Eisenheim the Illusionist by Steven Millhauser

The Illusionist or the Prestige. Which do you prefer?

For a story packed with exposition and styled like a historical narrative, Eisenheim the Illusionist by Steven Millhauser somehow manages to stay utterly captivating from start to finish. Normally, that kind of heavy detail can bog down a short-story but in this case, it works pretty much flawlessly. Millhauser's brisk pacing keeps things moving at a steady clip with a constant sense of mystery and wonder swirling around Eisenheim, eastern Europe's most legendary illusionist at the dawn of the 20th century. 

Despite being written like a faux-biography, the story never comes across as a dull historical treatise. In fact, it embraces the illusion of truth so convincingly that you almost find yourself Googling whether Eisenheim was a real person. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. That’s part of the story's magic though. Millhauser playfully blurs the boundaries between fact and fiction in a way that mirrors the very illusions Eisenheim performs. The result is a kind of literary sleight-of-hand that leaves you questioning art as illusory. 

The 2006 film adaptation, The Illusionist, starring Edward Norton, often gets overlooked because it had the misfortune of coming out the same year as Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige. At the time, I remember thinking The Illusionist was actually quite solid, even slightly underrated. The two films inevitably drew comparisons, but it never felt fair. Sure, they both feature magicians but also tell very different stories. The Prestige is a twisty rivalry thriller, while The Illusionist is more about mythmaking and the paradoxical nature of art as truth. 

Ultimately, Eisenheim the Illusionist is far more than a tale about a gifted magician at the height of his powers. Through Eisenheim’s spellbinding performances that seem to defy the laws of physics, the story explores how illusion can reveal deeper truths. Just as the magician manipulates human perception, Millhauser himself becomes a literary illusionist, constructing a narrative that plays with ambiguity, expectation, and the reader’s sense of what is real. In doing so, he invites us to consider that very good art is simialr to a magic trick, acting as both deception and revelation. This inherent paradox is what makes the story so haunting and enchanting at the same time, even after after the final curtain call.

The New Music by Donald Barthelme

Demeter and Persephone.

Even though I can appreciate Donald Barthelme's bold experimentation in The New Music, which consists entirely of dialogue, it's probably one of my least favorite short-stories by him. It mostly left me feeling confounded and frustrated, as if I had just listened to a jazz solo with every instrument playing a different song. 

Barthelme, true to his post-modernist roots, is all about breaking the rules of conventional storytelling. He loves to turn narrative expectations on their head, and staying true to the title, it's as if he's trying to compose a new kind of literary "music." But instead of a harmonious symphony, it often feels more like a chaotic jam session. If the goal was to disorient the reader and shake up traditional form, then mission accomplished.

The basic framework of the story is a conversation between two brothers. There's repetition, fragmented anecdotes, and plenty of nonsensical detours. At times it felt like eavesdropping on a conversation in a dream. And yes, there’s even a large sketch of a bird (I think it's a bird?) tossed into the mix, just to keep you guessing. Because, why not. 

One of the recurring threads in their conversation is the complex relationship with their mother, blending childhood trauma, myth, and themes of death and mortality. Heavy stuff buried beneath layers of absurdity and randomness. Perhaps a narrative logic does exist here but it eludes me.

Look, if you enjoy decoding literary puzzles and don’t mind wading through jangling narrative noise, you might get more out of this than I did. But for me? I felt like I was tuning into a radio station that never quite landed on a clear signal.

Here are a few quotes that stood out to me:

If one does nothing but listen to the new music, everything else drifts, goes away, frays. Did Odysseus feel this way when he and Diomedes decided to steal Athene’s statue from the Trojans, so that they would become dejected and lose the war? I don’t think so, but who is to know what effect the new music of that remote time had on its hearers?

To the curious: A man who was a Communist heard the new music, and now is not. Fernando the fish-seller was taught to read and write by the new music, and is now a leper, white as snow. William Friend was caught trying to sneak into the new music with a set of bongos concealed under his cloak, but was garroted with his own bicycle chain, just in time. Propp the philosopher, having dinner with the Holy Ghost, was told of the coming of the new music but also informed that he would not live to hear it.

The new music burns things together, like a welder. The new music says, life becomes more and more exciting as there is less and less time.

Barthelme leans hard into absurdity and irony to reflect how ideology, identity, and knowledge are rendered unstable or even meaningless in the face of this "new music" he is creating. It becomes a metaphor for radical change or innovation, something so all-consuming that it pulls focus from everything else. Barthelme layers in myth and historical detachment to show how even the most heroic or legendary moments feel uncertain and destabilized in the face of modern absurdity. It's both a playful and melancholy nod to the way meaning becomes obfuscated in the postmodern condition. This "new music" can also be viewed as metaphor for art, societal upheaval, and the way meaning slips through our fingers when we try to hold onto it too tightly. The author is not offering answers but rather, he’s reveling in the questions. I just don't care enough to ponder them.

The Captured Woman by Donald Barthelme

I'm cookin' steaks fah dinnah. I expect you to stay.

The Captured Woman is really weird, even by Donald Barthelme standards. Beneath its wry humor and fragmented style lies a dark critique of sexual stereotypes and the rigid roles imposed by heteronormative domestic life. At the center of the narrative is a bizarre premise: a group of men who kidnap women and form a support group to share "best practices" for emotional and psychological control. It sounds absurd, and it certainly fits that bill. The author uses this absurdity to provide some sharp commentary on how power operates within traditional gender dynamics.

In one particularly twisted moment, a man advises the narrator on how to win his captive’s affection with poetic manipulation: “Speak to her. Say this: My soul is soused, imparadised, imprisoned in my lady.” Barthelme is fond of wordplay, which shows up plenty here. Much to the man's initial annoyance, the narrator mixes up the order of imparadised and imprisoned, which changes the meaning: "No. Imparadised, imprisoned. It actually sounds better the way you said it, though. Imparadised last." The ironic reference to Milton's Paradise Lost is both comical and chilling where the poetic language of romantic devotion is used as a manipulative tool for control. The misogynistic relationship is anything but a paradise; rather, it's the complete opposite: hell. 

Who exactly holds the most power in this relationship? Something to ask yourself when reading this story. It largely revolves around performance and not just in the literal sense of role-playing, but in the performance of gender itself. The men adhere to a strange set of rituals and rules, playing out their roles as dominant figures while encouraging each other to adopt increasingly performative and contradictory behaviors. Meanwhile, the narrative voice constantly shifts. The "I" becomes "you" or turns into "we", blurring the boundaries of identity and authority. The result is a dizzying cacophony of voices, like a dissonant dance between captor and captive. 

It is this use of reversals that makes the story so intriguing even if the wackiness strays into outlandish territory. The power dynamic is constantly in flux: although these women appear to be prisoners, they often seem to hold the real power. The men, for all their authority and control, are portrayed as emotionally fragile and desperate. So much so that the narrator even resorts to doing the dishes in a desperate attempt to make his hostage stay. This moment, simultaneously domestic and pathetic, underscores Barthelme’s central irony: in trying to assert their dominance, these men become trapped in the very roles they are trying to enforce.

Ultimately, the story deconstructs the fantasy of male authority within the domestic sphere. The men cling to outdated notions of control, but their actions only reveal their deep insecurities and their dependence on the very women they claim to dominate. Barthelme dismantles the power structures of traditional gender roles by blurring the lines between control and submission, masculine and feminine. Above all else, they are rendered entirely superfluous. 

The Affair of the Pink Pearl by Agatha Christie

 

Thorndyke or Holmes?

If you've ever wondered what would happen if a charming married couple decided to open a detective agency armed only with enthusiasm and a love for classic mysteries, The Affair of the Pink Pearl has you covered.

Tommy and Tuppence may have read their fair share of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Thorndyke stories, but does that really make them qualified sleuths? Probably not. But that’s exactly what makes this story so fun. It kicks off with a humorous scene of Tuppence stepping into their brand-new office, only to find Tommy buried under a pile of books. Turns out, he was doing research on how to be a great detective by consulting with famous novels. They are both clearly in over their heads here (literally and figuratively) but before they can second-guess the whole detective business idea, a young woman shows up at their door with a juicy case: a pink pearl has vanished during a swanky country estate party. Naturally, they jump at the chance to prove themselves.

What follows is a whimsical little mystery that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Honestly, the who-done-it isn’t all that gripping and mostly forgettable. The real charm lies in the duo’s witty banter and the way they throw themselves into their new roles, even mimicking their favorite fictional detectives. The couple's playful chemistry and amateur sleuthing antics is entertaining enough although the actual story lacks any kind of staying power. It's worth reading if you're already a fan of Agatha Christie but it's difficult to recommend based on merit alone. 

Eugénie Grandet by Donald Barthelme

Butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter

Does anyone still read Balzac anymore? Perhaps he's gone out of fashion in the 21st century but his novel Eugénie Grandet undergoes a complete re-interpretation through Donald Barthelme's postmodern lens and parodic style. In typical Barthelme fashion, any kind of  conventional "plot" or linear structure is thrown out the window, replaced with a collage of narrative fragments. It's quirky, absurd and experimental—common adjectives that I have used before many times in describing his work. 

Barthelme version is interested in transforming the original text into parody. The reader is tasked with filling in the gaps through context, which includes fragmented narrative threads, pencil drawings of the title character's hand ("Who will obtain Eugenie Grandet's hand?"), a sketch of her holding a ball, an unfinished letter, etc. There's even an old photograph of Charles (her cad of a fiancé) and a whole paragraph with the word butter repeated over and over again after asking her father to bake Charles his favorite dessert (could this be an exaggeration of her having a temper tantrum?). Again, Barthelme's collage technique is on full display and these textual fragments are representative of his subversive art. I might have appreciated this story more if I was familiar with the original source material but it's still a fun literary experiment.

Barthelme clearly isn't trying to retell Eugénie Grandet in any traditional sense. He’s more interested in bending, poking and deconstructing Balzac's novel while seeing what happens when you filter 19th-century melodrama through postmodern absurdity. There's something entertaining about the way he reshapes this French novel into something strangely compelling and self-aware. It has this playful energy that makes the story enjoyable on its own terms even though there's probably a lot more going on here that went over my head.

Jon by George Saunders

I've tasted other cocoas. This is the best.

Bizarre and disorienting in the best way, Jon by George Saunders isn’t your typical sci-fi dystopia. The worldbuilding exists on the periphery and the reader is dropped into this world without any explanations. All we get are flashes through the narrator’s scattered, hyperactive thoughts that starts to coalesce and make more sense as the story progresses. If you tossed The Truman Show, Black Mirror, and a dash of Samuel Beckett into a blender, you might get something vaguely resembling this story. However, it would still manage to be weirder, sadder, and somehow funnier. Like The Truman Show, Jon explores the unsettling idea of a life lived under constant observation, but with none of the cheerful suburbia. It channels the tech-paranoia and nightmarish unease of Black Mirror, yet filters it through a voice that feels more comically absurd. And then there's the Beckett energy: fragmented thoughts, repetition, and a lingering sense that life might be meaningless, except when it suddenly isn’t.

Our narrator, Jon/Randy, has grown up in what is essentially a corporate prison, raised with other kids to be literal guinea pigs for consumer products. It’s as bleak as it sounds but Saunders leans into the absurdity with sharp, satirical humor. Through Jon’s confused and frantic voice, the author provides a scathing critique on capitalism, media saturation, and how human experience can be warped and commodified. At the heart of all this chaos, is a surprisingly tender coming-of-age story. Jon is just a kid trying to figure out love, identity, and what it means to live freely, even if his idea of freedom has been totally shaped by commercials and advertising slogans. It's funny, unsettling, and surprisingly moving. 

I have always found George Saunders’ writing a bit tricky to sink my teeth into because he seems to be operating on a wavelength just slightly out of my reach. His stories are often quite strange and his writing style can be perplexing in a way that goes right over my head. Much to my surprise, even though it takes on that Saunderian weirdness, this story felt more accessible once you settle into its rhythm. Now that I’ve finally had a taste, I’m actually curious to explore more of his work. 

Burn by Morgan Talty

Set on the Panawahpskek Nation reserve in Maine, Burn is the opening story in Morgan Talty’s highly acclaimed short story collection, Night of the Living Rez. At just five pages, it’s super short, and not a whole lot happens. Yet, from what I can tell so far, it does a good job of setting the darkly humorous tone that carries throughout many of the other stories that follow. 

In this story, we meet the narrator, Dee, who finds his buddy Fellis lying near a frozen lake, unable to get up. Why? Because he got blackout drunk, passed out, and now his hair is literally frozen to the ice.  But the only way to free him without risking frostbite (or worse) is for Dee to cut Fellis’s hair. Since long hair holds cultural significance in many Native communities, this is not a great scenario to be in. Later, as they’re trying to score drugs and get high (because what else is there to do on the rez), Fellis insists that they burn the hair or they might be cursed: “Don’t want spirits after us.”

I’ve been on a big Sherman Alexie kick this year, so it’s hard not to draw some comparisons. Talty’s got that same raw, biting humor and the reservation setting is similar, but it doesn’t feel like an exact replica. This is a very small sample size to make any bold claims but there is definitely lots of potential here. If anything, it’s like he is picking up where Alexie left off while finding his own distinct voice and literary style in the process. 

A House in Spain by J.M. Coetzee

 

Catalonia.

The only other work I've read by J.M. Coetzee was Disgrace, but that was ages ago and, honestly, I barely remember anything about it. I think I liked it? Maybe? Either way, reading A House in Spain felt like a proper reintroduction to an author who is often hailed as one of the great writers of the post–WWII literary world. I'm not quite on the Coetzee bandwagon yet but can definitely see the appeal. 

As the title suggests, this story revolves around a house in Spain (Catalonia, to be exact) bought by a foreign man in his 50s. Through the lens of this house, Coetzee’s omniscient narrator digs into some big themes: mortality, ownership, social class, history, love, marriage, and the fleeting nature of life itself. It’s philosophical but never stuffy, with elegant, economical prose that gets straight to the point.

One of the more striking aspects of the story is how the narrator reflects on the man’s complex relationship with the house. At one point, they remark: "Functional from beginning to end, his understand of the ownership relation. Nothing like love, nothing like marriage." Yet, the act of maintaining this foreign property requires a lot of work and starts to resemble a kind of burgeoning intimate relationship. That duality is beautifully summed up in this quote:

|"If this is a marriage he tells himself, then it is a widow I am marrying, a mature woman, set in her ways. Just as I cannot be a different man, so I should not want her to become, for my sake, a different woman, younger, flashier, sexier."|

The author's use of metaphors here and throughout the story is quite effective. It’s such a poignant way of capturing the delicate balance between acceptance and control, especially in the context of love and aging. The house, like a long-term partner, comes with its own history, quirks, relationship dynamics and worn edges. Rather than try to renovate it into something it’s not, the man chooses to meet it where it is instead. There’s a quiet grace and dignity in that; an acknowledgment that real love, or at least real commitment, is about embracing imperfection and giving up the fantasy of transformation.

Ultimately, A House in Spain is a thoughtful and quietly moving piece. It may not be flashy, but it's deeply wise. It offers some sharp insights into the human condition, particularly when it comes to love, stability, and our search for meaning. Coetzee doesn’t shout his ideas; he lets them unfold gently, inviting the reader to sit with them. It’s the kind of story that understands something quietly profound about what it means to live, to age, and to care for something so passionately, even if it is a house that doesn’t love you back in quite the same way.

The Million Dollar Bond Robbery by Agatha Christie

 

"Iceberg, right ahead!"

It's a brand new month and that means more Agatha Christie short-stories, courtesy of the reading event hosted by FandaClassictLit. 

The premise of stolen bonds vanishing on an ocean liner doesn’t exactly scream “edge-of-your-seat excitement.” But leave it to Agatha Christie to take a ho-hum setup and spin it into an amusing and tightly plotted little mystery. That’s kind of her thing. She could probably make a thrilling whodunit out of a missing sock. Christie’s mastery of the mystery genre and uncanny ability to craft intricate puzzles with seemingly simple pieces continues to impress me. The woman was also wildly prolific, churning out mystery after mystery with the kind of consistency that makes other writers weep into their typewriters. 

As for The Million Dollar Bond Robbery, it’s a fun, classic whodunit that benefits immensely from the presence of Hercule Poirot. Without our beloved little Belgian detective at the helm (yes, pun intended), I’m not sure it would hold up nearly as well. Captain Hastings is once again the well-meaning sidekick, charmingly baffled while Poirot remains ten steps ahead of absolutely everyone, as usual. His mind is a steel trap, and let’s be honest, he’s the main reason we keep coming back for more.

Yes, these stories follow a bit of a formula, but it’s a formula that works. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Just pour yourself some tea and enjoy the quick ride.

The Moon in its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino

Moon river.

April went by so fast!

This is exactly the kind of innovative and refreshing short-story that I needed to snap me out of this reading slump that has gone on for weeks. The Moon in its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino leans heavily into the meta-narrative and self-reflexive storytelling that doesn't always work for me but somehow it all just works splendidly. It's the kind of literary magic trick that I can't quite put my finger on. 

There are so many killer lines and weird, wonderful passages that it felt like I was reading the lovechild of a jazz record and a deconstructed Harlequin novel. I ended up highlighting basically the entire thing.

The self-reflexive narrator is prone to waxing poetically about the complexities of love and romantic relationships: 

|"Of course this was a summer romance, but bear with me and see with what banal literary irony it all turns out — or does not turn out at all. The country bowled and spoke of Truman’s grit and spunk. How softly we had slid off the edge of civilization."|

So good.

Check out the beautiful striking imagery evoked by the narrator when describing his experience of falling in love for the first time:

|"Leaning against her father’s powder-blue Buick convertible, lost, in the indigo night, the creamy stars, sound of crickets, they kissed. They fell in love."|

There's plenty of lyrical prose mixed with bawdy humor: 

|"To him that vast borough seemed a Cythera — that it could house such fantastic creatures as she! He wanted to be Jewish. He was, instead, a Roman Catholic, awash in sin and redemption. What loathing he had for the Irish girls who went to eleven o’clock Mass, legions of blushing pink and lavender spring coats, flat white straw hats, the crinkly veils over their open faces. Church clothes, under which their inviolate crotches sweetly nestled in soft hair."|

Or how about his first sexual experience with the young woman?

|"The first time he touched her breasts he cried in his shame and delight. Can all this really have taken place in America?"|

Amazing stuff right here.

The story is dripping in sentimentality but the author embraces a kind of self-aware sentimentality He leans into the clichés just to rip them apart, exposing the artifice of literary fiction. He then proceeds to builds something even more tender out of the ruins.

There’s a lot going on under the hood of that powder-blue Buick convertible—music as transformative and healing, jazz influences, Donald Barthelme-style metafiction, black pop culture nods like Amos ’n’ Andy, literary references flying all over the place. It’s like Sorrentino took a bunch of narrative puzzle pieces, shuffled them around while blindfolded, and still made something that feels weirdly coherent and emotionally sharp. Structurally, it's all over the place in the best way. Fragmented time jumps, poetic stream-of-consciousness, a narrative voice that knows it’s a narrative voice. It’s playful and experimental while dismantling the very idea of storytelling. And yet, it all works. Somehow, it works.

Then there's the powerful final line: “Art cannot rescue anybody from anything." Sorrentino’s mic drop. After inundating the reader with poetic nostalgia, romantic longing, and jazz-soaked melancholy, he ends the story in such a brutally honest and cynical fashion that is totally on-brand for the story’s whole meta-narrative vibe.

The story contains all the classic romantic tropes associated with young love through a sentimental lens before pulling the rug out.  It’s like he’s saying, “You felt something? Cool. Just remember it was all made up.” This line rips the curtain down and reminds us that even the most beautiful art cannot be a perfect representation of life. Maybe I'm out to lunch here but I think that’s kind of the point: the story knows it’s a story. It seduces you with aesthetics, sentimentality, beautiful language and emotional flashbacks only to expose how artificial and performative it all is in a literary context.

By ending the story this way, Sorrentino plants himself firmly in a postmodern literary tradition that delights in pulling apart the seams of narrative itself, especially when it comes to romance, a genre that practically thrives on illusion. Romantic stories usually promise some kind of transformation: love conquers all, heartbreak leads to growth, memory redeems, etc. At the very least, they offer the feeling that something matters. But Sorrentino, ever the trickster, sidesteps all of that. He gives us the shape of a romantic story (intoxicating attraction, uncertainty, yearning, sexual anticipation, the heartbreak) only to subvert it all with that final line.

It’s a classic bait-and-switch. We think we’re being led to catharsis, or at least a poignant reflection. But instead, he hands us an anti-resolution. There is no tidy bow, no deep insight; just the quiet thud of reality. The curtain falls, and nobody’s saved. Not the lovelorn narrator, still lost in the fog of memory, and certainly not the reader, who might have been anticipating something a bit more hopeful.

But this isn’t to say that fiction is meaningless. On the contrary, Sorrentino’s point seems to be that meaning itself is slippery, constructed, and often a product of our own desire to find meaning in art. Indeed, the story doesn’t rescue us, but it shows us how badly we want to be rescued. It also shows how we attach meaning to art even when it explicitly tells us not to. That’s another underlying irony presented here: by insisting that art cannot save us, the story ends up doing something emotionally powerful anyway. It stirs us, unsettles us, makes us reflect. In denying transcendence, it delivers a kind of sideways truth that feels more honest than consolation. It highlights the fantasy of literary catharsis, and ironically reminds us of why we keep turning to stories in the first place. 

You can read this story HERE.