Vintage Contemporaries / Why I Don't Write

The Torch


 
She lay back on the clean white pillows.

Is that ? Who s there? she said.

It s me.

John? she said in a weak voice. Is that you, John? Happiness came into her tone.

Yes, it s me, said her husband, taking her hand.

Where have you been?

I ve been right here. You just woke up.

Are we at home?

Yes, he said. We re at the house.

You came from ? she whispered. She shook her head. No,
she said. That s not . . .

Is there anything I can get you, dear?

No, John.

Here, have a little water. He held up a paper cup. His hand was shaky. He managed to guide the bent straw to her lips.
 
Thank you, John, she said. Saying his name pleased her. She smiled, though her husband would have hardly called it a smile. Her face had lost most of its flesh and her profile was more pronounced, even regal.
 
She spoke with great effort. I m thinking of the dancing, she said. Isn t it lovely to think of? Her eyelids were low and her black eyes looked elsewhere.
 
It is, he said. He stroked her hand. Her hand had not changed so much, though her wedding band was loose beneath her knuckle. But her wrist was different, flat like a board, and her fore- arm where it emerged from her dressing gown was like a plank.
 
Have you changed the music, John?

What, dear?

I m sorry, she said. I m confused.

Painkillers, he said. The medicine is making you confused.
 
Her gaze flicked in his direction with a sharp bird-look, testing the soundness of this. The medicine, she said uncertainly, and nodded. What time is it?
 
He consulted his watch and after some time reported, Twenty to five.
 
In the evening, she said with suspicion.

In the evening.

They sat for a while.

Then she said, Tomorrow I think we might go to the shore.
 
We ll see.
 
She lifted up her narrow arms and dropped them on the bedspread. Oh, God, she groaned, I d love to swim. In lovely cold water.
 
You

Susan Minot is an award-winning novelist, short story writer, poet, and screenwriter. Her first novel, Monkeys, was published in a dozen countries and won the Prix Femina Étranger in France. Her novel Evening was a worldwide bestseller and became a major motion picture. She teaches at Stony Brook University in New York City and conducts a private writing workshop.

A winning blend of emotional intensity, capricious playfulness and keen-eyed observation. Minneapolis Star Tribune

A winning blend of emotional intensity, capricious playfulness and keen-eyed observation. Minneapolis Star Tribune Tender, precise, emotional, insightful and funny. Julianne Moore

Why I Don t Write: And Other Stories, [Minot s] first in some thirty years, showcases her versatility. Its ten stories range from mainstream to experimental, with sundry stops in between. . . . She has an unmistakable knack for distilling things, and gorgeously, at that. . . . Taken as a whole, Minot s collection is, by turns, spiky and intimate, adventurous, stark and lyrical. . . . Few story collections shine as brightly. Portland Press Herald (Maine)

Why I Don t Write is a quiet collection, but it is not a halting or timid one. Minot still has a poet s instinct for the surprising volta, the striking image, the bracing final line. After thirty years away from the short story, it is good to have her back, clear-eyed and fearless as ever, whispering difficult truths and ambiguities that a less assured writer would feel compelled to shout. The New York Times Book Review

Susan Minot is an author well reputed for the purity and terseness of her prose exhibited over a career of more than three decades. Her latest book, a collection of ten stories is no exception. . . . Minot excels in description of people and places. . . . [A] rewarding read. New York Journal of Books

[Why I Don t Write] is strikingly visual. Here, the light is often white, people s heads are bullet-shaped, and the littered car of a scoundrel professor is a fish tank. At their best, the sentences are frozen frames peering at the reader, as the reader peers back, peeling new information with each read. . . . [These stories] spill with luscious sentences that