Because You Don't Always Have to Read Novels

I love novels for a lot of reasons. I love the sense of accomplishment you gain from finishing a lengthy and dense book; I love how attached you grow to the characters you’ve spent days on end with; I love the way storylines can become disjointed and chaotic only to come around in the end after dozens of suspenseful chapters. Reading a novel is a unique experience, but as much as I love them, some of the most memorable and impactful stories I’ve read haven’t been novels. I love short stories. I love the way that in order to create a good short story, every sentence is crucial; a writer has to be precise. I love that because there aren’t hundreds of pages to communicate what you want to say as an author, short stories usually deliver a singular, complex, and often convicting message. I love that so many things remain unanswered in a short story. It’s frustrating at times, but that’s one reason why I find them so haunting, and in turn, life-altering.

I took a short stories class two years ago where we studied short story writers and their form. It brought me a new appreciation for the genre, and one of the stories I read in that class I’ve never been able to get out of my head. Ursula LeGuin’s story, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” is my favorite. The narrator speaks candidly with the reader throughout the brief, four page story, forcing the reader to examine their own behaviors and the value they place on human life. LeGuin paints the picture of a town that knows no suffering, no pain, no law (because it would be unnecessary) and a life that meets the conditions of happiness for every individual living there. When the narrator has adequately described Omelas as the most perfect place on earth, they reveal the qualifying factor. In the middle of town, in an unspecified location, below the street level, there exists a suffering, ambiguously gendered and aged child. As long as the child continues to suffer, continues to fester in its own filth, and continues to deteriorate from malnutrition, those in Omelas can continue life as they have always known it.

Perhaps the most interesting detail of the story is the fact that all of the citizens of Omelas know this child exists. In fact, most of them, at least those old enough to go, have seen this child. The narrator then begins to divulge the convicting layers of justification that the citizens engage in daily, bearing an eerie resemblance to the type of arguments Americans assign to an array of topics all the time. LeGuin brilliantly leaves the details of the child’s identity and location vague, forcing the reader to determine the scapegoat in their culture or situation. The reader must assign this child’s identity, and the reader must decide if they will continue on, enjoying the life they’ve been enjoying as a result of the suffering of another, or choose to live differently altering every aspect of the life they’ve known.

Everytime I read this story I am astounded by how much so few pages affects me; I am taken aback with completely new conclusions and convictions; I am amazed by LeGuin’s thoughtful and precise writing, and I am reminded how important it is for us to engage all areas of literature, how reading short stories is not lazy or only for those who “don’t do” novels. I am humbled by a writer and a story that can do so much with so little.

Kansas