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50 of 50 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
WARNING: Intemperate Review Ahead!, October 9, 2002
Not all stars are created equal. By awarding 5 stars to this book, the implication must be that they are stars of the purest gold. I have read some "5-star" novels and short story collections before, but little, in my experience, compares with this: the combination of an extraordinarily beautiful prose style, the seemingly effortless creation of literally hundreds if not thousands of alternately sympathetic and detestable (but always vividly memorable) characters, a profound insight into the psychology of the human mind to rival (and pretty easily surpass) that of any other writer alive, a recreation of atmosphere so real it clings, and a brilliant inventiveness when it comes to creating great story lines (and, often, superbly twisty [but never illogical] endings) places this collection among the very greatest of its kind. One measure of how deeply impressed I was with this book is that now, more than half a year since I finished it, I can look back through the table of contents and still remember not merely every story with tremendous vividness, but often where I was at the time I read it.Stated broadly, Trevor's stories seem to fall into two distinct types, English and Irish. The former tend to be (as do many of the earlier stories) sharp and edgy, whereas the latter tend to be quiet and pastoral. Although it is the Irish stories that appear to garner the greatest praise from the critics, I prefer the greater cynicism (often bordering on, but never quite reaching, downright misanthropy) of the English stories. Having to choose my favorites from among this potent collection is akin to separating gold coins that are 100% pure from those that are 99.975% pure (soft though they would be!), but three continue to haunt me just a little more than the others. "The Death of Peggy Meehan," one of the Irish stories, and one of the collection's shortest, tells the tale of a young lad who is taken to his first movie during a summer vacation, and how the fantasies he draws after seeing that movie color (for better or worse) the rest of his life. "In at the Birth," is, unusually for Trevor, a creepy ghost story that Rod Serling would have marveled over. In it, an elderly woman takes a baby-sitting job for a peculiar couple who turn out to be (and this is hardly among the most riveting revelations provided) childless. But rather than leave me frightened, it left me pondering the meaning of life, age, and human relationships. Finally, "The Hotel of the Idle Moon," is what I described to a friend as "the greatest short story ever written." Its title is especially evocative and, in its context, has a host (no pun intended!) of powerful resonances. The "set up" is baldly cliche: on a dark and stormy night a middle-aged couple stop in front of an estate, pretending that their car has broken down. Foul play, one can be sure, is bound to ensue. And so it does. But the play is much fouler and more upsetting than anything anyone can imagine (trust me, until you read this story you cannot imagine what happens). It is one of Trevor's gifts that such a story can't be adequately explained. It has to be read, felt, lived. Suffice it to say that by the end we realize that we have read nothing less than a parable of (very) contemporary times (I don't know when it was written) that manages, in a trice, to both limn and condemn humankind since the beginning of history. High marks also to "The Table," which reads like a hilarious comedy of errors until the last line suddenly blackens everything that came before it with perfect (and perfectly uncanny) inevitability, "The Forty-Seventh Saturday," as poignant a story of loneliness as I know, and "O Fat White Woman" (the title may be funny; the story is anything but), which spins a tale of the tragedy that follows passive resistance. (And when is the last time you read a story that dealt with that? Why does it seem that Trevor is our only contemporary writer who consistently confronts such common yet seemingly taboo foibles?). As is usual with Trevor, the tragedy occurs on many planes and is of an inestimable magnitude. Oh, heck, let me not forget "Nice Day at School," an incredibly sensitive and piercing drama, and the superb and highly regarded "In Isfahan," in which a married, middle-aged English man meets a married, youngish English woman on tour in Iran. They try to get close, but their chequered pasts prevent them. What we don't realize until the end, however, is that one of their pasts isn't real. Or is it? And what purpose does fantasy play in encroaching human relationships? Can it be used to repel as well as to lure? Or is it there to comfort? And, if so, comfort whom? Particularly rich stuff. Amidst a sea of great short story collections, this one by William Trevor will always have its place at the top. There's a word for books like this, and that word is "perfect." May it never go out of print.
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by William Trevor
by William Trevor
by William Trevor
by William Trevor
by William Trevor
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