sits there quietly, eyes lowered, almost as if trying not to be
noticed. And if it should somehow attract your attention, it says
quickly, in a brave little self-deprecating voice alive to all the
possibilities of disappointment: "I'm not a novel, you know. Not even
a short one. If that's what you're looking for, you don't want me."
Rarely has one form so dominated another. And we understand, we nod
our heads knowingly: here in America, size is power. The novel is the
Wal-Mart, the Incredible Hulk, the jumbo jet of literature. The novel
is insatiable — it wants to devour the world. What's left for the poor
short story to do? It can cultivate its garden, practice meditation,
water the geraniums in the window box. It can take a course in
creative nonfiction. It can do whatever it likes, so long as it
doesn't forget its place — so long as it keeps quiet and stays out of
the way. "Hoo ha!" cries the novel. "Here ah come!" The short story is
always ducking for cover. The novel buys up the land, cuts down the
trees, puts up the condos. The short story scampers across a lawn,
squeezes under a fence," thus begins this short and beautiful essay by
Steven Millhauser in The New York Times.
Read the complete essay at --
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/05/books/review/Millhauser-t.html?8bu&emc=bub1
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