 | A WRITER'S WIT |  E. Fallenberg |
MY BOOK WORLD
Allison, Dorothy. Trash: Stories by Dorothy Allison. Ithica: Firebrand, 1988.
The late author Allison begins this book with a preface, “Deciding to Live,” in which she outlines the horrific childhood she suffered through to become an adult: an abusive father, her struggle to put herself through college, and more. It sets up the stories, particularly the first seven or eight of fourteen, in which each first-person narrative relives some fragment or shard of Allison’s fractured life, only transformed, of course, from the realities of life to the realities of fiction: “I write stories. I write fiction, I put on the page a third look at what I’ve seen in life—the condensed and reinvented experience of a cross-eyed working-class lesbian, addicted to violence, language, and hope, who has made the decision to live, is determine to live, on the page and on the street, for me and mine” (12).
Allison died late in 2024 at age 75. Her stories in Trash are laced with that titular word: “She called the children devils and worms and trash, and swore that, like worms, their natural substance was dirt and weeds” (23).
“Listen to you. You . . . you trash. You nothing but trash. Your mama’s trash, and your grandmama, and your whole dirty family . . . “ (63).
“Bobby believed lust was a trashy lower-class impulse, and she so wanted to be nothing like that” (120).
Allison swings for the rafters with this one: “Poor white trash I am sure. I eat shit food and am not worthy. My family starts with good teeth but loses them early. Five of my cousins bled to death before thirty-five, their stomachs finally surrendering to sugar and whiskey and fat and salt. I’ve given it up. If I cannot eat what I want, then I’ll eat what I must, but my dreams will always be flooded with salt and grease, crisp fried stuff that sweetens my mouth and feeds my soul. I would rather starve death than myself” (152).
These stories, though written more than thirty-five years ago, are still crisp with fresh wit and insight, and, not a little bit of history concerning a young girl growing up in South Carolina in the 1960s and 1970s. They are to be treasured and certainly read again and again.
Up Next:
TUES: A Writer's Wit | Mary Roberts Rinehart
WEDS: A Writer's Wit | Bryan Burrough
THURS: A Writer's Wit | Mary E. Pearson
FRI: My Book World | TBD
The late author Allison begins this book with a preface, “Deciding to Live,” in which she outlines the horrific childhood she suffered through to become an adult: an abusive father, her struggle to put herself through college, and more. It sets up the stories, particularly the first seven or eight of fourteen, in which each first-person narrative relives some fragment or shard of Allison’s fractured life, only transformed, of course, from the realities of life to the realities of fiction: “I write stories. I write fiction, I put on the page a third look at what I’ve seen in life—the condensed and reinvented experience of a cross-eyed working-class lesbian, addicted to violence, language, and hope, who has made the decision to live, is determine to live, on the page and on the street, for me and mine” (12).
Allison died late in 2024 at age 75. Her stories in Trash are laced with that titular word: “She called the children devils and worms and trash, and swore that, like worms, their natural substance was dirt and weeds” (23).
“Listen to you. You . . . you trash. You nothing but trash. Your mama’s trash, and your grandmama, and your whole dirty family . . . “ (63).
“Bobby believed lust was a trashy lower-class impulse, and she so wanted to be nothing like that” (120).
Allison swings for the rafters with this one: “Poor white trash I am sure. I eat shit food and am not worthy. My family starts with good teeth but loses them early. Five of my cousins bled to death before thirty-five, their stomachs finally surrendering to sugar and whiskey and fat and salt. I’ve given it up. If I cannot eat what I want, then I’ll eat what I must, but my dreams will always be flooded with salt and grease, crisp fried stuff that sweetens my mouth and feeds my soul. I would rather starve death than myself” (152).
These stories, though written more than thirty-five years ago, are still crisp with fresh wit and insight, and, not a little bit of history concerning a young girl growing up in South Carolina in the 1960s and 1970s. They are to be treasured and certainly read again and again.
Up Next:
TUES: A Writer's Wit | Mary Roberts Rinehart
WEDS: A Writer's Wit | Bryan Burrough
THURS: A Writer's Wit | Mary E. Pearson
FRI: My Book World | TBD
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