I’ve been a subscriber to a number of journals over the years. Recently, I’ve
subscribed to Image, but the last issue in particular disappointed me. It only
had a single story — disappointing in itself — but even more disappointing
was that the story wasn’t any good.
The
author was Scott Russell Sanders, whose grandiose list of accomplishments (Guggenheim,
NEA) and books (over 20, one nominated for the Pulitzer) clearly has not inured
him from writing badly.
In “Waterfall,” Aurora
is a waitress who had an unfortunate liaison with a swastika-bearing sailor and
got pregnant, then ran from home, leaving her child, and suffers under the
guilt. While waitressing, she serves the blind black man Eugene who’s a
linguist, and who performs the entirely unoriginal trick of guessing of
people’s points of origin by their speech (“My Fair Lady” rip-off).
The
first problem of the story is the entirely artificial relationship that develops between Aurora and Eugene. You don’t make friends
with the people you serve in a restaurant (I know. I waitered. Trust me.) You
certainly don’t serve as their tour guide and reveal secrets to them that
you’ve never told anyone after spending a few minutes with them.
The
second problem with this story is that Eugene is a saint. Blameless characters
just don’t work out well in fiction. Especially not if they’re canadian drugs safety relying upon the
twin cheats of being “disabled” and a “minority,” in order
to establish their lofty outsider status. (Not to mention relying way too
blatantly on the Greek myth of the wise blind sage). Characters need faults and
flaws or else they are fake.
The
third problem with this story is that at the end, the very climax itself, comes
when the blameless, innocent character Eugene tells Aurora she’s forgiven.
Aurora speaks first:
“I’ve never told anybody else.”
“That’s a heavy load to carry,” he said. “But even that you can
lay down.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You can lay it down because
you’re forgiven.”
The cheesiness of the dialogue is forgivable (maybe). But to try to shoehorn a religious message of forgiveness at the end of a story, or to act as though that line of dialogue might actually solve the problem of having a five-year-old son you haven’t seen in half a decade, or parents you’ve ditched, is willfully ignorant of the laws of the fiction and, more importantly, the laws of life. The attempt to be subtle is no excuse for religious sentimentality.
I read many bad short stories that many me
feel nothing — this one made me feel cheated and slightly disgusted. To recover, I’m going
to go wash myself off in some Flannery O’Connor.
