Disassembling the Understory

The First Prize winning story in Carve Magazine's 2006 contest, Tim Horvath's "The Understory," contains two elements that I have a strong affinity for: botany and philosophy. I took three quarters of botany and many other related classes while earning a degree in Landscape Design. I still refer to plants almost exclusively by their latin names. And despite picking up my Philosophy degree at a department heavily under the influence of Wittgenstein and his Anglo-American linguistic leaning heirs, Nietzsche and Heidegger were my primary interests. I read all of Heidegger's books translated into English, and struggled through some in German. I switched to literature when Being and Time started to make sense, but still refer to his Poetry, Language, Thought, particularly the essay "The Origin of the Work of Art," that also informs Horvath's story with such concepts as "concealment is disassembling," which is quite brilliantly played out with the hurricane destroying the forest and thus allowing the understory to flourish after it has been unconcealed and brought into the light. The further themes of truth, conformity, and self-deception also come in to play relative to Heidegger's behavior both in life and in the story.

I agree with judge (Mr. Pushcart) Henderson on the effectiveness of the story's metaphorical power, and I especially enjoyed seeing philosophical themes front and center, although I disagree about the effectiveness of the historical themes. If that theme is effective, it is because it is preaching to the choir; reiterating Nazi-era horrors for those in the know. Where the story is less effective is in introducing that history to new generations. That doesn't need to be the aim, and I'm not faulting Horvath in this as much as I'm taking issue with Henderson's rationale for selecting the story.

The irony of the ending, where Schoner finds himself not only sympathetic with Heidegger, but engaging in his own concealments, is the winning touch in this excellent story.


   

Still Flapping on the Hook

Taking Second Prize in Carve Magazine's 2006 contest, Michael Horner's "Notebook 366" has a great opening hook:

Tom Steward died quietly in the autumn of his sixty-second year at sixty-seven miles per hour. Dead now for only a few seconds, he continues to drive his fourteen-year-old Audi along the western section of the Massachusetts Turnpike. His wife, Gail, who does not yet know, is in the passenger seat, her head against the window and her eyes firmly set on the side mirror . . .

And Horner keeps us hooked throughout the first section, which ends mid-wreck:

When Gail finally looks over at her husband, which she will not do until after the car veers into the breakdown lane and then the shoulder, where it will have already picked up its final terrible and bumpy speed before flipping over . . .

To leave us hanging as he starts the story's second thread, Ms. Ashleven and her notebooks. The way these threads come together was surprising and heightened my attention, even though on reflection it seems too convenient on it's first appearance, but as the story progresses, weaves its magic, the convergence seems perfect. I won't spoil things for those of you who haven't read this fabulous story, a deserving prize winner for sure.

A Kiss is Just A Kiss

Meant to write about "Backslide" when it first appeared in Juked several weeks ago, but the delay and the rereading have made me further appreciate Anthony Neil Smith's story. Smith has edited several excellent issues for Mississippi Review online: the Crime Issue in 2003, The High Pulp issue in 2005, and he'll be editing the upcoming Postmodern Pulp issue which is open for submissions July 1, 2006.

I probably don't talk enough about the choice details that excite me in stories, so here's one in "Backslide" that I loved: "There was a piece of lint by her face, a big black dusty ball. She blew, and it went skittering across the floor." Nice bit of verisimilitude that.

The story moves effortlessly to a beautiful tension as the two couples—with the wives sitting side by side, their chairs touching—face the pastor:

. . . Donald said Tabitha and he met at the public library, wandered and flirted, but kissing was as far as it went, he swore.
   "What was it like to kiss her?" the pastor asked.
   "She put all of herself into it.  It was so warm."
   The pastor laced his fingers together on his chest.  "This isn't really going to help unless you admit to everything, now.  Sounds to me like kissing was only the beginning."
   Donald shook his head and lifted a chin, peeking at Jennifer, Tabitha, Nate, back to Burtleson.  "I thought God was the only one I had to confess to."

Then it's on to neat contrasting irony in the following scenes as we go from Jennifer "liked when Donald brushed his hand across her hip in bed, the sensation not pain but not ticklish" to Pastor Burtleson and Brother Nate laying hands on her and speaking in tongues until she is healed. At least until Smith delivers his reversal of an ending that had me scrambling back to reread and appreciate the buildup.