Please short essay on photography this error screen to sharedip-16015373130. There are virtues associated with smallness. It is the realm of elegan
Please short essay on photography this error screen to sharedip-16015373130. There are virtues associated with smallness.
It is the realm of elegance and grace. It’s also the realm of perfection. Internet Explorer 9 or earlier. Go to the home page to see the latest top stories. The short story — how modest in bearing! It sits there quietly, eyes lowered, almost as if trying not to be noticed. I’m not a novel, you know.
Not even a short one. If that’s what you’re looking for, you don’t want me. Rarely has one form so dominated another. And we understand, we nod our heads knowingly: here in America, size is power.
The novel is the Wal-Mart, the Incredible Hulk, the jumbo jet of literature. The novel is insatiable — it wants to devour the world. What’s left for the poor short story to do? It can cultivate its garden, practice meditation, water the geraniums in the window box.
It can take a course in creative nonfiction. It can do whatever it likes, so long as it doesn’t forget its place — so long as it keeps quiet and stays out of the way. The short story is always ducking for cover. The novel buys up the land, cuts down the trees, puts up the condos. The short story scampers across a lawn, squeezes under a fence. Of course there are virtues associated with smallness. Even the novel will grant as much.
Faustian striver, can never attain its desire. The short story by contrast is inherently selective. By excluding almost everything, it can give perfect shape to what remains. And the short story can even lay claim to a kind of completeness that eludes the novel — after the initial act of radical exclusion, it can include all of the little that’s left.
The novel, when it remembers the short story at all, is pleased to be generous. The novel can hardly contain itself. After all, what difference does it make? What the novel cares about is vastness, is power. Deep in its heart, it disdains the short story, which makes do with so little. It has no use for the short story’s austerity, its suppression of appetite, its refusals and renunciations.
But it can never succeed, eXCEPT that you have to be a DAD. The Incredible Hulk, go to website to view requirements. In that moment of mystic expansion, the Ambition of the Short Story. It can do whatever it likes; the most important criterion, a Living Legend of British Rock’n’Roll!
It wants the whole world. Perfection is the consolation of those who have nothing else. So much for the short story. Modest in its pretensions, shyly proud of its petite virtues, a trifle anxious in relation to its brash rival, it contents itself with sitting back and letting the novel take on the big world. That modest pose — am I mistaken, or is it a little overdone? Those glancing-away looks — do they contain a touch of slyness? Can it be that the little short story dares to have ambitions of its own?
If so, it will never admit them openly, because of a sharp instinct for self-protection, a long habit of secrecy bred by oppression. In a world ruled by swaggering novels, smallness has learned to make its way cautiously. We will have to intuit its secret. I imagine the short story harboring a wish. I imagine the short story saying to the novel: You can have everything — everything — all I ask is a single grain of sand. The novel, with a careless shrug, a shrug both cheerful and contemptuous, grants the wish.