Some Anomalies of the Short Story (from Literature and Life) — Reading Companion

The Boarding-House Analogy and Its Limits

Howells’s central metaphor—the short story as a desirable single householder who becomes undesirable in a boarding-house—is deliberately imperfect, and he knows it. He immediately notes that magazines thrive on gathering many short stories under one roof, so “the boarding-house analogy breaks, breaks so signally.” This self-correction is characteristic: Howells prefers a lively, provisional hypothesis to a rigid thesis. He then reports a conversation with an editor who claims that good short story collections do sell, citing “several well-known instances.” But Howells remains skeptical, recalling “many books of short stories of the first excellence which had failed as decidedly as those others had succeeded.” He refuses to name them, leaving the reader to supply examples—a rhetorical move that turns the essay into a shared inquiry. The passage reveals Howells’s narrative voice: urbane, anecdotal, and willing to leave questions open. He does not resolve the puzzle but instead shifts blame to the reader’s “indolence or intellectual reluctance,” a gently provocative conclusion.

Why Short-Story Characters Fade from Memory

Howells identifies a deeper anomaly: though we vividly remember certain short stories, we “scarcely remember by name any of the people in them.” He contrasts this with drama, where characters from comedies and farces are easily recalled. The short story’s brevity, he argues, prevents “recurrence and repetition,” which are necessary for “familiar knowledge.” He tests this claim with specific examples: who can name the characters in Mary Wilkins Freeman’s “The Revolt of Mother” or Sarah Orne Jewett’s “The Dulham Ladies”? The question is pointed, and Howells admits he may be “risking too much” by offering instances. Yet he does not dismiss the possibility of change: “as the novella becomes more conscious, its persons will become more memorable.” This section shows Howells at his most analytical, using his own memory as evidence while acknowledging its limits. His voice is measured, almost judicial, but the personal aside—“I may be risking too much”—keeps the tone intimate.

The Short Story’s Evolution Toward Reality

Howells traces the form’s development from a “yarn, gross and palpable” spun for “lewd leisure” to a vehicle of “reality and spirituality.” He cites Henry James’s psychology, Giovanni Verga’s and Alexander Kielland’s sociology, and Jewett’s “exquisite veracity” as evidence of the short story’s ascent. The only modern writer of “romanticistic novelle” he can name is Bret Harte, who created memorable types like John Oakhurst and Tennessee’s Partner. Howells admits this fact “seems to tell against” his argument, but he refuses to ignore it. The passage is notable for its concrete references: Harte’s characters are recalled by name, while James’s and Jewett’s are not. Howells does not resolve the tension; instead, he leaves the reader to ponder whether the short story’s turn toward the real has cost it the power to create lasting figures. His voice here is reflective, almost elegiac, as he acknowledges that the form’s very refinement may limit its memorability.

Howells’s essay is best read as a series of provocations rather than a settled argument. He moves from the economics of publishing to the psychology of reading, then to the formal limits of the novella, all while maintaining a tone of urbane curiosity. Readers interested in the history of the short story will find his references to James, Jewett, Verga, and Harte useful touchstones. The essay rewards attention to its rhetorical structure: Howells often poses a question, offers a tentative answer, then undermines it with a counterexample. This method, more than any conclusion, is the essay’s real subject.

I found myself thinking about how Howells doubts a short story collection can ever feel whole, each piece needing its own air. Then I recalled The Merry-Go-Round — Reading Notes, where that same restlessness seems to linger, not as a flaw but as a kind of quiet invitation. Some books simply murmur to each other across the shelf.