Assess
the development of the English short story in the 20th Century.
In the first half of the
20th century the appeal of the short story continued to grow. Literally
hundreds of writers—including, as it seems, nearly every major dramatist, poet,
and novelist—published thousands of excellent stories. William Faulkner suggested
that writers often try their hand at poetry, find it too difficult, go on to
the next most demanding form, the short story, fail at that, and only then
settle for the novel. In the 20th century Germany, France, Russia, and the U.S.
lost what had once appeared to be their exclusive domination of the form.
Innovative and commanding writers emerged in places that had previously exerted
little influence on the genre: Sicily, for example, produced Luigi Pirandello;
Prague, Franz Kafka; Japan, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke ;
Argentina, Jorge Luis Borges. Literary journals with international circulation,
such as Ford Madox Ford’s Transatlantic Review, Scribner’s Magazine,
and Harriet Weaver’s Egoist, provided a steady and prime exposure for
young writers.
As the familiarity with it
increased, the short story form itself became more varied and complex. The
fundamental means of structuring a story underwent a significant change. The
overwhelming or unique event that usually informed the 19th-century story fell
out of favour with the storywriter of the early 20th century, who grew more
interested in subtle actions and unspectacular events. Sherwood
Anderson, one of the most influential U.S. writers of the early 20th century,
observed that the common belief in his day was that stories had to be built
around a plot, a notion that, in Anderson’s opinion, appeared to poison all
storytelling. His own aim was to achieve form, not plot, although form was more
elusive and difficult. The record of the short story in the 20th century is dominated
by this increased sensitivity to—and experimentation with—form. Although the
popular writers of the century (like O. Henry in the U.S. and Paul Morand in
France) may have continued to structure stories according to plot, the greater
artists turned elsewhere for structure, frequently eliciting the response from
cursory readers that “nothing happens in these stories.” Narratives like
Ernest Hemingway’s “A Clean,
Well-Lighted Place” (1933) may seem to have no structure at all, so little
physical action develops; but stories of this kind are actually structured
around a psychological, rather than physical, conflict. In several of
Hemingway’s stories (as in many by D.H. Lawrence, Katherine
Mansfield, and others), physical
action and event are unimportant except insofar as the actions reveal the
psychological underpinnings of the story. Stories came to be structured, also,
in accordance with an underlying archetypal model: the
specific plot and characters are important insofar as they allude to a
traditional plot or figure, or to patterns that have recurred with wide
implications in the history of mankind. Katherine Anne Porter’s
“Flowering Judas” (1930), for example, echoes and
ironically inverts the traditional Christian legend. Still other stories are formed by means of motif,
usually a thematic repetition of an image or detail that represents the
dominant idea of the story. “The Dead,” the final story
in James Joyce’s Dubliners
(1914), builds from a casual mention of death and snow early in the story to a
culminating paragraph that links them in a profound vision. Seldom, of course,
is the specific structure of one story appropriate for a different story.
Faulkner, for example, used the traditional pattern of the knightly quest (in
an ironic way) for his story “Was,” but for “Barn Burning” he relied on a psychologically
organic form to reveal the story of young Sarty Snopes......................................................................................................................................................
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