Why George Saunders Needs to Stop Repeating Himself
Tenth of December, by George Saunders Owners of a subscription to The New Yorker also tend to own a sizable stack of unread New Yorkers. And what often separates the issues that get read from the ones that gather in the basket next to the coffee table is a quick glance down the contents page. There are certain marquee names. If, for example, there’s a new essay by David Sedaris, the odds of the issue making it into a gym bag rise exponentially. Among readers of contemporary fiction, George Saunders is often included in such lists. Part of the problem involves scope—specifically, Saunders’s proclivity for focusing on his characters’ cognition. Here, Saunders achieves the “contradictory swirl of energy” that enables Alison’s circumstances and motives to unfold in a natural and engaging way, which is why the story is so good. Which he does. In “Victory Lap,” Alison Pope suddenly asks herself, “Was she special?
‘Tenth of December,’ by George Saunders
I love how this makes Saunders sound like a nervous explorer, crossing thin ice to reach a distant smoldering volcano. The land of the short story! But it also captures something fundamental about his own brutal, jokey stories, which for all of their linguistic invention and anarchic glee are held together by a strict understanding of the form and its requirements. Take plot. And “Tenth of December” is very dark indeed, particularly in its consideration of class and power. Yet despite the dirty surrealism and cleareyed despair, “Tenth of December” never succumbs to depression. This “vast existential nausea” is Saunders in a nutshell.
Why George Saunders (or anyone else) can write whatever they damn well please | Books | For Our Consideration
The backlash had to begin sometime. George Saunders’ fourth short-story collection, Tenth Of December, landed on the New York Times Bestseller list in its first week after garnering significant praise, and even a lengthy, glowing New York Times Magazine profile. Saunders is unusual among anointed writers because his major works are all story collections. He’s never published a novel. The premise of the Gawker piece is that any writer should want to write a novel. This isn’t so hard to believe. The Pulitzer Prize is the highest award for an American fiction author. It is possible to achieve the highest honors in the field without writing a novel. Chen’s shakiest point in his column is his claim, “the novel is the Super Bowl of fiction writing, and any fiction writer who hasn’t written one is going to be relegated to runner-up in the annals of literary history.” Chen’s patronizing tone makes it seem as though Saunders is wasting his time without working on The Big One.
George Saunders Short Story - The Red Bow
NEXT NIGHT, walking out where it happened, I found her little red bow. I brought it in, threw it down on the table, said: My God my God. Take a good look at it and also I'm looking at it, said Uncle Matt. First thing of course was to find the dogs. Well we lit up the debris and then shot the three of them as they ran out. But that Mrs. Jim Elliott said he would put Sadie down himself and borrowed my gun to do it, and did it, then looked me in the eye and said he was sorry for our loss, and Evan Bates said he couldn't do it, and would I? Around midnight we found the fourth one gnawing at itself back of Bourne's place, and Bourne came out and held the flashlight as we put it down and helped us load it into the wheelbarrow alongside Sadie and Muskerdoo, our plan being--Dr. When we had the fourth in the wheelbarrow my Jason said: Mr. Well no I don't believe so, said Bourne. But she is mostly an outside dog? She is almost completely an outside dog, he said. Well, ah . . . said Bourne. Say what?
The Falls--George Saunders (1958-____ )
The Falls by George Saunders (b.1958) Approximate Word Count: 3801 Morse found it nerve-racking to cross the St. Jude grounds just as the school was being dismissed, because he felt that if he smiled at the uniformed Catholic children they might think he was a wacko or pervert and if he didn't smile they might think he was an old grouch made bitter by the world, which surely, he felt, by certain yardsticks, he was. Morse was tall and thin and as gray and sepulchral as a church about to be condemned. From behind him on the path came a series of arrhythmic whacking steps. Cummings bobbed past the restored gristmill, pleased at having so decisively snubbed Morse, a smug member of the power elite in the conspiratorial Village, one of the league of oppressive oppressors who wouldn't know the lot of the struggling artist if the lot of the struggling artist came up with great and beleaguered dignity and bit him on the polyester ass. Boy, oh boy, could life be a torture. Morse began to run.
George Saunders on writing, empathy and 'Tenth of December'
George Saunders via video chat (Screenshot ) George Saunders' short story collection "Tenth of December" is receiving high praise, and topping bestseller lists. That's despite the fact that according to most everyone in publishing, short story collections don't sell. I didn't. Instead, in this interview, Saunders talks about writing and about empathy; about channeling the play-acting of his Chicago-area childhood to inhabit the vernacular of a particular character; buzzkills and Los Angeles when it was a bummer; and the way he finds constraints to be productive. Saunders, a creative writing professor at Syracuse University, enjoys teaching. He told us a little bit about his writing cohort that the New Yorker identified in 1999 as "20 under 40," all of whom have helped shape contemporary fiction (nonfiction, too). Saunders also talked a little bit about the writers that preceded him, including Russians, and why being uncomfortable can be good for us as we get older, and as we make art.
