Passages: "Bark," by Lorrie Moore

Over the years, I've tried to document passages of writing that I appreciate from a craft standpoint, or writing that I simply find pretty or lyrical.

I have not done this in an organized fashion.  Sometimes I jot them down on a post-it, slipped inside the book; sometimes on a napkin or piece of scrap paper; sometimes in a journal, both old-school and electronic.  It recently occurred to me that this blog would be a good place to capture some of these bits.

It's fascinating to write out another person's words; to get inside the head of an author, almost feeling how the writing happened.  And I really dig trying to get inside the head of Lorrie Moore.

Moore is one of my favorites; I read and loved two of her previous works, a novel called A Gate at the Stairs, and her short story collection, Birds of America.  I'm currently reading her latest, a short story collection titled, Bark. 

So far Bark is a little darker than the other two works I've read, although I'm only a few stories in and don't yet know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Moore's writing is already kind of dark.

Partly, the darkness is a result of Moore's unflinching dialogue, analogies, and character detail.  For this reason, the opening story, "Debarking," grabbed my attention. It's about a recently divorced man and his awkward, painful (dark), re-entry into the dating world. 

The following character description in this story is so piercingly exact--can't you totally picture this woman, as if you're sitting across the table from her?

Kate's divorced friend was named Zora, and was a pediatrician.  Although no one else did, she howled with laughter, and when her face wasn't blasted apart with it or her jaw snapping mutely open and shut like a scissors (in what Ira recognized was postdivorce hysteria; "How long have you been divorce?" he later asked her. "Eleven years," she replied), Ira could see she was beautiful:  short black hair; eyes a clear, reddish hazel, like orange pekoe tea; a strong aquiline nose, probably a snorer; thick lashes that spiked out wrought and black as the tines of a fireplace fork.  Her body was a mix of thin and plump, her skin lined and unlined, in that rounding-the-corner-to-fifty way.

And how about this excerpt:

"Oh Zora's great," Ira paused.  "Great.  Just great.  In fact, do you perhaps know any other single women?"

"Really?"

"Well, it's just that she might not be all that mentally well."  Ira thought about the moment, just last night, at dinner, when she'd said, "I love your mouth most when it does that odd grimace in the middle of sex," and then she contorted her face so hideously, Ira felt he had been struck.  Later in the evening she had said, "Watch this," and she took her collapsible umbrella, placed its handle on the crotch of her trousers, then pressed the button that sent it rocketing out, unfurled, like a cartoon erection.  Ira did not know who or what she was, thought he wanted to cut her slack, give her a break, bestow upon her the benefit of the doubt--all those paradoxical cliches of supposed generosity, most of which he had denied his wife."

Let's see what the rest of the stories in Bark bring!