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Spectacle: Stories Kindle Edition
An inventive new collection from the author of Hydroplane and The End of Free Love
* A San Francisco Chronicle, Complex, Flavorwire, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Largehearted Boy and Slaughterhouse 90210 Best Book of the Year *
In these innovative linked stories, women confront loss and grief as they sift through the wreckage of their lives. In the title story, a woman struggles with the death of her friend in a plane crash. A daughter decides whether to take her father off life support in the Pushcart Prize-winning "Cowboys." And in "Underthings," when a man hits his girlfriend, she calls it an accident. Spectacle bears witness to alarming and strange incidents: carnival rides and plane crashes, affairs spied through keyholes and amateur porn, vandalism and petty theft. These wounded women stand at the edge of disaster and risk it all to speak their sharpest secrets.
In lean, acrobatic prose, Susan Steinberg subverts assumptions about narrative and challenges conventional gender roles. She delivers insight with a fierce lyric intensity in sentences shorn of excessive sentiment or unnecessary ornament. By fusing style and story, Steinberg amplifies the connections between themes and characters so that each devastating revelation echoes throughout the collection. A vital and turbulent book from a distinctive voice, Spectacle will break your heart, and then, before the last page is turned, will bind it up anew.
"Experimental but never opaque, Steinberg's stories seethe with real and imagined menace." —Publishers Weekly
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherGraywolf Press
- Publication dateJanuary 8, 2013
- File size203 KB
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Editorial Reviews
From Booklist
Review
“In pithy, rhythmic sentences that sound like biting poetry, Steinberg's all-female narrators tell stories of loss, abandonment, failure to love, and failure to 'perform' in the ways the people in their lives expect them to.” ―Page-Turner, the blog of The New Yorker, "Books to Watch Out For"
“[Steinberg] takes bold risks, exploring the boundaries of narrative and the possibilities of language and syntax. . . Steinberg's prose is rhythmic, hypnotic--teasing out confessions and revelations in stream-of-consciousness language. . . . Spectacle is a marvel.” ―San Francisco Chronicle
“Readers of Lydia Davis and Anne Carson will welcome Steinberg's spare, innovative prose imbued with the cadence of verse. Rendered with formal originality, these hard-to-put-down stories explore the wounds that turn desire for love into performance art. This is a vulnerable book, gorgeously attending to grief, to lust, courageously bearing witness to all of life's deprave and human spectacles.” ―Star Tribune (Minneapolis)
“Written with a sparse and grim tone, Steinberg's stories all have individual rhythms, and call to mind Lydia Davis trimming down Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son.” ―Flavorwire, "The 10 Best Short Story Collections of 2013"
“What makes Susan Steinberg's story collection so refreshing is how concentrated the prose feels. Every sentence feels loaded, almost like a line of poetry.” ―Complex, "The Best Books of 2013"
“[A] linked-story extravaganza. . . . [A] devastating cluster of uncompromising, funny, and eye-opening stories about women trapped in a male-centered world.” ―Village Voice
“Both [Steinberg's] characters and [her] narratives store meaning in the spaces between the conventions, where the silence of a line break or an unspoken thought speaks volumes. At once vibrant and violent, Spectacle takes on unexpected territory and reveals it is all too familiar. . . . Deeply illuminating.” ―Shelf Awareness for Readers
“Narrated entirely by women whose voices merge, divide, recur, and dissipate into one another, [Spectacle feels] novelistic in scope and ambition. Steinberg is a maestro of stylistic innovation, conducting orbits of narrative and motif, coaxing meaning and music from each line. . . . With its literary inventions and sharp storytelling, this is a masterpiece of contemporary short fiction.” ―Publishers Weekly, starred review
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Spectacle
STORIES
By Susan SteinbergGRAYWOLF PRESS
Copyright © 2013 Susan SteinbergAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55597-631-6
Contents
SUPERSTAR, 3,UNDERFED, 15,
COWBOYS, 23,
SUPERNOVA, 35,
SIGNIFIER, 49,
UNDERTHINGS, 61,
UNIVERSE, 77,
COWGIRL, 85,
SPECTACLE, 93,
SIGNIFIED, 107,
SPECTATOR, 113,
UNIVERSAL, 121,
CHAPTER 1
SUPERSTAR
I once hung out with this shit group of kids and they were just such shit.
This to say I made some mistakes.
Like breaking into this one guy's car.
Like stealing the stereo out of that car.
I was young and I didn't steal the stereo because I wanted the stereo.
I stole it, rather, because I wanted the guy.
This to say I just wanted some thing the guy owned.
This more to say that nothing else mattered in that moment except this thing the guy owned, this thing that, I now know, was not the guy.
Anyway there was nothing else in the car.
Had there been a jacket I would have stolen it.
Had anything else jarred loose— a mirror, an ashtray—I would have stolen that too.
But the stereo was the only thing I could snap out of its hole.
And so there I was, drunk and standing on the sidewalk at two a.m., the bar closing, the drunks stumbling out, holding a car stereo with both hands, a kind of person I didn't even know I could be, and my friends said, Run.
This to say I made a mistake.
Not because I got caught, because I did not get caught.
Because no one ever once got caught.
Because this was Baltimore.
And if you know the place, you know what I mean.
If you know the place, you're likely from there.
I mean you're likely still there.
Which I no longer am.
Which doesn't mean I figured it out.
It only means a window appeared and I went through the window before it disappeared.
Metaphorically I mean.
But it's not time for anything deep.
We're just talking about this mistake I made.
How I can't make myself feel better.
Because I'm awake and thinking the thoughts I think at four a.m.
Me, some guy, and it's always the same.
Me, some guy, and we're lying around a bed like kids.
Then one thing, another, his hands on my face, his face near my face, and just before it all starts up, I'm yanking a stereo out from its hole.
I'm backing out ass first from the car.
My friends are screaming, Run.
To say I shouldn't have stolen.
But I'd fallen hard for the guy whose stereo it was.
And when I fall hard, I fall like the proverbial ton of whatever, and by fall I mean I splinter everything around me.
Another might call it apocalyptic.
By another, I might mean the guy himself, the victim I mean, the guy headed away from me fast.
He might use the word apocalyptic when cracks form in the asphalt, when windows shatter, when women cover their daughters' eyes.
When he floats upward to heaven.
I'm not being melodramatic.
You've never been there to see it.
And this time, like every time, the entire world had splintered.
And because he'd been all night in the bar talking to some girl, I was splintering within this splintered world.
It was very complex.
The strategy I mean.
Like if he stood there, I stood here.
If he looked at me, I looked away.
And on and on and on.
God.
It was summer and it was a hundred degrees.
This is not an excuse but I'm just saying.
It was a hundred degrees and my friends said, Run, and we all ran up the street to my car, all of us too drunk to drive.
And six of us kids squeezed into the car, two up front, four in back, and somehow I ended up in the back, even though it was my car.
Somehow I ended up sitting on some guy's lap, the stereo on top of mine.
And somehow one of the guys ended up in the driver's seat, and he started the car and drove closer to the car I stole the stereo from, and we sat there.
And the radio, meaning the piece of shit radio in my car, was playing something from that summer, and the kids up front were singing, and there I was in the back of my car, some guy I didn't like gripping my hips.
I didn't know then what we were waiting for, sitting there outside the bar.
We were waiting for the guy whose stereo I stole to walk out.
We were waiting for the guy whose stereo I stole to get into his car and see that his stereo was gone.
But then what.
I mean what were we going to do about it.
That was the thing.
I had the stereo, but now what.
We'd hooked up, me and the guy whose stereo I stole, in the front of his car, the week before I stole the stereo and the week before that.
And the liquor, those nights, was doing its thing.
The stereo was doing its.
And the guy did this thing those nights where he tilted his head too far to one side when he moved in toward me.
There was something about this.
Nothing new.
That brilliant spinning in one's gut that no one knows how to describe.
That everything inside inching up and up, and this is why I wanted him.
And by wanted I mean I wanted to own him completely.
I wasn't dumb.
I knew that stealing a stereo was not the way to own a guy.
I knew that the way to own a guy was to push something down, push something else out.
I know that the way to own a guy, still, years later, is this.
Like recently, there was this incident.
There was this guy whose car I scraped by mistake with my car.
It was raining that day, a downpour, and the guy whose car I scraped by mistake was big and standing on the sidewalk, holding his sagging bags of groceries.
He was waiting for me to move my car so that he could get into his.
I mean I'd parked so close, he couldn't get into his car, and he was waiting in the downpour, burdened with his sagging bags, annoyed.
And when I backed up my car, one hand up, giving the obligatory wave, the obligatory thanks for waiting, I scraped his car with my side mirror, because of my shit parking job, and I heard it scrape, even through the sound of the radio, even through the rain and the windshield wipers' squeak.
And before I shut off the car, and before the rain refilled the windshield, I saw the guy drop his bags of groceries to the wet ground and smack his forehead with both hands.
I knew I had a choice to make.
And I knew the right choice was to get out of the car.
And I knew I had another choice to make.
And I knew the right choice was to be a guy.
As the rain refilled the windshield, I knew I had to open the door.
And as I opened the door, I heard first the downpour, then heard the guy calling me certain names reserved for women, certain names I'd been called before and would be called again, certain names I'd, eventually, later, not too much later, call others.
And as I stepped out of the car I was suddenly some very small thing, by which I mean I was suddenly a woman to this guy, absorbing these names reserved for women, standing there in the downpour, reduced to something snail small and just as tightly coiled.
I wanted to be a guy.
I wanted to be a certain type of guy.
But instead I said, Stop yelling at me.
And he said, Stop being a fucking whore.
And what does one say to that.
I wanted to say a lot of things.
I wanted to say, Is that the best you can do.
Because it was raining and we were standing in it and it didn't look like it would stop.
And his groceries might have slid, at any point, from the bottoms of their sagging bags.
The world could have come, is what I mean, at any point, to the standstill we'd been waiting for.
It would have been apocalyptic.
And this would have been his finale.
Whore.
But the point is not this.
The point is I wanted to be a guy.
By which I mean I wanted to get up in his face.
I'm not talking about anything deep.
I'm talking about a generic performance of guy.
I'm talking about strapping on the proverbial pair.
But I never had to.
Because there was this second guy walking down the sidewalk.
And this is the point.
This second guy was walking down the sidewalk and the second guy had seen the whole thing, had seen me scrape this first guy's car, had seen the first guy smack his head and yell at me, and the second guy walked up to the first guy and called the first guy an asshole.
And the second guy got up in the first guy's face and told the first guy to get back into his car, said there wasn't even a scratch, said, I'll call the cops if you do not get the fuck back into your car right now.
And the second guy asked me if I was okay.
And the second guy called me certain names reserved for women, certain other names I'd been called before and would be called again.
It was then I became some sweet thing.
It was then I pushed something down, pushed something else out.
It was then I knew I owned the situation, meaning I knew I now owned both guys.
It's not something I want to explain.
If you've got the parts you understand.
As for the rest of you.
Just know I knew it was good to be a woman.
Meaning it was very bad to be a woman.
And the first guy squeezed into his car and left.
And the rain slowed.
And the sun, at some point, came out.
Listen.
There's a chair across the room and were you here with me now, sitting in the chair across the room, I would get out of bed, I would walk across the room to the chair, I would sit at your feet, my head in your lap, my head demanding you pet it.
And you would pet it how I wanted it.
And bricks would loosen from the walls.
And sidewalks would fissure.
Animals would run to their dark holes filled with leaves.
I'm just saying.
Would I own you.
Do you think I would.
I'm just saying something.
I'm just saying I'm kind of a whore.
Which is not to say don't like me.
Because I'm also kind of sweet.
Which is just to say.
The world should no longer be about wanting and wanting the way it was when I was younger and dumber, drawing in my bed, drawing some asshole's name on my hand, and hearts.
But here we all are.
Meaning here I am wanting again.
The utter inconvenience of what I am.
The utter inconvenience of it all.
But I was just so fucking powerful that night.
I was in the backseat of my car that night.
I had a stolen stereo on my lap.
I was feeling like a superstar.
The kids up front were singing again.
And the bar door opened and the guy whose stereo I stole stumbled out.
Someone turned down the radio.
Someone was laughing, then everyone was laughing, even I was laughing my head off.
And the guy whose stereo I stole stumbled out with that girl on his arm, the girl stopping to untwist the strap on her shoe.
One of the kids up front said, Who's she, and my legs were shaking, then I wasn't laughing, and I almost screamed out the window, I've got your stereo, you dumb fuck.
I almost waved the stereo around, almost smashed it to the street right there in front of the bar, in front of the guy and the girl, and I would have screamed something, would have done all of this, but the guy driving my car sped off before I could scream.
Next someone turned up the radio and some song was on, and the six of us were riding up some burned- out Baltimore street.
There was no one on the street but us.
We were screaming out the words to this song.
Then another song came on and we knew that song too.
And it was only us, the six of us, singing on this crazy, burned-out Baltimore street.
I was just so fucking powerful in that moment.
Like how I'm just so fucking powerful in this moment.
Like how I kind of, admit it, own you.
I don't.
I mean I kind of, admit it, have you.
No.
I mean I think this is the climax.
This is it.
This is it now.
I rolled down the window and pushed my body, hands first, arms next, head next, upward through that open space and threw the stereo as hard as I could.
I heard it smash to bits against the side of some burned- out building.
I think you saw this coming.
I think you think, Big deal.
But someone could have gotten hurt.
I could have gotten caught.
It's enough that I feel like shit.
Because I would have done almost anything that night.
Though I resisted hard at first.
Not stealing the stereo, which I didn't resist.
I mean something about the guy whose lap I was on.
He pulled me back into the car like a savior.
He whispered to me to spend the night.
I said, No way.
And he said, Why not.
And I said, Because.
And he said, That's not an answer.
And I said, It's the only answer you're getting.
But later that night, when it was me and him on some sidewalk somewhere, he came closer, nearly tilting his head, and I closed my eyes, pretended.
There are things that now I know.
Nothing deep.
Like that only the guy is the guy.
Like that objects are only objects.
Listen to me.
It had been a hundred degrees that day, and it was a hundred degrees that night, and after the guy and I hooked up, we were lying on top of his sheet, sticking to his sheet, a fan droning on the tilted dresser.
And I was already looking at the door, I was already thinking of moving like a ghost toward the door, I was already thinking of moving like a ghost away from that burned- out city, and I was praying for the apocalypse, I was praying for that final standstill, and when the standstill came, I moved.
It wasn't the real standstill, of course, but a tease.
Still, it felt real.
Still, it lit the proverbial match.
It looked like a window and I went through it and landed here.
All this to say I've learned a few things.
All this to say I will not steal your things.
All this to say if I did steal your things, I know now the things will not have your name.
And they will not have your eyes.
And they will not smell like your sweat forever.
And they will not make me remember your hands on my face.
Or what song was playing when you tilted your head.
Or the lie you said that I believed.
They will only make me remember the sound the stereo made when it hit the burned- out building.
A sound I can't describe.
A sound that was more like a color.
A color that was more like a pain.
A pain that was more like an answer.
CHAPTER 2UNDERFED
; there was the time I stood outside; it had snowed the night before; a sound in the distance could have been voices; it could have been something else; it could have been machinery; it could have been just in my head; I wanted the sound to be something else: waves crashing to the sand, an ocean I was standing in, an ocean I was drowning in; I wanted to be sinking into sand; but I was standing in snow under a tree; I was standing in my underthings; there was something about just standing there like that; there was something about just standing still, the sky about to turn light; I was not in a state of dire need; but I'd been up late thinking of dire things; I'd been thinking, for instance, of the reasons girls love love; I'd been thinking, as well, of the reasons guys love war; I every day bought the paper from the box on the corner; I every day spread the paper across my bed; I was reading up on various wars; I followed wars in various places I didn't know; I was becoming well informed on battle; I was becoming well informed on invasion; because there was nothing going on where I was at all; there was nothing going on where I was but snow; everyone had gone away for the winter; everyone loved to leave for the winter; and yes, I was feeling abandoned; yes, I was feeling melodramatic; then this one friend called who hadn't yet left; and of course he would leave for the winter too; he would leave, of course, like everyone else; but I wasn't yet thinking of him leaving; and that night I was up to nothing; I was all the time up to my ears in nothing; and so he called and it wasn't my fault he called; and so it was completely his fault; look: I want to make a public confession; I want an interrogation; I want a fitting punishment; and where was I on that winter night: I was with this guy in a bar; and who else was with us on that night: there was no one else but us; and did I know that night he had a girlfriend: yes, I knew he had a girlfriend, but I knew nothing specific about his girlfriend, she was just a cutout of a girlfriend, she was just a flattened thing; and how did I feel about this: I felt all right, I felt pretty good, I felt pretty great; so punish me however you see fit; but know I wasn't all bad; in the bar that night I knew to get this body out the door; so I got this body up the street; I got this body up the stairs and laid it flat on the bed; I was home, safe; I was where I belonged; and I'm sorry my thoughts turned dire; I'm sorry I'd been reading up on wars; I'm sorry for the metaphor; but I confess I was thinking of battle; I confess I was thinking invasion; I knew too much about crossing lines; then I was rushing outside to think in the cold; I can't explain; years before, things with me seemed all right; I was with this nice guy back then; all my friends liked this guy; he would pick me up in his car; he would take me on hikes; he owned things for going on hikes; I didn't know the proper names of the things he owned; I still, years later, don't know their proper names; they clamped to things and heated up and stuck through ice and stuck through mud; the guy and I would walk up hills; we would sleep on wet grass; we would stand there holding hands, staring at some or another sunset; and I would pretend to like the sunset; I would pretend to be a better person than I was; but I would stare at the sunset thinking things like: Tragic, like: Big fucking deal, like: This is not meant to be; it was not, me and him, meant to be; I said, This is not meant to be, on the ride home from our final hike; the radio was up too high; I said, Did you hear me; he pointed to an ear, said, I can't hear you; then his hand was somewhere on me; I said, This is not meant to be; I said, I'm incapable of falling for you; I said, I'm incapable of falling in love; I'm a wreck, I said; I need another wreck, I said; It's my father, I said, of course; It's my mother, I said, of course; I turned down the radio; I said, Did you hear me; he kept on driving; I turned up the radio; I will wreck you, I said; I swear, I said; I was talking at the radio; I was talking at the heat vent; I was talking at my dirty knees; I'd hiked all day through mud; I was scraped all over, dirty all over; I wasn't averse to dirt; I was averse to something else: like the pressure of having to pretend I cared about a bird, a stone, a star: like the pressure of having to be so fucking nice: like the pressure of having to be a certain type of guy when I was just a certain type of girl; I was just two tits a hole and a heartbeat; I'd heard that somewhere, my brother, my father; I'd heard this somewhere too: two tits a slit and a heartbeat; that was this body; and this body was standing in the snow; this body was up to its ears in nothing; this body was thinking of invasion; this body could be a wrecking ball; this body could swing right in and wreck your home; I confess: it could make itself do awful things; it had done plenty of awful plenty of times;
(Continues...)Excerpted from Spectacle by Susan Steinberg. Copyright © 2013 Susan Steinberg. Excerpted by permission of GRAYWOLF PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- ASIN : B00AQUTNO8
- Publisher : Graywolf Press (January 8, 2013)
- Publication date : January 8, 2013
- Language : English
- File size : 203 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 116 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #2,068,087 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #3,429 in U.S. Short Stories
- #3,518 in Literary Short Stories
- #8,755 in Contemporary Short Stories
- Customer Reviews:
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- Reviewed in the United States on February 14, 2024Many of the stories are one sentence paragraphs and propel themselves. A great energy. See "Universal" and "Spectacle" and "Signifier".
This author takes risks and heightens the stakes. I like her!
- Reviewed in the United States on April 28, 2013This was my first reading of Susan Steinberg and I am very impressed! The stories have beautiful structure and it makes you love to read, and then re-read her stories to see how she moves them around. My favorite structure of hers is the few stories that start with a semicolon and end with one, creating her story in one entire sentence. It makes her stories more fun!
Each narrator is unique and tells a unique story and I find each story holds something everyone can relate to.
I would recommend this book to anyone!
- Reviewed in the United States on August 11, 2013No really, unless you consider being drunk, stoned and sleeping around being a strong woman who overcomes the sadness, obstacles or headships in life. Every story is the same ... pills, booze, unknown or slightly known men, life stinks. Locations, times, ages, may be different. Read one and you've read them all and you may still be wondering, as I did, what is this all about.
- Reviewed in the United States on May 28, 2013experimental, stream of consciousness, unique way of telling a story, using featuring damaged heroine in distress over family dysfunction, what she should and shouldn't have done in the past, old wounds.
- Reviewed in the United States on July 17, 2014This book is a game-changer.
For most serious writers, there will be how they wrote before reading 'Spectacle', and how they wrote after. It's that original.
- Reviewed in the United States on January 30, 2013liked the narrative style but any writer these days who resorts to the "proverbial" this or that... i just assumed that went out of style in the double-odds. you'd think an MFA grad would know better. kinda lazy.
- Reviewed in the United States on July 28, 2013Language was vulgar, no story, boring.The poems were just random musings and made absolutely no sense.This type of writing is right up there with rap music and appeals to a different type of audience
- Reviewed in the United States on November 11, 2014This collection of short fiction is STUNNING! Each story is its own wonderful hybrid of poetry and prose.