It’s nice to have holes. I like having holes. Knowledge is the world falling into a hole. The human being has evolved because it has holes. Alice found Wonderland at the bottom of a hole.
When I was a teenager I spent a lot of time, too much time in fact, reading bad fantasy books instead of, well, anything else. I’m talking DragonLance, Terry Goodkind, and endless, endless Fighting Fantasy books. None of them hold up today (Goodkind is a wannabe fascist), though I have something of a fondness for the Lone Wolf books by Joe Dever (though can someone please explain why all of these series seem to come out of D&D adventures? What does this say about them, and us for reading them?)
Anyway something I didn’t do much was read science fiction. I tried. I read some Asimov, and I liked the stories about robots. I read some of Greg Egan’s short stories, and they were good. Mind opening. Perhaps that’s why – I wasn’t ready to be challenged?
Science fiction is – or can be – about challenging preconceived notions, putting ideas and ideals into relief to see what might happen when taken to an extreme, or when explored to its fullest. It offers an extension of where we are now via where we could end up, and perhaps whether we do or do not is reliant on the stories we are able to tell ourselves.
I don’t want to be too prescriptive. Or too grand. Space operas exist, of course, and they often woefully rotten junk. Or just plain old grand adventures, which is fine, but not really what I’m talking about here.
Holes by Clelia Farris, is an ideas story. Specifically, the ideas of nurturing, womanhood, being a mother. It’s contained within the prism of a robotic/machine-like egg which seeks to create holes in itself, holes to encourage understanding. And, unfortunately, pain.
This time, the pain is piercing, ferocious. Incandescent awls hammer my body from the inside, hooks soaked in acid widen the nicks, tear the skin to shreds, small drills from the tip thin as a strand of baby hair slip into the smooth albumen of my egg and emerge from the other side after leaving me a hole of infinitesimal diameter. They’re called pores, and they bloom like little spring flowers over every centimeter of my body.
The pain was not what ‘the server’ wanted, but overall she’s – cough cough, sorry sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself – fine with it. The pain is worth it. It’s no accident, I think, that the paragraphs in the story become longer, the sentences more elaborate, as the egg is pierced. There are fewer sentences which begin with “I”. The narration is more complex, and more pleasing to the ear.
De Sade Inc. contacts me to offer their services: What is full, with us becomes empty. Do you want to tear off the mask?
Clever, clever, clever.
I think short stories are a fine medium within which to explore the confines of a single idea. I do. I wonder if, perhaps, this short story is a touch too short. For me, anyway, I was left without enough context to really sink my teeth into the ideas presented.
I’m intrigued by Farris. I think this idea was successfully explored, but at the same time, for me, I wanted a bit more meat with my egg. A bad metaphor, but you know what I mean. The ending, when it arrives, is pretty obvious, but it’s a nice touch and works well. This is a complete and coherent piece, and that, while perhaps seeming like simply damning with faint praise, really isn’t. I’ve read DragonLance, remember?
Holes is a short story by Italian writer Clelia Farris, translated by Rachel Cordasco. You can read the story at World Literature Today.
|Publisher||World Literature Today|
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