Weird Realism and the Modernist Short Story: The Case of Tage Aurell Handout 15.05.2007 Beata Agrell Abstract The issue of this paper is the place of mimesis and realism in the modernist tradition of the short story. Starting with conceptions of modernism in recent short story study, as exemplified by readings of especially Hemingway and Faulkner, the paper proceeds in a comparative discussion of some complications of the short story strate- gies of Tage Aurell in the Swedish 1940’s and the heydays of modernism. As for an explana- tion of these complications, the discussion ends in a hypothetical proposal. The short story—for long seen as lowbrow, popular, and commercial—was accepted into the hierarchy of literary genres only when, in the ending 19 th century, it adopted Impression- ist and Modernist techniques and abandoned realism, i.e. the reality effects of traditional prose-fiction. As a genre, this Modernist short story is even said to be closer to poetry and drama than to other kinds of prose-fiction, e.g. the novel. Nevertheless, realism has its own modernism, especially in the short story, as the Hemingway-example might show. Furthermore, some of these alleged modernist traits of short fiction are quite ancient, popular, and lowbrow in origin—as is seen in experimental regional- isms, e.g. in Faulkner. Seen in this perspective, Tage Aurell is a some- what provoking case: combining, as it seems, Hemingwayan techniques and Faulknerian thought forms, the result is a hard-boiled Bibli- cal style drawing at a realism both modernist and weird. It is proposed that the special quiddity of these short stories derives from the meditative reading and writing practices of the popular religious revivalist movement of the 19 th century. This culturally influential tradition— in part imported from the USA—many Swedish modernist writers of the 1940’s were fostered into since childhood, and also re-using as authors, believers or not. Aurell had the same heritage, and a good hypothesis is that his unique handling of modernist traditions is due to this influence. Quotations read […] short stories are particularly suited for what might be called image (or descriptive) structure: that is, a work designed to produce not progressive un- derstanding, based on a change from one state to another, which can be termed process (or narrative) structure, but an instantaneous grasp, where the reader suddenly perceives the whole. (Pasco 1993) Down at the post office they have seen it. Emil Flodman (who’s filling in for the country mailman till the first of August) has seen it. So has the old devil here at home. From the tin [mailbox] over at the bend all the way here. Then he puts the letter back on the chair where it was lying and takes the newspaper with him to the ta- ble, but not the letter. Now Elin comes rattling in through the door and, panting puts the two water buckets down right on the threshold; she can’t make it any farther because of her pain. When she sees that the letter is still lying there, her panting turns into a sigh—she had gone out to get the water as soon as she heard Enok start down the attic stairs. And figured that by now he would have picked up the letter. She feels in a quandary—she often does now since she found out that she’s ill. Enok rivets his eyes on the newspaper but sees noth- ing except the letter. A nasty letter; where the ring had been, there is now a hole right through the paper and the envelope. (Aurell 1968, 3. The translations are so- mewhat modified [‘literalised’) by BA.) Right at the beginning there is a hole and words missing where the ring was cut out. From what he can decipher, things aren’t now the way they were when she came to the hospital during the visiting hour. “You may never believe it,” he reads. “But please under- stand, Enok. It’s not so easy for me either. Maybe it’s harder for me” (Elin’s thought, as different as they may be otherwise). “You know there are artificial hands that are almost as good as real hands. You can move them at the wrist.” Here she’s turned the paper, and again the hole is there, but he gathers from the words on both sides of the hole that it has to do with the price of such hands. “But what in heaven’s name am I to do with myself? He is married. He wants me to keep the en- gagement ring, but I can’t do that. Enok. I couldn’t do that to you, so I am returning it to you here. I have kissed the date inside it farewell. He has three children; the youngest is just two. Awfully cute. But I’m crying at night.” Another hole. Half a hole. “I don’t give a damn about your crying!” Enok tells the letter, tells his loneliness. (Aurell 1968, 7) 1 2 3