4 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Modern fiction's secret elixir, November 4, 2006
This review is from: Hydroplane: Fictions (Paperback)
Steinberg may be the most organic voice in modern lit. I can sip from any paragraph of any page of her previous collection, "The End of Free Love," and remember why writing matters. (I'm pretty helpless to resist a narrator who announces, in the middle of one new story, "I lied to you." That pretty much wakes me up as a reader.)
Her best stories are like accident scenes. She'll circle around some adolescent horror, and sift through its broken shards, knowing the truth will come in focus soon enough, and that it will be fatally beautiful. I think she may have discovered the precise way the mind heals itself, if the mind happens to be literary. At the end of one of these new stories, about a suicide, she manages to blur past and present, analogy and reality into a devastating substitutionary climax--in this case so completely demolishing the wall between right and left brains that I experienced a losing child's game of basketball as though it were the actual death.
Sometimes Steinberg tries to reenact, fetishistically, some erotic conflict from the narrator's past; other times, a la Steve Erickson and Jorge Luis Borges, time's logic just crumbles before the higher logic of fever, coincidence, and the unconscious. She's writing about time's irrevocability, but whereas most storytellers' instinct is to stay with the action, hers is to stop time and slice up its latencies.
Here is a not-untypical Steinberg first line from "Invitation,"
Doors locked, he says, and windows up, radio off to be safe, but why, just off, he says, and, wear my jacket, but why, just wear it, your dress is too thin, my dress is fine, your dress, it's fine.
I was going to summarize the plot and theme, but in that one sentence she's done it.
I did seem to detect,this time around, some editorial intrusion in the name of literalness and scene-setting. ("I was at school. We were critiquing. We stood to look at the paintings.") and I really resented it. That's not Steinberg--that's too conscious. Nevertheless, the book is brilliant: her work is art itself, a secret elixir that so many need today, and so few know about.
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