I HEAR YOU'RE RICH

Miniscule stories from a master of the form.

In her latest collection, Williams delivers another serving of the teaspoon-sized stories with which she’s made her career. Some are as brief as a sentence or two while others span several pages. Either way, her sentences are constructed with an equally exquisite attention to detail. In “The Tune,” a narrator whistles along with a whistling bird. “He was my creature briefly,” Williams writes. “We didn’t even vary the volume.” That beauty at the granular level comes as a godsend because it's sometimes difficult to say what these stories are about—or even what is happening on a literal level. Williams’ leaps in logic can seem to contain the width of continents. “ ‘I am afraid I’ve overdone it,’ Connie said, and she patted her belly, and from the street I heard a hammer that was hitting metal somewhere,” Williams writes in the title story. It’s nearly impossible to categorize Williams’ work. She interrogates both the mundane and the metaphysical (“Could there be a speck of my original self anywhere?—that I have left behind”). In story after story, she upends what readers have grown to expect from traditional narratives—a beginning, middle, and end, to say the least—sometimes leaving us without any of those elements at all. A Williams story might be made up of a fragment of dialogue, a thought, a description, or some combination of these. But reading one after the other, something improbable occurs: The stories, in their very unpredictability, start to become predictable. You may not know where the stories will go, but you might start guessing where they won’t go.

Mysterious, gemlike, and strange, these stories end up oddly predictable by defying narrative conventions in similar ways.