Short stories are funny things. I had never read any Byatt before and was, I confess, dubious about reviewing her new collection for the worthy readers of Cherwell.My suspicions were unfounded. The first story tells of two middleaged women retracing childhood steps to confront their demons, as fact and memory merge. Prosthetics are used in her next tale, an examination of artistic morality, as well as a perfectly judged investigation into human relationships. The third story follows a woman’s metamorphosis from grief-stricken mourner to creature of stonesand gems. The fourth presents itself as a meditation on the act of writing, throughout which Byatt’s ideas are sustained by an effortless style. The final tale, aptly, looks at human decline into senility, and includes the unprecedented appearance of the Teletubbies and the Aeneid on the same page. The ongoing theme in all five stories is what is left behind, a concept that Byatt uses to draw in questions of memory and to examine the artistic process. Byatt uses words expertly, with sharp images and lyrical turns of phrase – take, for example, “One morning pain struck her like a sudden beak.”The only flaw I can suggest is a minor one of vocabulary. Does anyone really say “bust” any more? Likewise, “sex” (as in “her hands on his sex,”) sounds rather too DH Lawrence for my liking. But these are churlish comments. Byatt’s writing is marvellous. Her tone is graceful (think Angela Carter without the excess) and strikes a perfect balance between narrative and description. Each story stands out as original and refreshing, fitting together just enough to generate atmosphere while avoiding co-dependence. As the title suggests, each one is deliciously dark. The writing is masterful. It really is that simple. Chatto and Windus,
6th November 2003
Archive: 0th week HT 2004
Little Black Book of Stories
