Flannery O'Connor and the Problem of the Modern Short Story

I tell you, most of these modern short stories are bullshit. Take this Flannery O'Connor, she couldn't tell you a short story if you told it to her first and all she had to do was tell it back to you! Oh, she'd tell it well enough, but dollars to donuts she'd leave out the part where anything happens, or gloss it over so you don't notice.

Here's one: "The Geranium." What happens? Some old coot from Georgia (at first I couldn't tell if he was black or white, but eventually: white, most likely, on account of him calling everybody "nigger") named Old Dudley sits in his chair six stories up an apartment building in New York City and looks out across the alley waiting for the flower they always put in the window. They're late with the flower, where is it? Meanwhile his daughter, who dragged him up from Georgia and everywhere else since, hassles him in ways general and specific - such as scolding him not to try chatting about fishing holes with the well-dressed black gentleman who is moving in next door, and whom Old Dudley had at first assumed to be a servant. Next Old Dudley is having some problems on the stairs, and who should come along chuckling and friendly enough to help him back up to his floor but the well-dressed black gentleman! Which causes Old Dudley to break out bawling in shame and humiliation (not the same thing) once he gets back in his apartment. Then he sits in his accustomed chair only to have the guy across the alley warn him not to keep looking into the guy's apartment. The flower fell off the ledge, that's why it's not there. Oh yeah, and Old Dudley's throat is always tight and hurting him, all the time, the whole damn story. It's like a motif. That and that damn flower.

I do not exaggerate. Or maybe what I mean is that I do not understate. To exaggerate might have been a good thing, but the fact is - that's all that happens! That's the story. That's the entire story. I feel like I should put "story" in quotation marks.

Now I admit, as I read through my recap of it above, it sounds pretty fraught with drama and conflict, potentially at least. But in O'Connor's hands everything unspools in a very natural and matter-of-fact way, so that you hardly notice anything out of the ordinary until well after it's done. Then if you do notice, you frown at it. Whereas how I put it, how I set out those very same events: it's pretty punchy! And it takes far less time to tell. Maybe what she needs is a translator. Someone like me who can pare it down to its essential thrust and jibe and "bring out" those elements that might otherwise go glossed over.

Okay, I'll do it. Starting with this post, I'm going to tackle each of Flannery O'Connor's short stories in order, and in short order I will cut away whatever I find to be needless and expose the beating heart of each spare tale, unadorned with ornament and unornamented with adornment. Because in each case, there really is something there, something that needs to be looked at. That's my job to bring that out, and it's my gift to be able to do it so good.

So get ready. I might need to "show off" a bit on these.