By Lorrie MooreKnopf
Lorrie Moore writes stories about space aliens. The stories tend to take one of two forms: the Invasion of the Body Snatchers narrative (it dawns on our heroine that she is surrounded by aliens, or married to one), or the A.I. narrative (it dawns on our heroine that she is the alien). The stories in the former category resemble the science-fiction film Moore describes in “Real Estate,” in her third collection, Birds of America:
She was especially stirred by a movie she saw about a beautiful widow who fell in love with a space alien who had assumed human form—the form of the woman’s long lost husband! Eventually, however, the man had to go back to his real home, and an immense and amazing spaceship came to get him, landing in a nearby field. To Ruth, it seemed so sad and true, just like life: someone assumed the form of the great love of your life, only to reveal himself later as an alien who had to get on a spaceship and go back to his planet.
Ruth finds herself in an analogous position: her husband no longer seems himself, and the house that they’ve bought, in a halfhearted attempt to save their marriage, is as inhospitable as a foreign planet. Like the spaceship Nostromo from Alien, the house even has a stowaway—a homeless teenager who Ruth discovers has been living in the attic. Tassie Keltjin, the frequently bemused narrator of Moore’s most recent novel, A Gate at the Stairs (2009), experiences a similar sense of disorientation when she returns home from college, finding that “everyone here seemed a stranger, if not an outright alien.” This premise is often played for a melancholy humor, but it takes a horrific turn in Moore’s masterpiece, “People Like That Are the Only People Here”: “When your child has cancer, you are instantly whisked away to another planet: one of bald-headed little boys.”
The second category, the A.I. narrative, includes stories like “To Fill,” whose heroine wonders, “Am I from outer space?” after a botched attempt at polite conversation (efforts to make polite conversation in Moore’s stories always end catastrophically), and “The Jewish Hunter,” in which a man smiles at our heroine “as if he thought she was cute but from outer space, like something that would soon be made into a major motion picture and then later into a toy.”
All writers of fiction are, to some degree, body-snatching aliens. Although they move freely among the general population, they remain outside of it, privately observing and dissecting human behavior, before returning home to their labs to construct scrupulous simulacra of life: novels and short stories. Moore’s particular genius lies in her ability to isolate in human relationships a current of inexplicable oddity as exotic as the strangest science fiction. Because every human being is, deep down, inexplicably odd, Moore’s fiction has the additional virtue of being profoundly true.
Bark, her slim new collection, contains eight stories written in the 16 years since Birds of America. It is her seventh book of fiction; she has been alternating story collections with novels since her 1985 debut, Self-Help. Four of the stories in Bark are Body Snatcher narratives, including “Paper Losses,” in which the heroine, Kit, suspects her husband has “turned into some sort of space alien.”
“All husbands are space aliens,” said her friend Jan.
“God help me, I had no idea,” said Kit. She began spreading peanut butter on a pretzel and eating quickly.
“In fact,” said Jan, “my sister and I call them UFOs.”
It stood for something. Kit hated to ask.
“Ungrateful fuckers,” Jan said.
Kit thought for a moment. “But what about the O?” she asked. “You said UFO.”
There was a short silence. “Ungrateful fuckeroos,” Jan added quickly.
Kit is a familiar Moore heroine: perplexed, impulsive to the point of self-sabotage, willfully blind to the gradual erosion of everything she values in her life, linguistically inventive, and funny in an absurdist key. Speaking with Jan about her husband, she says: “I don’t believe in fighting. I believe in giving peace a chance. I also believe in internal bleeding … I’m also interested … in those forensically undetectable dissolving plastic bullets. Have you heard of those?”
Moore, puzzlingly, is often compared to Alice Munro, a considerably more sober, ponderous presence. A much closer literary cousin is Jane Bowles, whose acerbic, neurotic characters take wild risks, constantly confound the reader’s expectations (as well as their own), and—the rarest virtue of all—are reliably funny. At her most inventive, Moore also channels Barry Hannah’s delirious spontaneity: in Bark’s final story, “Thank You for Having Me,” the gun-wielding leader of a motorcycle gang interrupts a wedding, makes a passionate speech about how “life can get quite startling in its switches of channels,” and then departs, having realized that he has crashed the wrong wedding. The moral of this episode, as of much of Moore’s fiction, is that alienation is the only human response to a culture that has itself become as bewildering as an alien planet.
Moore’s particular postage stamp of unreality is the Venusian landscape of the Midwest, with its “silver-topped silos gleaming like spaceships” (“What You Want to Do Fine”) and its populations of small-town “dimmerwits from outer space who’d forgotten to get back on the spaceship and so the ship had left without them” (A Gate at the Stairs). But there have been some changes in the atmosphere since Birds of America. The stories are looser, less prone to synthesis than to dissolution. And her characters have aged.