For many years, I assumed that the appeal of a short story was that it was, well, short. Instead of slowly reading a novel over weeks, the reader of these bite-size plots can experience character development, crisis, and conclusion in just a few thousand words. But intentionally reading more short stories made me realize that I’d underestimated the form. These works aren’t just compressed novels: They offer an entirely different experience. The writer Joy Williams, who has published both novels and short stories to great praise, once observed: “A novel wants to befriend you, a short story almost never.” Many short stories can be aloof and enigmatic. They pose difficult questions about life and love, and rarely provide answers.
But short stories have other rewards. Whereas a novel might unfold at a leisurely pace, a short story has velocity and verve. And the best ones create an immediate, instinctual bond between the reader and the characters. The format is an inviting place for writers to experiment. Whereas novels are typically expected to give us closure, short stories favor uncertain and searching conclusions—a quality that makes them feel more similar to the incomplete journeys of our own lives.
The six collections below, which take place in realistic and fantastical settings, show off the dazzling range of the short story. Each proves, too, how even brief encounters with a fictional world can linger well after we turn the page.
The Penguin Book of Japanese Short Stories, edited by Jay Rubin
In this idiosyncratic collection of Japanese short stories, “quite old works and very new works” appear side by side, “like an iPod and a gramophone on the same shelf,” Haruki Murakami writes in the introduction. Stories by well-known writers including Murakami, Yukio Mishima, and Yasunari Kawabata (who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1968) appear alongside writers who have been translated into English more recently: Banana Yoshimoto, Yōko Ogawa, Mieko Kawakami, and others. The anthology is organized into seven themes, making it easy to pick a story based on your mood. For a sobering encounter with history, turn to the sections “Dread” and “Disasters, Natural and Man-Made.” You’ll find stories such as Yūichi Seirai’s “Insects,” where a young girl awakes after the atomic bombing of Nagasaki with only a grasshopper for company, and Yūya Satō’s “Same as Always,” a cheerfully disturbing story about an exhausted mother who poisons her baby with irradiated vegetables and tap water. Want something lighter and more playful? Under “Modern Life and Other Nonsense,” you’ll find comical stories, such as Kōji Uno’s “Closet LLB,” which describes an idealistic and lazy college graduate who refuses to pick a path in life. And I found myself lingering over Mieko Kawakami’s “Dreams of Love, Etc.,” where a bored housewife in Tokyo befriends an older woman learning to play Liszt on the piano.
By Jay Rubin
Your Duck Is My Duck, by Deborah Eisenberg
Eisenberg is the rare writer who focuses exclusively on the short story. She’s also one of its most acclaimed practitioners: Eisenberg was awarded a Guggenheim fellowship in 1987 and a MacArthur genius grant in 2009. In Your Duck Is My Duck, her most recent collection, she compassionately documents the difficulties of both youth and old age. The children in her stories struggle toward independence, as in “Cross Off and Move On,” where a young girl is caught between two competing lifestyles: the severe discipline of her mother’s world, and the languid glamor represented by her aunts Adela, Bernice, and Charna. Other stories detail the quiet regrets of the elderly: The aging actors in “Taj Mahal” gossip about their shared, debauched past while “waiting with patience and humility to be issued new roles, new shapes.” Throughout, Eisenberg’s intimate, descriptive prose depicts how concerns about money, love, death, and art shape us: “I’m hurtling through time,” a painter remarks in one story, “strapped to an explosive device, my life.”
By Deborah Eisenberg
The Musical Brain, by César Aira, translated by Chris Andrews
Aira is renowned for his energetically surrealist fables and for his prolific output—at 75, the Argentinian writer has published more than 100 books. In The Musical Brain, his first short-story collection published in English, Aira makes ideas from physics, math, and art history enchant and delight readers. “God’s Tea Party” imagines the deity’s birthday celebration, where only apes are invited (humanity, the narrator informs us, has “disappointed Him”)—and the chaos that ensues when a subatomic particle gatecrashes the event in a “systematic, unstoppable, and supremely elegant” manner. Another story, “A Thousand Drops,” is about the perfect art heist: The paint droplets that make up the Mona Lisa escape the Louvre to go on their own adventures. One drop hitchhikes to the Vatican and has an affair with the Pope, while another builds a basketball stadium in rural Mongolia, in the hopes of training a Chinese team to defeat the NBA’s all-stars. Other stories revel in the fanciful pleasures of childhood games: In “The Infinite,” two boys try to name successively larger numbers, until they learn about the showstopping power of the word infinity. Each short story is a thrilling intellectual adventure, with Aira gleefully demolishing the division between the sciences and the arts.
Break It Down, by Lydia Davis
Davis is a master of the very short story, and the collection that made her name, Break It Down, includes such works as the four-sentence “What She Knew,” where an insecure young woman tries to understand why men are flirting with her, and the six-sentence “The Fish,” where a woman confronts “certain irrevocable mistakes” in her life, including the dinner she’s cooked for herself. These nimble, acrobatic shorts—which established her as a formidable figure in American literature—are contrasted by longer stories that showcase Davis’s dry humor and keen emotional insight. In “The Letter,” a woman sits through a long-awaited breakup conversation: “Right away she lost her appetite, but he ate very well and ate her dinner too.” And the title story is a cathartic, sensitive look at the cost of a failed relationship: “You’re left with this large heavy pain in you,” a man mourning a lost love reflects, “that you try to numb by reading.” Davis’s stories plunge directly into the hurt of everyday life, leaving the reader both comforted and entertained.
Pond, by Claire-Louise Bennett
“I find mundane objects rather poignant,” Bennett once said, shortly after Pond was published. The 20 stories in this collection offer evocative glimpses of one woman’s life in rural Ireland. Many stories focus on the joys of cooking and entertaining: “Oh, Tomato Puree!” is a whimsical paean to the “kitsch and concentrated splendour” of this pantry staple, while “Finishing Touch” shows a woman carefully planning a party: “Perfectly arranged but low-key,” she reminds herself, having plucked flowers from the garden to “exude an edgeless, living fragrance.” Other stories reveal the narrator’s trembling, urgent desire for human connection. In “A Little Before Seven,” she reflects ruefully on the difficulty of flirting with a love interest. “Awaiting that kiss which somehow settles everything,” she is hesitant and awkward—until a drink emboldens her, and she concludes that “there is no such thing as a false move.” Bennett’s stories are a mesmerizing, strange look at the inner workings of the mind, as well as the beauty of our domestic and natural surroundings.
Exhalation, by Ted Chiang
In Ted Chiang’s science fiction, advanced technologies and alternate realities are the backdrop for deeply human stories. He catapulted to fame with his first collection, Stories of Your Life and Others—and that book’s title story was adapted into the film Arrival, directed by Denis Villeneuve. In his second collection, Exhalation, Chiang writes thoughtful, searching narratives that explore AI’s risks and rewards, species extinction, archaic theories of consciousness, and more. In “The Lifecycle of Software Objects,” a zookeeper named Ana joins a software start-up trying to make endearing AI pets. The start-up fails, but Ana and her coworker, Derek, can’t abandon the digital creatures they’ve grown to love: “The practice of treating conscious beings as if they were toys is all too prevalent,” Derek muses, “and it doesn’t just happen to pets.” Another story, “The Great Silence,” shows an endangered parrot trying to communicate with humans: “Human activity has brought my kind to the brink of extinction, but I don’t blame them for it … They just weren’t paying attention.” Chiang’s fiction is informed by complex scientific concepts, but his writing style makes them accessible and compelling. Despite the unfamiliar settings, each story feels like a prescient and emotionally insightful commentary on the technological challenges facing us today.
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