That Glimpse Of Truth

Why? Oh! Now I remember the words of the monk at Mont Saint-Michel: “Can we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Listen; there is the wind which is the strongest force in nature; it knocks men down, blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs, and casts great ships on to the breakers; it kills, it whistles, it sighs, it roars, – have you ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all that, however!”

definition of a short story is “something glimpsed from the corner of the eye, in passing.” Notice the “glimpse” part of this. First the glimpse. Then the glimpse gives life, turned into something that illuminates the moment and may, if we’re lucky – that word again – have even further ranging consequences and meaning.

Pritchett said, “Yes. People don’t know what’s going to happen next in their lives, so we don’t either.”

One story included here was published originally on Twitter, which shows what you can do with as few words as you wish – FOR SALE: BABY’S SHOES. NEVER WORN.1

The short story can be the most surprising form of fiction because it offers a magnitude of tellings.

The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It’s getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong.

Tell me what you want, and I shall tell you who you are.

And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection.

The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It’s getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong

Tell me what you want, and I shall tell you who you are.

Anton Chekhov