I’ve been reading a book about Russian short stories called A Swim in the Pond in the Rain by George Saunders. I can’t stand Russian writing in general, though I recognize that that is a highly personal taste. That is, I recognize that others have declared lots of Russian authors to be important and great and literary, and I’m not arguing with any of that. I’m just saying that I personally dislike them.

Telling small children that broccoli is good for them doesn’t usually result in said children liking broccoli. They either end up liking it because someone cooked it well, or they always hate it because, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t always taste good, and they see no reason to keep hunting for that essential, experiential, essence of good broccoli, that will change their minds. When I had worked myself up to liking broccoli, and cooking it well, and tried to go the extra mile and get organic broccoli, because that must be the best tasting of all, and found a cooked bug, it really put me off again for a long time. I’m kind of wondering if that is going to be my experience here.

Anyway, Saunders’ book was recommended to me as an aspiring author, because Saunders teaches creative writing, particularly of short stories, at Syracuse University. It just happens that he uses Russian stories as his examples. And it happens that I could get this book out of the library, so I didn’t have to pay to read it, beyond my tax dollars … which is a good thing, because I still can’t stand Russian stories. I’ve read three of seven chapters. That’s two Chekhov and one Turgenev. There are two Tolstoy, another Chekhov, and a Gogol ahead. We … will … see.

To his credit, Saunders really likes the characters in these stories, and he wants his readers, who were originally his students, to like them too. However, in his discussion of the first entry, (In the Cart, Chekhov) he ends up saying that the story becomes profound and important, to him, when it portrays a situation in which “loneliness is real and consequential, and … sometimes there’s no way out at all.” Okay, bud. I’m not interested in stories like that. I can tell myself about loneliness all day long, and wallow in it. I don’t need help from Chekhov to do so.

Saunders goes on to condemn systems that “compel a person to work a job to which she has no calling, and be so reduced by it… their best selves sacrificed to exigency, whose grace suffered under the pressure of being poorly suited to the toil required of them to make a living.” What?! Making a living is just life. It’s true that Marya, the rural teacher in this story, used to live in Moscow and have a happy life. Her parents lost all their money so she had to work. This is not unique.

The story goes on with a scene in a tea house that Saunders presents with a lot of class structure and status questions. He’s very taken with the protagonist, and uses the word “we” in describing his reactions to the story, as in, “we don’t blame her.” I’m not part of his “we”.

I am militantly standing outside this framework, and saying that I prefer stories, and real life, where people who have been dealt a bad hand, find a way out of dreariness and misery. Even if that way is entirely internal. Down one.

Story Two, The Singers by Ivan Turgenev, was mostly a lengthy, to the point of boredom, description of people, and then a singing contest. Saunders has an interesting discussion about whether all that boring description is necessary. He comes down on the side of, yes, it’s an imperfect story structure, but just try to tell it yourself differently.

As far as I’m concerned the less said about Story Three, the better.