This week, a new novel, Michael Ondaatje’s “The English Patient.” In 1995 I was browsing in a bookstore in downtown Chicago and saw “The English Patient” displayed along with other Booker Prize winners. I had previously read Ondaatje’s wonderful “In the Skin of a Lion,” so I was curious. But the cover of that edition of “Patient” showed a pastel drawing of a bandaged figure surrounded by palm trees. I’m afraid in my ignorance, I concluded it must be a medical tale that wouldn’t interest me. Time went on the way it does. (And that brings up an interesting issue about how book covers influence readers—something an author may have little control over). Then on New Year’s Day 1997 my father died after a brief illness. There was a lot to do, getting a grasp of his labyrinthine financial affairs, making sure my elderly mother would be able to continue her lifestyle. Several weeks later, my wife and I decided we deserved a date night. The film version of “The English Patient” was out and had received positive reviews. We arranged for the neighbor to babysit our son (Hi Julia) and headed to a Northside theater. From the very first few moments, I was mesmerized by the gorgeous scene that referred to Katherine copying the cave paintings, the way the textured paper slowly absorbed the liquid color, the music that sounded Arabic but was not. Based on my love for the film, I resolved to finally read the story. Twenty-three years later, and I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it. It’s one of the pieces of writing that inspires me to write. It seems to me that instead of merely being a story, “The English Patient” is about stories—the stories Almasy tells Hana, Herodotus’ Histories, the book which Almasy pastes his own stories into, about the paintings in the Cave of Swimmers (the symbols) that Katherine records in water-soluble ink. The novel begins with a quotation taken “from the minutes of the Geographic Society,” wherein the speaker refers to the tragic deaths of the Cliftons that had occurred several years earlier—an embedded story that foreshadows the larger beastie. (Beastie?) On page two of the 1993 Vintage International edition, we find: “He whispers again, dragging the listening heart of the young nurse beside him to wherever his mind is, into that well of memory he kept plunging into during those months before he died.” He—Almasy—is telling Hana stories. Is the essential, magical point that the stories are written stories—a book about writing? Maybe. “She would sit and read, the book under the waver of light…This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.” Hana reads. “She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awakening from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.” Isn’t this an accurate description of what it’s like to read “The English Patient?” So— you’re reading a book about characters reading. The book is telling you a story about characters telling stories. Careful! We’re walking near the rabbit hole again. “This is a story of how I fell I love with a woman, who read me a specific story from Herdotus. I heard the words she spoke across the fire, never looking up, even when she teased her husband.” What I’m getting at here is the narrational style. There is a narrator in this book, but she/he is very hidden. There is a point later when the narrator makes an appearance, and I will discuss that—but now is not the time. The narrator tells a story of people telling each other stories. But that’s not all. The book begins, “She stands up in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance. She has sensed a shift in the weather. There is another gust of wind, a buckle of noise in the air, and the tall cypresses sway.” Very immediate writing with the present tense, the short, declarative sentences—she stands, she has sensed. There is little mediation—certainly not by a narrator’s consciousness. That would be more like, “I see her in the garden where she has been working. A slight young woman who has sensed a shift in the weather.” In that case, the reader would be imagining a narrator “seeing” the scene. Ondaatje’s style makes the narrator so close and intimate to the character in the scene that the narrator nearly disappears like a ghost. The character—Hana—goes inside the villa, and, “The man lies on the bed, his body exposed to the breeze, and he turns his head slowly towards her as she enters.” This is nearly like telling the actors in a stage-play what to do. Except there is no rush of dialogue. There are at least two modes in the story. First, the mode where the invisible narrator “shows” us characters and events from the inside and outside. Then, there is the level of the characters telling stories, becoming their own narrators, perhaps. Their own readers? Hmm. Next time, I’ll delve more into how these modes interact and what effect they bring.

I have spoken at tedious length about the narrator’s voice in “Love in the Time of Cholera,” best beloved. (I’ve been wanting to write “best beloved” all along—a favorite Kipling reference). It is an authoritative voice, sure of itself—the narrator is never in doubt as to her/his grasp of the story and characters. And the narrator is not Garcia Marquez, best beloved, just as the person writing this post—who has been described by a friend as a landowner in the New Hampshire countryside—is not “Alan Bray”—the entity who is telling this story. I believe this unnamed and undescribed narrator takes human form and is finally humbled in his efforts to dictate the story of love in the time of cholera. This human is Captain Diego Samaritano, the commander of the riverboat that Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza take to cruise the Magdalena River, and it is Florentino Ariza who humbles him. Captain Samaritano (Samaritan—a reference to the biblical Samaritan who aids the injured traveler) appears in the last thirty pages of the story. He is described as a giant, with a stentorian voice, always dressed immaculately in the uniform of the R.C.C. establishment. He immediately senses the fragility of Fermina and Florentino, rescuing them from the awkwardness of being ageing sweethearts, nurturing their love. Initially, Fermina didn’t like him, but was touched by the story of how he cared for the manatees, going to jail for six months for marooning the gringo who killed one. When Fermina expresses concern over a woman who is seen on the shore, the Captain explains that she is the ghost of a drowned woman, and Fermina “had no doubt that she did not exist, but her face seemed familiar.” (Interesting). Now, best beloved, I am not saying that all along, it has been Captain Samaritano who has been narrating the story. No. I am saying at the end, the narrator assumes human form. Florentino and Fermina consummate their love for each other physically and are reluctant to end the cruise—it is an enchanted space where they can be lovers. They want to put the other passengers ashore and continue on their own. The Captain explains (he does that a lot) that the only way to do that would be to fly the yellow cholera flag, and in the first sign of Florentino’s power, Florentino says, ‘Let’s do that, then.’ “The Captain was taken by surprise, but then, with the instinct of an old fox, he saw everything clearly. ‘I command on this ship,, but you command us,’ he said. ‘So if you are serious, give me the order in writing and we will leave right now.” Of course, in a book, things have to be given in writing. The passengers are put ashore, the yellow cholera flag is flown. The Captain takes on board his lover, and the steamboat—existing now in a different time of cholera—cruises on with two cases of love on board. Then, when they reach the city, the authorities tell them the ship must be placed in quarantine, and the Captain is furious—with himself—raging that he has gotten them all into a bad situation. He must decide what to do. The Captain, Fermina thinks, ‘was their destiny.’ “Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza looked at him without speaking, as if waiting on a school bench to hear their final grades. They had not exchanged a word during the conversation with the health patrol, nor did they have the slightest idea of what would become of their lives, but they both knew that the Captain was thinking for them; they could see it in the throbbing of his temples.” Yes, they don’t know what will become of their lives because up to this point, the narrator has had this knowledge—of their destiny. Up to this point, the narrator has remained in charge of the story. But now the steadfast narrator is finally humbled. Florentino sees the complete circle of the quadrant on the mariner’s compass. He utters, ’Let us keep going, going, going, back to La Dorado.” The Captain is stupefied by Florentino Ariza’s tremendous powers of inspiration. “Do you mean what you say?” “From the moment I was born…I have never said anything I did not mean.” The Captain was overwhelmed by the belated suspicion that it is life, more than death, that has no limits. (The story is revealed to have no limits). ‘And how long do you think we can keep up this goddamm coming and going?’ ‘Forever.’ The Captain/narrator is overwhelmed and silenced; his job has ended, and the great novel itself ends on a very open note. There will be no more explanation—it is up to the reader to decide for her/himself what becomes of these characters. #loveinthetimeofcholera

Before setting out once again on my discussion of “Love in the Time of Cholera,” I should probably issue, belatedly, a spoiler alert. Beware! “Love in the Time of Cholera” begins with Dr. Urbino going to the house of his old friend Jeremiah de Saint Amour, who has poisoned himself and left Dr. Urbino an eleven-page letter. The letter contains shocking revelations and directs Dr. Urbino to go to a particular house in the city. There he is greeted by a woman he recognizes as Jeremiah’s lover. She is not named in the text, but does greet Dr. Urbino by saying “This is your house, Doctor.” He talks with her, about the suicide and about the letter but is ultimately repelled by the woman who says she refuses to mourn Jeremiah in traditional ways, that she will destroy his possessions and try to go on with her life. This passage occurs on page twenty-three of the Modern Library edition. After this, there is no further mention of the woman, or the letter. No explanation of why the woman says the house is his. Jeremiah reappears on page three-hundred-thirty-three, when Florentino hears tolling bells and is reminded he’s supposed to go to Jeremiah’s funeral—the bells are actually for Dr. Urbino. What is going on? Isn’t it a bit strange to describe these events in great detail, to introduce a secret—and then abandon both? One might expect that later on in the chronicle, an explanation would surface, that Jeremiah’s confession would be revealed. I think the concept of mirroring may help us in our quest for understanding. I’ll go further—I believe what we have here may be referred to as a mise en abyme (literally, placement into the abyss)—the technique of inserting a story within a story. It’s not the only one in “Cholera,” but it does have primacy of place. My opinion—Jeremiah’s lover’s reaction to his death, her apparent lack of caring is a mirror for Fermina Daza’s reaction to Dr. Urbino’s death. More than that, Jeremiah’s having a secret life is a double for Dr. Urbino himself—the measured doctor and man whose secrets are gradually revealed. His liaison with Miss Barbara Lynch, for instance. Ultimately, on page three-ninety-six, Fermina Daza visits her husband’s grave the day before she embarks on her journey with Florentino. “…she made peace with her dead husband in a monologue in which she freely recounted all the just recriminations she had choked back. Then she told him the details of the trip and said goodbye for now.” The term mise en abime originally referred to a technique in heraldry, where a smaller version of an emblem was placed in the center of a larger one. What does this mini-tale of Jeremiah’s death and his lover’s reaction accomplish? It presents two important ideas (two at least) that mirror or foreshadow later events. 1. People you think you know well—Jeremiah to Dr. Urbino—may have shocking secrets. 2. A woman—even if she loves her husband, may experience widowhood as a liberation. These are both key ideas in the broader story; the tale of Jeremiah’s death foreshadows the tale of Dr. Urbino’s death and his widow’s reaction. We learn within the first fifty pages that Fermina will be a widow, that the Doctor dies after the unfortunate encounter with the parrot—without the story of Jeremiah, we might tend to assume that Fermina would go into reclusive mourning and maintain a steely disdain for Florentino. And she does not. No, she does not. #loveinthetimeofcholoera

Here’s that first line again—"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” The reader opens “Love in the Time of Cholera,” and the first page presents her/him with a charming puzzle—who is speaking? Whose is the voice that tells the story—the storyteller’s voice? Let’s consider the suspects. Is it one of the main characters—Dr. Juvenal Urbino, Fermina Daza, or Florentino Ariza? Nope—because the narrator is able to report on the actions of all the characters, as well as their thoughts and feeling, and do this over a period of seventy plus years. For the same reason, it can’t be one of the minor characters. Is it the author of the book, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Some might say—duh, of course, he wrote the book, so he must be the narrator. Yeah, I always assume the author is the one telling the story—who else could it be? Hmmm. Last week, the detective figured out that the present-time of the story is in 1913. We know Garcia Marquez wrote the novel in the early 1980’s. The narrator speaks of “we,” and “us,” and seems to be referring to events that have recently occurred, so it appears the narrator is a different entity than Marquez, an entity who is aware of the events of the lives of Dr. Urbino, Fermina Daza, and Florentino Ariza, over a nearly seventy-year period, and can also see inside them to report on their thoughts and feelings. The narrator can also do this with most of the other characters. An entity that Marquez created, someone who is apparently a resident of “our” city and has access to people’s inner lives. What? How could that be? Does the story tell itself? No the narrator tells it. Really? But the narrator is a fictional character in the story. My head hurts. True art conceals art. Last time, I wrote that the reader is seduced into believing that Garcia Marquez is not telling the story, that it’s an unnamed narrator who, by the way, is never mistaken—more on that below, my friends. So, the narrator of “Love in the Time of Cholera” is an entity in the story, unnamed, who tells the story of the named characters, getting inside their skins. What effect does this narrative style have? Let’s try to answer this by considering alternatives—taking the first two sentences as an example. If the story were written in first person: “It was inevitable, I thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love. I noticed it as soon as I entered the still darkened house…” This might actually work, the rest of the prose is so magnificent. But problems would arise quickly—how could a first-person narrator “know” the hearts and minds of the other characters? How could such a narrator “know” about situations in which they were not physically present? Well, there are ways—more illusion—but another time. Actually, the narrator in “Cholera” writes in first person—or second. “…Jeremiah de Saint-Amour could become what he was among us.” Or if it were written in third person: “It was inevitable, he thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. He noticed it as soon as he entered the still darkened house…” Okay, again, this could work for parts of the story, but still, a character described in this way would not know the hearts and minds of the other characters. No, an omniscient narrator entity works well, especially when the story gets to the long description of the city and of Dr. Urbino’s house. If the story were told from say, Dr. Urbino’s first- or third-person point of view, he would have to enter a long reverie to describe things. “I was riding in my carriage and thought about the suffocating gases of the marshes, how the old slave quarters were built from weathered boards and zinc roofs.” No! Why would he notice such things, things he would probably take for granted and not notice. It would make Dr. Urbino a different character. Awkward. The chosen narrative style allows the real author to present a great number of stories—episodes—about different characters that, taken together, weave the whole story together. The reader gets to know Fermina, Dr. Urbino, and Florentino, in depth. In fact, the structure of the story, having two characters essentially separated for their adult lives, needs a narrator who can tell about both. An alternative would be to present the story in first or third person sections—say, first, a Fermina section, then, page break, a Florentino section. Actually the narrator would still be there but tucked further away. Another effect—style. I alluded to this last time, but today, let’s consider it in a new context. The narrative style of “apparently omniscient narrator” refers to an older style, when stories always had a narrator character, a story teller. Think of “Don Quixote,” or Stendhal. And “Cholera” is a tale from the past—isn’t it? (More seduction here). Using this narrative style gives the story a feel of having been written in the past when it really wasn’t. I say “apparently omniscient narrator” because it’s worth considering—does the narrator really know everything? Could it be that the characters trick the narrator, that they don’t reveal everything? Florentino, for instance, is a pretty slippery guy. I guess we’ll never know. #loveinthetimeofcholera

Here’s that first line again—"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” The reader opens “Love in the Time of Cholera,” and the first page presents her/him with a charming puzzle—who is speaking? Whose is the voice that tells the story—the storyteller’s voice? Let’s consider the suspects. Is it one of the main characters—Dr. Juvenal Urbino, Fermina Daza, or Florentino Ariza? Nope—because the narrator is able to report on the actions of all the characters, as well as their thoughts and feeling, and do this over a period of seventy plus years. For the same reason, it can’t be one of the minor characters. Is it the author of the book, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Some might say—duh, of course, he wrote the book, so he must be the narrator. Yeah, I always assume the author is the one telling the story—who else could it be? Hmmm. Last week, the detective figured out that the present-time of the story is in 1913. We know Garcia Marquez wrote the novel in the early 1980’s. The narrator speaks of “we,” and “us,” and seems to be referring to events that have recently occurred, so it appears the narrator is a different entity than Marquez, an entity who is aware of the events of the lives of Dr. Urbino, Fermina Daza, and Florentino Ariza, over a nearly seventy-year period, and can also see inside them to report on their thoughts and feelings. The narrator can also do this with most of the other characters. An entity that Marquez created, someone who is apparently a resident of “our” city and has access to people’s inner lives. What? How could that be? Does the story tell itself? No the narrator tells it. Really? But the narrator is a fictional character in the story. My head hurts. True art conceals art. Last time, I wrote that the reader is seduced into believing that Garcia Marquez is not telling the story, that it’s an unnamed narrator who, by the way, is never mistaken—more on that below, my friends. So, the narrator of “Love in the Time of Cholera” is an entity in the story, unnamed, who tells the story of the named characters, getting inside their skins. What effect does this narrative style have? Let’s try to answer this by considering alternatives—taking the first two sentences as an example. If the story were written in first person: “It was inevitable, I thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love. I noticed it as soon as I entered the still darkened house…” This might actually work, the rest of the prose is so magnificent. But problems would arise quickly—how could a first-person narrator “know” the hearts and minds of the other characters? How could such a narrator “know” about situations in which they were not physically present? Well, there are ways—more illusion—but another time. Actually, the narrator in “Cholera” writes in first person—or second. “…Jeremiah de Saint-Amour could become what he was among us.” Or if it were written in third person: “It was inevitable, he thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. He noticed it as soon as he entered the still darkened house…” Okay, again, this could work for parts of the story, but still, a character described in this way would not know the hearts and minds of the other characters. No, an omniscient narrator entity works well, especially when the story gets to the long description of the city and of Dr. Urbino’s house. If the story were told from say, Dr. Urbino’s first- or third-person point of view, he would have to enter a long reverie to describe things. “I was riding in my carriage and thought about the suffocating gases of the marshes, how the old slave quarters were built from weathered boards and zinc roofs.” No! Why would he notice such things, things he would probably take for granted and not notice. It would make Dr. Urbino a different character. Awkward. The chosen narrative style allows the real author to present a great number of stories—episodes—about different characters that, taken together, weave the whole story together. The reader gets to know Fermina, Dr. Urbino, and Florentino, in depth. In fact, the structure of the story, having two characters essentially separated for their adult lives, needs a narrator who can tell about both. An alternative would be to present the story in first or third person sections—say, first, a Fermina section, then, page break, a Florentino section. Actually the narrator would still be there but tucked further away. Another effect—style. I alluded to this last time, but today, let’s consider it in a new context. The narrative style of “apparently omniscient narrator” refers to an older style, when stories always had a narrator character, a story teller. Think of “Don Quixote,” or Stendhal. And “Cholera” is a tale from the past—isn’t it? (More seduction here). Using this narrative style gives the story a feel of having been written in the past when it really wasn’t. I say “apparently omniscient narrator” because it’s worth considering—does the narrator really know everything? Could it be that the characters trick the narrator, that they don’t reveal everything? Florentino, for instance, is a pretty slippery guy. I guess we’ll never know.

Here’s that first line again—"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” The reader opens “Love in the Time of Cholera,” and the first page presents her/him with a charming puzzle—who is speaking? Whose is the voice that tells the story—the storyteller’s voice? Let’s consider the suspects. Is it one of the main characters—Dr. Juvenal Urbino, Fermina Daza, or Florentino Ariza? Nope—because the narrator is able to report on the actions of all the characters, as well as their thoughts and feeling, and do this over a period of seventy plus years. For the same reason, it can’t be one of the minor characters. Is it the author of the book, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Some might say—duh, of course, he wrote the book, so he must be the narrator. Yeah, I always assume the author is the one telling the story—who else could it be? Hmmm. Last week, the detective figured out that the present-time of the story is in 1913. We know Garcia Marquez wrote the novel in the early 1980’s. The narrator speaks of “we,” and “us,” and seems to be referring to events that have recently occurred, so it appears the narrator is a different entity than Marquez, an entity who is aware of the events of the lives of Dr. Urbino, Fermina Daza, and Florentino Ariza, over a nearly seventy-year period, and can also see inside them to report on their thoughts and feelings. The narrator can also do this with most of the other characters. An entity that Marquez created, someone who is apparently a resident of “our” city and has access to people’s inner lives. What? How could that be? Does the story tell itself? No the narrator tells it. Really? But the narrator is a fictional character in the story. My head hurts. True art conceals art. Last time, I wrote that the reader is seduced into believing that Garcia Marquez is not telling the story, that it’s an unnamed narrator who, by the way, is never mistaken—more on that below, my friends. So, the narrator of “Love in the Time of Cholera” is an entity in the story, unnamed, who tells the story of the named characters, getting inside their skins. What effect does this narrative style have? Let’s try to answer this by considering alternatives—taking the first two sentences as an example. If the story were written in first person: “It was inevitable, I thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love. I noticed it as soon as I entered the still darkened house…” This might actually work, the rest of the prose is so magnificent. But problems would arise quickly—how could a first-person narrator “know” the hearts and minds of the other characters? How could such a narrator “know” about situations in which they were not physically present? Well, there are ways—more illusion—but another time. Actually, the narrator in “Cholera” writes in first person—or second. “…Jeremiah de Saint-Amour could become what he was among us.” Or if it were written in third person: “It was inevitable, he thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. He noticed it as soon as he entered the still darkened house…” Okay, again, this could work for parts of the story, but still, a character described in this way would not know the hearts and minds of the other characters. No, an omniscient narrator entity works well, especially when the story gets to the long description of the city and of Dr. Urbino’s house. If the story were told from say, Dr. Urbino’s first- or third-person point of view, he would have to enter a long reverie to describe things. “I was riding in my carriage and thought about the suffocating gases of the marshes, how the old slave quarters were built from weathered boards and zinc roofs.” No! Why would he notice such things, things he would probably take for granted and not notice. It would make Dr. Urbino a different character. Awkward. The chosen narrative style allows the real author to present a great number of stories—episodes—about different characters that, taken together, weave the whole story together. The reader gets to know Fermina, Dr. Urbino, and Florentino, in depth. In fact, the structure of the story, having two characters essentially separated for their adult lives, needs a narrator who can tell about both. An alternative would be to present the story in first or third person sections—say, first, a Fermina section, then, page break, a Florentino section. Actually the narrator would still be there but tucked further away. Another effect—style. I alluded to this last time, but today, let’s consider it in a new context. The narrative style of “apparently omniscient narrator” refers to an older style, when stories always had a narrator character, a story teller. Think of “Don Quixote,” or Stendhal. And “Cholera” is a tale from the past—isn’t it? (More seduction here). Using this narrative style gives the story a feel of having been written in the past when it really wasn’t. I say “apparently omniscient narrator” because it’s worth considering—does the narrator really know everything? Could it be that the characters trick the narrator, that they don’t reveal everything? Florentino, for instance, is a pretty slippery guy. I guess we’ll never know.

I have decided to post more regularly on this site—it seems that The Fictional World of Alan Bray could contain fiction by other authors. What I want to do is communicate some thoughts I have about stories I’m reading. Please—if you want to react or add further thoughts, it would be great. Read the stories with me—our lives will be the better for it! But on these matters, I claim no expertise beyond loving to read and write. I’ve been reading Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, re-reading it for the third time, although it’s as fresh as the first. I thought I’d start by some reactions to the start of the book, the first line. “It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” I like the late Ross Chamber’s ideas about literature, in particular the one that stories contain cues and instructions about how they should be read. So if you read “Dick threw the ball to Jane, but Spot took it,” you learn there are three characters involved with each other, and that the style and vocabulary is simple and concrete. This first line from “Love” tells a different tale. The use of the words “inevitable” and especially “unrequited” cue the reader that the style is more intellectual, as does the prominent position of the colon. The use of the colon could signal complexity; it could also indicate an older writing style or a writing style that wants to refer to the past. There’s a hint of philosophy too in the mention of “fate.” “The scent of bitter almonds” is evocative and seductive. I’ve never smelled cyanide, although I’ve read elsewhere that it does indeed smell like bitter almonds. I hope I never find out, actually, but reading this creates mystery; it hooks you into wanting to read more. Why does the scent of bitter almonds always remind him of unrequited love? It’s not an everyday observation. And who is him? Other cues lurk. The reader can probably safely assume the story will be told in the past tense and in third person—again, possibly the signs of an older style. There’s an immediate sense of a narrator/story teller at work. I’m going to tell you a story about a “he” who is “always” reminded of unrequited love by a peculiar sensory sensation. What is “unrequited love?” A dictionary says it’s a one-sided love that is not openly reciprocated or understood as such by the beloved. The beloved may not be aware of the admirer's deep and strong romantic affection, or may consciously reject it. Hmmm—it seems like this first sentence expresses the whole story. A lot of thoughts about one sentence—if I’m reading a book for pleasure I’m in a hurry to get into it, I don’t stop and do this kind of analysis. So a lot of these signals and cues must occur at an unconscious level. Yup. You can view these post on the Blog page of this site. I hope you enjoy!

I'm happy to say my short story "The Underground" was selected as a top ten finalist in the 2019 Blood Orange Review Literary Contest. I'm proud to be among the finalists and offer congratulations to the winner. "The Underground" concerns romance between Saul and Maria, who owns a bookstore in one of Lisbon's Metro stations. Many thanks to the Blood Orange Review. #theunderground #bloodorangereview

My short story "This Year's Winner of the Starbuck's Prize" was a semi-finalist in Ruminate Magazine's William Van Dyke Short Story Prize. Congratulations to the winner. Out of 350 entries, "Starbucks" found its mooring among nineteen others, so I'm happy. For all you "Moby Dick' fans, "Starbucks" isn't exactly about Herman Melville's classic novel. It concerns a university professor who confronts the Dreamer crisis when a favorite student disappears.. Many thanks to Ruminate. #thisyearswinnerofthestarbucksprize

I'm honored that my short story "The Porous Texture of Snow" has been long-listed in the Fish Short Story Prize for 2019. This is a big international competition, so I'm pleased. And congratulations to the winners. #poroustextureofsnow #fishshortstoryprize

I'm delighted to say that Eclectica, an on-line journal, will publish my story "Already She Was Root" on October 31st—Halloween. Over the past year, I've been working on several stories—"Root" being one—and didn't want to publish them till they were ready. Ready as defined by me, in my stubborn, obsessive way. I'm really happy that Eclectica has accepted it, I've admired them for years. "Root" is about a troubled marriage set in a parallel time period where America is divided into Red and Blue States after civil war. When the story goes live, I'll post the link. #AlanBray #AlreadySheWasRoot #Eclectica

Happy Halloween. My story "Already She Was Root" is live on the Eclectica site. The whole issue is great; many thanks to Tom Dooley and congratulations on 20 years. #AlanBray #AlreadySheWasRoot #Eclectica