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A review by jimmylorunning
Lands of Memory by Felisberto Hernández
5.0
Look, Felisberto, I'm not gonna lie. You're no good at this short story thing. You might as well give it up now. Your 'stories' are like the slow kid in the back of the room who stares out of the window at the ballfield and gets hit by spitballs when the teacher's not looking. All the other stories are gung-ho, raising their hands, answering questions with purpose, drive. But your story is still lost in thought, he's barely aware that he's in class.
When I talk with short story writers--I knew quite a few back in the day--they would always critique each other's work by saying how "there's a story here", or "there's no story here" as if excavating bones from an archeological site. But if a story has no story in it, what's left? I often find myself loving just this unnameable thing that's left, which you have written many. I like them because there is none of that anxiety that comes with the form. One of my favorite filmmakers, Abbas Kiarostami, once said that he disliked most contemporary movies because they "take the viewer hostage". They don't allow any room for daydreaming, reflection, even deep sleep. I feel that you and Kiarostami would agree on many things.
The nonstory of yours that I loved the most from this book was 'Mistaken Hands'. In it, you talk about the unknown. But that's exactly what this story is to me, a complete unknown. I have no idea why I am so attracted to it, but I feel I can return to it again and again. It is like a pebble that I've mistaken for hard candy, and I have it in my mouth right now, and it will never dissolve.
And the rails would spend all their time waiting, with their backs to the sun, for the monstrous egotists in the train--always riding along thinking about the direction they were heading in--to go over them. Then the rails would bask once more in the admiration of all the grasses that dwelled so peaceably around them. p132Fortunately, everyone has their perfect match in this world. Even the homely girl gets a date to the prom. And for your non-stories, I am that fool. The fact is, I don't often like stories. They are too single-minded in their trajectory. But your stories lie on the outer perimeter of what a short story is or should be. Your stories take on the appearance of a story while inwardly they are anything but!
When I talk with short story writers--I knew quite a few back in the day--they would always critique each other's work by saying how "there's a story here", or "there's no story here" as if excavating bones from an archeological site. But if a story has no story in it, what's left? I often find myself loving just this unnameable thing that's left, which you have written many. I like them because there is none of that anxiety that comes with the form. One of my favorite filmmakers, Abbas Kiarostami, once said that he disliked most contemporary movies because they "take the viewer hostage". They don't allow any room for daydreaming, reflection, even deep sleep. I feel that you and Kiarostami would agree on many things.
"Furthermore, I will ask you to interrupt your reading of this book as many times as possible," a character of his writes, in a story titled "Gangster Philosophy," "and perhaps--almost certainly--what you think during those intervals will be the best part of the book" (from the Foreword)Reading your stories is like admiring the shadows of tree branches on the ground as a storm brews, the light and shade moving in the mind of the story beating out a singular path from image to image. The sentences each crystal clear, but without any higher understanding or purpose. Despite this lack, perhaps because of it, there is a higher enjoyment. Not only are your stories unsolveable, there is nothing there to solve, so one must take them as they are.
The nonstory of yours that I loved the most from this book was 'Mistaken Hands'. In it, you talk about the unknown. But that's exactly what this story is to me, a complete unknown. I have no idea why I am so attracted to it, but I feel I can return to it again and again. It is like a pebble that I've mistaken for hard candy, and I have it in my mouth right now, and it will never dissolve.
While we were speaking, there was something that had nothing to do with words; the words served to attract us to each other's silence. p.102PS - I hope you will forgive me for addressing you so directly, and rousing you from your peaceful state. But your stories, in their immense privacy, seem to call for such direct addresses. In the foreword that Esther Allen has written, there is an excerpt by Cortazar where he has also written to you directly. I think it's a testament to the extreme intimacy you're able to form with the reader...