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“For Esmé—with Love and Squalor” by J. D. Salinger

by James Wallace Harris, 8/18/26

It’s been almost seventy years since I’ve cried — well, the boo-hooing, body-shaking, snot-slinging kind of crying. For most of my life, I was in control of my emotions. However, since I’ve gotten older, movies, books, sappy commercials, and even old songs will make my eyes water a bit. Reading “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor” gave my eyes a soaking and even stopped up my sinuses.

That’s my concrete review of this story. Now for the verbose version.

I’ve developed a literary theory that I call the “Message in a Bottle” theory. All humans live inside their heads like living alone on a deserted island. Writing, especially fiction, is one solitary individual putting a message in a bottle and throwing it upon the ocean, hoping someone will read it.

However, messages in a bottle have an inherent limitation. Language is a poor tool for describing what we feel. I doubt I’d want to experience what was in J. D. Salinger’s head when he wrote: “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor.” It would have been too intense, too painful. Actually, it might have killed me to have had telepathic contact with Salinger. So, in that regard, we should be thankful for the limitations of words.

On the other hand, I think we wish we weren’t alone. I’m not sure even the closest of lovers ever get that near to each other. I suppose if telepathy existed, it would allow us to share feelings and maybe feel we weren’t alone. I’ve often wondered if twins achieve anything close to telepathy. Theoretically, those poor souls who have multiple personalities could share their feelings, but from everything I’ve heard about such folks, they only occupy the body one at a time.

Most writers create works that don’t attempt to describe what’s inside their heads. They either paint with words something they see outside of themselves and hope readers recognize it. Or imagine something they hope readers will recognize.

J. D. Salinger worked to describe exactly what he felt. I assume that’s why he’d get so furious with editors when they tried to alter his work. He knew the limitations of words, so he used them very carefully. Like any message-in-a-bottle story, the words are going to fall. However, Salinger knew that if he could use just the right words, they could trigger pale imitations of his emotions in us. The key was coding his message just so.

“For Esmé—with Love and Squalor” is about a staff sergeant in London just before being shipped out on D-Day. And that same sergeant after the war ends. J. D. Salinger endured five brutal WWII campaigns, from D-Day to walking into a concentration camp.

There is no way readers can understand what J. D. Salinger experienced. Salinger’s biographers, David Shields and Shane Salerno, in Salinger, said: “Of the 337 days the war lasted for the American soldier in Europe, Salinger was in combat for 299.” We could read every history of WWII combat in Europe and never come within light-years of what Salinger experienced. Salinger had a nervous breakdown after his company discovered the death camp.

How can anyone write about that experience? The thing is, we can’t, not in any definitive or rational way. Salinger continued to write throughout the war, carrying around chapters of Catcher in the Rye with him in combat. He obviously wanted to express himself. And after the war, he disavowed the stories he had written before it.

“For Esmé—with Love and Squalor” is merely a postcard from hell. It was published in The New Yorker, April 8, 1950. You can read it online here. Or buy a copy of Nine Stories, one of four official Salinger books. (One famous novel, and three story collections.)

After the war, it was obvious that Salinger had what we now call PTSD. Of all the stories I’ve read by Salinger, this one is his most direct attempt to convey his war experience.

After 1945, Salinger had a thing for children and young people. The people who knew him felt children represented pre-war innocence to Salinger.

In the first half of the story, an American staff sergeant visits a children’s choir in London and then goes to a tearoom. This part is told in first person.

While drinking his first cup of tea, the thirteen-year-old girl, Esmé, who had been the standout singer in the choir, her little brother Charles, and their aunt arrive in the tearoom and seat themselves near the narrator. Esmé and Charles come over to his table, and the sergeant and children have a charming conversation. (There are many parallels in this story’s structure to Salinger’s more famous story, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.”)

In the second half of the story, it switches into the third person. The setting is Bavaria several weeks after V-E Day. Staff Sergeant X is barely hanging on mentally. His buddy Clay says, “I wrote Loretta you had a nervous breakdown.” X is sitting at a table with mail and packages addressed to him. Salinger is conjuring Kafka.

When Clay leaves, X opens a package and discovers it’s from Esmé.

This is when my eyes get watery. They are watering again as I type. It is a very effective message in a bottle. I can never know what was inside Salinger’s head, but it must have been beyond intense. Reading his biography is incredibly intense. The poor bastard was fucked up for the rest of his life.

My theory is fucked up people resonate with Salinger, and that’s why he’s sold more than 60 million copies of his famous novel. Many of those readers drove Salinger to hide from the world when they tried to chase him down. He even came to regret publishing The Catcher in the Rye.

I believe Salinger was so successful because he was so damn good at writing messages in a bottle. The question is: Are readers still successfully decoding his stories?

Many literary critics believe a story has to stand on its own. And I can understand that sentiment, but I disagree quite strongly. I’ve read The Catcher in the Rye twice in my lifetime. Both times it made a great impression. But I need to read it again since I’ve read Salinger. My earlier impressions weren’t even close.

Before now, I had no idea how tortured Salinger’s soul was when I read The Catcher in the Rye. I understood Holden Caulfield was a tortured teen, not to the level GI Salinger was. There are novels by certain writers, like Thomas Wolfe, Jack Keruoauc, and Philip K. Dick, that you can’t really understand until you read several biographies about them. What they have in common is tortured souls.

I doubt I would have teared up for “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor” if I had not read Salinger. If you’ve read the story, or will read it, let me know how it affected you. Let me know if you’ve read about Salinger.

By the way, if you’re not willing to read a 600-page biography, there’s a documentary based on the book. Watch it on Amazon Prime. It conveys only 1% of the information and intensity of reading the biography, but it does help you understand J. D. Salinger.

JWH

I’m Studying All Wrong

by James Wallace Harris, 8/17/26

I read a couple dozen great nonfiction books each year. While I’m reading those books, I feel like I’m learning a tremendous amount of new information. But just a few days after I finish each one, all that information slips away. That pisses me off.

Yesterday, I watched a video, “The Math Secret Top Students Never Share – Learn So Fast It Feels Illegal.” It explained why I don’t retain information. Basically, if you don’t apply what you study, it disappears. The video is about studying math, but I realize it applies to everything.

I enjoy learning, but I’m not very big on doing. For example, I’m studying J. D. Salinger at the moment. I’m reading biographies, watching documentaries, and reading his fiction. Eventually, I’ll summarize everything in a blog. But that’s not applying the information. Unless I were an English professor submitting articles to academic journals, I don’t have any reason to apply that information.

I’m also studying the programming language Python so I can create animations that will illustrate Euclid’s Elements. However, I’m putting so little time into learning Python that I’m not getting the kind of practice that will help me remember it.

I feel I’ve accomplished a fair amount by installing Python, Visual Studio Code, Homebrew, UV, and Manim, and getting them working together in a virtual environment that doesn’t conflict with my Mac’s version of Python. I can even get Gemini AI to write programs that produce Manim animations.

However, I didn’t write the code; Gemini did. I’d like to know how to do it myself, so I started working my way through Python Crash Course, 3rd edition, by Eric Matthes. I’ll also need to learn Manim.

Here’s where the video about the secrets of studying Math comes in. Reading the books and documentation won’t cut it. I need to spend months practicing what I learn to get up to speed before I can even begin programming my own animations.

At 74, I only have so much physical and intellectual energy to expend each day. To learn enough Python to use the Manim library could take months. I would probably have to jettison all my other interests.

And that points to a failing personality trait that I’ve dealt with my whole life. I can never fully commit to anything and stick with it. I have too many interests I chase after.

I can study the common way people study math in that video, but not the way smart students study. That’s how I got through school and college. I studied enough to pass tests. I never pursued the kind of regular practice that video promotes. I was able to be a programmer at work because I did it all day long. But I’ve never been able to pick a hobby that I’ll work at all day long.

I’m at a crossroads. At 74, I need to decide if I’m capable of changing. Or just accept that I’m a bookworm and not a student. I hate to give up, but there’s a certain reality to aging.

It’s easy to read books and watch TV. I can do that all day long. I’m well trained for it. I’ve put in my 10,000 hours.

However, I can imagine being on my deathbed and regretting that I didn’t stick with any of the hobbies I fantasize about pursuing.

If I worked hard, spending four hours a day studying Python and Manim, I’d get my 10,000 hours in about 6.8 years. But here’s where my Hamlet complex cuts in. Is Python/Manim the single project I want to pursue over all my other interests?

Some of you might say I’d have plenty of time to pursue other interests if I apply myself to my main interest for four hours a day. But working at anything for four hours would drain me. I’m not even sure I could apply myself for four hours. I think there’s a reason why most old people aren’t that productive.

But there’s something else to consider. I’ve already put in my ten thousand hours writing blogs. I could work harder at that. I could specialize in analyzing short stories, something I’ve been doing for a while now. I could practice to get much better at that. Or even writing short stories.

Maybe Python and Manim are the diversion?

But after watching that video, I realize I need to work on applying myself to something, rather than just being an information consumer.

JWH

“Abject Naturalism” by Sarah Braunstein

by James Wallace Harris, 8/11/26

We humans have several cognitive tools for understanding reality. The early ones were myth, folklore, and religion. The only ones that can consistently describe reality are math and science. But a popular one today is fiction. I don’t just mean short stories and novels. But also television shows, movies, comics, video games, manga, poetry, lyrics, etc. I think reading and analyzing literary stories are a unique kind of microscope for studying reality.

The thing about fiction is everyone interprets it differently. I like that. It helps to consume other interpretations. Luckily, I have Karen Carlson at A Just Recompense and Jake Weber at Workshop Heretic to follow behind in reading The Best American Short Stories volumes.

For most of my life, I’ve read science fiction. I review it on Classics of Science Fiction. Science fiction is mostly genre fiction. Genre fiction is like modern art; it doesn’t try to portray reality, but create an artificial reality. Genre fiction is admired for creating something beautiful that doesn’t exist in reality. Literary fiction is beautiful for describing reality.

When I was growing up, science fiction fans would call literary fiction mundane fiction. “Abject Naturalism” by Sarah Braunstein describes a very mundane situation. Now that I’m older, stories about interstellar travel bore me, and I’m more fascinated by the mundane.

You can read or listen to “Abject Naturalism” at The New Yorker if you have a subscription. If you have a Spotify account, you can listen to the story read by the author. And, of course, you can read it in The Best American Short Stories 2025.

Toni is the mother of 10-year-0ld Amalie. My guess is Toni is around 44 because she gives two backstories ten years apart. The first jump is twenty years earlier, when Toni first met Amalie’s father in graduate school. The second jump is ten years back, when she briefly reunited with Amalie’s father and got pregnant with Amalie.

Jake Weber at Workshop Heretic did an extensive analysis of the title: “Abject Naturalism.” I recommend reading it because I don’t want to repeat his work. Weber says:

This emphasis on the “physiological” nature meant naturalism was more likely than realism to focus on humanity’s grosser functions, its various excretions and weird growths. It’s borderline scatalogical, but not like a gross-out comedy; more like a gross-out horror. In this sense, naturalism matches the meaning of the term “the abject” from theorist Julia Kristeva. I’ve delved more deeply into the meaning of “the abject” in this analysis of its use in female horror stories, but here, I’ll define the abject briefly as whatever reminds us of our status as animals, as blood-and-meat carrying bodies that die and decay. Women are particularly depicted as abject because, among other things, their monthly bloody cycles and their fertile bodies remind us of our “naturalism.” If we think of naturalism in this way, and this meaning of abject, the title becomes something like “Abject Abject.” A double dose of abjection. Weber gives plenty of evidence to support this with quotes from the story.

Weber cites plenty of points in the story to support this view. Especially connecting it with Toni’s desire to write literary horror stories when she was in writing school. By the end of “Abject Naturalism,” Toni feels positive about writing again, and we have to wonder if “Abject Naturalism” is something she would have written?

But that is not how I focused on “Abject Naturalism.” For me, it was about two things: freedom from fear and writing. Karen Carlson at A Just Recompense was closer to my view when reviewing “Abject Naturalism.” I completely agree with this.

I once took a class with a professor who insisted that every poem Robert Frost wrote, no matter what it was about, was really about writing poetry. Two roads in the wood? Poetry. Woods on a snowy evening? Poetry. Walls, birches, death, gold, choosing a star? All about writing poems. I got the sense, after I’d read this story a couple of times and looked up the title, that this story is all about writing a story.

I believe all literary fiction is about writing, but it seems more obvious when the protagonist is a writer, or in Toni’s case, a failed writer. It’s even more revealing when we get a title like “Abject Naturalism.” To me, literary fiction is always a kind of metafiction. While consuming a literary story, I always ask myself, “Why did the writer write this story, how did they write it, is any of it autobiographical, and what is the writer really telling us?”

I couldn’t find much about Sarah Braunstein, but this paragraph from her contributor’s page is very revealing.

Some years ago, my elementary-aged child went for a jog in the neighborhood, promising to stay alert and to avoid strangers. He returned with a telescope a stranger had been throwing away. The man, he said, had told him he could buy a new part for it on the web. My son and I ordered some plastic mirror thing for $3 on eBay, but we could never get it to fit, and the telescope now sits in the basement wrapped in cobwebs. From the day he came home with it, the telescope radiated with meaning. It felt like the set-up of a short story on my front stoop, the kid and the object. The telescope lets the child see the cosmos, a world beyond the household, beyond what the mother knows. I imagined a mother who would feel threatened by this, who would wonder about the man . . . who might even go to his door to complain. She would be lonely, half-aware of her motivations. When she knocked on his door and I saw the entryway to Marco’s living room, his reading glasses, I realized this might be a story about real estate, or friendship, or love . . . the narrative opened up to me, a Venn diagram of these elements. I began to imagine a daughter who is prickly and tart, always one step ahead of her mother. She has a band on her wrist that counts steps, another device Toni did not give her, and downloads apps without permission on Toni’s phone. Poor Toni! It began to make me laugh, the Sisyphean task of controlling a young adolescent with a burning mind. Well, what about her own burning mind? Toni as a former creative person came into focus then. I wanted to write about so many things, to say something about grief, creativity, doubt, fear . . . finding my way to the end of this story was a challenge. At one point Toni says she stopped writing because she never could figure out how to end things. “Abject Naturalism” sat in a file for a long time until I could understand what its ending needed to do.

So she had a kid about Amalie’s age, but how old is she? In 2010, the National Book Foundation recognized her as “5 Under 35.” I guessed that Toni was around 44, so Braunstein could be of a similar age. From what little I did find about her, I could imagine Braunstein following Toni’s path, as well as the path Toni didn’t take, the one Amalie’s father took. Braunstein attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the Mecca for MFA students. And “Abject Naturalism” was published in both The New Yorker and The Best American Short Stories 2025. Braunstein has two novels and a collection available at Amazon, and she teaches creative writing at Colby College in Maine. Doesn’t that sound like Amalie’s father?

Literary fiction gives writers a chance to work things out. I’m currently rereading J. D. Salinger, and I consider his stories metaphorical roman à clef. I want to believe literary writers are telling us something about their lives, even when the plot and characters don’t match their own.

“Abject Naturalism” really begins when Amalie, at ten, claims she’s old enough to go jogging by herself. This terrifies Toni. Amalie wants her freedom. Toni realizes she must give her freedom, but knows that she, herself, is not free. Toni resents that Amalie’s father chose to become a successful writer rather than being a parent, but was that freedom?

Now, I identify with Toni in two ways. First, I’m also an MFA dropout who eventually gave up the dream of becoming a writer. Even though we never had children, the thought of letting a kid go out of the house on their own terrifies me.

Which is odd, because in 1957, when I was just 5, I walked to my first day of 1st grade by myself. My parents asked me if I knew where the school was. I said yes, but I didn’t really. I just went outside and followed all the other kids in the neighborhood, heading somewhere. By the time I was 6 and 7, I was roaming the neighborhood for blocks. When we moved to New Jersey in 1959, and I was 8, I roamed across farms and woods. One day, I led my 6-year-old sister into the woods to see how far we could go and ended up in town. By chance, my father was driving home from work and saw us.

My father was surprised to see us. He asked us how we got into town. But when we explained, he didn’t yell at us. He just drove us home. I’ve always wondered what I would have done if he hadn’t spotted us. Probably returned the same way we came. I was good at not getting lost.

The first half of “Abject Naturalism” dramatises Toni’s fears of letting Amalie roam free. If I had had kids, I don’t know if I could let them out of my sight. In today’s New York Times, I read “Should Letting Children Play Alone Outside Be a Crime?” By today’s standards, my parents would have seen jail time.

To make matters worse, Amalie comes back from her jog lugging a broken telescope. She tells Toni a man gave it to her. Toni freaks out at the thought of Amalie talking to strangers.

The next day, when Amalie is in school, Toni goes down the street and confronts the man, Marcos. He’s described as an old guy in his mid-to-late sixties. Toni calmly tells him that he shouldn’t talk to children because it conditions them to feel safe talking to strangers. Marcos explains he hadn’t really struck up a conversation. He said Amalie was looking at the telescope he put out on the street in the trash. He merely told Amalie she could have it, and that it was missing a part that could be bought cheaply on eBay.

This calms Toni some, but she still worries.

Then the story takes a different turn. Toni keeps returning to visit Marcos. In a way, she slowly gives herself freedom too. The hard part of the story for me was believing a woman in her forties would be romantically attracted to a guy in his sixties. Toni does worry about losing her low-rent apartment in a gentrified neighborhood. Does she want Marcos for his house? She imagines her and Amalie moving into it. But she also believes Marcos loves her, but she’s too embarrassed to say that to her friends.

Toni is constantly running a script in her head about her fears. When Amalie demands some very limited freedom, Toni starts allowing herself a small bit of freedom.

The ending of the story is happy, and even kind of sappy. Toni even fantasizes about writing again. She pictures herself setting up a writing location in Marcos’ house.

There is actually too much to analyze in “Abject Naturalism.” In the beginning of the story, we’re given Toni’s backstory with Amalie’s father. This is one kind of love story. But we see another kind of love story at the end, with Marcos. Unfortunately, we are only told what Amalie’s father and Marcos might be thinking.

It would have been a whole other level of naturalism/realism if we had their points of view. Some writers do attempt such multiplex perspectives.

There was something else I wanted to analyze. Like many MFA-type literary stories, there are lots of flashbacks. This means we’re often told information rather than experiencing it dramatically.

I just reread “A Perfect Day for Banafish” by J. D. Salinger. It was an exquisite example of showing rather than telling. It was so concise. So immediate. Reality glittered. I’m sad that we don’t see this style of writing much anymore. Most of my bookworm friends that I try to get to read The Best American Short Stories tell me they don’t like that kind of writing. I will admit that “Abject Naturalism” conforms to a modern MFA-style of writing that feels like a genre of its own.

Like I said, everyone reads a short story differently; just read the comments here. Some of them said they normally get tired of this kind of story, but this one is a good one of that type.

If you read this story, let me know what you thought about it.

JWH

“What Would I Do for You, What Would You Do for Me?” by Emma Binder

by James Wallace Harris, 8/9/26

“What Would I Do for You, What Would You Do for Me?” by Emma Binder returns to the assertion that reading makes us more empathetic. The 2020s are difficult times for trans people, especially for those who live in the heartland. Emma Binder tells us about Cody Hartbrook, a trans man, whose father kicked him out of their Wisconsin home when he graduated high school. Cody found love, acceptance, purpose, even happiness in Massachusetts. Then his father got cancer, and Cody returned to Wisconsin to help his mother.

Unfortunately, you can’t read this story online. You’ll have to buy a copy of The Best American Short Stories 2025. I understand publishers need to make money, but I wish literary magazines would publish their stories online. Few people read little magazines, and not that many people even buy the annual Best American Short Stories.

Writing short stories is how new writers break in. They need the exposure. According to the Colburn Classroom, the Michigan Quarterly Review had a print run of 1,000 copies in 2020. I doubt most little magazines are for-profit concerns. Leaving their content offline is only hiding their light under a bushel. The world is giving up on reading short stories, and paywalls are only accelerating that decline.

But you should buy The Best American Short Stories every year. It makes you a patron of the arts by supporting budding writers. Most of the contributors will have names you don’t know. A few of them will publish a bestseller in years to come. Who knows, you might even buy their first novel when it comes out because you loved reading their short story.

Emma Binder said this in their contributor notes:

One of my obsessions, both artistically and in life, are the stories of queer and trans people who come from rural places and small towns, who may be omitted from the acknowledged social fabric of these communities but still shape them and are shaped by them. Queer and trans people are everywhere, so if their existence is not visible in a certain place, that erasure has been somehow designed. I also wanted to write a story about the feeling of freedom, and how some environments allow us to feel free while others are designed to constrain us—perhaps we experience that constraint through fear, shame, self-hatred, or an ambient hunch that we need to hush some vital part of ourselves in order to make our lives simpler. And maybe we love and miss those places regardless. So the emotional and thematic context was very clear to me, but the actual events of the story—Cody seeing a man falling through the ice, saving him, meeting him and his friends at the bar—took shape slowly and organically, during a warm winter when I was taking a lot of walks past ice fishermen.

I started this story in 2022, amid what I already thought was a harsh political climate for queer and trans people in the United States. Looking back on this story in the even darker and more oppressive landscape of 2025, I feel compelled to say that the ability to live in environments where we feel free, and where we can experience self-determination and authenticity, is literally lifesaving; it allows us to move past raw survival and access deeper, human, complex modes of living. It allows us, as Cody says in the story, to experience such essential things as “love, family, peace.” That is true for trans people and for every person on this Earth.

“What Would I Do for You, What Would You Do for Me?” really is a test for that common assertion that reading makes people more empathetic. I can’t believe anyone can read this story and not feel for Cody.

Like I’ve said before, literary stories are often like experiencing telepathy. Cody saves an ice fisherman, Greg Parham, when the ice breaks. Greg invites Cody out for a beer to say thanks. Cody doesn’t want to go because he’s afraid the locals will discover he’s trans and beat him up.

Cody does go to the bar, but is unnerved when Greg shows up with Kevin and Nick. Cody drinks and shoots pool with the guys while they ply him with friendly questions.

From that, we experience the anxiety Cody lives with. It becomes even more complicated when the guys discover Cody went to high school with them. The guys are baffled that they can’t place Cody. It makes them pry even more. Cody doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell them he was much different back then. He just says he was a loner.

Evidently, Cody wants to be one of the guys, but knows, or fears, being beaten up. I’m not sure I like Emma Binder’s ending. It works realistically, but not dramatically. She shows a gun in the first act, but it’s never used. What if Greg, Kevin, and Nick did learn that Cody was trans? How would Greg, a big, burly, bearded guy, feel about having his life saved by a trans guy?

Greg, Kevin, and Nick are ordinary guys, but they’ve probably never met a trans person. As readers, we feel tension from their masculinity. But aren’t we prejudging them too? Would they beat up Cody?

Other Takes

JWH

“Take Me to Kirkland” by Sarah Anderson

by James Wallace Harris, 8/6/26

At 74, my youngest friend is 60. It’s been years since I’ve socialized with a young person. And when I think of young people, I recall the fellow baby boomers when they were young, or maybe Gen Xers I watched growing up. I’m totally out of touch with recent generations. So when I read a short story like “Take Me to Kirkland” by Sarah Anderson and view modern youth from inside their head, it’s kind of a shock.

Anderson is a young woman from Gainesville, Florida, who is at the beginning of her writing career. Her first novel, Fallow, will be out in September.

Literary fiction is often a touch autobiographical, but you can never be sure. Is the unnamed narrator in “Take Me to Kirkland” made up, or does Anderson use herself or people she knows to paint her tale? Since I’ve sat through dozens of writing critiques in writing classes, I know some writers make things up, and some writers describe things they know. Generally, writers of genre fiction make things up, and literary writers use details from real life.

That’s why I like reading The Best American Short Story series. Reading each volume’s twenty stories feels like eavesdropping into people’s lives. And generally, they are unlike anyone I’ve known.

Luckily, the anthology includes notes from the contributors, so we get some clues about Anderson.

“Take Me to Kirkland” initially grew out of two main fragments.

The first piece to arrive was the scene of the narrator meeting Chloe and the intensity between them. My own breasts came in late, and one of my clearest memories from teenhood is the obsessive, desperate way I looked at other women’s bodies, like at any moment someone might jump from the bushes and announce a winner. That moment of sizing up by the mailbox was my way into the scene, and then the friendship came in a series of images: the cutting of the lemon, girl underwater, the trampoline.

The second piece was the section about childhood misunderstandings. I was a deeply anxious child, and that anxiety was made so much worse by all the things I didn’t understand about the world. I just had this vague sense of how much I didn’t know, and it terrified me. Perhaps because of this, and having made it to the other side, I take a particular joy in collecting other people’s stories of the misunderstandings they had well into adulthood. Like the narrator, I truly believed for a long, long time that Al Gore was only his last name.

It eventually became clear to me that the two fragments were connected, and I spent another year figuring out how to stitch together a narrative around them. Once it started to take shape, the story became a vehicle for a collection of other strangenesses, things that used to or still unsettle me in ways I struggle to articulate, all the ways the world never does actually make sense even after you grow up, and all the stories we tell each other and ourselves to try to understand it.

In other words, the story fictionalizes Anderson’s own anxieties. This is often true with literary short stories. It’s what I like. Unfortunately, I have a terrible time convincing my bookworm friends to read the annual Best American Short Stories. Most bookworms don’t like slice-of-life stories.

Partly, their dislike is with short stories in general. Most bookworms love novels. Writers like Ann Patchett and Elizabeth Strout write slice-of-life stories, but they are longer, and they have a plot. Genre short stories and 19th-century short stories have plots, but contemporary literary fiction short stories seldom do. Unless you’re a connoisseur of literary short stories, enjoying them is difficult.

The real pleasure of reading these kinds of stories is admiring a kind of pseudo-telepathy. In “Take Me to Kirkland,” readers will assume the unnamed narrator is either Anderson or a simulacrum of someone like her. We’re invited into her head. The best literary fiction is when writers reveal their innermost thoughts. Fans of this type of fiction particularly love when writers reveal things so private that we cringe at their honesty.

By the way, this same appeal is why memoirs are bestsellers.

There is a challenge to writing literary fiction. Book, TV, movie, and social media addicts now encounter the inner lives of thousands of people. It’s very difficult to make your thoughts naked in today’s world without appearing mundane. There’s a similarity between literary writers and OnlyFans hosts: you have to be willing to take it all off and show everything.

The narrator in “Take Me to Kirkland” is somewhat over 18, but spends most of the story remembering her friend Chloe from when they were children. At the beginning of the story, they were reunited after being out of touch.

I was surprised that Chloe was calling. We hadn’t spoken in almost two months, for a few reasons. The first was that she had new friends now, the girls she waitressed with three nights a week at the Longhorn Steakhouse. The one Chloe liked the most, Kayla, had a pierced nipple. Chloe showed me a picture after the first time they hung out. I didn’t know that an areola could be that big. I checked Chloe’s face out of the corner of my eye and could tell I was supposed to not make a big deal about it. “Nice,” I said. “Isn’t it so pretty?” she said. “Yeah,” I said. “I like that it’s silver.”

The second reason was that I had been spending more time with Damian, who Chloe said had too much body hair and a weird sense of humor. When I was honest with myself I kind of understood where she was coming from. Damian could be a real piece of shit sometimes and he was four years older than us which, at our current ages, many people found distasteful.

I’m sure this is all mundane to young people today, but for an old baby boomer, this is not how real people or characters talked fifty years ago.

The next part connects the reader to the story’s title. The narrator explains how, as a little kid, she thought Costco’s Kirkland was a magical place. This is a common MFA writing trick. Unfortunately, such childhood fantasies come off as cute rather than psychologically revealing. In fact, some of Anderson’s childhood stories are on the cute side. Especially the one about baby ducks. Such memoryscapes come off as writerly affectations.

Good writing is the accumulation of details. Great writing is the accumulation of significant details. I don’t think these early childhood details were significant. But then we jump forward in time.

Chloe and I met again when we were eleven, in July, when her family moved into the split-level one street over from mine. We had been in different classes every year since second grade and I hadn’t really thought about her. But that summer there she was, sitting on the curb across from our mailbox when I went outside to check if my mom’s Cosmopolitan magazine had been delivered so that I could read it first and then put it back in with the next day’s mail. “No mail on Sundays,” she said from behind me. I had forgotten what day it was.

I couldn’t decide if the girl in front of me, this new Chloe, was hotter than me or not. Her legs were shorter but her tits were bigger, and I had a bad feeling that her face was better than mine. I wanted her to whisper something in my ear. I wanted to cut her hair off. I wanted to watch her suck a slice of lemon and spit the little seeds into my hand one by one.

Chloe considered me too, pausing on my legs. “I live over there now,” she said finally, pointing. “Do you like trampolines?”

“Cool,” I said. “Yeah.”

“Come with me,” she said. Her ass cheeks peeked out from her jean shorts, two pimply little half moons. She took me to the pharmacy down the street to shoplift laxatives, and cough syrup as an afterthought. We passed the bottle back and forth the whole way home and then lay down on the trampoline in her backyard. The trampoline was covered in gravel and twigs and dead leaf fragments, so once we were high we took turns pulling out the pieces that were tangled up in each other’s hair. The syrup left gritty little particles of something on our tongues and made our breath thick and sweet, our thoughts scattering like fistfuls of pennies in a fountain.

These details seem more real and significant. But are they real? This is unknown territory to an old man like me, but is it mundane to someone Anderson’s age? Mundane isn’t always boring. Sometimes, it’s how people connect.

For the next several pages, the story takes a surreal detour for someone like me, but I worry: is this the average world of being a young woman today?

Then we reach the true shocking point of the story, when Chloe disappears. Was she killed or kidnapped? Did she run away? The narrator thinks she sees Chloe in a porn video, one about rough sex and teens. The narrator reveals she watches porn to combat insomnia. This is the narrator getting naked. Are there other things she can tell about herself that are even more disturbing?

To an old person, this is too private. One reason we old folks retreat from the world is that it gets too weird for us. Reading “Take Me to Kirkland” tells me how much the world has changed.

The narrator of this story tells us how she copes.

To try to make myself stop loving Chloe, I sifted through our moments, looking for a handful of them that could bend our narrative arc, or at least end it. The only thing I could come up with was the sight of that ugly black outline on her skin, glistening under the Saran Wrap, and the way she looked when I passed her silently in the hallway at school that last week, bony and distant. But other moments kept creeping in instead, things that made me love her more. Grape breath and her fingers working through my hair, the v of her legs and the o of her mouth when she jumped too high on the trampoline and scared herself, then did it again. The gasp when her hurricane body knocked me flat onto the nylon. “Sorry,” she said, when I pointed at the slick red rug burn on my elbow, and then she licked it.

For the first two weeks after we realized she was gone, people kept asking me if I was ok, and I didn’t really know but I thought I was, except that I was having a very hard time falling asleep. By the end of that first month, more and more I found myself on PornHub, which Damian introduced me to. I would start out watching really basic stuff but as the night wore on, things would escalate and eventually I would find myself watching a gangbang.

Our narrator has finally reached a state of Holden Caulfield-like mental illness. Does she recognize that? Is the world of 2026 that different from 1951 for young people? Or what about Esther Greenwood from The Bell Jar in 1963?

In my nonfiction book club group, we recently asked if fiction or nonfiction was the best way to convey what a moment in time and place is like.

If readers in the 2120s read “Take Me to Kirkland,” will they assume it’s how life was generally like in America in the 2020s? This story resonates with the nonfiction book Girls & Sex: Navigating the Complicated New Landscape by Peggy Orenstein that I read about a decade ago.

The problem with short stories is they are too short. Readers don’t spend the time to think about what they imply. Short stories are going the way of poetry. And if current pundits are correct, the novel will soon follow.

For many readers, reading an anthology like this one is like being pistol-whipped by reality.

JWH