I have already said how much I like Jamie Quatro’s collection
of short stories, I Want to Show You More.
My review can be read here. She is a gifted artisan, crafting words with
thoughtfulness and practiced skill, a beguiling storyteller, and an author that
reveals, for those who have eyes to see, an imagination deeply steeped in a
Christian worldview.
As I also noted in my review, some people—including some
Christians—may be surprised by some of her stories. Since posting my review, a
few friends have asked for help understanding or interpreting some of the
stories in the collection. I have never met Quatro, and claim no special
insight into her intentions or motivations as an author, but I am willing to
suggest a question that seemed crucial as I read her stories. This question is
not unique to Quatro’s work, but is one of a series of questions worth asking
as we read fiction. You can find more detail about reading fiction with
discernment here.
The question that helped me gain insight into the deeper
levels of meaning in the stories in I
Want to Show You More is this: Does
the story function as a slice of reality, or a microcosm of reality, or a
metaphor for reality? A slice of reality is just that, a story that we can
imagine happening just as the author tells it—the films, Babette’s Feast (1987) and The
Station Agent (2003) are good examples. A microcosm of reality is a story
that every reader knows didn’t happen as it is told, but realizes instead it is
intended to capture a sense of all of life within its narrow confines—see, for
example, the films The Matrix (1999),
The Lord of the Rings (2001), or The Tree of Life (2011). A metaphor for
reality is a story that can be imagined as happening as it is told, except that
it contains some aspect that is, by itself unimaginable unless it is allowed to
be a symbol for some issue of significance—see, for example, Lars and the Real Girl (2007) or Snow White and the Huntsman (2012).
Some of Quatro’s stories in I Want to Show You More are slices of reality, stories we can very
easily imagine unfolding in life just as they do on the page. “1.7 to
Tennessee” is surely in this category, and we can imagine driving along the
highway up the mountain needing to keep an eye out for Eva Bock as she walks
along the shoulder of the road. Her grief over the loss of her son and the form
letter generated by the White House resonate with the frustration many of us
feel when our vote is required by faithfulness yet seems not just powerless,
but worthless. The same holds true for “The Anointing” and some of the stories
dealing with sexual desire like “Caught Up” and “You Look Like Jesus.” We may
be uncomfortable with them but that makes them no less real. The level of
reality is such that we can imagine them not only happening, but we can imagine
inhabiting the stories ourselves.
Other of her stories are metaphors for life, so that the
details may be unrealistic in the narrow sense but serve to help us see deeper
levels of reality with greater clarity. “Decomposition: A Primer for
Promiscuous Housewives” isn’t told to make us believe a decaying body appeared
in this couple’s bed—the corpse is a metaphor for the lasting effects that
unfaithfulness brings into a marriage. The story gives the lie to the myth that
infidelity can be so innocent, so pleasurable, so removed from the need for
commitment that a spouse can engage in it without fear of lasting repercussions
when their betrayal is discovered.
I suspect that Quatro is a runner, because the details in
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pavement” are quite exquisite. Still, is it
intended to be the story of an actual race? Or is the race here a metaphor for
life’s pilgrimage, and the statues a metaphor for the silly weights we lug around
in a society obsessed with athleticism and sexual vitality? What is it we get
through the mail that might produce those ungodly burdens?
If I am correct in these musings—and I suspect there is much
more waiting to be discovered in Quatro’s stories—would you not agree that she
writes not just good stories, but stories that subversively expose the weak
moral and metaphysical foundations of postmodernity?
I think it’s winsome and brilliant.
One of the reasons I find the Christian faith so compelling is that it is a Story that makes room for stories. We can’t live without stories, unless somehow we imagine we can live without meaning. When I saw a preview for the film, Mongol, I realized my utter ignorance of the man who ruled over an empire that stretched over far more geography than Rome ever came close to conquering. So, I read Genghis Khan: Life, Death, & Resurrection by John Man, and was fascinated by the deep truth contained in the ancient Mongol story of:
How Tales Originated among the Mongol People
Once upon a time, plague struck the Mongols. The healthy fled, leaving the sick, saying “Let Fate decide whether they live or die.” Among the sick was a youth named Tarvaa. His spirit left his body and came to the place of death. The ruler of that place said to Tarvaa, “Why have you left your body while it is still alive?” “I did not wait for you to call me,” he replied, “I just came.” Touched by his readiness to comply, the Khan of the Underworld said, “Your time is not yet. You must return. But you may take anything from here you wish.” Tarvaa looked around, and saw all earthly joys and talents—wealth, happiness, laughter, luck, music, dance. “Give me the art of storytelling,” he said, for he knew that stories can summon up all other joys. So he returned to his body, only to find that the crows had already pecked out its eyes. Since he could not disobey the Khan of the Underworld, he re-entered his body, and lived on, blind, but with the knowledge of all tales. For the rest of his life, he traveled across Mongolia telling tales and legends, and bringing people joy and wisdom [p. 17-18].