In the preface to Stories II, which gathers all the short fiction he has published in the past 15 years, 58 stories, T.C. Boyle recalls a reading Stanley Elkin once gave at the Iowa Writers Workshop. “Mr. Elkin,” a student asked, “you’ve written a terrific collection of stories — why don’t you write more of them?” Elkin’s response? “No money in it. Next question.”
The same has not been true of Boyle, who writes novels and short fiction interchangeably. And yet in these 900-plus pages – which include 14 stories that have never appeared in book form – Boyle means to give us more than a collection; rather, it’s an edifice intended, not unlike its equally massive predecessor Stories, to define a legacy.
For Boyle that’s a complex process, since his stories mix brilliance with high-concept pyrotechnics, meditations with whiz-bangery. Perhaps the best way to read Stories II, then, is as an expression of Boyle’s aesthetic in all its complicated inconsistency.
As for the brilliant, there’s Chicxulub, perhaps the most moving story Boyle has written, previously published in the 2005 collection Tooth and Claw. Here, a middle-aged father reflects on the asteroid that 65 million years ago struck the Yucatan and extinguished “at least seventy-five percent of all known species, including the dinosaurs,” framing it as a metaphor for the risks of parenthood, of family, and the disasters that can disrupt our own worlds with neither warning nor remorse. It’s reminiscent of Jim Shepard’s Krakatoa, which also uses large events to reflect on the personal, but the fatalism is all Boyle.
“The thing that disturbs me about Chicxulub,” he writes, “… is the deeper implication that we, and all our works and worries and attachments, are so utterly inconsequential. Death cancels our individuality, we know that, yes, but ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny and the kind goes on, human life and culture succeed us – that, in the absence of God, is what allows us to accept the death of the individual. But when you throw Chicxulub into the mix – or the next Chicxulub, the Chicxulub that could come howling down to obliterate all and everything even as your eyes skim the lines of this page – where does that leave us?”
Some version of this question recurs throughout this dark book in which bad things happen to good people, or people who think of themselves as good are revealed as anything but. In Killing Babies, a recovering drug addict snaps when confronted by protesters at his brother’s abortion clinic; the narrator of Termination Dust, meanwhile, presents himself as reasonable, until in a moment of terrible reckoning, we discover that he is not.
Then there’s the magnificent Sic Transit, one of the new stories, in which a middle-aged businessman living in an affluent California community finds himself moved by the death of a reclusive neighbor, a former rock ‘n’ roller who was derailed by the drowning of his young daughter many years before. Why should we care about this, Boyle wonders. “The answer is simple: he was you, he was me, he was any of us, and his life was important, all-important, the only life anybody ever lived, and when his eyes closed for the final time, the last half-eaten carton of noodles slipping from his hand, we all disappeared, all of us, and every creature alive too, and the earth and the light of the sun and all the grace of our collective being.”