Originally written in 1919, I can see how this has heavily influenced later writers, particularly Ray Bradbury, who has made no secret of his Martian Chronicles being something of a Winesburg on Mars, though certainly imbued with Bradbury's own style. Carson McCullers' Heart is a Lonely Hunter certainly draws from it, though her style seems drab now after reading Anderson's fireside storytelling. This novel commits, but gets away with, a great many no-no's of my personal school of fiction. Though the narrator has no real identity, he does tell us, as though sitting next to the reader, a great many details about the characters that normally I would insist must be told through action or depicted visually, or spoken in characters' thoughts or dialogue. But Anderson gets away with it because the details are all carefully crafted to give us a clear idea--though sometimes limited to caricature--of the characters as they are in life, with a certain beauty hidden by their daily drudgery. His oral storytelling may seem to jump back and forth in time and give asides haphazardly, but the details are always vital and come at just the right time. Unlike in Gladys Swan's Carnival for the Gods, which I've accused of including too many of its characters' stray (and pointless) thoughts, Anderson has the economy of Mark Twain, seeming to casually offer a story that in actuality is finely crafted. Unlike Twain, however, the narrative voice has fewer obvious idiosyncrasies, other than sounding mature and Midwestern.
This novel really makes a case for the limitations of plot in storytelling. There is no plot, only a collection of short stories, or epiphanies, leading to a final one that provides closure. Characters and settings are shared amongst the stories, as well as imagery:
Why more novels don't openly admit their motivations is beyond my understanding. Perhaps it's fear. Whatever the case, Anderson apparently felt no shame in delivering this wonderful book. We all must feel terribly lonely at times, more often than is healthy, even (and perhaps moreso) in the case of married couples. Being the social creatures we are, isn't that our universal dilemma? To approach or to push away? So many novels I've read seem to involve this as their underlying problem, only to neglect it or polish it into appearing something different. What I admire most about this novel is its stubborn refusal to put on airs or act indifferent to its characters' real plight. These aren't just grotesques depicted in the novel, these are ordinary people. We all can be reduced to grotesques--caricatures--in the hands of a storyteller. Likewise, loneliness can be transmuted into good vs. evil, or whatever other conflict writers prefer their fiction to involve.
Loneliness is complex, and conflicting needs of security vs. growth typically play a role. Anderson, apparently without much reading in the way of psychology, had a very natural grasp of our motivations, our troubles, our conflicts. (Many of his characters have come to associate pain or frustration with things that they should love, such as Louise Bentley learning to dislike being kissed, since it is her husband's way of making her quiet.) There is no easy way in life to find security. To have any kind of happiness we're always having to take some measure of risk, whether that be asking a girl out, attempting to communicate something meaningful, moving to a land of opportunity, and so on. Surrender to a fear of failure is a sure way of bringing on too much loneliness; it's too likely to separate us from those people who would be our best company. This is best summed up in one of the novel's more poetic moments:
His glance again wandered away to the darkened street. "I know about her, although she has never crossed my path, " he said softly. "I know about her struggles and her defeats. It is because of her defeats that she is to me the lovely one. Out of her defeats has been born a new quality in woman. I have a name for it. I call it Tandy. I made up the name when I was a true dreamer and before my body became vile. It is the quality of being strong to be loved. It is something men need from women and that they do not get" (145).
After having read this I would like to round up anyone responsible for teaching English classes in my junior and senior high years, and summarily fire them. I can actually remember a great many books on our reading lists, even the ones I did not read, and nowhere do I remember seeing Winesburg. This is exactly the kind of book I know would have had an effect on me during those years, and I can't believe it isn't taught more. Given its universal appeal, its naturalness to read, its brevity, its Midwestern way of dealing with tough-to-confront issues without resorting to overly explicit language, one would think this would be a natural for required reading, particularly for adolescents. This is easily going on my "worship" shelf, where I put the few books I would not want to live without.
All contents, except where otherwise noted, are copyright Andrew Lee Hunn.