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George Saunders

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Tenth of December: Stories Kindle Edition

by George Saunders (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

4.0 4,573 ratings

Editors' pick Best Literature & Fiction

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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST • NAMED ONE OF TIME’S TEN BEST FICTION BOOKS OF THE DECADE • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY AND BUZZFEED • NAMED ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY People • The New York Times Magazine • NPR • Entertainment Weekly • New York • The Telegraph • BuzzFeed • Kirkus Reviews • BookPage • Shelf Awareness

Includes an extended conversation with David Sedaris

One of the most important and blazingly original writers of his generation, George Saunders is an undisputed master of the short story, and Tenth of December is his most honest, accessible, and moving collection yet.

In the taut opener, “Victory Lap,” a boy witnesses the attempted abduction of the girl next door and is faced with a harrowing choice: Does he ignore what he sees, or override years of smothering advice from his parents and act? In “Home,” a combat-damaged soldier moves back in with his mother and struggles to reconcile the world he left with the one to which he has returned. And in the title story, a stunning meditation on imagination, memory, and loss, a middle-aged cancer patient walks into the woods to commit suicide, only to encounter a troubled young boy who, over the course of a fateful morning, gives the dying man a final chance to recall who he really is. A hapless, deluded owner of an antiques store; two mothers struggling to do the right thing; a teenage girl whose idealism is challenged by a brutal brush with reality; a man tormented by a series of pharmaceutical experiments that force him to lust, to love, to kill—the unforgettable characters that populate the pages of Tenth of December are vividly and lovingly infused with Saunders’s signature blend of exuberant prose, deep humanity, and stylistic innovation.

Writing brilliantly and profoundly about class, sex, love, loss, work, despair, and war, Saunders cuts to the core of the contemporary experience. These stories take on the big questions and explore the fault lines of our own morality, delving into the questions of what makes us good and what makes us human.

Unsettling, insightful, and hilarious, the stories in Tenth of December—through their manic energy, their focus on what is redeemable in human beings, and their generosity of spirit—not only entertain and delight; they fulfill Chekhov’s dictum that art should “prepare us for tenderness.”

GEORGE SAUNDERS WAS NAMED ONE OF THE 100 MOST INFLUENTIAL PEOPLE IN THE WORLD BY TIME MAGAZINE

From the Publisher

Khaled Hosseini says, “This eclectic collection never ceases to delight.”

Dave Eggers says, “George Saunders is a complete original.”

Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com Review

Amazon Best Books of the Month, January 2013: George Saunders' first short-story collection in six years, Tenth of December is as profound and moving as it is entertaining. Saunders' wonderful ability to portray a character's inner monologue--the secret voices, the little fantasies, the inside jokes, the spots of sadness--might be his greatest talent as a writer. But he is also expert at parceling out details to hook the reader and nudge the story in whatever direction he wants it to go. While these stories are generally more straightforward than we’re used to seeing from this author, the turns they take are constantly surprising. Saunders is an American original, a writer gifted at expressing the irony and absurdity all around us and inside us, but his ultimate goal is to show us something deeper: Our lives are composed of genuine experiences that deserve to be taken seriously. --Chris Schluep

From Booklist

*Starred Review* Saunders, a self-identified disciple of Twain and Vonnegut, is hailed for the topsy-turvy, gouging satire in his three previous, keenly inventive short story collections. In the fourth, he dials the bizarreness down a notch to tune into the fantasies of his beleaguered characters, ambushing readers with waves of intense, unforeseen emotion. Saunders drills down to secret aquifers of anger beneath ordinary family life as he portrays parents anxious to defang their children but also to be better, more loving parents than their own. The title story is an absolute heart-wringer, as a pudgy, misfit boy on an imaginary mission meets up with a dying man on a frozen pond. In “Victory Lap,” a young-teen ballerina is princess-happy until calamity strikes, an emergency that liberates her tyrannized neighbor, Kyle, “the palest kid in all the land.” In “Home,” family friction and financial crises combine with the trauma of a court-martialed Iraq War veteran, to whom foe and ally alike murmur inanely, “Thank you for your service.” Saunders doesn’t neglect his gift for surreal situations. There are the inmates subjected to sadistic neurological drug experiments in “Escape from Spiderhead” and the living lawn ornaments in “The Semplica Girl Diaries.” These are unpredictable, stealthily funny, and complexly affecting stories of ludicrousness, fear, and rescue. --Donna Seaman

From Bookforum

It's almost hard to fathom how a writer this good could get better. But he has. A lot better, even. Saunders has always been a daring writer, but here he's trying something very risky indeed: he's going to tell you exactly what he's thinking about. —Zach Baron

Review

“The best book you’ll read this year.”—The New York Times Magazine

“A feat of inventiveness . . . This eclectic collection never ceases to delight with its at times absurd, surreal, and darkly humorous look at very serious subjects. . . . George Saunders makes you feel as though you are reading fiction for the first time.”—Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner

“The best short-story writer in English—not ‘one of,’ not ‘arguably,’ but the Best.”—Mary Karr, Time

“A visceral and moving act of storytelling . . . No one writes more powerfully than George Saunders about the lost, the unlucky, the disenfranchised.”—Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

“Saunders’s startling, dreamlike stories leave you feeling newly awakened to the world.”—People

“It’s no exaggeration to say that short story master George Saunders helped change the trajectory of American fiction.”—The Wall Street Journal

“An irresistible mix of humor and humanity . . . that will make you beam with unmitigated glee. [Grade:] A”—Entertainment Weekly

“Saunders captures the fragmented rhythms, disjointed sensory input, and wildly absurd realities of the twenty-first century experience like no other writer.”—The Boston Globe

“Tenth of December shows George Saunders at his most subversive, hilarious, and emotionally piercing. Few writers can encompass that range of adjectives, but Saunders is a true original—restlessly inventive, yet deeply humane.”—Jennifer Egan, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of A Visit from the Goon Squad

“George Saunders is a complete original, unlike anyone else, thank god—and yet still he manages to be the rightful heir to three other complete American originals—Barthelme (the lyricism, the playfulness), Vonnegut (the outrage, the wit, the scope), and Twain (the common sense, the exasperation). There is no author I recommend to people more often—for ten years I’ve urged George Saunders onto everyone and everyone. You want funny? Saunders is your man. You want emotional heft? Saunders again. You want stories that are actually about something—stories that again and again get to the meat of matters of life and death and justice and country? Saunders. There is no one better, no one more essential to our national sense of self and sanity.”—Dave Eggers, author of A Hologram for the King

About the Author

MacArthur “Genius Grant” fellow George Saunders is the acclaimed author of several collections of short stories, including Pastoralia and CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, as well as a collection of essays and a book for children. He teaches in the creative writing program at Syracuse University.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

TENTH of DECEMBER

The pale boy with unfortunate Prince Valiant bangs and cublike mannerisms hulked to the mudroom closet and req- uisitioned Dad’s white coat. Then requisitioned the boots he’d spray-painted white. Painting the pellet gun white had been a no. That was a gift from Aunt Chloe. Every time she came over he had to haul it out so she could make a big stink about the wood grain.

Today’s assignation: walk to pond, ascertain beaver dam. Likely he would be detained. By that species that lived amongst the old rock wall. They were small but, upon emerging, assumed certain proportions. And gave chase. This was just their methodology. His aplomb threw them loops. He knew that. And reveled in it. He would turn, level the pellet gun, intone: Are you aware of the usage of this human implement?

Blam!

They were Netherworlders. Or Nethers. They had a strange bond with him. Sometimes for whole days he would just nurse their wounds. Occasionally, for a joke, he would shoot one in the butt as it fled. Who henceforth would limp for the rest of its days. Which could be as long as an additional nine million years.

Safe inside the rock wall, the shot one would go, Guys, look at my butt.

As a group, all would look at Gzeemon’s butt, exchanging sullen glances of: Gzeemon shall indeed be limping for the next nine million years, poor bloke.

Because yes: Nethers tended to talk like that guy in Mary Poppins.

Which naturally raised some mysteries as to their ultimate origin here on Earth.

Detaining him was problematic for the Nethers. He was wily. Plus could not fit through their rock-wall opening. When they tied him up and went inside to brew their special miniaturizing potion—Wham!— he would snap their antiquated rope with a move from his self-invented martial arts system, Toi Foi, a.k.a., Deadly Forearms. And place at their doorway an implacable rock of suffocation, trapping them inside.

Later, imagining them in their death throes, taking pity on them, he would come back, move the rock.

Blimey, one of them might say from withal. Thanks, guv’nor. You are indeed a worthy adversary.

Sometimes there would be torture. They would make him lie on his back looking up at the racing clouds while they tortured him in ways he could actually take. They tended to leave his teeth alone. Which was lucky. He didn’t even like to get a cleaning. They were dunderheads in that manner. They never messed with his peen and never messed with his fingernails. He’d just abide there, infuriating them with his snow angels. Sometimes, believing it their coup de grâce, not realizing he’d heard this since time in memorial from certain in-school cretins, they’d go, Wow, we didn’t even know Robin could be a boy’s name. And chortle their Nether laughs.

Today he had a feeling that the Nethers might kidnap Suzanne Bledsoe, the new girl in homeroom. She was from Montreal. He just loved the way she talked. So, apparently, did the Nethers, who planned to use her to repopulate their depleted numbers and bake various things they did not know how to bake.

All suited up now, NASA. Turning awkwardly to go out the door.

Affirmative. We have your coordinates. Be careful out there, Robin.

Whoa, cold, dang.

Duck thermometer read ten. And that was without windchill. That made it fun. That made it real. A green Nissan was parked where Poole dead-ended into the soccer field.

Hopefully the owner was not some perv he would have to outwit.

Or a Nether in the human guise.

Bright, bright, blue and cold. Crunch went the snow as he crossed the soccer field. Why did cold such as this give a running guy a headache? Likely it was due to Prominent Windspeed Velocity.

The path into the woods was as wide as one human. It seemed the Nether had indeed kidnapped Suzanne Bledsoe. Damn him! And his ilk. Judging by the single set of tracks, the Nether appeared to be carrying her. Foul cad. He’d better not be touching Suzanne inappropriately while carrying her. If so, Suzanne would no doubt be resisting with untamable fury.

This was concerning, this was very concerning.

When he caught up to them, he would say: Look, Su- zanne, I know you don’t know my name, having misad- dressed me as Roger that time you asked me to scoot over, but nevertheless I must confess I feel there is something to us. Do you feel the same?

Suzanne had the most amazing brown eyes. They were wet now, with fear and sudden reality.

Stop talking to her, mate, the Nether said.

I won’t, he said. And Suzanne? Even if you don’t feel there is something to us, rest assured I will still slay this fellow and return you home. Where do you live again? Over in El Cirro? By the water tower? Those are some nice houses back there.

Yes, Suzanne said. We also have a pool. You should come over this summer. It’s cool if you swim with your shirt on. And also, yes to there being something to us. You are by far the most insightful boy in our class. Even when I take into consideration the boys I knew in Montreal, I am just like: No one can compare.

Well, that’s nice to hear, he said. Thank you for saying that. I know I’m not the thinnest.

The thing about girls? Suzanne said. Is we are more content-driven.

Will you two stop already? the Nether said. Because now is the time for your death. Deaths.

Well, now is certainly the time for somebody’s death, Robin said.

The twerpy thing was, you never really got to save anyone. Last summer there’d been a dying raccoon out here. He’d thought of lugging it home so Mom could call the vet. But up close it was too scary. Raccoons being actually bigger than they appear in cartoons. And this one looked like a potential biter. So he ran home to get it some water at least. Upon his return, he saw where the raccoon had done some apparent last-minute thrashing. That was sad. He didn’t do well with sad. There had perchance been some pre-weeping, by him, in the woods.

That just means you have a big heart, Suzanne said. Well, I don’t know, he said modestly. Here was the old truck tire. Where the high-school kids
partied. Inside the tire, frosted with snow, were three beer cans and a wadded-up blanket.

You probably like to party, the Nether had cracked to Suzanne moments earlier as they passed this very spot.

No, I don’t, Suzanne said. I like to play. And I like to hug. Hoo boy, the Nether said. Sounds like Dullsville. Somewhere there is a man who likes to play and hug, Suzanne said. He came out of the woods now to the prettiest vista he knew. The pond was a pure frozen white. It struck him as somewhat Switzerlandish. Someday he would know for sure. When the Swiss threw him a parade or whatnot.

Here the Nether’s tracks departed from the path, as if he had contemplatively taken a moment to gaze at the pond. Perhaps this Nether was not all bad. Perhaps he was having a debilitating conscience-attack vis-à-vis the valiantly struggling Suzanne atop his back. At least he seemed to somewhat love nature.

Then the tracks returned to the path, wound around the pond, and headed up Lexow Hill.

What was this strange object? A coat? On the bench? The bench the Nethers used for their human sacrifices?

No accumulated snow on coat. Inside of coat still slightly warm.

Ergo: the recently discarded coat of the Nether.

This was some strange juju. This was an intriguing conundrum, if he had ever encountered one. Which he had. Once, he’d found a bra on the handlebars of a bike. Once, he’d found an entire untouched steak dinner on a plate behind Fresno’s. And hadn’t eaten it. Though it had looked pretty good.

Something was afoot. Then he beheld, halfway up Lexow Hill, a man. Coatless bald-headed man. Super-skinny. In what looked
like pajamas. Climbing plodfully, with tortoise patience, bare white arms sticking out of his p.j. shirt like two bare white branches sticking out of a p.j. shirt. Or grave.

What kind of person leaves his coat behind on a day like this? The mental kind, that was who. This guy looked sort of mental. Like an Auschwitz dude or sad confused grandpa.

Dad had once said, Trust your mind, Rob. If it smells like shit but has writing across it that says Happy Birthday and a candle stuck down in it, what is it?

Is there icing on it? he’d said.

Dad had done that thing of squinting his eyes when an answer was not quite there yet.

What was his mind telling him now?

Something was wrong here. A person needed a coat. Even if the person was a grown-up. The pond was frozen. The duck thermometer said ten. If the person was mental, all the more reason to come to his aid, as had not Jesus said, Blessed are those who help those who cannot help themselves but are too mental, doddering, or have a disability?

He snagged the coat off the bench. It was a rescue. A real rescue, at last, sort of.

Ten minutes earlier, Don Eber had paused at the pond to catch his breath.

He was so tired. What a thing. Holy moley. When he used to walk Sasquatch out here they’d do six times around the pond, jog up the hill, tag the boulder on top, sprint back down.

Better get moving, said one of two guys who’d been in discussion in his head all morning.

That is, if you’re still set on the boulder idea, the other said.

Which still strikes us as kind of fancy-pants.

Seemed like one guy was Dad and the other Kip Flemish.

Stupid cheaters. They’d switched spouses, abandoned the switched spouses, fled together to California. Had they been gay? Or just swingers? Gay swingers? The Dad and Kip in his head had acknowledged their sins and the three of them had struck a deal: he would forgive them for being possible gay swingers and leaving him to do Soap Box Derby alone, with just Mom, and they w...

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B008LMB4C2
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Random House (January 8, 2013)
Publication date ‏ : ‎ January 8, 2013
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 3528 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ On Kindle Scribe
Print length ‏ : ‎ 271 pages

Best Sellers Rank: #120,674 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #116 in U.S. Short Stories
- #849 in Contemporary Literary Fiction
- #1,163 in Short Stories Anthologies

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George Saunders

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George Saunders is the author of nine books, including Tenth of December, which was a finalist for the National Book Award and won the inaugural Folio Prize (for the best work of fiction in English) and the Story Prize (best short-story collection). He has received MacArthur and Guggen-heim fellowships and the PEN/Malamud Prize for excellence in the short story, and was recently elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. In 2013, he was named one of the world's 100 most influential people by Time magazine. He teaches in the creative writing program at Syracuse University.

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Byron

A Classic Work of Short Fiction

Reviewed in the United States on December 16, 2017

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Tenth of December is a collection of short stories by George Saunders that was published in 2013.

Why I bought it

George Saunders won the 2017 Man Booker Prize for his novel Lincoln in the Bardo. I read that earlier this year and loved it. Lincoln in the Bardo is his first novel; he primarily wrote short stories before that. I wanted to explore more of his writing, so I bought Tenth of December.

Why you should buy it

If you Google “Best books 2013,” Tenth of December is going to pop up on most resulting lists. It is not overrated. George Saunders stories are most likely going to be included in a bunch of textbooks as examples of great early 21st century literature (if they aren’t already). People in the 20th century had Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald. We have George Saunders.

Why his writing is good

George Saunders experiments with the forms of stories, so they’re kind of weird. But they are not just soulless intellectual exercises. They all elicit emotion from the reader and examine complex subject matter.

The following stories are in this collection:

Victory Lap

A boy decides whether to help a girl who is being kidnapped. The story switches between the point of view of the girl, the neighbor boy, and the kidnapper. The “stream of consciousness” of each of the characters is reflected in each of their points of view. They are all…different.

Sticks

Exploring themes of abuse, love, regret, and attempts at forgiveness in the span of two pages, a son reflects on his father’s tradition of decorating of a pole for the holidays.

Puppy

One upper-middle class woman shops for a puppy for her spoiled children. One poorer woman wants to sell a puppy. The story shifts between their points of view, demonstrating the consequences of an inability to see things from the perspective of others.

Escape from Spiderhead

An exploration of the nature of evil, the justifications used to commit evil, and the agency of people to avoid committing it. Or it’s just a cool sci-fi story about psychoactive chemical experiments. Probably both.

Exhortation

Written in the form of a memo from a project manager attempting to boost the morale of his staff. The most darkly funny – or funnily dark – of the stories in this collection.

Al Roosten

A failing store owner participates in a charity auction. Told from his point of view, the reader becomes privy to all of his insecurities, ambitions, pride, and anger. The reader may come to the conclusion that those internal faults are the causes of his problems and not the outside forces that the character blames.

The Semplica Girl Diaries

Written in the form of a journal from the perspective of a middle-class man of relatively modest means trying to provide for his family. This is the longest story in the collection.

Saunders’ stories are not usually poetic – the beauty of the written word is not really something he’s usually after – but this one takes the “common-man” writing style to a whole other level. As with a typical journal, whole words are left out of sentences. Almost every sentence is a fragment. It adds a certain level of “authenticity,” but truthfully I thought it was just a distracting affectation. Saunders did not REALLY commit to the form of a journal: there’s stuff in there that no real middle-class dude would ever write in a journal, at least in that fashion, and there are not enough digressions and nonsense to really sell it as “a journal.” The overrall effect is that it’s a traditional story told from a first-person point of view that’s written all wonky.

But enough kvetching about the form. It’s still a damn good story. Class anxieties, the exploitation of immigrant labor, meaningless (and/or harmful) demonstrations of wealth, how evil can be overlooked when it is commonplace, and the pursuit of status are all themes explored by this pseudo-sci-fi story.

Home

A veteran returns home with post-traumatic stress, wrestling with his past actions, trying to reintegrate with his own, complicated homelife.

My Chivalric Fiasco

On the first page of the story, the main character discovers his co-worker raped by their boss. This story illustrates the quality of Saunders’ stories. What is on the surface a simple and straightforward story contains layers and layers of meaning, in this instance, society’s reaction to a rape claim, how the chivalric response is potentially toxic and damaging, how interference against the victim’s wishes is in itself a violation, and so on and so forth.

Tenth of December

A young boy and a man dying of cancer are at a freezing lake in December. Told from both of their points of view. The story explores themes of end-of-life decisions, hope, and goodness. It’s also tense as hell, as they both work to potentially save each other.

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Mark Eremite

Great Start; Great Finish; Rocky Middle

Reviewed in the United States on January 21, 2014

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I've read George Saunders before. His collection, CivilWarLand in Bad Decline impressed me quite a bit, but I also found the stories to be pretty uniform in both their content and their telling. He's got a solid voice -- that kind of poetically repressed everyman quality that Raymond Carver was so stinking good at -- so I didn't come across any tale that left me cold, but none of them had that sticking power either, that emotional glue that Carver's tales dripped with.

This collection has been praised on pretty much every "Best of 2013" book list I've come across, so I decided to give Mr. Saunders another go. Although I feel like his craft has matured a lot, I also don't think there's much here that qualifies the hype. The stories, again, are well-told, but it's rare to find one with prose, people, or plot that have the talons to really sink into the mind and heart.

VICTORY LAP: One of my favorite of the bunch, this tale of abduction is told from three different voices. It's an excellently crafted bit of writing with real tension, emotion, and brutality. The kind of story that fills readers with the conflicting desires both to put down the book in order to digest what you've just read, but also to eagerly gobble up the next story in the hopes that it is just as good. (5 stars)

STICKS: It's not. The shortest story of the book, there's just not enough meat here to give anyone anything to chew on. It's certainly poetic, but almost aggressively symbolic, and it tries a little too hard to hit on a relevant emotion, making it feel like it's all heartstrings and no heart. (2 stars)

PUPPY: A nice piece about the different ways we view our world and each other, as well as what it takes to be a good parent to children with sometimes difficult needs. A crisp, easily-digested read without a whole lot to engage the imagination. (3 stars)

ESCAPE FROM SPIDERHEAD: My second favorite of the group, this story follows a test subject in a strange lab as he endures doses of unusual chemicals. His reasons for being there, as well as the effects of the chemicals, are parsed out with perfection and in a perfectly gauged voice (which changes syntax as it is flooded with experimental drugs). Although I thought the ending was perhaps a bit maudlin for the setting, it didn't turn me off from the story as a whole. (5 stars)

EXHORTATION: A one-trick pony with a reveal that feels lifted from Shirley Jackson's THE LOTTERY, but without the brutally powerful emotional impact. Its satire of corporate head-speak and politically correct futzing is supposed to make the rest of it even more disturbing, but it instead waters down the tale with what turns out to be tired humor. (2 stars)

AL ROOSTEN: A story that has a fantastic, character-driven feel to it -- poor Al is one of Saunders' classic sloop-shouldered middle-class losers -- but which ends up not really going anywhere at all. (3 stars)

THE SEMPLICA GIRL DIARIES: Much has been made of this story in various trade journals and publications, and after reading it, I thought it was so weird that I ended up looking up an interview with Saunders just to make sure I understood what I had read. Written in a stilted syntax from the journal of yet another brow-beaten blue collar type (whose job is ambiguously degrading), it talks about how hard it is to keep up with the Joneses, the Joneses in this case being multi-millionaires. Taking place in a re-imagined future (or present), the battle for status includes some rather gruesome lawn ornamentation. The symbolism of the story is so glaring and ridiculous that it's hard to take it seriously or to accept the potency of its grim finale. Many have loved this tale, but I found it mawkish to distraction. (2 stars)

HOME: This is the story of a war veteran who's returned to a depressing home life. After the previous tale, this story's subtlety is a refreshing change of pace. It's easy to think there's not a whole lot going on with it, but the careful timing and phrasing and character development make it one of the most resonant pieces. (4 stars)

MY CHIVALRIC FIASCO: Highly reminiscent of his CivilWarLand stories, this tale follows the beleaguered employee of a kind of Medieval Tymes Fantasy Theme Park. Granted a promotion under less than desirable circumstances, the employee must deal with a secret as well as the strange drugs that his new job entails. Let's just say the two clash. It's sad that Saunders feels compelled to reuse ideas (the theme park worker and the drugs), but he does it effectively. (4 stars)

THE TENTH OF DECEMBER: Okay. It's no wonder they chose this for the title of the collection. It's definitely one of the best short stories I've ever read. If you're on the fence about this book and can't find any of the individual bits for sale anywhere else, then I almost (almost!) recommend buying the entire collection just for this one tale. I won't give much away, other than to say that Saunders makes excellent use of changing viewpoints, especially when those viewpoints are impaired. It's dizzying to read and has as much intensity as the first tale, if not more. It's probably no accident that they chose to bookend the collection with two pieces that are about what it means to approach the precipice of death, and what it takes sometimes to both embrace and defy your own mortality and morality. I also wonder if all of the five star rave reviews weren't weighted in part because of this phenomenal closing tale. (5 stars)

Taken all together, I give the collection a 3.5, rounding it up to 4. Not the stunning masterpiece that the lists say, but in parts it certainly comes close.

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Cliente Amazon

Te deja un poco loco

Reviewed in Spain on September 2, 2020

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No está mal. Historias cortas pero que te dejan un poco loco. Tienes que pensar bien el significado que hay detrás

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Anonymous

A lot of scratches

Reviewed in Japan on December 30, 2023

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Cheap but not in good conditions, has a lot of scratches.

Amazon Customer

Deeply affecting

Reviewed in Australia on October 3, 2018

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Beautiful stories. "Victory Lap" is superb. Enjoyed every sentence. Audio version perfect. Thank you George

jj

Astonishing, fun and disturbing

Reviewed in Canada on April 10, 2014

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I loved this book, as well as CivilWarLand in Bad Decline. I bought and devoured all of Saunder's books after reading the Tenth of December. I recommend him to everyone who relates to a sense of the absurd and is looking for a sliver of hope in today's banal-seeming rat-race. Saunders puts us directly into the minds of the simple, down-trodden, isolated and invisible people; we feel and think what they do, and it is scarily relatable (there but for the grace of god...). These stories can be very, very dark, but somehow, with everything crashing down, with all the chaos, fear. poverty and badness out there, Saunders managed to make me regain a belief in the basic goodness of people and to smile and feel a tiny bit more optimistic. He is a genius at dialogue, self-talk, and wry humour. He made me feel like writing.

5 people found this helpful

I K CREASEY

Genuinely superb

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on May 24, 2015

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This book is a collection of stories that's been widely praised, won prizes, etc.

As with all collections, the quality is variable and there are a couple of weak pieces. But overall, I was impressed by it. I can actually understand why the book has been acclaimed, which makes a pleasant change from wondering (as I so often do) "Why is this mediocrity being so highly praised?"

The author's main technique is the extended use of interior monologue narrating the viewpoint character's thoughts at length, often incorporating abrupt changes of mood and tone as the character is buffeted by emotions. It's quite amazing just how much of each story is spent inside the characters' heads. The effect is both funny and sad, a difficult combination to pull off. The narrative is extremely vivid, managing to seem raw and unmediated.

Although the stories are marketed as literary fiction (having originally appeared in The New Yorker and Harper's), some of them use science-fictional devices, in particular the concept of tailored drugs that make people experience specific states of mind. "Escape from Spiderhead" is reminiscent of Robert Sheckley's "Pilgrimage to Earth", but Saunders' story is more complex and the ending is very different. The emotion-eliciting drugs also turn up in another story, "My Chivalric Fiasco", set in a theme park where an employee takes pills in order to play the role of a knight, with the attendant feelings and code of conduct. The experience of being human is turned into a commodity.

This ties into the collection's broad theme: the alienating effects of capitalism, depicted as a barrage of brand names (which manage to seem both satirical and authentic) and an underclass of desperate workers forced into appalling jobs. In "Semplica Girls", women are imported from third-world countries to be used as garden ornaments. This is described in an understated, even banal way, as it's a practice the characters take completely for granted. After all, it's not such a stretch from using immigrants as gardeners to using them as the actual garden.

In summary, this is an excellent collection. There is enough resonance between the stories to make the book feel like a cohesive whole, rather than a random set of stories.

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George Saunders

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