Lorrie Moore's Short-Story Collection "Birds In America" Is Fun, Fun, Fun!
By Stephan Faris
Birds of America, by Lorrie Moore (Knopf). Cloth, $23.
YOU DON'T APPROACH a Lorrie Moore short story the way you
would just any story. You have to prepare, or else you'll find
yourself spun around by labyrinthine plots, blinded by sparking
explosions of wit and wordplay, and groping, through wounded emotions,
for the easy way out (which Moore rarely provides).
In "Dance in America," Moore analogizes:
"We have raccoons sometimes in our chimney," explains Simon..."And once we tried to smoke them out. We lit a fire, knowing they were
there, but we hoped that the smoke would cause them to scurry
out the top and never come back. Instead, they caught on fire
and came crashing down into our living room, all charred and in
flames and running madly around until they dropped dead."
Simone swallows some wine. "Love affairs are like that,"
she says. "They all are like that."
Love affairs? Moore could just as easily be describing her own
short stories, which share the passage's mixture of frenzied searching
and deadpan delivery of horrifying humor.
Her themes run the gamut of light and dark--from "Daughter,
Mother Tour Ireland to Kiss Blarney Stone, Overcome Fear of Public
Speaking," to "Baby Develops Kidney Cancer, Mother Churns
Agonizingly in Pediatric Oncology Ward." Either way, a Moore
plot guarantees a full share of hysterical tangents and heart-breaking
asides.
If the plots are circuitous it's because they're exploratory.
Moore's characters, usually 30-something women, repeatedly search
for some missing thing in a world of relationships that, having
once flourished, no longer mean anything. Lacking purpose and
confidence, they fight to survive a life that "requires much
exaggerated self-esteem."
Knowing their lives are adrift does them no good. One woman flies
to Ireland and takes a trip in a rental car, "and sitting
on what should be the driver's side but without a steering wheel
suddenly seemed emblematic of something." Alone, this woman,
like all Moore characters, cries for some sort of control. Lacking
that, she comforts herself with the wordplay and pop-culture commentary
that has come to characterize a Moore work.
Moore is not above using devices, either: In "Real Estate,"
she fills an entire two-page spread with laughter as one character
reflects on her husband's infidelities: "There had been a
parade of flings--in the end they'd made her laugh: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!..." and so on.
But her wit can be more Spartan and biting, mocking her characters'
personality and culture. For instance, in "Agnes of Iowa,"
the protagonist is a woman who, in an effort to be exotic, has
taken to pronouncing her name "On-yez."
One day she is forced to divulge where she is really from, "Originally."
"Where am I from?" Agnes said it softly. "Iowa."
She had a tendency not to speak up.
"Where?" The woman scowled, bewildered.
"Iowa," Agnes repeated loudly.
The woman in black touched Agnes' wrist and leaned in confidentially.
She moved her mouth in a concerned and exaggerated way, like a
facial exercise. "No, dear," she said. "Here we
say O-hi-o."
Moore, who has penned two previous collections of shorts and
a pair of novels, has titled her latest book Birds of America.
There are few birds the text, but somehow the title seems appropriate.
Her characters' flighty emotions and nervous inability to confront
their demons seem peculiarly avian.
In "What You Want to Do Fine," Moore hints at the title's
meaning when Mack, one of her few male protagonists, visiting
Audubon's cabin, discovers the great naturalist shot the birds
he painted:
"He shot them?" Mack kept asking. "He shot
the damn birds?"
"Revolting," said Quilty loudly. "The poor
birds. From now on, I'm going to give all my money to the Autobahn
Society. Let's make those Mercedes go fast, fast, fast!..."
The following day...they strolled through Hemingway's house
in feather boas--"just to taunt Papa."
"Before he wrote about them," said Quilty, pretending
to read the guidebook out loud, "Hemingway shot his characters.
It was considered an unusual but not unheard-of creative method.
Still, even within literary circles, it is not that widely discussed."
Like Audubon, Moore captures her subjects and treats us to microscopically
close detail.
She excels at painting the white space between characters. This
talent for amplifying gaps--accenting the isolation not only between
people, but also between a character and her own emotions--make
her characters orphaned observers to their own painful experiences.
Like a television generation, they numbly view their world through
a lens. At once, they know both how they should behave, and that
they can't behave as such, being as they are perpetually adrift
and unable to find their footing.
For instance, in "People Like That Are the Only People Here:
Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk," a surgeon divulges his diagnosis
as his child-patient, "big on lights these days," flicks
the switches on and off:
"What we have here is a Wilms' tumor," says the
Surgeon, suddenly plunged into darkness. He says "tumor"
as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"Wilms'?" repeats the Mother. The room is quickly
on fire again with light, then wiped dark again. Among the three
of them here, there is a long silence, as if it were suddenly
the middle of the night. "Is that apostrophe s or s apostrophe?"
In short, Birds of America, is a poignant and humor-filled
collection. Each piece contains deft craft work--clever twists
or stunning drama--that makes a reader pause for breath before
hurriedly diving back in.
Her storytelling recalls both Dorothy Parker and Raymond Carver:
There's a loneliness that sometimes collapses inward in complete
breakdown, and occasionally culminates in a moment of epiphanous
breakthrough.
Breakdown or breakthrough? We ask with every line, hoping, almost
begging, for the latter. And Moore pulls us in. We feel for her
characters, as we do for ourselves. We join them as they struggle
through their lives. "I'm trying to get all my birds to land
in the same yard," one explains...and therein lies the joy.
"What makes humans human is precisely that they do not know
the future," writes Moore. "That is why they do the
fateful and amusing things they do: who can say how anything will
turn out? Therein lies the only hope for redemption, discovery,
and--let's be frank--fun, fun, fun!"
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