I have a shelf of books in my library for which I used the tag, bio.coll# — a strange identifier, granted. Generally, they are collections of biographical or critical sketches, limited to a relatively small number of subjects; for example, Six American Poets, Poets of Reality: Six Twentieth-Century Writers, Six Classic American Writers, Great Souls: Six Who Changed the Century, Six Men by Alistair Cooke, Six Major Prophets, Variety of Men by C. P. Snow, and the like. Though the sketches are usually interesting reading, what is even more fascinating is the selection of subjects and the rationale behind it. For example, Alistair Cooke’s six men are Charles Chaplin, Edward VIII, H. L. Mencken, Adlai Stevenson, Bertrand Russell, and Humphrey Bogart. Now try to figure out what they all have in common. One of the pleasures of these books is the understandngs that come clearer when the lives of interesting figures are read in the context of other interesting lives. The juxtaposition--as strange as it may seem in some cases--proves enlightening precisely because we see the variety of human nature, both in achievements and in motivations and backgrounds.

I shelve this short story collection along with these biographies--a decision that's a bit hard to understand or to justify. But perhaps the best way to know a writer to to read several of his works and to read them in conjunction with similar works by other authors. It could be argued that these six authors set the standard for the modern short story, but, oh, how different their approaches and achievements are.

Stories from Six Authors (McGraw-Hill, 1960), edited by William E. Buckler and Arnold B. Sklare, is a textbook I never got to teach, but if I had ever been assigned to teach a course in the short story or modern fiction, I would certainly have chosen this text. It is a collection of three short stories each by six writers. Of course, one’s first task in responding to such a book is to argue with the choices. I am no fan of Henry James, but I suppose one can hardly teach twentieth-century fiction without a nod in his direction. But I could never have put together such a collection without including Eudora Welty, and to make the gender balance a bit more even I would argue for Katherine Mansfield and Katherine Anne Porter.

However, even though I never taught from this particular text, I did teach most of these stories on one occasion or another, and several of them became genuine favorites: Grahame Greene, “The Basement Room”; Robert Penn Warren, “The Circus in the Attic” and “Blackberry Winter”; James Joyce, “Araby” and “The Dead”; all three by William Faulkner, “Barn Burning,” “A Rose for Emily,” and “The Bear”; and Joseph Conrad, “The Secret Sharer” and “Youth.” What they all share is a memorable incident, a meaningful insight, and a twist, a surprise, or at least a provocative way of looking at reality.

The first paragraph of the editors’ introduction is as good a characterization of the short story as a genre as I have seen anywhere:

“The short story is an art which has adapted itself with great alacrity to the spiritual demands of the modern world. For the most part less intense and compressed than poetry, it has attracted practitioners who have labored with earnestness but without slavery to age-old forms. Less diffuse than the novel, it is more congenial to those moments of vision which, in the shifting, complex panorama of modern life, constitute one of the writer’s most convenient ways of positing, for the edification or dismay of his fellow man, a unique criticism of life. Less exclusively intellectual than the essay, it enables the writer to speak to his audience through a technique that compels the reader to respond on many levels — emotional, spiritual, even physical. The short story is a concise, intense literary art form which conveys its meaning, its significance, through personal involvement in a high selective vicarious experience.”

Now I must admit that I almost never choose short stories for my own personal reading. Precisely because they are less intense than poetry, I prefer poetry. Because they are less diffuse than novels, I prefer novels (if I’m going to get involved with fictitious characters, I want to live with them longer than ten or twenty pages). Because they are less intellectual than the modern essay and less informative than the article, I ordinarily prefer essays and articles for personal reading. But, paradoxically, the short story has proven to be the most enjoyable of these genres to teach, for they are compressed and readable, they do provide insights or epiphanies and constitute a vision of human experience, and they do engage readers who otherwise might be reluctant to get involved. (Drama works even better with most students than short stories, but that’s for another time.)

So the stories in this anthology have provided me some teaching experiences that have been personally satisfying and obviously effective with students.

Two or three features of the design of this book make it physically attractive. It is bound in fine cloth with a cover that displays the six authors’ names in type faces appropriate to their nature. Furthermore, each section of the book uses a different font: Bodoni for Greene, bold and strong; Bodoni Book for Warren, more refined; Fairfield for Joyce, delicate and elegant; Caslon for Faulkner, both nervous and antiquated looking; and Janson for Conrad, sharp, clear, without affectation or eccentricity. Century for James, open and legible, is more questionable. The bold titles of the stories match the type face used for each author on the cover. A minor touch, but a nice one.

Editorial paraphernalia is minimal— and could be easily ignored if a teacher should so choose, as I would. But students might enjoy the line drawings and brief biographical sketches of each author and the even briefer interpretation for certain stories, and they would hardly be distracted by the suggested questions and writing assignments.

Perhaps the most important physical feature of the book is its comfortable size and weight. Too many literature anthologies are hefty tomes — with far more material than a student would ever be expected to read in one semester, weighing more than would encourage reading for pleasure or toting around in a backpack. This book looks and feels more like a trade book than a textbook, but it is sturdier than contemporary softbound books or popular editions available on bookstore shelves. In my opinion, this is a book that would have invited readers, that would have rewarded readers, and that would have likely not have been traded in at the end of the semester. Mine has made many moves through several decades, and I could not part with it yet. Its cover may be dingy and stained with age and use, but its aura is as bright and colorful as ever.