Customer Reviews

Day out of Days: Stories

5 star:		(3)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(2)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(2)

 

 

More than Great Dream of Heaven or Cruising Paradise, Shepard's two previous story collections for Knopf, Day Out of Days reminds me of his early prose collection The Motel Chronicles. Shepard's nameless, aimless narrators take stock of their empty lives and the world around them, then shrug and trudge on. The Beckett epigram that opens Day Out of Days is telling, indeed. Shepard's long been heralded as one of our nation's greatest playwrights. A reliable character actor, too. Perhaps it's time that we take a closer look at our nation's empty literary scene and recognize Shepard's clear-eyed tales for the welcomed gifts they are.

I think Sam Shepard is underrated. His fiction writing is very much like his playwriting and his acting -- it all has that reflective, laconic sincerity.

To say this is fiction is misleading. It's mostly written in the first person, as autobiography, not of facts and events, but of thoughts. Many of the thoughts have to do with wandering. Many have to do with frustration with other people, especially women, but also of being unworthy of them -- an inconsistency that is just plain real. There's an impressive sincerity to Shephard's reporting of his thoughts about himself, other people, his and their faults, . . .

It's all rumination. Some of it is sad, some of it is wistful, and some of it is just rumination. If your favorite part of a baseball game is the time between the pitches, then you'll like Sam Shepard.

I felt a sense of guilt as I started reading this collection of short stories by Sam Shepard. It seemed as if I was reading someone's journal, their diary, with all their personal ramblings being exposed to me, a stranger. I got over that, and went on to really enjoy this collection that contains very short stories, snippets of conversations, memories, poems, observations, and random musings. Shepard writes in the voice of a distant loner, hardened by truth and reality but still seeking, looking for a kind of lost artifact or talisman.

Some of the poems have titles, but most are simple and unadorned. Without the title (and sometimes without punctuation) you are left to figure out the point, and each reader could likely come away with a different impression.

Horses racing men
Mummies on the mend
What's all this gauze bandaging
Unraveled down the stairs
Has come apart
In here
Something without end (p. 126)

In "Rosebud, South Dakota (Highway 83 North)" he describes a deceptively simple scene:

Lakota church, "Open to Anyone", it says, but no one's here. Not a single sorry soul. And it's the Sabbath too. Imagine that. Sunday abandoned. Just constant wind ripping across the tattered yards and buried fences. Constant endless prairie breath. Like it's always been. Now and evermore. Unrelenting. Raw. And could care less about the state of the Union.

Shepard's subjects are dry, tired, lost, searching, guilty, sarcastic, sardonic, and grim. They inhabit truck stops, rest stops, desert paths and windy valleys. Remarkably, reading these doesn't feel depressing or dispiriting. Instead, it's almost like putting a story behind that stranger you noticed outside the diner's plate glass window, or hitchhiking outside of town, or passing you on the open rural road in that old dirty Ford pickup.

Shepard continues to confront his existence with clarity and courage and wit. I was particularly curious to see how or if he'd write about his DUI arrest. He did, and approached the situation in an unexpected way. I loved this book.

You're no Hemingway. It's the old writer's lament. At some point all writers come to terms with the fact that they're not Hemingway. As successful as you get, you're still no Papa. I don't think Shepard ever had to come to this conclusion. Page after page, I couldn't help but make Hemingway comparisons. The best writers are able to say a whole lot with just a few words. With a couple hundred words, Shepard creates full worlds with rich scenes, emotional complexity, and questions that somehow have answers. At times, his sparse writing left the sense of desert sand on my lips. At other times it left the sense of loss and regret in my gut. Quite remarkable.

Chris Bowen
Author of Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom

They say you can't tell a book by its cover. And you can't tell what's in this one from the claim on the cover that it contains "Stories." The table of contents lists over 130 separate pieces of which only seven were previously published as stories. That leaves 125 poems, dialogues, and squibs. From what? The writer's travel logs and journals? Most of these pieces come in at a page, give or take a paragraph. All in all, the book leaves you wondering if Shepard's story output merits a volume of its own.

What about the stories we do have here? Two, "Indianapolis" and "Land of the Living" made it into "The New Yorker." The first pivots on a chance encounter between the protagonist and a former girlfriend. "You don't remember me, do you?" Not until she "does an amazing thing. She whips off the blue bandana and shakes out a mane of red hair that topples almost to her waist" does it all come back. But even although he needed a place to stay and she had offered her bed, the past failed to serve as prologue.

"Land of the Living" describes a family vacation in Mexico gone wrong when the narrator's wife seizes the first chance she gets to accuse him of having an affair. She's got a point. The story neatly describes the cold front her suspicions place on the holiday.

Of the other previously published stories, "Costello" is my favorite. The story line plays on the notion that you can't (or shouldn't) go home again after forty-five years away. The narrator, confronted by an old hell-raising buddy, does his best to avoid acknowledging him. "Saving Fats," one of the heretofore unpublished stories, recounts the story teller's efforts to save Fats Domino and his grand piano from the rampaging New Orleans flood. It's bizarre and funny. As are a great many of the pieces in this odd ball collection.

End note. In format, this book reminds me of "The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis." A master of short fiction, her collection is one that you may pick up, open to any page, read a while, put down, come back to it at bed time and start the process all over again. The same may be said of Shepard's collection. Indeed, that is probably the best way to approach it.

This is exactly the kind of collection that one would hope to stumble across while rummaging through Sam Shepard's cupboards. There would be a kind of voyeuristic magic in that scenario. Unfortunately, the brevity of this otherwise engaging melange of miscellany renders the suggested retail price a bit excessive. An enterprising reader can get through the whole book in a single day; there's a lot of blank space on the pages. In this sense, it has more in common with a book of short poems... except without the impacted depth of same. Even so, it is both charming and quintessentially Shepard.

My all-male book club was excited to read this. I think the nostalgic "boy on horse" cover appealed to the group as well. We usually pick one book out a presentation for five or six. Last night we had our meeting about the book and people were much less excited after reading it.

Admittedly, Mr Shepard is a good and proven writer (probably why we voted for it in the first place), but the consensus was these are notes for possible stories, not stories. True, short fiction has it's admirers but for the average reader it can be challenging if not frustrating. While many of the pieces have a strong voice and some excellent description, the idea of investing in appreciating a voice when it's going to end in half a page can be the opposite of what many readers seek.

I just read this fabulous book in two sittings. I was sad it ended. I was absolutely captivated by it.
Most of it was so profound I was mesmerized with wonder ! What a treat this was !

The only appeal of this book is that the unique paper the pages are made of will burn really well in the pyre. This book is a self-indulgent collection of unconnected pieces with no apparent purpose. Thus the title of my review. Who Cares! I would suggest anyone considering this book look at some of this acclaimed writers other works. I wish I could point to one or two of the short pieces in collection and comment positively. I cannot.