Some Anomalies of the Short Story (from Literature and Life)

In Short

This essay examines the peculiar paradox of the short story—or novella, as the author prefers to call it—which functions as a source of delight when found within a magazine but often fails to find an audience when published as a collection. By comparing the structural demands of the novella, the novelette, and the full-length novel, the text investigates why these brief fictions are so frequently undervalued. It remains a foundational meditation on the craft of compression, the role of the reader’s imagination, and the evolving status of American literature.

The Story

The narrative of this inquiry begins with a simple observation: why do readers enjoy a single short story in a magazine, yet resist buying those same stories when bound in a book? The author rejects the "boarding-house" analogy, where pleasant people supposedly lose their charm when grouped together, noting that the editor’s success with short stories in periodicals suggests that the fault lies elsewhere. He posits that the reader is often too intellectually sluggish to perform the "subjective after-work" required by a collection of short stories. Unlike a novel, which acts as a sedating, continuous experience, a book of varied short stories demands a constant, exhausting re-engagement of the reader’s constructive faculties.

Moving from the psychological to the historical, the text situates the American short story within a broader tradition. The author traces the form from the Italian novella through its transformations in Spanish, French, and English literature. He argues that America is currently in a developmental period where the short story flourishes, even as the nation’s output of "novels of prime order" remains subordinate to those of Europe. He suggests that while a novel is a single, living growth—a tree—the short story is a distinct species, a bush that must be clearly imagined from its first germinal impulse. If a writer attempts to stretch a short-story motive into a novel, the result is merely padded, uninspired work.

As the argument progresses, the author defines the "novelette" as a problematic, middle-magnitude species—a two or three-number story that remains the despair of publishers because it lacks the marketability of the serial or the novella. He muses that the "ultimated novel" might eventually reach the dimensions of Hamlet, as the most symmetrical modern novels are often little more than expanded novelettes.

Finally, the discussion turns to a lingering frustration: why are the characters in short stories so difficult to remember? Despite the "exquisite color and texture" of works by masters like James, Jewett, or Maupassant, the figures within them lack the staying power of those in plays or novels. The author suggests this may be an essential limitation of the form, though he holds out hope that as the short story becomes more "conscious," its characters will eventually attain greater immortality. The essay concludes not with a definitive solution, but by returning the challenge to the reader: to abandon their prejudice and test their own capacity for appreciation by reading collections with the same fervor they reserve for the single tale.

How It Unfolds

The paradox of consumption The inquiry opens by questioning the "popular indifference" toward collections of short stories. It posits that while the reader is refreshed by a single story, the repetition of that experience in a book becomes an exhausting strain on the imagination.

The lineage of the novella The text traces the evolution of the form from the Italian novella to its modern incarnations. It argues that American literature, as a condition of English literature, is currently in a phase where the short story excels over the novel.

The anatomy of the story The author distinguishes between the "anecdote" and the "novella," noting that the former records a moment while the latter develops a type. He emphasizes that the inventive mind must intuitively sense whether a seed is meant to be a bush or a tree.

The problem of the novelette The middle-ground fiction, or "novelette," is identified as the "despair of editors." The author suggests that many novels are simply padded novelettes, and that the form holds untapped potential for future writers.

The challenge of memory The final section addresses the "irremediable inferiority" of the short story in terms of character retention. The author asks why we love these characters but cannot recall their names, contrasting them with the more memorable types found in drama.

The People

The author acts as the primary guide, a seasoned and skeptical critic who values "truth and reality" above all else. He is joined in his analysis by a "distinguished editor" who provides a cynical, market-driven perspective on why some collections fail while others thrive. Within the text’s examples, the author invokes the work of figures like Henry James and Sarah Orne Jewett, whom he respects for their "exquisite veracity," and Bret Harte, whom he identifies as a rare, successful practitioner of "romanticistic" tales. The reader is the final, essential figure—the "involuntary co-partner" whose willingness to exert their own mental faculties ultimately determines the success or failure of the form. The author treats the reader with a mix of gentle condescension and genuine hope, pushing them to overcome their own "indolence" to fully appreciate the "literary preciousness" of the short story.

In Its Own Voice

One of the most amusing questions concerning the short story is why a form which is singly so attractive that every one likes to read a short story when he finds it alone is collectively so repellent as it is said to be.

This observation sets the stage for the primary conflict of the book.

A condition that the short story tacitly makes with the reader, through its limitations, is that he shall subjectively fill in the details and carry out the scheme which in its small dimensions the story can only suggest.

The author explains the psychological burden that makes collections of short stories difficult for the average reader to sustain.

What It's Really About

The central argument concerns the "limitations" of the short story as a medium for both the writer and the reader. It explores the tension between the "perfect form" of the novella and the "lasting significance" of the novel. Underlying the text is a question of intellectual agency: is the short story’s failure due to a flaw in its structure, or is it a symptom of the reader’s refusal to participate in the artistic process? The book is a defense of the novella as a serious, "spiritually" flexible form that demands more from the audience than they are accustomed to giving. It is a plea for the reader to take responsibility for their own pleasure and to recognize the craftsmanship required to "divine" a story's proper size.

Why Read It Today

Readers who value the history of literary criticism will find this a fascinating, intimate look at the turn-of-the-century book trade. The prose is warm, conversational, and meticulously paced, reflecting the author’s long experience as a man of letters. He speaks with a delightful, old-fashioned precision—referencing "hortus siccus" or the "avatar" of a genre—that rewards the patient reader.

However, modern readers should be prepared for the author's period-specific anxieties regarding the "English-speaking world" and his somewhat sweeping, subjective theories on national literary development. While the discussion of specific authors like Miss Wilkins or Bjornson may feel like a deep dive into an older canon, the core question—why we struggle to "remember" short stories—remains strikingly relevant in our current era of endless digital content. The book is not a guide for the casual reader seeking plot, but a meditation for those who wish to understand the mechanics of how stories work upon the mind. It leaves you with a heightened awareness of how you read, perhaps making you more likely to stop and linger over a well-crafted short story the next time you encounter one.