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 beneath the surface that might not be apparent on a first read.

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.

The Electric Ant by Philip K. Dick

I'll be back.

After a terrible accident in his squib (that's a fancy futuristic car), Garson Poole wakes up in a hospital missing a hand and quickly realizes that he is well, not human. Turns out he’s what people in this world call an Electric Ant, which is basically slang for robot. Dun, dun, duuun. Don't worry, this is not a major spoiler since it is revealed right at the beginning of the story. 

The premise is interesting enough and has plenty of potential, but unfortuantely doesnt really go anywhere. As Poole becomes more self-aware, so does his drive to elevate his consciousness to a higher reality, but at a terrible cost. PKD sprinkles in his trademark weird sci-fi involving "reality tapes" that alters perception of time and space but it's also kind of confusing...though, maybe that's the point?

Like many of the author's short-fiction, ideas take precedence over effective storytelling. It also probably would have been more memorable or emotionally resonant if it were a bit shorter, since it often drags on without any real purpose. Still, if you’re already a fan of his work, you are likely find something to enjoy here.

You can read this story HERE.

Leave it to Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Right ho, Jeeves!

I’m fashionably late to the P.G. Wodehouse party, but absolutely delighted to have finally made the acquaintance of the famous duo: Bertie Wooster and his ever-clever valet, Jeeves. These stories have all the makings of ideal comfort reads. They are light as a soufflé, endlessly witty, and packed with the kind of charming comedic flair that keeps a smile permanently plastered on my face. 

It's no wonder Wodehouse has built such a glowing reputation. Great comedic writing is rare and he absolutely nails it. The actual plot in Leave it Jeeves isn't that important, mainly serving as a launch-pad for the author to display his sophisticated wit and comedic chops. It's the razor-sharp dialogue and pitch-perfect humor that Wodehouse serves up on a silver platter. Bertie, with all his foppish charm and knack for landing in ridiculous predicaments, is the ideal foil for the ever-unflappable Jeeves, who always has just the right solution tucked away in his encyclopedic brain. Their hilarious witty banter and the wonderfully lopsided dynamic between master and servant is what makes the story memorable. If you're looking for a few good laughs and characters who feel like old friends, this is pure comedic gold.

You can read this story HERE.

The Snow Child by Angela Carter

Ice Queen.

Maybe it's just me, but The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter feels seriously overhyped and The Snow Child does nothing to convince me otherwise. She certainly has gift for poetic, richly layered prose and an imaginative way of reworking folklore and fairy tales. But so far, none of the stories in the collection have really left a major impression on me. This story, in particular, might have completely turned me off her work for good. 

Frankly, I found it vile, disturbing, and ultimately pointless. Whether the title character is meant to be an apparition or a magical being doesn’t matter to me. She’s still presented as a little girl. The inclusion of sexual assault and necrophilia in such a brief, surreal piece doesn't take away from the gratuitous nature of this scene. I get that Carter is tackling themes like the objectification of women, patriarchal control, and male fantasy but for me, any message or moral lesson is lost in the shock value. 

You can read this story HERE.