Negative comments first, then all is positive. In his introduction (which will not win him any prose awards) Michael Morrissey writes: "Unlike most anthologies, which either assay an historical overview or cast a selective net over the contemporary, this anthology is both historic and contemporary."
It depends whatyou mean by historical, and by contemporary. Of the 21 authors, only five were publishing before 1950 and only one (Emily Perkins) is under 45. It is also odd that while authors are carefully placed in birth order, no dates are given, or any other biographical information.
Never mind, and never mind the missing writers from even the favoured period (Barbara Anderson and Michael Gifkins among them). It is still a generous collection, in bulk - up to four stories from each writer, 500 pages in readable type on restful paper - and quality. It reminds you how well New Zealanders have been writing short stories for a long time.
None predates Katherine Mansfield's Chekhov-led transformation of the short story from "tale" or "yarn" to the "revealing moment," exemplified here especially by her Bliss. None of the later stories is unaffected by that revolution. But narrative persists. It is there in Frank Sargeson's laconic A Great Day, in Owen Marshall's excruciating story of childhood embarrassment, The Paper Parcel, in John Cranna's bleak visions of the future, and Lloyd Jones' Me, Clark and Wilder.
The Jones story reads characteristically like reminiscence, with real names and real places. Most of the stories differ from the others in style and feeling, from Patricia Grace's warmth to Emily Perkins' hard edge. The relative social simplicity of earlier stories diversifies into Elizabeth Smithers' scholars preoccupied with trivia, the corporate world of Shonagh Koea, the gay world of Peter Wells, and the ubiquitous OE, at its best in C.K. Stead's Class, Race and Gender.
There are subtleties and unexpected juxtapositions, but the arcane mysteries of post-modern metafiction, which dominated Morrissey's 1985 anthology, The New Fiction, are largely absent. Morrissey regretfully suggests they are passe. Perhaps his publishers wanted something more accessible. They certainly got that. You can imagine most of these writers enjoying the writing. It shows. It is to Morrissey's credit that he recognises when it shows.
* Dennis McEldowney is a writer and former publisher who lives in Auckland.
