Open
by Lisa Moore
Anansi, 2002
Reviewed by Michael Bryson
The ten stories in Lisa Moore's new short story
collection, Open, play with the time structure of narrative to the
point of exasperation. Or is it brilliance? This reader sometimes wasn't
sure.
Of course there is no reason why a story needs to be
told as it "occurs": first A happened, then B, then C. In fact,
no writer of value would bother with such a rudimentary rolling out of
details. But still, stories must be more than "an invention of
randomness" (a quotation borrowed from mid-way through Moore's
collection, p.113). Unless the writer has swallowed a gobful of
post-modernism - in which case this reader is prepared to forgive
incoherence if it is replaced with rhetorical brilliance. Which it
sometimes is in Open, but not often enough.
I don't mean to give the impression that Open is
a bad book. On the contrary, it is a conglomeration of self-conscious
technique. It is art, for sure. Just flawed art. It probably wouldn't be
unfair to say it's art that just tries too damn hard.
Let's move on to some examples.
Moore's stories are fragmented like memories. They have
a coherence from beginning to end, but in the middle the reader is often
jarred by the sudden, apparently random, thoughts of the characters:
It made Lyle think of when he got contact lenses.
(p81)
When he comes I think, unbidden, of something that
I've heard about tuna. (p92)
He says, I've just had a strong memory of a bus
ride in Cuba. (p.98)
Later, while putting clothes in the dryer, I imagined
the smell of swamps. (p112-113)
That last quotation points to another problem I had with
this collection. Sometimes the words are poorly chosen. Does one
"imagine" the smell of swamps? Doesn't one just "smell
swamps", whether one is in a swamp or not?
I also had problems with:
Everything in Cuba is at a standstill, waiting for
ignition. (p27)
The rain leaves long, thin marks like sewing needles
on the windows. (p113)
Your breasts are tender, a rumour, the beginning of a
long story, a page-turner. (p138)
Calling breasts "a page-turner" just might be
the height of objectification. It's also a highly convoluted
metaphor.
Finally, Moore also (over)uses lists to emphasize the
apparent randomness of existence.
Bethany names the things that matter in life: a
coddled egg, boiled wool, fresh sheets, doeskin gloves, ironed shirts,
old-fashioned beans, table butter, the farmer's market. (p.113)
A housefly caught between the kitchen windowpanes. The
cat on the fence flicks its ear, the mattress. The fly hyper-vivid,
rubbing its forelegs together, one on top of the other, then switching,
so the alternate leg is on top. The fridge kicks in. Such steadfastness,
the absorbing industry. She takes a bite of the cookie. (p.114)
Which isn't to say that Moore doesn't sometimes, even
often, get things right. It's just that for me most of these stories didn't
add up to the sum of their parts.
Two stories, however, I thought worked just fine, even
fantastic: "Craving" (about a party where I joint is passed -
Moore's randomness works well here as a metaphor for stoned consciousness)
and "Grace" (about a disintegrating marriage - another story
where form and content blend well). In fact, "Grace" is one of
the best stories I've read this year, and it wouldn't be out of place in
any anthology of the best Canadian stories of recent years. It left me
breathless and ripped my heart out all at once, if that isn't too
convoluted a metaphor. Hey, even reviewers get to use them once and a
while!
Michael Bryson is the publisher/editor
of The Danforth Review.
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