By Richard Stern
For many years, Richard Stern has been acclaimed as one of many American masters of the fast tale. Almonds to Zhoof: accumulated tales brings jointly for the 1st time forty-nine of Stern's top brief works and novellas-from "Dr. Cahn's Visit," which the hot Republic praised as "the absolute best very brief tale within the English language," to classics like "Teeth" and "Wanderers."Stern's stories-witty, relocating, constantly filled with energy-never sacrifice storytelling to mere splendor or wandering knowledge. This assortment demonstrates Stern's unbelievable skill to painting humans from all walks of existence, their fallacious relationships to rules, their occasionally strange relationships with enthusiasts and associates, their usually superb, if skewed, value determinations of themselves. The tales consistently replicate an abiding compassion for his characters whoever they're and no matter what their origins. All exist in the politics and places of work and bedrooms of the true international. All are incorrigibly human.
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Extra info for Almonds to Zhoof: Collected Stories (Triquarterly Books)
I tell her about Peter, omitting Metamorphosis. While we’re stacking the plates in the dishwasher, the phone rings. ” “Deejay. ” It’s the second time this month that he’s called up to ask for more than we’d agreed. Ellen doesn’t like this at all. “It’s a bad month for me. ” He must be buying all the liquor tonight. ” And you wimme, you poor bastard. Some afternoons are hard. After the Round Table, I play cards, or billiards, or read the magazines, then walk back to the ofﬁce and check the market close.
She drove a ’52 Pontiac which hadn’t started for most of January and February. Out on Fifty-third Street, the wind was knifed for murder. People passed like thugs, scarves pulled over mouths, hats down like old Dr. Hobbie’s to the nose. Ridges of steel ice humped the streets, and every third corner had its famished crocodile of open car hood, whining for life. I’ll offer him supper, thought Miss Wilmott, though there was nothing in the kitchen but two cans of roast beef hash, eggs, and a loaf of Pepperidge Farm bread.
I had asked him on the phone if he was a poet. “No. ” He did not say then, nor does he say in his letter, what he was (or is). ” (Do I detect a stylistic inﬂuence of Firetuck in Fopper? ) He did not dare to ask me to have a drink, he had hesitated a long time before telephoning, he did not want to be one of those importunate “voice tremblers” who “intrude” into the lives of those who had “already done so much” for them. ) So, after our seminar, I was deposited at the Colon Internacional in a heap of weary loneliness.