be immediately obvious.
  • Providing Historical and Cultural Context: Understanding the time and place in which a story was written can illuminate its deeper meanings and relevance.
  • Exploring the Author’s Intentions: Interviews and essays by authors can offer insights into their creative process, decisions, and inspirations, helping you understand how they approached their craft.
  • Broadening Perspectives: Reviews and critiques can challenge your interpretations, encouraging you to see a story from multiple angles.

Where to Find Critical Analysis

  1. Essays and Reviews:

    • Look for literary journals, magazines, or anthologies that publish essays on short stories. Publications like The Paris Review, The New Yorker, and Literary Hub often feature in-depth analyses of fiction.
    • Search for reviews of specific short story collections or standalone stories. These can provide insights into how the work was received and interpreted by contemporary audiences.
  2. Interviews with Authors:

    • Interviews often reveal how authors approach themes, structure, or characters. Websites like The Paris Review’s Art of Fiction series or author-specific Q&A sessions can be invaluable.
    • Video or podcast interviews may offer a more personal glimpse into an author’s creative process.
  3. Books on Literary Criticism:

  4. Academic Resources:

    • University websites, research papers, or online course materials often include analyses of classic and contemporary short stories.
    • Use platforms like JSTOR or Project MUSE to find scholarly articles on the stories you’re studying.

What to Look for in Critical Analysis

When engaging with essays, reviews, or interviews, focus on these key aspects:

  1. Thematic Insights:

    • What themes does the critic identify, and how do they interpret them?
    • Are there connections to broader societal, historical, or cultural issues?
  2. Structural and Stylistic Observations:

    • How does the analysis explore the story’s structure, pacing, or use of literary devices?
    • Does it highlight patterns or techniques you hadn’t noticed?
  3. Authorial Intent:

    • What does the author say about their inspiration or goals for the story?
    • Are there insights into their process, such as how they developed characters or refined the plot?
  4. Comparative Analysis:

    • Does the critique compare the story to other works by the same author or within the same genre?
    • How do these comparisons help situate the story in a broader literary context?

How to Use Critical Analysis to Improve Your Writing

  1. Identify Transferable Techniques:

    • Look for craft techniques that resonate with you, such as how an author uses dialogue to reveal character or employs symbolism to deepen a theme. Experiment with these in your own writing.
  2. Challenge Your Interpretations:

    • If a critic’s interpretation differs from yours, revisit the story to explore their perspective. This can help you think more critically and flexibly about your own work.
  3. Apply Contextual Understanding:

    • Use historical or cultural insights to inform your storytelling, particularly if you’re exploring similar themes or settings.
  4. Incorporate Reflection:

    • After reading a critical essay or interview, journal your thoughts about how the insights align with your understanding of the story. Reflect on how these lessons can shape your writing process.

Practical Tips for Engaging with Analysis

  • Annotate as You Read: Highlight points that resonate with you or challenge your understanding. Jot down questions or ideas inspired by the analysis.
  • Compare Multiple Perspectives: Seek out different critiques of the same story to gain a well-rounded view. Diverging opinions can open new avenues for exploration.
  • Create a Study System: Keep a notebook or digital document to track key takeaways from critical essays, reviews, or interviews. Categorize these by themes, techniques, or authors for easy reference.
  • Participate in Discussions: Join book clubs, writing groups, or online forums to engage with others who have studied the same stories. Collaborative discussions often bring fresh insights.

The Benefits of Engaging with Critical Analysis

Engaging with critical analysis not only deepens your appreciation for short fiction but also equips you with tools to elevate your craft. You’ll gain a richer understanding of storytelling techniques, expand your ability to interpret and analyze texts, and develop a broader perspective on the art of fiction. By combining your personal reflections with the insights of others, you’ll create a foundation for growth as both a writer and a reader.

10. Write Inspired Pieces

The best way to internalize what you’ve learned from studying short stories is to put it into practice. Writing inspired pieces allows you to experiment with the techniques you admire, sharpen your skills, and uncover your unique voice. By mimicking aspects of the stories that resonate with you—whether it’s pacing, characterization, or thematic depth—you can create original works that honor those influences while becoming distinctly your own.

Why Write Inspired Pieces?

  1. Deepen Your Understanding: Writing helps solidify what you’ve learned. By actively applying techniques from your favorite stories, you gain firsthand experience with their power and nuances.
  2. Experiment Safely: Trying out new techniques within the framework of inspiration gives you a creative sandbox to test ideas without the pressure of perfection.
  3. Refine Your Voice: By borrowing elements from other writers, you’ll naturally begin to adapt and transform them, evolving a voice that feels authentic to you.

How to Write Inspired Pieces

  1. Identify Specific Techniques to Practice:

    • Pacing: If you’re drawn to the gradual buildup of tension in a story, try replicating its rhythm in your own narrative. Experiment with sentence length and scene structure to create a similar effect.
    • Characterization: If a particular author excels at revealing character through action or dialogue, practice crafting characters who show rather than tell. For example, write a scene where a character’s traits are revealed through their reactions rather than direct description.
    • Thematic Depth: Choose a theme you’ve seen explored effectively, such as grief or identity, and build your story around it. Consider how the original author wove the theme into every aspect of the story—setting, plot, and character—and try to do the same.
  2. Borrow Structures or Prompts:

    • Structural Inspiration: If you admire a nonlinear story like Alice Munro’s The Bear Came Over the Mountain, experiment with shifting timelines or fragmented storytelling.
    • Thematic Prompts: Take a theme or central question from a favorite story and create a new narrative around it. For instance, if you were inspired by Raymond Carver’s exploration of intimacy and alienation, write a story that examines a similar dynamic in a completely different setting.
    • Scene or Style Prompts: Rewrite a scene from a beloved short story in your own words, changing the characters, setting, or stakes while keeping the style intact.
  3. Blend Influences:

    • Combine techniques from multiple stories. For instance, use the sparse, haunting prose of one author alongside the layered symbolism of another. This synthesis can create something entirely fresh and unique.
    • Mix genres or tones. If you admire a deeply emotional literary story, try applying its approach to character and theme within a horror or science fiction framework.
  4. Revisit and Refine:

    • Treat your inspired pieces as exercises, not finished works. Revisit them after some time to analyze what worked and what didn’t. This iterative process will help you grow.
    • Reflect on what aspects of the original story inspired you most and evaluate how effectively you translated them into your own writing.

Examples of Inspired Writing Exercises

  1. Imitate an Opening Line:

    • Take the opening sentence of a favorite story and use its structure as a template for your own. This can help you understand how the author hooks the reader. For example, reimagine the ominous tone of Shirley Jackson’s opening in The Lottery with a completely different setting or premise.
  2. Rewrite from a New Perspective:

    • Retell a scene from another character’s point of view. This exercise helps you explore voice and character depth while staying anchored to a familiar structure.
  3. Write a Sequel or Prequel:

    • Imagine what happens before or after the events of a favorite story. This allows you to experiment within an existing world while developing your own ideas.
  4. Mimic Tone or Mood:

    • If a story’s tone captivated you, try writing a piece with a similar emotional atmosphere. For instance, emulate the melancholy introspection of James Joyce’s The Dead in your own story about loss or nostalgia.
  5. Transform a Story:

    • Take a classic short story and place it in a completely different setting, such as reimagining Edgar Allan Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado in a futuristic space colony. This exercise helps you understand the story’s core elements while giving you creative freedom.

Developing Your Unique Style

As you experiment with writing inspired pieces, you’ll start to notice patterns in what excites or challenges you. Over time, this process will:

  • Highlight Your Strengths: Certain techniques or themes may resonate more strongly with your natural style.
  • Reveal Your Preferences: You’ll discover which genres, tones, or narrative devices feel most authentic to your storytelling.
  • Shape Your Voice: By blending influences and refining your approach, your writing will evolve into something unmistakably your own.

Practical Tip: Keep an Inspiration Journal

Dedicate a notebook or digital document to track your inspired writing exercises. Include:

  • The stories that inspired you and the techniques you admired.
  • Brief summaries of your exercises and what you learned from them.
  • Notes on how you plan to integrate these lessons into your larger projects.

The Power of Writing Inspired Pieces

Writing inspired pieces is not about imitation but exploration. By experimenting with the techniques of great writers, you gain a deeper understanding of their craft while pushing the boundaries of your own creativity. With practice, these exercises become stepping stones toward mastering the art of short fiction and developing your unique voice as a storyteller.

Going Deeper: Incorporating Themes and Techniques

Once you've studied the mechanics of great short stories, the next step is to adapt and personalize those techniques to fit your own voice and themes. Here’s how you can take your study further:

1. Experiment with Structure

Short stories allow for creative freedom with structure. Consider experimenting with:

  • Non-linear timelines: Try revealing key events out of order to heighten mystery or emotional impact, as seen in works like The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien.
  • Vignettes: Use interconnected snapshots or scenes, as in Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street.
  • Circular storytelling: Begin and end your story in the same place, emotionally or literally, as a way to create symmetry and closure.

2. Build on Universal Themes

Choose a theme that resonates deeply with you—love, betrayal, hope, or despair—and make it personal. For instance:

  • Explore how societal expectations intersect with individual desires.
  • Highlight the small, everyday struggles that lead to profound emotional moments.
  • Bring cultural specificity to universal ideas, as in Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri.

3. Play with Perspective

Experiment with point of view to shift how the story unfolds:

  • A limited first-person perspective can create intimacy and suspense (The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman).
  • A detached third-person narrator might emphasize themes of alienation or absurdity (A Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka).
  • Second-person narration can immerse readers by making them a part of the story (How to Be a Good Wife by Emma Chapman).

4. Refine Your Openings and Endings

Crafting the perfect beginning and ending takes practice. To refine yours:

  • Open with a question, vivid image, or striking line of dialogue that immediately draws readers in.
  • End with ambiguity, leaving room for interpretation, or deliver a poignant emotional revelation that lingers. For inspiration, revisit Poe’s chilling conclusions or Carver’s subtle emotional shifts.

5. Infuse Your Cultural Identity

Bringing your own experiences and cultural heritage into your stories can make them more authentic and engaging. For example:

  • Highlight community dynamics or traditions unique to your background.
  • Show how historical or social contexts shape the lives of your characters.
  • Use regional dialects, folklore, or settings to ground the narrative in a specific place and time.

6. Combine Genres

Break traditional genre boundaries to create fresh, innovative stories. Combine:

  • Horror and social commentary, as in The Lottery.
  • Magical realism and family drama, as in A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings by Gabriel GarcĂ­a MĂĄrquez.
  • Psychological suspense with romance or tragedy, giving readers unexpected emotional layers.

7. Focus on Subtext

Subtext—what’s implied but not explicitly stated—adds depth to your writing. Study how masters like Hemingway use subtext in dialogue and description to convey tension or unspoken truths. Then, practice this technique by writing scenes where characters say one thing but mean another.

Practice Exercises to Sharpen Your Skills

  1. Rewrite a Classic Story: Choose a famous short story and rewrite it from another character’s perspective or set it in a modern context. For example, reimagine The Tell-Tale Heart as a story about cyberstalking or digital guilt.
  2. Emulate a Style: Write a story imitating the voice and style of an author you admire, then revise it to make it your own.
  3. Microfiction Challenge: Write a complete story in 500 words or less. Focus on economy of language and emotional impact.
  4. Theme Exploration: Take a theme from a classic story (e.g., isolation in Kafka’s The Metamorphosis) and apply it to a different setting or character type.

Turning Study Into Mastery

Studying short stories is the first step toward becoming a skilled storyteller, but mastery comes from transforming what you’ve learned into something uniquely your own. The more you immerse yourself in the interplay between narrative elements—plot, character, structure, and theme—the more intuitive your understanding of the craft becomes. Yet, the goal isn’t to mimic the masters; it’s to internalize their techniques, understand their effectiveness, and apply them in ways that align with your creative vision.

Learning vs. Copying

It’s tempting to try and replicate the magic of a favorite story, but mastery lies in adaptation, not imitation. Here’s how to strike the balance:

  1. Understand What Works: Identify the elements of a story that resonate with you. Is it the pacing? The way tension builds? The voice of the narrator? Dive deep to uncover why these choices succeed.
  2. Adapt, Don’t Replicate: Instead of copying a technique directly, think about how you can use it in a new context. For example, if you admire the sparse dialogue in a Raymond Carver story, experiment with using minimal conversation to build tension in a completely different setting or genre.
  3. Blend Techniques: Borrow from multiple sources to create something fresh. Combine the emotional depth of one writer with the experimental structure of another to find your unique balance.

From Critical Study to Creative Growth

Mastery involves turning analytical insights into creative breakthroughs. Here’s how to integrate study into your practice:

  1. Move Beyond the Surface:

    • Look beyond plot summaries and thematic overviews. Break stories down into their core elements and study how they interact.
    • Ask deeper questions: How does the story’s opening foreshadow its climax? How does the author manipulate time to heighten emotional impact?
  2. Experiment Purposefully:

    • Practice writing exercises inspired by your studies. For example, rewrite a scene with a different point of view or craft a story with a nonlinear timeline.
    • Focus on specific techniques in each exercise. One day, you might explore vivid imagery; another, you could experiment with pacing or voice.
  3. Learn From Feedback:

    • Share your inspired pieces with trusted readers, critique groups, or mentors. Use their feedback to refine your understanding of what works and where you can improve.
  4. Refine Through Repetition:

    • Revisit the same story multiple times to uncover new layers of meaning. Similarly, rewrite your own stories to test how changes in structure, tone, or dialogue affect the overall impact.

The Transition to Mastery

As you continue studying and practicing, you’ll notice a shift:

  • From Imitation to Innovation: Techniques that once felt borrowed will begin to feel natural. You’ll experiment more confidently, blending your influences into something uniquely yours.
  • From Analysis to Intuition: Over time, your understanding of narrative mechanics will become second nature. You’ll instinctively know when to slow down a scene, build tension, or reveal a character’s hidden motivations.
  • From Inspiration to Influence: As you hone your craft, your stories may start to inspire others. The cycle of learning and teaching continues, enriching the literary world.

Practical Steps to Elevate Your Storytelling

  1. Set Clear Goals:

    • Identify areas where you want to improve, whether it’s crafting compelling characters, creating vivid settings, or mastering dialogue.
    • Choose specific stories or authors to study for each goal.
  2. Track Your Progress:

    • Keep a journal of what you’ve learned from each story and how you’ve applied it in your writing. Reflect on what techniques have become second nature and which still need practice.
  3. Create Original Work:

    • Use what you’ve learned to write original short stories. Challenge yourself to incorporate multiple techniques from your studies into a single piece.
  4. Celebrate Milestones:

    • Recognize your growth by revisiting early drafts or old exercises. Compare them to your current work to see how far you’ve come.

Inspiring Future Writers

The ultimate reward of turning study into mastery is the ability to contribute to the art form you love. The stories you write may one day serve as inspiration for future writers, just as the works of great authors have inspired you. By sharing your unique perspective and voice, you’ll leave an imprint on readers and writers alike, continuing the cycle of creative exploration and growth.

Recommended Stories to Study

For inspiration, here’s a list of acclaimed short stories to analyze:

Final Thoughts

Studying short stories is a journey into the art of brevity, emotional resonance, and creative innovation—a delicate balancing act where every word must serve a purpose. Unlike novels, which have the luxury of sprawling narratives and intricate subplots, short stories operate within tight constraints, demanding precision and intentionality from their authors. Each sentence, each detail, must carry weight, contributing to the story's tone, pacing, and impact.

By immersing yourself in the finest examples of short fiction, you gain insight into how writers distill complex emotions, universal truths, and layered characters into just a few pages. The study becomes more than just an appreciation of craft—it’s an exercise in understanding human experience and how to convey it with clarity and power.

However, this process is only half the equation. To truly grow as a storyteller, you must pair critical reading with intentional writing. Studying the mechanics of a masterful twist or the subtle buildup of tension means little if you don’t apply those techniques to your own work. By experimenting with structure, exploring uncharted themes, and pushing the boundaries of your creative voice, you can craft stories that linger long after the final word.

The greatest short stories are those that resonate deeply, leaving an emotional imprint on readers. They ask questions, provoke thought, and often offer no easy answers. As you study and write with purpose, you’ll learn to create stories that not only entertain but also challenge, inspire, and move your audience in ways they’ll never forget.

Mastery is not a destination but an ongoing journey. With every story you study and every piece you write, you move closer to understanding the limitless potential of short fiction. By combining critical study with intentional practice, you not only elevate your craft but also contribute to the rich tapestry of storytelling. Your voice, shaped by influences yet entirely your own, may one day echo in the works of others, perpetuating the timeless art of short stories.

Tuesday, December 13, 2022

Studying the Short-Story by J. Berg Esenwein (eBook)


Studying the Short-Story by J. Berg Esenwein (eBook)
 
 (eText)

 

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

In the plain text version text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_), and small capitals are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS.

The book cover was modified by the transcriber and has been added to the public domain.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept.

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.


Studying the Short-Story

SIXTEEN SHORT-STORY CLASSICS
WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES AND
A NEW LABORATORY STUDY METHOD
FOR INDIVIDUAL READING AND
USE IN COLLEGES AND SCHOOLS

BY

J. BERG ESENWEIN, A.M., Lit.D.

EDITOR OF THE WRITER’S MONTHLY

REVISED EDITION

THE WRITER’S LIBRARY
EDITED BY J. BERG ESENWEIN

HINDS, HAYDEN & ELDREDGE, Inc.
NEW YORK PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO

Copyright 1912
By J. Berg Esenwein

Copyright 1918
By J. Berg Esenwein

TO
MOTHER

TABLE OF CONTENTS

     TO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS     vii
      PUBLISHERS’ NOTE     xi
      AN INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY OF THE SHORT-STORY     xiii
I.     STORIES OF ACTION AND ADVENTURE     1
    MĂ©rimĂ©e and His Writings     4
    â€œMateo Falcone,” Prosper MĂ©rimĂ©e     8
    Stevenson and His Writings     29
    â€œA Lodging for the Night,” Robert Louis Stevenson     34
    Suggestive Questions for Study     67
    Ten Representative Stories of Action and Adventure     68
II.     STORIES OF MYSTERY AND FANTASY     69
    Poe and His Writings     72
    â€œThe Purloined Letter,” Edgar Allan Poe     76
    Jacobs and His Writings     108
    â€œThe Monkey’s Paw,” W. W. Jacobs     111
    Suggestive Questions for Study     129
    Ten Representative Stories of Mystery and Fantasy     130
III.     STORIES OF EMOTION     131
    Daudet and His Writings     135
    â€œThe Last Class,” Alphonse Daudet     139
    Kipling and His Writings     147
    â€œWithout Benefit of Clergy,” Rudyard Kipling     151
    Suggestive Questions for Study     189
    Ten Representative Stories of Emotion or Sentiment     190
IV.     HUMOROUS STORIES     191
    Henry and His Writings     194
    â€œThe Ransom of Red Chief,” O. Henry     198
    Barrie and His Writings     215
    â€œThe Courting of T’Nowhead’s Bell,” James M. Barrie     219
    Suggestive Questions for Study     249
    Ten Representative Humorous Stories     250
V.     STORIES OF SETTING     251
    Harte and His Writings     255
    â€œThe Outcasts of Poker Flat,” Bret Harte     259
    Maupassant and His Writings     277
    â€œMoonlight,” Guy de Maupassant     281
    Suggestive Questions for Study     290
    Ten Representative Stories of Setting     290
VI.     IMPRESSIONISTIC STORIES     291
    Hawthorne and His Writings     297
    â€œThe White Old Maid,” Nathaniel Hawthorne     302
    â€œThe Fall of the House of Usher,” Edgar Allan Poe     320
    Suggestive Questions for Study     351
    Ten Representative Impressionistic Stories     352
VII.     CHARACTER STUDIES     353
    â€œThe Piece of String,” Guy de Maupassant     356
    CoppĂ©e and His Writings     368
    â€œThe Substitute,” François CoppĂ©e     371
    Suggestive Questions for Study     388
    Ten Representative Character Studies     389
VIII.     PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDIES     390
    â€œMarkheim,” Robert Louis Stevenson     394
    Morrison and His Writings     422
    â€œOn the Stairs,” Arthur Morrison     425
    Suggestive Questions for Study     431
    Ten Representative Psychological Studies     432
      BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE     433
      INDEX     437

TO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS

Growing out of my former volume, Writing the Short-Story, appeared the use for a new book that should contain a large number of short-stories arranged and annotated in form suitable for school or private study. Accordingly, the unique marginal arrangement for notes, which was first used in the study of Maupassant’s “The Necklace,” in the earlier work, was also adopted in this, with the addition of exhaustive critical introductions and comments. Further study, whether by classes or by individuals, has been facilitated by the reading references upon the authors represented, and—arranged under each of the eight type-groups—the explicit lists of ten representative short-stories available for reading and analysis.

Five points were had in mind as a basis for the selection of the stories included in this collection: First, the real merit of the story, as illustrating the short-story structurally perfect, or as nearly perfect as could be found in combination with the other points desired; second, the typical qualities of the story, as standing for the class it was to represent; third, its intrinsic literary interest for the general reader; fourth, its representative quality as illustrating the author’s tone and style; fifth, its suitability for class and private study and analysis.

Other stories are equally brilliant and equally representative, but some are too long to fit into such a selection; others are not available because of publishers’ rules; still others are morally unsuitable for the uses of mixed classes of young people; while many capital stories are the work of authors who have not produced consistently good work.

The tone of many of the stories included is sad, and their endings tragic; this is accidental and has not at all governed the selection from my belief that stories of tragic quality are necessarily the greatest; though the tragic phases of life, being the most intense, are the most likely to offer attractive themes to authors who prefer to deal with strong and subtle situations. The same is true of stories dealing with sex problems, but these have been excluded for obvious reasons. Livelier and more cheerful stories either were not as representative of the types I desired to exhibit, or were rejected from other motives. Those who study these selections with a view to writing the short-story will do well to bear in mind that fiction of gloomy tone must be very well written and on themes of unusual power to atone for their depressing qualities.

For the use of teachers and their pupils, a series of general questions has been prepared (p. xxxi), besides questions at the end of each section. Of course these will be regarded as suggestive rather than exhaustive.

The margins left blank in the stories marked “For Analysis” may be used for pencil notes, at the option of the teacher. For further study, strips of writing paper may be attached to the margins of stories cut from the magazines and full notes added by the pupil. Writing the Short-Story will be found an especially practical adjunct in making the marginal analyses and notes, as that work gives much space to the general structure of the short-story and an analysis of its parts. The nomenclature of Writing the Short-Story has been observed in this volume, as well as the typographical arrangement, where practicable—especially the practise of indicating short-stories by quotation marks, while printing book-titles in italics.

I venture to hope that the present work may prove helpful in disclosing to lovers of the short-story, as well as to those who wish merely to study its technique, the means by which authors of international distinction have secured their effects.

J. Berg Esenwein

Philadelphia, June 8, 1912.

NOTE TO REVISED EDITION

The only changes made in the original text are such typographical corrections as were needed and a considerable addition to the bibliography.

J. B. E.

Springfield, Mass., May 1, 1918.

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

The wide usefulness of Writing the Short-Story, by the author of this volume, as evidenced by its adoption for class use in the foremost American universities, colleges, and schools, and by the many thousands of well-known writers and younger aspirants who have found it so helpful in their craft, has encouraged the author to undertake the present work. Mere collections of short-stories are not lacking, but no other volume presents an authoritative international selection, with comprehensive classifications under leading short-story types, critical and biographical introductions, illuminating marginal notes, and opportunities for original study afforded by margins for the student’s notes, together with questions and lists of stories for examination and study. Whether used singly or as a companion volume with Writing the Short-Story, it is confidently believed that the present work will prove a notable contribution to the literature of this most popular and significant literary form.

The Publishers

AN INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY OF THE SHORT-STORY

Fiction as an art has made more progress during the last hundred years than any other literary type. The first half of the nineteenth century especially developed a consciousness of subject matter and form in both the novel and the short-story which has created an epoch as notable in the history of fiction as was the age of Shakespeare in the progress of the drama. In Great Britain, France, Russia, Germany, and America arose fictional artists of distinguished ability, while in other nations writers of scarcely less merit soon followed.

The novel demands a special study, so even for its relation to our theme—the short-story—the reader must be referred to such works as specialize on the longer form.

A comprehensive treatment of the short-story would include an inquiry into the origins of all short fictional forms, for every story that is short is popularly known as a short story. The fullest and best guide for such a study is Henry Seidel Canby’s historical and critical treatise, The Short Story in English.

Naturally, an inquiry into origins would prove to be measurably profitless and certainly dry for the general student were it not supplemented by the reading of a great many stories—preferably in the original—which illustrate the steps in short-story development from earliest times.

A further field for a comprehensive survey would be a critical comparison of the modern form with its several ancestral and contributory forms, from original sources.

A third examen would be devoted to the characteristics and tendencies of the present-day short-story as presented in volume form and, particularly, in the modern magazine.

A fourth, would undertake to study the rhetoric of the form.

None of these sorts of study can be exhaustively presented in this volume, yet all are touched upon so suggestively and with such full references that the reader may himself pursue the themes with what fullness he elects. The special field herein covered will be, I believe, sufficiently apparent as the reader proceeds.

Let it be understood from the outstart that throughout this volume the term short-story is used rather loosely to cover a wide variety of short fiction; yet presently it will be necessary to show precisely how the modern form differs from its fictive ancestors, and that distinction will assume some importance to those who care about recognizing the several short fictional forms and who enjoy calling things by their exact names.


The first story-teller was that primitive man who in his wanderings afield met some strange adventure and returned to his fellows to narrate it. His narration was a true story. The first fictionist—perhaps it was the same hairy savage—was he who, having chosen to tell his adventure, also resolved to add to it some details wrought of his own fancy. That was fiction, because while the story was compounded of truth it was worked out by the aid of imagination, and so was close kin to the story born entirely of fancy which merely uses true-seeming things, or veritable contributory facts, to make the story “real.”

Egyptian tales, recorded on papyrus sheets, date back six thousand years. Adventure was their theme, while gods and heroes, beasts and wonders, furnished their incidents. When love was introduced, obscenities often followed, so that the ancient tales of pure adventure are best suited to present-day reading.

What is true of Egypt 4000 B. C. is equally true of Greece many centuries later. The Homeric stories will serve as specimens of adventure narrative; and the Milesian tales furnish the erotic type.

As for the literary art of these early fictions, we need only refer to ancient poetry to see how perfect was its development two thousand and more years ago; therefore—for the poets were story-tellers—we need not marvel at the majestic diction, poetic ideas, and dramatic simplicity of such short-stories as the Egyptian “Tales of the Magicians,” fully six thousand years old; the Homeric legends, told possibly twenty-five hundred years ago; “The Book of Esther,” written more than twenty-one hundred years ago; and the stories by Lucius Apuleius, in The Golden Ass, quite two thousand years old.

In form these ancient stories were of three types: the anecdote (often expanded beyond the normal limits of anecdote); the scenario, or outline of what might well have been told as a longer story; and the tale, or straightforward chain of incidents with no real complicating plot.

Story-telling maintained much the same pace until the early middle ages, when the sway of religious ideas was felt in every department of life. Superstition had always vested the forces of nature with more than natural attributes, so that the wonder tale was normally the companion of the war or adventure story. But now the power of the Christian religion was laying hold upon all minds, and the French conte dévot, or miracle story, recited the wonderful doings of the saints in human behalf, or told how some pious mystic had encountered heavenly forces, triumphed over demons and monsters of evil, and performed prodigies of piety.

These tales were loosely hung together, and exhibited none of the compression and sense of orderly climax characteristic of the short-story to-day. In style the early medieval stories fell far below classic models, naturally enough, for language was feeling the corrupting influences of that inrush of barbarian peoples which at length brought Rome to the dust, while culture was conserved only in out-of-the-way places. In form these narratives were chiefly the tale, the anecdote, and the episode, by which I mean a fragmentary part of a longer tale with which it had little or no organic connection.

The conte dévot in England was even more crude, for Old English was less polished than the speech of France and its people more heroic than literary.

When we come to the middle of the fourteenth century we find in two great writers a marked advancement: Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Boccaccio’s Decameron—the former superior to the latter in story-telling art—opened up rich mines of legend, adventure, humor, and human interest. All subsequent narrators modeled their tales after these patterns. Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale” has many points in common with the modern short-story, and so has Boccaccio’s novella, “Rinaldo,” but these approaches to what we now recognize as the short-story type were not so much by conscious intention as by a groping after an ideal which was only dimly existent in their minds—so dimly, indeed, that even when once attained it seems not to have been pursued. For the most part the fabliaux of Chaucer and the novelle of Boccaccio were rambling, loosely knit, anecdotal, lacking in the firmly fleshed contours of the modern short-story. Even the Gesta Romanorum, or Deeds of the Romans—181 short legends and stories first printed about 1473—show the same ear marks.

About the middle of the sixteenth century appeared The Arabian Nights, that magic carpet which has carried us all to the regions of breathless delight. The story of “Ali Baba and The Forty Thieves,” for one, is as near an approach to our present-day short-story as was Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle,” and quite unsurpassed in all the literature of wonder-tales.

Thus for two thousand years—yes, for six thousand years—the essentials of short story narration were unchanged. What progress had been made was toward truth-seeming, clearer characterization, and a finer human interest, yet so surpassing in these very respects are some of the ancient stories that they remain models to-day. Chiefly, then, the short fiction of the eighteenth century showed progress over that of earlier centuries in that it was much more consistently produced by a much greater number of writers—so far as our records show.

Separately interesting studies of the eighteenth-century essay-stories of Addison, Steele, Johnson and others in the English periodicals, the Spectator, Tatler, Rambler, Idler, and Guardian might well be made, for these forms lead us directly to Hawthorne and Irving in America. Of almost equal value would be a study of Defoe’s ghost stories (1727) and Voltaire’s development of the protean French detective-story, in his “Zadig,” twenty years later.

With the opening of the nineteenth century the marks of progress are more decided. The first thirty years brought out a score of the most brilliant story-tellers imaginable, who differ from Poe and his followers only in this particular—they were still perfecting the tale, the sketch, the expanded anecdote, the episode, and the scenario, for they had neither for themselves nor for their literary posterity set up a new standard, as Poe was to do so very soon.

Of this fecund era were born the German weird tales of Ernst Amadeus Hoffmann and J. L. Tieck; the Moral Tales of Maria Edgeworth, and the fictional episodes of Sir Walter Scott in Scotland; the anecdotal tales and the novelettes of Prosper Mérimée and Charles Nodier in France; the tales of Pushkin, the father of Russian literature; and the tale-short-stories of Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne in America. Here too lies a fascinating field of study, over which to trace the approach towards that final form, so to call it, which was both demonstrated and expounded by Poe. It must suffice here to observe that Irving preferred the easy-flowing essay-sketch, and the delightful, leisurely tale (with certain well-marked tendencies toward a compact plot), rather than the closely organized plot which we nowadays recognize as the special possession of the short-story.

In France, from 1830 to 1832, HonorĂ© de Balzac produced a series of notable short-stories which, while marvels of narration, tend to be condensed novels in plot, novelettes in length, or expanded anecdotes. However, together with the stories of Prosper MĂ©rimĂ©e, they furnish evidence for a tolerably strong claim that the modern short-story was developed as a fixed form in France before it was discovered in America—a claim, however, which lacks the elements of entire solidity, as a more critical study would show.

From 1830 on, it would require a catalogue to name, and volumes to discuss, the array of European and American writers who have produced fictional narratives which have more or less closely approached the short-story form. Until 1835, when Edgar Allan Poe wrote “Berenice” and “The Assignation,” the approaches to the present form were sporadic and unsustained and even unconscious, so far as we may argue from the absence of any critical standard. After that year both Poe and others seemed to strive more definitely for the close plot, the repression of detail, the measurable unity of action, and the singleness of effect which Poe clearly defined and expounded in 1842.

Since Poe’s notable pronouncement, the place of the short-story as a distinctive literary form has been attested by the rise and growth of a body of criticism, in the form of newspaper and magazine articles, volumes given broadly to the consideration of fiction, and books devoted entirely to the short-story. Many of these contributions to the literature of criticism are particularly important because their authors were the first to announce conclusions regarding the form which have since been accepted as standard; others have traced with a nice sense of comparison the origin and development of those earlier forms of story-telling which marked the more or less definite stages of progress toward the short-story type as at present recognized; while still others are valuable as characterizing effectively the stories of well-known writers and comparing the progress which each showed as the short-story moved on toward its present high place.

Some detailed mention of these writings, among other critical and historical productions, may be of value here, without at all attempting a bibliography, but merely naming chronologically the work of those critics who have developed one or more phases of the subject with particular effectiveness.

Interesting and informing as all such historical and comparative research work certainly is, it must prove to be of greater value to the student than to the fiction writer. True, the latter may profit by a profound knowledge of critical distinctions, but he is more likely, for a time at least, to find his freedom embarrassed by attempting to adhere too closely to form, whereas in fiction a chief virtue is that spontaneity which expresses itself.

But there would seem to be some safe middle-ground between a flouting of all canons of art, arising from an utter ignorance and contempt of the history of any artistic form, and a timid and tied-up unwillingness to do anything in fiction without first inquiring, “Am I obeying the laws as set forth by the critics?” The short-story writer should be no less unhampered because he has learned the origin and traced the growth of the ancient fiction-forms and learned to say of his own work, or that of others, “Here is a fictional sketch, here a tale, and here a short-story”—if, indeed, he does not recognize in it a delightful hybrid.

By far the most important contribution to the subject of short-story criticism was made by Edgar Allan Poe, when in May, 1842, he published in Graham’s Magazine a review of Hawthorne’s Tales, in which he announced his theory of the short-story—a theory which is regarded to-day as the soundest of any yet laid down.

In 1876, Friedrich Spielhagen pointed out in his Novelle oder Roman the essential distinction between the novel and the short-story.

In 1884, Professor Brander Matthews published in the Saturday Review, London, and in 1885 published in Lippincott’s Magazine, “The Philosophy of the Short-story,” in which, independently of Spielhagen, he announced the essential distinction between the novel and the short-story, and pointed out its peculiarly individual characteristics. In a later book-edition, he added greatly to the original essay by a series of quotations from other critics and essayists, and many original comparisons between the writings of master short-story tellers.

In March 11, 1892, T. W. Higginson contributed to The Independent an article on “The Local Short-Story,” which was the first known discussion of that important type.

In 1895, Sherwin Cody published anonymously in London the first technical treatise on the rhetoric of the short-story, “The Art of Story Writing.”

In 1896, Professor E. H. Lewis instituted in Chicago University the first course of instruction in the art of story-writing.

In 1898, Charles Raymond Barrett published the first large work on Short Story Writing, with a complete analysis of Hawthorne’s “The Ambitious Guest,” and many important suggestions for writers.

In the same year Charity Dye first applied pedagogical principles to the study of the short story, in The Story-Teller’s Art.

In 1902, Professor Lewis W. Smith published a brochure, The Writing of the Short Story, in which psychological principles were for the first time applied to the study and the writing of the short-story.

In 1902, Professor H. S. Canby issued The Short Story, in which the theory of impressionism was for the first time developed. In 1903, this essay was included in The Book of the Short Story, Alexander Jessup collaborating, together with specimens of stories from the earliest times and lists of tales and short-stories arranged by periods.

In 1904, Professor Charles S. Baldwin developed a criticism of American Short Stories which has been largely followed by later writers.

In 1909, Professor H. S. Canby produced The Short Story in English, the first voluminous historical and critical study of the origins, forms, and content of the short-story.


I have dwelt upon the history of the short-story thus in outline because we often meet the inquiry—sometimes put ignorantly, sometimes skeptically—What is a short-story? Is it anything more than a story that is short?

The passion for naming and classifying all classes of literature may easily run to extreme, and yet there are some very great values to be secured by both the reader and the writer in arriving at some understanding of what literary terms mean. To establish distinctions among short fictive forms is by no means to assert that types which differ from the technical short-story are therefore of a lower order of merit. Many specimens of cognate forms possess an interest which surpasses that of short-stories typically perfect.

Ever since Poe differentiated the short-story from the mere short narrative we have come to a clearer apprehension of what this form really means. I suppose that no one would insist upon the standards of the short-story as being the criterion of merit for short fiction—certainly I should commit no such folly in attempting to establish an understanding, not to say a definition, of the form. More than that: some short-stories which in one or more points come short of technical perfection doubtless possess a human interest and a charm quite lacking in others which are technically perfect—just as may be the case with pictures.

Some things, however, the little fiction must contain to come technically within the class of perfect short-stories. It must be centralized about one predominating incident—which may be supported by various minor incidents. This incident must intimately concern one central character—and other supporting characters, it may be. The story must move with a certain degree of directness—that is, there must be a thorough exclusion of such detail as is needless. This central situation or episode or incident constitutes, in its working out, the plot; for the plot must not only have a crisis growing out of a tie-up or crossroads or complication, but the very essence of the plot will consist in the resolution or untying or denouement of the complication.

Naturally, the word plot will suggest to many a high degree of complexity; but this is by no means necessary in order to establish the claims of a fictitious narrative to being a short-story. Indeed, some of the best short-stories are based upon a very slender complication; in other words, their plots are not complex.

Elsewhere I have defined the short-story, and this statement may serve to crystallize the foregoing. “A short-story is a brief, imaginative narrative, unfolding a single predominating incident and a single chief character; it contains a plot, the details of which are so compressed, and the whole treatment so organized, as to produce a single impression.”

But some of these points need to be amplified.

A short-story is brief not merely from the fact that it contains comparatively few words, but in that it is so compressed as to omit non-essential elements. It must be the narration of a single incident, supported, it may be, by other incidents, but none of these minor incidents must rival the central incident in the interest of the reader. A single character must be preĂ«minent, but a pair of characters coördinate in importance may enjoy this single preĂ«minence in the story, yet no minor characters must come to overshadow the central figure. The story will be imaginative, not in the sense that it must be imaginary, or that the facts in the story may not be real facts, but they must be handled and organized in an imaginative way, else it would be plain fact and not fiction. The story must contain a plot; that is to say, it must exhibit a character or several characters in crisis—for in plot the important word is crisis—and the denouement is the resolution of this crisis. Finally, the whole must be so organized as to leave a unified impression upon the mind of the reader—it must concentrate and not diffuse attention and interest.

All of the same qualities that inhere in the short-story may also be found in the novelette, except that the novelette lacks the compression, unity and simplicity of the short-story and is therefore really a short novel. Both the novel and the novelette admit of sub-plots, a large number of minor incidents, and even of digressions, whereas these are denied to the short-story, which throws a white light on a single crucial instance of life, some character in its hour of crisis, some soul at the crossroads of destiny.

There is a tendency nowadays to give a mere outline of a story—so to condense it, so to make it swift, that the narration amounts to merely an outline without the flesh and blood of the true short-story. In other words, there is a tendency to call a scenario of a much longer story—for instance the outline of a novelette—a short-story. This extreme is as remote from the well-rounded short-story form as the leisurely novelette, padded out with infinite attention to detail.

The tale differs from the short-story in that it is merely a succession of incidents without any real sense of climax other, for example, than might be given by the close of a man’s life, the ending of a journey, or the closing of the day. The tale is a chain; the short-story is a tree. The links of the chain may be extended indefinitely, but there comes a time when the tree can grow no longer and still remain a perfect tree. The tale is practically without organization and without plot—there is little crisis, and the result of the crisis, if any there be, would be of no vital importance to the characters, for no special change in their relations to each other grows out of the crisis in the tale.

A sketch is a lighter, shorter, and more simple form of fiction than the short-story. It exhibits character in a certain stationary situation, but has no plot, nor does it disclose anything like a crisis from which a resolution or denouement is demanded. It might almost be called a picture in still life were it not that the characters are likely to live and to move.

In these introductory pages I have emphasized and reëmphasized these distinctions in various ways, because to me they seem to be important. But after all they are merely historical and technical. A man may be a charming fellow and altogether admirable even if his complexion quarrels with his hair and his hands do not match his feet in relative size.


The present tendency of the British and American short-story is a matter of moment because no other literary form commands the interest of so many writers and readers. All literature is feeling the hand of commerce, but the short-story is chiefly threatened. The magazine is its forum, and the magazine must make money or suspend. Hence the chief inquiry of the editor is, What stories will make my magazine sell? And this is his attitude because his publisher will no longer pay a salary to an editor whose magazine must be endowed, having no visible means of support.

These conditions force new standards to be set up. The story must have literary merit, it must be true to life, it must deal sincerely with great principles—up to the limit of popularity. Beyond that it must not be literary, truthful, or sincere. Popularity first, then the rest—if possible.

All this is a serious indictment of the average magazine, but it is true. Only a few magazines regard their fiction as literature and not as merely so much merchandise, to be cut to suit the length of pages, furnish situations for pictures, and create subscriptions by readers. Yet somehow this very commercialized standard is working much good in spite of itself. It is demanding the best workmanship, and is paying bright men and women to abandon other pursuits in order to master a good story-telling method. It is directing the attention of our ablest literators to a teeming life all about them when otherwise they might lose themselves in abstractions “up in the air.” It is, for business reasons, insisting upon that very compression to which Maupassant attained in the pursuit of art. It is building up a standard of precise English which has already advanced beyond the best work of seventy years ago—though it has lost much of its elegance and dignity.

In a word, the commercialized short-story is a mirror of the times—it compasses movement, often at the expense of fineness, crowds incidents so rapidly that the skeleton has no space in which to wear its flesh, and prints stories mediocre and worse because better ones will not be received with sufficient applause.

But while the journalized short-story adopts the hasty standards of the newspaper because the public is too busy to be critical, in some other respects it mirrors the times more happily. The lessons of seriousness it utters with the lips of fun. Its favorite implement is a rake, but it does uncover evils that ought not to remain hidden. Finally, it concerns itself with human things, and tosses speculations aside; it carefully records our myriad-form local life as the novel cannot; and it has wonderfully developed in all classes the sense of what is a good story, and that is a question more fundamental to all literature than some critics might admit.


Here then is a new-old form abundantly worth study, for its understanding, its appreciation, and its practise. If there is on one side a danger that form may become too prominent and spirit too little, there are balancing forces to hold things to a level. The problems, projects and sports of the day are, after all, the life of the day, and as such they furnish rightful themes. Really, signs are not wanting that point to the truth of this optimistic assertion: The mass of the people will eventually do the right, and they will at length bring out of the commercialized short-story a vital literary form too human to be dull and too artistic to be bad.



The PDF might take a minute to load. Or, click to download PDF.

If your Web browser is not configured to display PDF files. No worries, just click here to download the PDF file.