JOHN MADERA—Writer, Editor, Publisher

My own list is by no means comprehensive of the novellas I’ve read or the one’s that have impacted me the most even (For instance, there’s Guy Davenport’s novellas like Apples and Pears of which Patrick Meanor wrote: “Nothing that came before and nothing following this novella rivals its richness, diversity, and brilliance or demonstrates the enormous scope of [Davenport’s] intellectual terrain.”), but here are some that I feel I have a little something to say about.

The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka

An obvious choice—who doesn’t recall this bewildering, enigmatic struggle of an oversized insect, or the rotting apple lodged in its/ his carapace?— but its importance, and Kafka’s work in general, was magnified for me after wrestling with Deleuze and Guattari’s typically impenetrable ideas (all rendered in wonderfully inscrutable language) in Kafka: A Theory of Minor Literature. A “minor literature” is not to be understood as derogatory; instead, it is an act of subversion, a language created within another language, taking “flight on a line of escape.” It is wholly political, “its cramped space forces each individual intrigue to connect immediately to politics. The individual concern thus becomes all the more necessary, indispensable, magnified, because a whole other story is vibrating in it.” It also has collective and enunciative value. It’s a “literary machine [that] becomes the relay for a revolutionary machine-to-come, not at all for ideological reasons but because the literary machine alone is determined to fill the conditions of a collective enunciation that is lacking elsewhere in this milieu: literature is the people’s concern.” Another compelling thing about Kafka is the writers’ discarding all psychoanalytical and allegorical interpretations, or rather, reductions, of Kafka’s work. They assert that “Kafka deliberately kills all metaphor, all symbolism, all signification.” How do you like them epistemological apples?

Milk, by Darcey Steinke

A friend of mine once told me of how inspired he was with Mother Theresa who said, “Somebody loves us, too—God Himself. We have been created to love and to be loved.” Around the same time, a loony friend with dreams of being a stand-up comic said, “If we are all god’s children, then I was abused.” Reading Darcey Steinke’s Milk feels like being cradled back and forth between the two sentiments. Mary’s profound love for her newborn and her sacrificial acts are vividly contrasted with her sense of longing, yearning, her feelings of abandonment, her perceived and actual betrayal.

Steinke’s prose at times reminds me of the flourishing coda in Joyce’s novella The Dead. Take for example, these passages from Milk’s first chapter:

After her husband changed the record, he sat on the floor by her feet. He probably didn’t want to—he never did anymore—but she had to try and so leaned down and kissed his lips. A modicum of pressure was returned, but when she moved her tongue into his mouth, his teeth were a smooth hard line and he turned his head. She looked down at the black patch of her pubic hair beyond the lavender nylon of her panties…

Mary checked on the baby, who was sleeping on his side, one tiny foot pressed against the edge of the bassinet, and then walked into the bedroom. She lay down next to her husband, who was either sleeping, which Mary doubted, or pretending to sleep, and she, very softly, gyrated her pelvis against his ass. She felt his bones through his warm skin and her own sex tighten. But he lay still so long that she got up, changed into her flannel nightgown, went into the baby’s room and lay down on the rug next to his bassinet.



It’s that melancholic yearning, those subtle misunderstandings and betrayals, as well as the euphoric, almost tubercular raving quality of the prose. Maybe another passage will illustrate it better, one in which masturbation becomes an illuminating, almost St. John the Divine revelation and reminds me also of Nabokov’s short story “The Word”:

She tensed her pelvis and a swarm of butterflies careened up her spine. The vibrations entered her like radio waves, her bones felt molten and she was a twig pitched out into the universe. And that WAS IT: Her sex twitched and she felt the lobes of her brain open like a flower and she was inside of a wave, made from torn-up flower petals. Broken petals filling her mouth as she swung open the car door and staggered away from the crash.



Steinke’s Milk is a melancholic flowering.

The Log of the S.S. Mrs. Unguentine, by Stanley Crawford

I’ve written about Crawford’s masterpiece HERE. With Ben Marcus’s afterward in the new edition, I suspect that this work will impact many, many writers who care about words, words, words, words that careen and career, words that smash and scatter, flood and drown.

Micheline Aharonian Marcom

After her books destroy you you may never be able to piece yourself back together again. You may find my review of The Daydreaming Boy and The Mirror in the Well, HERE and HERE.

Glenway Prescott’s The Pilgrim Hawk: A Love Story gets the full treatment by me HERE.

Chronicle of a Death Foretold, by Garcia Marquez

Like The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao it gives lie to the idea that knowing the end kills interest in a book.

The Father Costume, by Ben Marcus

Fleeing some undefined peril in a post-apocalyptic watery world, two brothers move into an outfit in which their father had clothed his own consciousness. One brother speaks a language called “Forecast.” There are wind-made songs, honey-soaked antennas, a sky sounding like waterfalls, a radio screaming like an animal was trapped inside it. In this world, there are killholes, silence baths, cloth diviners, and language traps.

“On the shoreline were long descriptions scrolling in the treeline, sentences indecipherable without the proper cloth filter. We had only so much burlap to spare and the messages did not seem crucial. We were always choosing what we needed to know yet I had trouble leaving those sentences unread. I thought they might have been placed there for us. My brother moved our costume to keep me from seeing the shore. I saw only the wake behind us, a trail of foam that produced a language of bubbles so crudely intimate I was ashamed to decipher it.”



[You can listen to Marcus reading an excerpt HERE.



The Age of Wire and String, The Father Costume, and Notable American Women may be proof that Ben Marcus may be the heir apparent lovechild of Gertrude Stein and Samuel Beckett. I can’t wait for his next book Children, Cover Your Eyes! which the Creative Capital website describes as

an experimental novel depicting a world in which human beings are allergic to language. The book centers on the story of two rival brothers who seek allergy-free language alternatives and “language prosthetics” to protect potential speakers. Marcus is anchoring Children, Cover Your Eyes! in the brothers’ dramatic narrative in order to heighten the emotional tension within his deeply conceptual novel. The result is part lament over the loss of language, part dystopian fantasy, part family tragedy. When published, Children, Cover Your Eyes! will include an accompanying website and scientific diagrams.



And then there’s Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Tale of Wall Street (“I would prefer not to” is a much needed slogan for these desultory times), Haroun and the Sea of Stories (A fine, somewhat allegorical, tale. Yes, it’s Rushdie-lite, but so what?), DeLillo’s The Body Artist, John Fowles’s A Separate Peace (I read this as a kid and remember it being sadly moving), The Stranger, Elie Wiesel’s Dawn and Night, Jesse Ball’s Samedi the Blindness (lots of white space here, but used in a graphically, purposeful, narrative-driven way), Renee Gladman’s Juice (this wonderful prose poem novella certainly needs more attention, as does Anne Carson’s Autobiography in Red, a refractive fable, novella-in-verse), The Martian Chronicles, Tonio Kröger and Death in Venice, Notes from Underground (helped to shape my disgust and outrage), David Almond’s lovely book Skellig, Janet Frame’s fabulist Snowman, Snowman (I intend to devour everything she’s written), Magic for Beginners, by Kelly Link, The Pedersen Kid, by William H. Gass, and all of Beckett’s novellas.

Ten of my favorite novellas, in no particular order. I know that most of them are not contemporary, and I guess I don’t have anything to say about that. Also, I got creative with what I called a novella. Short novel, novella, is there really much difference besides a label?

Notes from Underground, by Fyodor Dostoevsky
“I am a sick man . . . a wicked man” is right there with unmistakable first lines like “Call me Ishmael” and “When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect.” There are certain books whose attitude/ venom/ rebellion makes them particularly relevant for adolescent readers. For most young people that book seems to be The Catcher in the Rye. For me, it was Notes. I read it when I was about nineteen or twenty, and it broke something open for me. I was reading a lot of philosophy as well as fiction, and I had been wanting to find books that combined the two (I read The Stranger a couple years later), and Dostoevsky’s short but potent outburst touched that tangle of raw nerves I had laying exposed. It still amazes me that a 40 year old Dostoevsky could write a 20 year old person’s book. I read the Oxford World’s Classics edition the first time, which I think was translated by Jane Kentish, and it certainly got the job done. I read Notes again when the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation was published, and the book itself didn’t have the same electric touch for me. After I read it, I tried to write Notes again every time I wrote a story, and, of course, the results were awful. I know I’ll read it again; but even if it has lost its first power for me, I will always admire this book and wish I had written it.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich, by Leo Tolstoy
A seminal text on the hypocrisy with which society attempts to deal with the reality of death. Naturally, my interest in Dostoevsky led me to Tolstoy, who, according to Nabokov, was far superior in artistic value. For me, the two were simply different. On the first read, Ilyich’s climb up the social ladder (to a comfortably median rung) and his obsession with remodeling his office might seem like fluff or filler instead of just getting on with where the title assures us things are headed. But after reading and thinking about the story and its implications, that seemingly fastidious opening takes on so much heavier meaning, where each detail does indeed mean everything: that Ilych is spending what little time he has on making sure he gets the exact shade of paint he wants, rather than spending it with his family. It’s a story about how loving things more than life itself will in the end cost that very life. Ilych falls while working on his room and injures himself, which he ignores and allows to fester into his death. Tolstoy is indeed a master chronicler of the effects of time, money, power, and death in human nature, mostly because of his first hand knowledge.

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
(Yes, I had a Russian fetish in my early twenties.) A classic semi-fiction of life and death in Stalin’s labor camps for anyone who did not agree with his agenda and policies. I read this when I was eighteen or nineteen. Aside from Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, no other book has made me so grateful for a simple piece of bread. I remember scenes when the prisoners had to fight over trowels and lay cement blocks in the bitter Russian winter. Obviously, I could never empathize with Denisovich, but I was working as a laborer for brick masons at the time, so I imagined the most grueling work day when every muscle cramped, when the hunger pulled from somewhere beyond the gut, and when the fatigue smothered all hope, and figured that life in the gulag was at least a thousand times worse. It made me sad knowing that human beings do these things to each other.

Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad
I avoided reading this for a long time, but when I finally just did it, I wished I had read it a long time ago. Yes, it’s definitely an exploration of the old “Absolute power corrupts absolutely” adage. Conrad’s steady journey into the jungle is also an indictment of the colonialization/enslavement of the Congo. If you haven’t slept in three days for whatever reason, I highly recommend a viewing the film adaptation of HoD, Apocalypse Now. I watched it in the middle of my third sleepless night with a raging sinus infection, and it was brilliant.

The Bear, by William Faulkner
A boy becoming-man listens to the old men tell tales of a legendary earth-old bear that terrorizes hunters and hunting camp, and then, yes, goes out hunting. I read this while sitting in the woods hunting, meaning I sat in the woods, leaned my rifle against my blind, and read books from dark to dark. I like any Faulkner any time, but this was an obvious if cheesy choice to take out into the woods. Every time I think of The Bear, I see the scene where the boy is following the bear tracks in the deep woods and eventually the massive paw prints are still filling with water.

Story of the Eye, by Georges Bataille
This is staple Bataille: fiction, philosophy, pornography. The narrator and his girlfriend go around seeking new and perverse sexual experiences. Drowning in excess, punishing the limits? Yes. Gratuitous? Yes. This is staple Bataille exploring through performance his theories about sex, death, and excess.

The Atrocity Exhibition, by J.G. Ballard
I don’t hear much about this one, but it is almost paradigmatic fiction prophesying the coming postmodern sensibility: schizophrenic blending/indiscernibility of the inner and outer worlds, deterritorialization of the image, the body, the mind, identity, etc; the fracture and disability of time as an orienting/explanatory concept in narrating experience; the unreliability of the senses to perceive and interpret “truth,” especially with the billboards showing vaguely familiar landscapes that are actually super close shots of body parts. Ballard gets twinned with Delillo in my mind, with their worldviews colored by a sooty apocalyptic lens, finding within capitalist social structure and technology the seeds and capability of its own destruction. TAE was the first fiction I had ever seen that was not structured in the way of traditional realist narrative, and another realm opened up for me in terms of how and what kind of stories/fictions could be expressed. The now classic blasted out landscapes are still haunting. I think a large part of what makes Ballard’s strange cold worlds so powerful and affecting is his uncanny knowledge of the dark corridors of the human psyche.

Child of God, by Cormac McCarthy
I’m not positive that this is a novella, but it’s short in any case. This was the first McCarthy for me, and definitely not the last. It’s a short book about Lester Ballard, a dispossessed man terrorizing the countryside after his house is auctioned out from under him. As indicated by the title, this is a story that begs the question, How far can someone go before they are no longer human, a ‘child of god’? Dark, disturbing, sharply written, this is an excellent introduction to McCarthy, along with The Road.

The Supermale, by Alfred Jarry
It’s difficult to fathom that this was published in 1902, about a “gentleman adventurer” who has sex with a woman 82 times before he is hooked up to a machine. Jarry manages satire on so many levels: mocking Nietzsche’s Superman (obviously taking the term quite literally), cold scientists who abuse people, animals, and science with irresponsible experiments just to see what will happen, and the male chauvinist with all of the seduce and conquer games. This book also explores Jarry’s theory of Pataphysics, the science of imaginary solutions, which is very relevant to our time.

Waste, by Eugene Marten
This reminded me of McCarthy’s Child of God, except the main character lives the invisible life of a night janitor in a multi-story office building, wherein he can also go mostly unnoticed. The book is dark, lonely, funny, sad, detached, and disturbing. Marten creates a character that is both sympathetic and repulsive. Out of touch with any real human interaction, he finds the body of a young lady he had thought about asking out on a date, and has to decide whether he will call the authorities or take the situation into his own hands.

Josh Maday’s writing has been published or is forthcoming in Phoebe, Lamination Colony, Action Yes, Barrelhouse, Opium, Thieves Jargon, NANO Fiction, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for Best Creative Nonfiction. He reviews books and literary magazines for NewPages. Find him HERE.

In no particular order:

Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury
This was totally creepy and utterly profound at the same time. AND it featured circus freaks and carnies—bonus!

Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury
The story of a boy who suddenly realized he was ALIVE is a lesson those of us who have dried up or been defeated could use now and again. The way Bradbury’s prose excitedly tumbles over itself is a poetic voice I can only aspire to.

Angels and Insects, by A.S. Byatt
Elegant and spare, Byatt undresses polite society, but she uses a fascinating background of entomology­—the study of insect life—to question, with parallels and contrasts, whether human behaviour is really so strange after all.

A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens
I honestly reread this every Christmas. I’m quite bah humbug myself having slaved in retail too many holidays to retain any shiny veneer. But this gem is truly about that elusive “true spirit” of Christmas, the spirit that should be a year-long affair: optimism, kindness, family, and compassion for the poor. Throwing in the truly atmospheric ghosts was a stroke of genius. Dickens wrote endless pages in every novel, yet his humble shortest is the masterpiece.

As for Me and My House, by Sinclair Ross

A Saving Grace, by Lorna Crozier
Long before Reservation Road hit the big screen, there was this humble volume: As for Me and My House, still lost in the wheat fields of the Canadian prairies. The 1941 storyline is very different—desolate prairie farming and churches in Canada, not the insipid vacuum of American suburbia. And the turn of events is not the same. But the parallels are there: a woman’s dissatisfaction and how it comes between her and her man, and the surprisingly still-unspeakable topic of how being nature’s ready made womb is not always a frigging miracle of beauty and joy. I always thought, men have war, women have pregnancy to refill the wars, and that’s pretty much the grim side of the meaning of life. Crozier’s A Saving Grace is a collection of poems by “Mrs. Bentley” from the novel. She takes the heart from the story and forms a new one. Stunning.

Bridge to Terabithia, by Katherine Paterson
I’ll forever lament that this was made into an okay movie that took a lifetime of my perceptions of the characters and their world and reduced that to someone else’s cheesy vision. This very special children’s book is not too young for adults. I’ve read a lot of books on grief, but this tiny fiction jewel is by far the best of all of them. It also touches tenderly on growing up outside of gender/class/social expectations, loving freely, non-conformity, imperfect family relationships, and the true meaning of spiritual faith. It is heroic and devastating. It takes no time at all to read, and changes you forever.

Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson
I won’t mention every single Paterson book, but Jacob Have I Loved might get a place on my list of top fiction, ever, not just novellas. Forget Gossip Girls and R. L. Stine—this story is mature and deep, probing into the thick confusion of the poison of jealousy. “Caroline was so sure, so present, so easy, so light and gold, while I was all gray and shadow…” the narrator tells us. But Paterson doesn’t give the pat answers of a breezy teen love story; she examines that unspoken truth that some siblings are loved more and/or have better luck than the other, and what if you’re that other one? She treats depression like a real emotion in real people, and never veers into the “after school special” feeling. The harsh conclusion? You have to find your own way anyway, even with the crippling disappointments of life. But when you do, you might find some insight into the darkest emotions of yourself, and others around you. It’s not just me who has saved this book from my teen years: The New York Times called it a “novel of special brilliance.”

Gentlehands, by M.E. Kerr
This slim, unassuming little book first appears to be the classic “blue collar teen boy with zits longs for rich beach brat” storyline. But its poetry surprises you from the beginning, and soon you’re deep inside Buddy’s traumatic summer. It’s no easy task to make a book about finding out your Granddad is a Nazi war criminal so subtle and beautiful. Kerr manages because she avoids the temptation to overwrite at every turn, and lets us feel the stark, spare anger of the boy instead. She avoids over-sentimentalizing his relationship with his grandfather without reducing its power. I can still recall vividly the scene where he teaches young Buddy that it’s better to have one very good belt than a few junky ones, even if your companions are loaded. His confusion and fury feels like being sucker-punched. I always knew I wanted to be a writer, but this is one of those books I read as a teenager that removed any shreds of doubt. I hope I’ll be able to tell a story so vividly one day.

Demian, by Herman Hesse
I confess that much of Hesse’s existential metaphysics and pursuit of enlightenment among monsters went way over my head or else bored me to tears. But nothing has ever captured the profound charisma that some people have, and how it can put a spell over another, like this extremely intense short novel. “I not only noticed that it was a boy’s face but a man’s; I also felt or saw that it was not entirely the face of a man either, but had something feminine about it, too…neither old nor young, but somehow a thousand years old, somehow timeless, bearing the scars of an entirely different history than we knew; animals could look like that, or trees, or planets…he was like an animal or like a spirit or like a picture, he was different, unimaginably different from the rest of us.”

Lorette C. Luzajic is the author of The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, and Weird Monologues for a Rainy Life. Find her HERE.