It is a form most revered for the discipline it demands from the author. A powerful punch in a few thousand words…not for those who are verbose. I have read the great authors’ short stories – Melville and Tolstoy not so short, but shorter than their novels definitely – loved them – most notably ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’ by Flannery O’Connor, ‘Bananafish’ by Salinger, take your pick of Poe’s works – read and reread them to find the magic, as they are indeed magical, tried to emulate their styles and tone, of which, never could I achieve what they had done. But their short stories – as I feel of all short stories – pale in comparison to novels.
I feel rotten writing that paragraph, but it’s true. ‘What’s the point?’ I ask after reading a short story. Why spend a few pages when you could prober deeper into the characters for hundreds of pages? If it is a good enough story, I wished it was a chapter in a novel. It is a literature medium that aims to be brief, to the point, provide the reader a glimpse into another world; for me, the medium can only rely on the surface. It deals with stories that are really just starting.
I do not respect short stories, as I do novels. In comparison, short stories do not delve – they remain on the surface. They do not satisfy my urge to be immersed, to remain under the surface for long periods of time. I want to be drowned by the story. A short one merely pushes my head under the surface, takes away my breath for but an instance, and allows me to surface. Oxygen! With a short story, there is no fear that I may drown. With every novel – good and bad – it is long enough to plunge me far down deep enough to choke out my want for air.
A short story is good, some would argue. But for me, a novel takes my breath away.
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