As a writer and researcher of short fiction, what has struck me most is the ambiguity that surrounds set definitions for works composed within the form. Despite the various theoretical texts published on the short story form, there is still no set, commonly understood definition for works of short fiction. For example, over a century after the publication of possibly the most famous book of short stories, James Joyce’s Dubliners, you still find an inconsistency in labels applied to it. It is either a composite novel, or a short story cycle, which poses some questions for readers and practitioners. What are these forms? Are they one and the same? If so, why is there a need for more than one terminology? And if not, then what are the differences?
In this episode, I contemplate why ambiguities surrounding works of short fiction exist and why the notion of short fiction being a lesser form than the novel is a fallacious one.
Early in my PhD research I became familiar with proposed definitions such as ‘composite novel’, ‘short story sequence’, and ‘short story cycle’. In their book, The Composite Novel: Short Story Cycle in Transition, Maggie Dunn and Ann Morris offer some clarity, laying out the distinction between a work classed as a composite novel, and one that is classed as a short story cycle:
[…] composite novel and short story cycle are terms diametrically opposed in their generic implications and assumptions. Composite novel emphasises the integrity of the whole, whilst short story cycle[1] emphasises the integrity of the parts (Dunn, M., & Morris, A, 1995, p.5).
In a similar vein, Paul March-Russell writes in The Short Story: An Introduction of collections whereby the authors desire to ‘produce a work in which the sum of the parts is greater than that of the whole’ (March-Russell, P. 2019, p.107). The short story cycle, he argues, offers writers both the ‘constructive qualities’ and the ‘incentive’ to achieve that aim. In addition, March-Russell opines that the emergence of the short story cycle is ‘implicated in the social changes caused by the effect of modernity upon traditional ways of life’ (March-Russell, P. 2019, p.108).
Both of these aforementioned texts are excellent works that I would recommend for any student and practitioner of Creative Writing, but after studying them I was unconvinced of the need to have two different definitions for what is essentially, to my mind, the same form. Is there really a distinction between works of short fiction that emphasises the integrity of the whole with one that emphasises the integrity of the parts?
In Dubliners, for example, the integrity of the whole is made up by the sum of the parts, and the sum of the parts is made integral by an emphasis on the whole. Put simply, there cannot be one without the other.
Ultimately, unity within Dubliners is borne out of diversity. It is the diverse nature of the work, the variety of characters and narratives, that makes the work whole. By depicting Dublin life from various perspectives, the end result is a fuller, more nuanced portrayal.
In all honesty, and without meaning to be overly cynical, I think a lot of it comes down to marketing, which is in itself a direct consequence of that fallacious notion of the short story being of a lesser value than the novel. Because less importance has historically been placed on works of short fiction, publishers seemingly don’t know what to do with them or remain averse to publishing them. This might also be reflective of a split between readers in general. When listening to podcasts, interviews, or in general chats with other readers, some readers say that they consider collections of short fiction as frustrating, or difficult to stick with, because of the fact that after every story the reader must start again or reinvest themselves into the book i.e. a different character or plot. By taking a book like Dubliners then, and framing it as a kind of novel, seems to me to be way of selling the book to those who might otherwise be less interested if it was just sold as a book consisting of different short stories. But even that would be an incorrect observation. As we’ll see, Dubliners is not just a work of individual stories. But first, how much of a say do authors themselves have on this issue, or how does wider perception of the short story form affect their own choice of definition?
Possibly the most famous example to use is William Faulkner’s Go Down, Moses. Interestingly, it was the author himself who insisted on the work being considered a novel,[2] citing his previous work The Unvanquished. To all intents and purposes, both works are collections of short stories, differing only in their cast of characters. Whereas The Unvanquished tells the story of a single family,[3]Go Down, Moses has no unifying character or plot. However, both works are structured as seven separate stories, making the rejection of the short story label, particularly with Go Down, Moses, a curious one. This is even more striking when you consider the success of Dubliners, Winesburg, Ohio, and the works of Hemingway. Though it is hard to argue against a writer’s vision and intention for their own work, if we consider the hypothesis put forward by Roland Barthes, that ‘the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author’ (Barthe, R, 1968, p.148), then we can allow ourselves, as readers, to question or challenge Faulkner’s interpretations. It could very well be that Faulkner’s insistence on Go Down, Moses could be seen as an example of an author concerned about perceptions towards short story collections, or even, in Faulkner’s case, of him sharing those perceptions himself. It depends on who we trust – the author, or the text?
Of course, some works of short fiction are less simple to narrow down or define. One example would be Hubert Selby Jr’s Last Exit to Brooklyn, which is still very much widely categorised as a novel, despite having more in common with short story collections. Rather than conventional chapters, the book’s progression could more accurately be described as episodic. These episodes bear little to no resemblance to each other, except for location, and though certain characters do appear more than once, each episode is dedicated to a different resident of a rundown Brooklyn neighbourhood.
Last Exit to Brooklyn is one of many works that emerged in the mid to late twentieth century that challenged perceptions of the novel. Works such as William Burroughs’ Interzones and J.G. Ballard’s The Atrocity Exhibition accentuated the effectiveness of non-conventional narrative structures, whilst ‘blurring the boundary between what constitutes a short story collection and a novel’ (March-Russell, P. 2019, p.103).
This ‘blurring’ of what is a novel and what is a collection of short fiction is possibly more prevalent today, with contemporary works composed in the episodic vein of Last Exit to Brooklyn. Works such as Glen James Brown’s Ironopolis, and Guy Gunaratne’s In Our Mad and Furious City, explore sense of place through a variety of characters, most of whom are connected to each other in some way. However, there is not one protagonist, and each chapter (or episode) shines a different light on situations or events. The question is, though, do these books follow a single story, or do they provide a fuller, more nuanced depiction of place through various perspectives?
The steady increase in episodic works, then, as well as in works that are more easily definable as short story collections, are indicative of a growing popularity amongst writers in the way in which we engage with, in what Katy Shaw, in her book Hauntology: The Presence of the Past in Twenty-First Century Literature, refers to as the ‘fragmented nature of contemporary society’ (Shaw, K, 2018, p.98).
In her book, Shaw quotes David Peace’s reflections on the novel, whereby he states that the form had begun to depress him. The novel, Peace says, is no longer ‘stimulating people and reflecting the times,’ nor is it any longer ‘possible to believe in the novel form. Storytelling is already quite ruined by the individualism of Western society…short stories are the only collective experience we have left’ (Shaw, K 2018).
This viewpoint is demonstrated in Peace’s Patient X (a work actually categorised as a short story cycle), where the ‘overarching narrative’ is used ‘to highlight the disunity inherent in contemporary experience’ (Shaw, K, 2018, p.85).
In the book The Cambridge History of the English Short Story, Gerald Lynch writes about the short story cycle as being a ‘middle-way genre,’ the growing popularity of which ‘may be accounted for in its suitability for the increasingly distracted reader’s preference for brevity and the human need for continuity in aid of greater understanding’ (Lynch, G, 2016, p.153).
If we cast our net wider, and look at media and entertainment in general, we see how, in the 21st-century, there has been a greater preference in art being designed to be dipped in and out of. Now, there are positives and negatives to this, but the fact is that the popularity of shows like The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Succession, has, in many ways, has seen the TV show become redesigned into a visual novel, whereby each episode is one chapter in the overall story, to be watched a couple of episodes at a time at the end of each day. On top of this, other distractions are constantly at our fingertips, such as video games, social media, and twenty-four-hour news. Watching a Netflix series on the TV, for example, can easily be consumed in tandem with twitter feeds or TikTok’s.
All of this creates a potential for the short story to find itself at home in the twenty-first century. As Ailsa Cox notes:
[…] the short story is bang up to the minute. There could be no better medium for the age of the text message, the soundbite, and Twitter. In the twenty-first century news travels fast. Communications are speeded up, and the pace of change accelerates relentlessly. The short story has the flexibility to capture the heat of the moment. A short, compressed form captures the intensity of contemporary urban life’ (Cox, A, 2016, p.128).
Is the short story, then, the only remaining collective experience we have a left in a world that is, due its fragmentary nature, depicted and explored in fragments?
Of course, this isn’t to say that the short story requires less attention than that of the novel, or even that people now have less attention spans. It is simply to say that the complexities of the modern world, the nuanced way of thinking required to try and understand it, and the pace of life, the speed in which change occurs, creates an environment in which the short story can thrive.
Again, to cite evidence of short story readership requiring a deep level of concentration we can go way back and use the example of Hemingway’s Iceberg Theory. ‘Hills Like White Elephants’, for example, does not explicitly show the reader what the context of the conversation is. Instead, the context is implied, left for the reader themselves to work out. This begs the question – are short stories actually harder to read, in that they require more thought in figuring out the context and meaning of the story. In short, are short stories more difficult for readers due to what they don’t say.
Out of the three definitions of short story forms put forward, I would subscribe to short story cycle. In her book, The Short Story Cycle: A Companion and Reference Guide, S.G. Mann writes that
[…] the stories work together, creating something that could not be achieved in a single story. For example, the overwhelming sense of paralysis in Dubliners is established only by the series of different examples (Mann. S.G, 1989, p.15).
One contemporary example to look in relation Mann’s quote is Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi’s Manchester Happened. In her book, Makumbi portrays the experiences of Ugandan immigrants who have made Manchester home. Firmly rooted in its examination into sense of place, we are not shown Manchester through the eyes of one person, and one experience. What Makumbi gives us is a thorough insight into what it is like to leave one’s homeland, and to then settle in a society that feels alien, from a variety of perspectives.
Manchester is shown to present each character in Manchester Happened with common complexities and bewilderments, as well as common recurrent challenges and obstacles. Yet how place is perceived, and how each character settles into their new environment, is different in every story.
The strong impact of the book’s themes are, going back to Mann for clarity, ‘created largely through the cumulative effect of the same basic story…being told again and again with a different cast’ (Mann. S.G, 1989, p.38).
By depicting the city in fragments, and exploring the alienation it manifests from various perspectives, ‘again and again’, unity is ultimately gained from diversity, resulting in the creation of a fuller meaning.
But no matter how good, and how valuable, the short story form is, it will always be held back as long as there remains left with a void in definition, something that needs clarity now more than ever.
None if this is to denigrate the novel, but in a time where fragmentation defines our lives, maybe we need more stories told in cycles, as in snapshots, to make any sense of the whole.
[1] Dunn and Morris’ use of italics
[2] Originally published as Go Down, Moses and Other Stories, it was at Faulkner’s insistence that subsequent publications were simply titled, Go Down, Moses.
[3] The Sartoris family, who had previously appeared in Faulkner’s novel Sartoris, or Flags in the Dust.
References and Bibliography:
Anderson, S. (1919). Winesburg, Ohio. B.W Huebsch.
Ballard, J. G. (1990). The atrocity exhibition. Re-Search Publications.
Barthes, R. (1977). The Death of the Author (Trans. S. Heath). Fontana Press.
Brown, G. J. (2018). Ironopolis. Parthian Books.
Burroughs, W. S. (2012). Interzone. Penguin UK.
Cox, A. (2016). Writing Short Stories: A Routledge Writer’s Guide. Routledge.
Dunn, M., & Morris, A. (1995). The composite novel: The short story cycle in transition. New York: Twayne.
Gunaratne, G. (2018). In Our Mad and Furious City: A Novel. MCD x FSG Originals.
Joyce, J. (1914). Dubliners. Penguin Books.
Lynch, G. (2016). The Cambridge History of the English Short Story. Cambridge University Press.
Makumbi, J. N. (2019). Manchester Happened. 2021. Simon and Schuster.
Mann, S. G. (1989). the short story cycle: A Genre companion and reference Guide. Greenwood.
March-Russell, P. (2009). The Short Story: An Introduction. Edinburgh University Press.
Selby Jr, H. (2011). Last Exit to Brooklyn. Penguin UK.
Shaw, K. (2018). Hauntology: The presence of the past in twenty-first century English literature. Springer.
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