On the second-last page of A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, George Saunders explains that writing the book turned out to be a chance to ask himself “again” and “at length” this question:

“Do you still want to devote your life to fiction?” Spoiler: he does.

He’s asking this as a writer, and I suspect that most people who choose to read this book are writers (mostly because of the subtitle).

But one could also ask this question as a reader.

A reader who either already has an affinity for short stories, but wants to understand where that appreciation is rooted.

Or a reader who does not have an affinity for the short form, but has a general curiosity about how some writers approach, construct, and shape narratives.

Or a reader who simply wants to understand more about the relationship between a reader and a story: what pushes us apart, what pulls us together again.

There is a tremendous amount of detail, as Saunders studies seven short stories. For the first story, he prints one page of the story alongside another page (or more) with his notes and observations about that page. After awhile, he switches to two pages of the story, because his reflections are meticulous, and he recognises that it’s a lot to absorb. (He wants to pull us back into the process, keep us engaged.)

Bill @The Australian Legend has intended to read this for some time, which aligned with my intention to return to it as well (I borrowed it from the library but left it unfinished), so we are going to read it this year. We’re thinking one story each month, with an announcement post around the 1st which we’ll update around the 15th to include discussion. For this month, we’ll have two distinct posts: on Saturday February 15th, we’ll chat about Chekhov.

Saunders’ tone is energetic and robust, and his sly, sorta-sideways-glance makes me smile sometimes. Little touches like “let’s face it” and “yes, wow” make it feel chatty. There’s a space for uncertainty: “Who knows why?” so that we can feel the shrug where different interpretations can live. But, even so, there’s something intimidating about this book for me, so I’m happy to have company while moving through it.

If you’d like to join by reading along with us—the short stories or Saunders’ commentary or both, or even just one story that coincides with other reading you’re already planning for this year—these are the stories:

Anton Chekhov “In the Cart” (February)
Ivan Turgenev “The Singers” (March)
Anton Chekhov “The Darling” (April)
Leo Tolstoy “Master and Man” (May)
Nikolai Gogol “The Nose” (June)
Anton Chekhov “Gooseberries” (July)
Leo Tolstoy “Alyosha the Pot” (August)

FEBFEBRUARY 15th: These stories, Saunders tell us, are part of a “resistance literature”.

They’re written by “progressive reformers in a repressive culture, under constant threat of censorship, in a time when a writer’s politics could lead to exile, imprisonment, and execution.”

Where, as he describes it, the resistance is “quiet, at a slant”.

His commentary on the stories is presented not only to writers but to people who value stories.

For the “people who’ve put reading at the center of their lives because they know from experience that reading makes them more expansive, generous people and makes their lives more interesting.”

The aspect of the book that I appreciate most, so far, is the sense that Saunders isn’t telling you what to think about a story, he’s showing you how one can think about stories. He is revealing his process and inviting you to share yours.

In the very first paragraph, he describes his course at Syracuse University (this book is a truncated and portable version) with its ultimate goal of finding one’s unique approach.

Of locating what makes the participants uniquely themselves: “their strengths, weaknesses, obsessions, peculiarities, the whole deal.” His job, as he sees it, is to “help them acquire the technical means to become defiantly and joyfully themselves.”

In this first chapter, he exposes his own answers to simple questions about how readers might respond to this Chekhov story, as he moves through it page-by-page. (He includes comments about how some elements of his response remain consistent whenever he rereads this story and what elements shift.)

Straight away, I resisted answering them. When I borrowed this from the library previously, I answered the questions in my mind, and I felt a little guilty about not committing to the process, and returned the book unfinished (for another borrower’s hold). It felt like the timing was off, but I was disinclined this time too. When I sat down to read this chapter, I’d pick up another book instead.

What was I afraid of, getting it wrong? Even though Saunders’ entire approach emphasises individuality, one reader’s response to one story, somehow I brought to it my own concern of not being _______ enough to really understand it.

Not… Insightful enough? Not…Compassionate enough? These are some of the weaknesses and obsessions and peculiarities that I brought to my reading of this story. Along with an idea deeply rooted in my learning about literature, which I have worked to uproot over many years, but it still persists. That there is only ONE way to engage with literature—the correct way.

There is something technically or mechanically challenging about Saunders’ book—in that his commentary is granular and intense. After we read a single page of the story’s text, he writes for a few pages about that page. It takes patience and concentration to follow what he shares of his individual response. He draws attention to specific words, to sentence structure, to an accumulation of detail as events unfold. There were instances where I had to reread, not only his commentary but then reread the story page itself.

But I think the greater challenge in Saunders’ book is a creative and human challenge—he resituates the responsibility we have as readers. He reminds us of what Jeanette Winterson describes in Art Objects: “I do not mean the endless dross-skimming that passes for literacy, I mean the ability to engage with a text as you would another human being.”

Winterson writes: “To find its relationship to you that is not its relationship to anyone else.” Saunders writes: “That’s really all a story is: a limited set of elements that we read against one another.” This requires an investment, of not only time but of our deeper selves.

Once we have finished reading the story, Saunders writes: “If we feel we are nothing and have always been nothing, that’s one story. But if we feel that we are nothing and then, in one miractulous instant, remember that, once, we were something—is that a happier story or a sadder one?” And, his answer? “Well, depends.”

He concludes this chapter with thoughts on the artist’s responsibility. By then he has shifted the discussion to De Sica’s film “Bicycle Thieves” (which I have yet to rewatch), so it is not all about writers anymore. We have moved into the realm of storytelling and all the different means by which stories are conveyed

Above, I said that this is the aspect of Saunders’ commentary that I most appreciate. His willingness to validate every individual’s response to a story. His declaration that what he brings to the story is only what he brings to it; what each of us brings to it will be unique.

But this is simultaneously the most challenging element. Because if this is a relationship then we bear a responsibility in how it plays out. We bare a responsibility to bring our whole selves to it. As a viewer, as a reader—or as Winterson puts it, as the audience.

Which means that each of us can choose to “become defiantly and joyfully” ourselves. Or, not. Meanwhile, the new season of “Severance” is still underway. I haven’t watched the second season of “Squid Game” yet either. Neither of those feels like work. “Well, depends.”

If these are resistance stories, it makes sense that it would require effort to read them (at least as much effort as the resistant writers invested in their creation). But how much effort is too much effort? And isn’t it possible that “In the Cart” (also called “The Schoolmistress”) could just be about a cart or a schoolmistress (and not about the ability to locate defiance and joy in a reflection of the sunset in a window)?

For those who aren’t reading along in Saunders, these questions exist outside the context of this story too. Just because a writer has encoded a deeper meaning in a story, does the reader have an obligation to respond to it? How much time do you want to spend thinking an author’s decision to use one word rather than another? Can’t a reader simply choose reading as an escape? Are there writers who write for that audience alone? And does that change a reader’s relationship to their stories?

NOTE: This post doesn’t contain any pointed spoilers, but the comments likely will. And, next month, a post on the 1st will appear as a reminder of the next chapter that Bill and I plan to read (one month/story, through August).