A couple years ago I bought a copy of Selected Stories by O. Henry and designated it as "kitchen reading," a book in which I'd read a couple stories each morning. "Kitchen reading" got me through The Federalist Papers, but, sad to say, it didn't work here. A few months later the kitchen table was piled high with "kitchen reading," which now included a dozen or so books and even more copies of Newsweek. I gave up on the concept and moved all the "kitchen reading" into the bedroom. The books took their places on the shelf of unreads, and the Newsweeks formed two shelf-high stacks elsewhere on the bookcase. Now I'm happy to report the system is working. Last night I noticed I was reading a spring 2007 essay by George Will, and this morning I finished O. Henry's short stories.
Up until 50 pages ago, my review was going to be: With O. Henry there's "The Gift of the Magi," and then there's everything else he wrote. In addition I was going to offer two O. Henry guidelines: 1) short is better (A twist works better when it's not at the end of twenty-some tedious pages.), and 2) the New York stories are better than those set in the southwest. This morning, however, I read three stories that were longish, set in New York and really good. I guess guideline 1) didn't survive the test of time. I dog-eared some pages in the last stories.
"The Thing's the Play" is the story of a romantic triangle where two of the three involved meet again after many years. (The O. Henry twist is who the two turn out to be.) Midway through this story I realized I was actually smiling at the occasional phrase. Example: "And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do, sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms, and theory, and logic …" (page 367) OK. I was annoyed. Really annoyed. But, in spite of that, I still smiled. O. Henry gets points for that one.
"Proof of the Pudding" presents an argument between a short story writer and an editor regarding the language people/characters use when they are truly upset. The following sums up each man's view. Dawe, the writer dismisses the editor's view. "You've got that old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black moustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say, 'May high heaven witness that I will rest neither night nor day till that heartless villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's vengeance." (pages 386-387) The writer then presents his own "truth." "She'd say, 'What! Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after another! Get my hat, I must hurry around to the police-station. Why wasn't someone looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake, get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat—the brown one with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'" (page 387) Obviously B, but I have to admit the twist three pages later did surprise me.
"Confessions of a Humorist" is the story of a bookkeeper who winds up writing a weekly humor column after he gives a lighthearted speech on the occasion of a co-worker's retirement. He describes his life so far. "I had married early. We had a charming boy of three and a girl of five. Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy. My salary as a bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance those ills attendant upon superfluous wealth." (page 394) (Aren't we all happy not to have to deal with such "ills"?) Soon, though, the humorist runs dry and starts to stalk people in search of humor. His children do not escape notice. "I began to stalk them as an Indian stalks the antelope. … Once, when I was barren of ideas, and my copy must leave in the next mail, I covered myself in a pile of autumn leaves in the yard, where I knew they intended to come and play. I cannot bring myself to believe that Guy was aware of my hiding place, but even if he was, I'd be loathe to blame him for setting fire to the leaves, causing the destruction of my new suit of clothes, and nearly cremating a parent. (page 397) Funny. And nicely self-aware.
Bottom line? I heartily recommend the above three stories. And, of course, "The Gift of the Magi."
