Visions and Voices- Four for a Penny

I am the sort of reader that I'm sure writers hate. That's because I hardly ever buy new books. (Exceptions are made for "Harry Potter" installments, I'll confess.) I have a passion for used book stores, but even better are the book bins at thrift stores and libraries. If I pay more than .25 for paperbacks and .50 for hardcovers, I feel like I've somehow been rooked.

You never know what you're going to find at places like these. The books are unorganized, the arrangement often completely chaotic, and half the time you walk out of the store empty-handed. That just makes it all the more thrilling when you do find a diamond amongst the coal. This is also a great way to discover new books. If you've heard good things about an author, are struck by a jacket blurb, or just think a book has a cool title, just scoop it up. Hell, it's only a quarter. You don't even mind so much if there's water damage, marked-up pages, or a missing cover. (It is kind of a drag when the last several pages are torn out. I still don't know how "Gone With the Wind" ends.) Once I found a pot-leaf in a copy of Carl Jung's "Man and His Symbols." Of course, I marched right down to the police department and turned that in. Heh heh.

Right now I'm reading a short story anthology called "Fiction 100." (Published in 1976, edited by James H. Pickering.) That's right, one hundred short stories. How much did I pay for this doorstop of an omnibus? Twenty-five cents at the Prescott library. Four stories for a penny. For sheer economy, that's tough to beat.

All the major short story writers (up to the 70's, anyway) are represented, arranged alphabetically by author. (I'm up to James Joyce. Can anyone tell me what the hell "Araby" is about?) A lot of the stories I've read before, I'm something of an anthology junkie, but I've discovered a few new gems.
"The Bound Man" by Ilse Aichinger is borderline plagiarism from Kafka's "Hunger Artist," but it's still a mind-bender. "The Signal Man" is a Charles Dickens ghost story almost as chilling as "A Christmas Carol." Charlotte Perkins Gilman's "The Yellow Wall-Paper" is a tale of creeping madness worthy of Poe.

Reading the book, I fantasize about what stories I'd include in my ultimate short story anthology. (Yeah, I know it's weird, but that's the kind of guy I am.) Here are a few selections:

"Accursed Inhabitants of the House of Bly" by Joyce Carol Oates- Oates is one of my favorite authors, and as much as I love her novels (especially "Blonde," "We Were the Mulvaneys," and "Bellefleur,) I think she's a far better short story author than she is a novelist. It's tough to pick one story to represent her massive body of work, but a gothic horror tale about lovers transformed into hell-hounds is tough to top.

“The Coup De Grace” by Ambrose Bierce. Talk about being caught in an awkward position.

“The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe. How can you pick just one Poe? This story, though, is as lean and mean a horror story as you’d ever want to read. Not one wasted word.

“A Country Doctor” by Franz Kafka. Kafka’s another author where it’s hard to pick just one. “The Hunger Artist,” “In the Penal Colony,” or “The Metamorphosis” (kind of the “Stairway to Heaven” of Kafka- often left off because it’s so obvious) would all fit here. I picked this one because it’s such a short, focused burst of pure dream logic.

“Heavy Set” by Ray Bradbury. Sacrilege, I know, to pick this one over so many Bradbury classics. But this one stuck in my craw more than any other. If Oedipus was a gym-rat.

“The Colour Out of Space” by HP Lovecraft. I love “mind-fuck” stories. How about one which forces you to imagine a color not represented in our spectrum?

“In the Hills, The Cities” by Clive Barker. Barker’s “Books of Blood” collections came out when I was about 15. They flipped my wig. Sick, twisted and brilliant. Barker has kind of gone in a different direction since his debut, but his early stuff is still among the edgiest horror fiction I’ve ever read. In this story, the graphic man-man sex is not half as shocking as the main event, a truly bizarre rivalry between two ancient European villages.

“Silent Snow, Secret Snow” by Conrad Aiken. Possibly the most disturbing depiction of childhood madness ever depicted. That’s my idea of a good time.

“Sweets for the Sweet” by Robert Bloch. If only for the final line.

“A Junkie’s Christmas” by William H. Burroughs. (aka “The Priest They Called Him.”) Burroughs is most famous for his splintering of the English language and his really bad impression of William Tell. But when the guy sat down to write a “straight” narrative story, the results were pretty potent. As with any Burroughs, it’s best to listen to him read his own words. Like the voice of Death.

“Royal Jelly” by Roald Dahl. Dahl is mainly known as a writer of children’s books, including Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but his adult-oriented stuff is as wicked as anything Clive Barker could imagine, and a lot funnier. This one is about infant nutrition.

“The Pension Grillparzer” by John Irving (as TS Garp.) A short-story within a novel, ostensibly written by Irving’s most famous character. Sad, funny and beautiful, it reads even better out of context, as in Irving’s short anthology Trying to Save Piggy Sneed.

“A Birthday” by Lisa Tuttle. A man whose mother has a very troubling skin condition.

“’Repent Harlequin!’ Said the Ticktockman” by Harlan Ellison. A classic celebration of non-conformance.

“Death Constant Beyond Love” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. One of my all-time favorite story titles.

“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. To quote a classic “Simpsons” bit: “A chilling tale of conformity and mob violence, NOT a source for winning lottery numbers.” D’oh!

“The Half-Skinned Steer” by Annie Proulx. Forget Mad Cow disease, this one will put you off beef for a loooong time.

“Bartleby the Scrivener” by Herman Melville. I could go into the reasons why I dig this metaphysical masterpiece, but “I prefer not to.”

“Survivor Type” by Stephen King. The King has written many great short stories, as well as a few duds. I chose this one for its innovative contribution to literature; the first (and only, so far as I know) instance of auto-cannibalism. That’s right, dude eats himself. Without ketchup.

“To Build a Fire” by Jack London. Man make fire. Fire good. Man no make fire, man freeze to death. Dog find another man. (Ooh, damn, I gave away the ending.)

“What Was It?” by Fitz-James O’Brien. Two opium-smoking tenants of a boarding house confront an invisible demon. Ripe for a Cheech and Chong remake.

“The Secret Sharer” by Joseph Conrad. A sea captain with “Fight Club” syndrome.

“A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner. Just in case you thought Norman Bates was the first one to think of it.

“The Human Chair” by Edogawa Rampo. I read this one in an anthology entitled “My Favorite Horror Story,” where (brilliant concept) current horror writers pick their favorite classic stories. This was Harlan Ellison’s pick. An exceedingly unsettling tale of obsession and voyeurism with, let’s say, a twist. The author’s name, by the way, is a phonetic spelling of the Japanese pronunciation of “Edgar Allen Poe.”

“The Rocking Horse Winner” by DH Lawrence. Who knew Lawrence invented the whole “spooky psychic kid” genre, all the way back in 1932?

“Flipping the Bird” by Christian Smith. As sole editor of my fantasy anthology, I can include one of my own stories. That’s allowed. Bob unwisely flips somebody off following a bar brawl. Bob’s middle finger is shot off. Bob grows a new finger. The finger grows a new Bob. Weirdness ensues.

I see I've leaned more towards the bizarre and the grotesque, towards tales of horror and madness. But that's me all over.

How about you? What goes in your book?