Collected Stories
James Salter
Language: English
Pages: 163
ISBN: 1447239385
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
James Salter is one of the finest writers of our time. From his first published story in the Paris Review in 1968, Salter's work in the form has been universally acclaimed: five have appeared in O. Henry collections, Dusk and Other Stories won the 1989 PEN/Faulkner Award, and more recently he was the recipient of PEN USA's 2010 Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2010 REA Prize for the short story, and the 2012 PEN/Malamud Award.
Each indelible narrative in the Collected Stories is marked by Salter's great literary grace, his ability to show the subtleties of a character or situation with precision, and his equally assured ability to command reversals of fortune or shocking revelations. The stories concern men and women in their most intimate moments, struggling with loss, desire, or the burden of memory. A fallen rider lies in a field, alone but for the knowledge that these may be her last twenty minutes. A man assisting in his wife's suicide is devastated by the aftermath. Two New York attorneys on a trip to Italy discover that their recent wealth affords them the possibility of a higher life, the reality of which is somewhat sordid. A young woman is unable to share a life-changing piece of news with her closest friends.
“I think it’s a washer,” he said. “I’ll try and bring one over sometime.” “Good,” she said. “Will it be another month?” “You know Marian and I are back together again. Did you know that?” “Oh, I see.” She gave a slight, involuntary sigh. She felt strange. “I, uh . . .” What weakness, she thought later. “When did it happen?” “A few weeks ago.” After a bit she stood up. “Shall we go downstairs?” She could see their reflections passing the stairway window. She could see her apricot-colored
asked her if you still liked to have your cock sucked.” “Get out of here,” he ordered. “Go on, get out.” “She didn’t answer,” Carol said. He had a moment of fear, of guilt almost, about consequences. On the other hand, he didn’t believe her. “So, do you?” she said. “Leave, will you? Please,” he said in a civilized tone. He made a dispersing motion with his hand. “I mean it.” “I’m not going to stay long, just a few minutes. I wanted to see you, that’s all. Why didn’t you call back?” She was
bar. A waitress, the one with the mole on her lip, came in and began to work the coffee machine. Frank came down. He had an overcoat across his shoulders. In his shirt without a tie he looked like a rich patient in some hospital. He looked like a man who owned a produce business and had been playing cards all night. “So, what do you think?” Alan said. Frank sat down. “Beautiful day,” he commented. “Maybe we ought to go somewhere.” In the room, perhaps in the entire hotel, their voices were the
desperate. His thoughts seemed to fly away, to scatter like birds. It was a deathlike hour. On television, the journalists were answering complex questions. The streets were still. He began to go through her things. First the closets. The drawers. He found her letters. He sat down to read them, letters from her brother, her lawyer, people he did not know. He began pulling forth everything, shirts, underclothes, long clinging weeds which were stockings. He kicked her shoes away, spilled open
Puerto Ercole, There will be fireworks in town tonight. Writing to you dispels the torpor. I always imagine I’ll catch sight of you in the hallway and we’ll simply drive away together. You could send me a letter. He called from the ship just to describe to her what it was like as they came into the port of Genoa in the early morning, the mountains and mist, the stillness of the water as they moved through it and what it made him think of, waking with her, the beauty of days. The call woke her at