A Discussion Of the Short Narrative (Thoughts)

What can be said about the short narrative, no matter the form? As a writer I live within the confinements of the short narrative, be it poetry, short stories, short essays, or even my to-often Facebook status updates. Indeed the world I am confined within, the world I have grown in many respects to abhor, has given rise to my own appreciation of the short narrative form. I am a creation of my environment no matter how hard I attempt to fight it. I live my literary potential within the power of two doubled spaced pages.  

Recently Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize in Literature, cited as a "master of the contemporary short story." The short narrative form, through never maligned and highly respected, rarely gets the respect it deserves. It doesn't hold the magical artistic appeal of the "Great" all encompassing novel. Such novels, be it War and Peace or the the more modern Infinite Jest, hold a grandeur on the minds of writers and readers alike. Lovers of literature wish to delve and tackle the magnum opus for it promises greatness, perhaps a shrivel of truth that we can keep warm under our pillows and hold till we breath our last breath and utter our last unmemorable utterance. Yet the short narrative form has proven to become increasingly useful and meaningful, holding as many "truths" as the magnum opus we all wish to read and/or write. 

The power and struggle of the short narrative is the need to speak with as little as possible, to say great things with the minimalism of a deep seeded epiphany. The world has began to ask for this tiny miracle more often than ever before. With a world of information, I site exhibit A the internet, there seems to be a greater need for a reductionist soul, someone able to encompass an entire thought in a sentence; some are more than able to expound upon such wit. The comedians that control and bring insight to Twitter, the world of 140 characters (what an absurd length for such as myself), have shown they can bring forth and encapsulate the absurdities and fallacious elements of humanity with the freedom and bravery (perhaps stupidity) of an iconoclastic Jester. So why are we still clinging to that magnum opus, does it hang upon our neck like an albatross cursing us as it did the ancient mariner?

Perhaps not. I cannot say that I have the focus of my predecessors, lord knows I am unable to focus on my own writing past two pages, as I have mentioned before, but does that mean that my entire generation is cursed as I? With the attention and memory span of a goldfish but the intelligence and material resources of all past generations combined? When the "written word" was first invented the Greeks debated on the price of such a tool, as simple as it may seem to us, and they worried that memory, a tool used to tell great and all encompassing stories such as the Iliad, would be lost and what would that mean for humanity? The debaters and maligners of writing proved prophetic for we do not possess such memorial powers but we have gained the ability to understand and comprehend more conceptual realities than ever before, drowning in our present digital sea while often ignoring the perils of "surfing" the network of seemingly infinite websites overflowing with information and opinions at our fingertips. 

Yet our humanity has not changed, the great magnum opus was respected (though for them it was the epic poem), and the short narrative form was left at the wayside, known to be beautiful, profound, and sadly un-idealized and under utilized. That doesn't change though that to say so much without seeming cumbersome or to say so little without seemings uninspired are the struggles that every writer, musician, poet, painter, artist and conveyer of reality share. They share in the struggle if not in the majesty. 

What Path Would You Choose?

White noise. All I hear is white noise from white voices who wear white shirts and shoes and who drink white wine from white chalices. White. Its post-translucent qualities add a cold nuance to the perpetually disinfected and hygienic lives I am caught in. White. All my friends are white and all my enemies are white. Everything is write, monochromatic. When I wake and open my eyes from the only darkness I am able to envision I feel the sharp pain of sharpness behind my eyeballs when gazing upon the clearness of white that perpetually surounds me. How long have I been here? How long will I stay? Did I come here on my accord? All unanswerable questions. I know we could find some form of unit to expound on the idea of time but when units can be infinitely divided or expanded it doesn't mean a fucking thing, I don't know how to answer any of my questions. 

Today is like any other day. I wake and remove myself from clean and crisp bed sheets which are barely tussled by my pre-comatose sleep. I wear equally clean and crisp bed attire, looking as if I am another piece of matching furniture in my room. If I stood infinitely still I would slowly meld into the background. I could picture a family walking through my home, seeing if they wished to purchase the medium sized condo, and failing to notice the young man standing perfectly still. Perhaps a lamp shade on my head would help complete the scene. 

I would carefully walk to my bathroom and turn on the tap and wash my face with the translucent water which escapes in a less than impressive torrent of streaming sound. From there I would leave my room into my kitchen and ingest my white plain eggs on white bread toast and perhaps, if I am feeling adventurous and in need of some stimulation, watch some television. Perhaps I would watch the news in order to remind myself how un-terrible my life was. The perpetual boredom was a firm and strong ideal compared to the terribleness of war, famine and disease. 

My mouth would move mechanically as I ate my barely organic food. The crunch of bread unsurprisingly acted as the soul human sound in the home, emitting a sadness which can only be possible when human actions are done robotically. Then a break would emerge from the pathetic existence when I would take part in the only pleasure of the morning, the yolk of my egg. The yellowness which emitted my light would break from its thin and frail mould and spill forth. I would greedily suck on the edge of the egg making sure every aspect of that yellow orgasm enters my oral cavity and allows a shiver of palette encompassing joy leak through my frigid and calculated body. The warmth of it would set me free for a few moments and I would close my eyes, once again incapsulated by the beautiful colourlessness of darkness and let the only instance of joy cling for as long as is humanly needed. Than the moment would end and I would clean my single plate, wipe down the counter, and clean myself in white, brush my teeth in white and lick my lips to whiteness. 

I am a 20 to 30 white male, I am intelligent and I am socially awkward. I am the most monstrous demographic in the world, the most likely to be a serial killer and numerous other horrifying characters in the world. I am also incredibly pathetic and meticulously structured in my existence. I have two paths laid before me, the coldness of my white existence or the path towards monstrous anonymity. What path would you ultimately choose?