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Pastoralia Paperback – June 1, 2001
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Hailed by Thomas Pynchon as "graceful, dark, authentic, and funny," George Saunders gives us, in his inventive and beloved voice, this bestselling collection of stories set against a warped, hilarious, and terrifyingly recognizable American landscape.
- Print length188 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherRiverhead Books
- Publication dateJune 1, 2001
- Dimensions5.13 x 0.6 x 8.01 inches
- ISBN-101573228729
- ISBN-13978-1573228725
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In “Winky,” we’re taken to a “get-rich-quick” convention where those in attendance wear hats colored for how far they have come in the process of becoming wealthy. Like many such schemes, the message is partly religious, but instead of failure due to one’s lack of effort, it’s because of others are holding you back. “God doesn’t make junk,” they’re told. “If you’re losing, somebody’s doing it to you.” The scheme sets people up to focus on their needs and to challenge or remove those from their lives that hold them back. Getting ahead is the only thing that matters.
The short story, “Sea Oak” is about people trapped in lives from which they are unable to escape. It’s a world turned upside down. To make a living (in the hope of escaping to a better neighborhood), the protagonists works at “Joysticks,” where men partly strip and serve women (but they can’t completely strip) and earn titles. The best men become “pilots” although they are still stripping and serving as they parade around with their private parts slightly clad. The customers rate the men and when your rating falls to “stinker,” you’re out the door. Saunders has turned the world upside down as I couldn’t help but to think of a time when flight attendants were “sexualized” but instead of men looking at women, it’s reversed.
“Sea Oak” is the dumpy community where the protagonist lives. He’d like to escape, but there is no way out. To escape, there’s the television with reality TV-like shows such as “The Worst that Could Happen.” The aunt dies and the family struggles over how to bury her. They would be in debt for seven years to give her something nice, but the funeral home as other options such as painted cardboard boxes. But she comes back to life, only to fall apart, one body part at a time. Even the hope of resurrection is hollow in this story.
There are several additional stories in this collection. Saunders stories are funny, but sad. As they describe people trapped, I found them to be very Kafkaesque. Both writers describe hopeless situations. In Saunder’s stories, people place their hopes on bizarre schemes to escape, but no one (especially not the reader) believes they have a change. These stories, I found, are very political in a subtle way as if by telling them, those who are trapped with realize how the system is rigged against them and no longer play the game using rules that keep them from improving their lives.
Most often the weaver of dark tableaux of loony amusement parks and bizarre concentration camps, recounted from the point of view of the inhabitants, Saunders creates metaphors for our social straight jackets equal to anything Beckett ever invented. Influenced by Hemingway when a fledgling writer, he may have thus acquired a brilliant ability to put the reader "in media res" and flesh out one or another bizarre worlds with breathtaking economy. His touch is always light and usually comic, though often paranoia-invoking, since corporate and classist regimes are hardly far removed from our own. He is a writer for our times, or at least if feels so to me. The personal fit—reflective of impending global tragedy, not to mention our American dystopia, of our collective angst confronting a seriously broken society, taken together with my own need to mock the situation, to laugh derisively at our sorry predicament—is amazing. So timely is Saunders for me that it's difficult to say whether he's great literature of just extremely good at what he does. But it's not for me to say anyway, is it?
For those looking for more depth of feeling, "Lincoln in the Bardo" may be the answer. That is Saunders' novel and, tied to history, is furthest from satire. But I prefer Saunders the descendant of Swift and Kafka and Beckett and, as they say, Vonnegut and Pynchon, whose American efforts never impressed me as much as this writer's.









