If a title story could talk, I’m sure it would ask for understanding; it must feel the pressure of both encapsulating the spirit and intent of the entire collection, as though any single story could have also borne that title, and simultaneously revealing some profound concept that is not directly referenced in any story and yet still embraces the work as a whole.
On “Island”
If a title story could demand hazard pay, I’m sure it would: “Island” deserves a cash bonus. It’s not only an engaging tale, with an extra helping of plot where atmosphere and characterization held sway in previous stories, but loyal MacLeod readers will feel immediately at home with themes and concepts herein.
Our central character exists apart from her clan. Readers know her better than anyone, and as years pass, that intimacy grows. We not only share a secret with her, but we watch it shape-shift within her consciousness, as time goes by.
The intertwined themes of love and loss are prominent, as are arrivals and departures (of different sorts). This story of MacLeod’s feels more accessible than some, perhaps because it’s rather long—those forty pages making things seem less urgent somehow—and allows for readers to get comfortable. In some instances, this means getting comfortable with feeling uncomfortable:
“Sometimes life is like that,” he said to his daughter as he sat bundled in a sleigh at the moment before departure. “It goes on and on at a certain level and then there comes a year when everything changes.”
The Underneath
Once again, perspective is key but, in this situation, we are invited closer to the heart of the story. We can only look so far, because we are particularly attached to one point-of-view. Still, the idea of how differently things look to us, simply because of the quality of the light (and darkness), matters:
“It all seemed more glamorous at night, perhaps because of what you could not see, and conversely a bit more disappointing in the day.”
One instance in which the father’s words reverberate with intensity is core to the story’s development. The specifics matter tremendously in the story, and they are felt personally but they are presented in such a way that readers are invited to reflect on similar experiences in our own lives.
First: “‘Oh,’ was all she could say. Her hands tightened so whitely on the metal knitting needles that the point of one pierced and penetrated the ball of her thumb.”
This seems like the kind of detail that is drawn from someone’s life experience. It’s never happened to me, but it still seems relatable somehow. That’s in the gripping, I suppose. We can respond to the stress and tension of it all, even if we are not knitters.
Next: “Could not believe the content of the news nor the method of its arrival. Could not believe that news of such outstanding impact could arrive in such a casual manner and mean so little to all of those around her.”
That kind of shock is immediately recognisable, and not only does it involve readers by virtue of our own experiences (remembered shocks, whether similar in nature or not) but it engages readers directly with the story, also, because we better understand the impact than “all of those around her.”
For the better part of two years, I am rereading Alistair MacLeod’s short stories, from start to stop, just as I’ve done with Alice Munro’s and Mavis Gallant’s short stories previously. If you love short stories or if you would like to be a short-story lover, several of these authors’ stories are among my favourites, and would make an excellent introduction to the finest of the form. If you have other favourite story writers, please feel free to contribute those to the conversation too.
I was first introduced to Alistair MacLeod with his novel No Great Mischief, and instantly recognized a kindred soul. Other short story collections by Canadian authors that I would highly recommend include Siege 13 by Tamas Dobozy (and, also, Ghost Geographies, his newest, which I am just reading now), Peter Unwin’s, Life Without Death (in my opinion a vastly underappreciated writer!) and Russell Wangersky’s Whirl Away.
Thanks for the recommendations: much appreciated! I meant to read Siege 13 at one point, but just wasn’t in the right mood at the time: I’ll take another look, and watch for his new collection too. I’ve enjoyed one of Peter Unwin’s novels, and I can see where he’d be good in short-form fiction too. He does seem to fly under the radar, much as Cary Fagan once did, although he’s gotten some recognition more recently. Ohhh, I loved Whirl Away. I still think about some of those stories. (I loved Walt too.) Do I remember correctly that you live out east? Are there other Atlantic Canadian short story writers you’ve particularly enjoyed?
A relatively recent (2018) move to Quebec has brought me somewhat closer to the Maritimes, but the majority of my life was spent in the wilds of Ontario . Re: other Atlantic short story collections: I am part way through Alexander MacLeod’s Animal Person, and enjoying it very much. Also, his earlier collection, Light Lifting.
I’ve been dragging my heels with his son’s stories, too; I’ve only read a couple that have been published in magazines and journals. There aren’t very many of them either!
I’ve never read this author, but what you say about his themes (the intertwining of love and loss, plus the ideas of arrivals and departures) definitely appeals. Someone for me to keep in mind for the future…
There are some similarities with William Trevor’s work, so I feel certain you’d enjoy these as well. Fortunately for one’s TBR, he wrote only two short volumes of stories and a novel; unfortunately, when one enjoys his work, it’s mostly about rereading!
It’s such a common occurrence in stories, for a casual remark, or seemingly unimportant news, to have great import for one listener who must hear it without flinching; but it’s never happened to me. Even slow paced stories seem to have more dramatic points than any ‘real’ life.
So no knitting needle scars in your life, then? I suppose that’s fortunate! (Me either, but my needles aren’t very sharp either. Then again, maybe that’s the point.)