I don't hate short stories at all.
In fact, Lorrie Moore's collection, Birds of America, is pretty much a perfect collection of tales that range from stories of forgiveness to experimentation to, simply, life.
My problem with short stories, however, is that I don't necessarily get what binds them.
I know, that sounds dreadfully stupid. But without, for example, a single character or place or time popping in and out of the separate stories, I don't necessarily get what connects them. Now, I see that in Moore's book, birds appear again and again. But I don't get what that's supposed to mean.
Sigh.
Perhaps age is killing my brain. Or, "As a vacuum cleaner can start to pull up the actual thread of a carpet, her brains had been sucked dry by too much yoga." (p. 81)
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