Growing up

Because narrative is essentially temporal it draws attention to how people, and the events they are caught up in, change. Of course, they rarely change beyond all recognition - except perhaps in myths and fables. Slow, unexpected or even inevitable change is more often the norm. Change usually happens in a network of relations and one of the things that I admire about writers like Joan Silber is a way of dealing with a tapestry of characters and events whose lives intersect and change in different ways, along multiple timelines. Everything is in flux, just as it is in life. Silber's artfulness lies in her ability to draw attention to cross-cutting themes in this flux, and that's what makes her writing distinctive. But I'm also drawn to her writing because it conjures up places, events - even lifestyles - that I'm familiar with. She's very much a writer of my generation. But this kind of specificity isn't strictly necessary to the success of narrative. I've never trained to be a boxer or worked on a building site, but that doesn't stop me from relating to stories in which such things are important. Narrative also transports one into different times and places - and that's part of the magic - but probably we all need some point of contact, some anchorage or reference point. I think that's the allure of coming-of-age stories, part of the attraction of romance, and so much more. Narrative has to be relatable. Coming-of-age stories are accessible in that sort of way. Stories of young men coming-of-age are particularly relevant in times in which there is widespread concern about the possibility of alienation, about different routes into masculinity and, at least in some quarters, a concern for what constitutes masculinity itself. Two recent French films - both from 2025 - explore this territory from thought-provoking but slightly different points of view - Carnoy's Le Danse de Renards and Campillo's  Enzo. Carnoy's film, set in a residential sports academy for young boxers, dwells on the relationship between these young men, their rivalry, their jealousy and - occasionally - their tender friendship. But there's also some painful loss of status and ostracisation, set against the brutal backcloth of a particularly violent, macho sport. If there's anger, frustration, confusion and alienation in Enzo it works differently, by depicting a young man's struggles with his own bourgeoise background, with his loving parents, who are sometimes just a bit overbearing in a permissive, progressive sort of way and some growing uncertainty about his own sexuality. Le Danse de Renards packs a punch through its exploration of strong emotions, some of which erupt into violence, whereas the dissatisfaction at the heart of Enzo is more insidious, speaking to issues of identity, wealth and even global conflict as Enzo falls under the spell of a charismatic Ukrainian worker. They are both narratives of their time and well worth watching alongside one another.

Sold short

I'm most probably attracted to the short story form because it's all I can really manage to write myself. But although I can be impressed by what can be done with so little, as a reader I'm more at home with longer fiction, something that takes longer, and promises more of an immersive experience - something that builds. For all of the skill of a short story like The Swedish Match, I find myself wanting more. And then coming to Lydia Davis - let's face it, she's held in high esteem by the literati - I find something similar. The extremely short pieces, the microfictions, just frustrate me. I'm all in favour of experimentation but how might I read Ph.D, which I quote in its entirety because I can? 'All these years I thought I had a Ph.D. But I do not have a Ph.D.' Should I be amused, should I read it for a second time, or should I read it as a conversation with some of the other pieces in the same collection - A Letter to the Foundation, for example, which is firmly located in academic life - or Her Geography: Illinois, which is just as brief and is a similar sort of reflection on getting it wrong? Or maybe I'm not clever enough, because I've missed the point which could be about my own apparent need for a context and my sense of dissatisfaction with being at sea - of trying to find a context to make meaning out of, in the first place. Then perhaps I'm the one with a Ph.D who shouldn't have one. Dazzling and innovative are a couple of the glittering words that grace the dust jacket. I don't find that description works for Ph.D or Her Geography for that matter. But, I'm talking about myself as a reader, here - someone who thinks that such descriptions should be reserved for the observational acuity and lucid writing of The Cows and the craft and emotional intensity of The Seals, both of which are longer offerings in the collection 'Can't and Won't'.