honored for his selected poems FredrnChappell won the Bollingen Prize, primarilyrnon the strength of Midquest, anrnepic-length sequence of poems takingrnas their single point of departure thernDantaesque overtones of the poet’s 35thrnbirthday. Because readers familiar withrnChappell’s work will think of him, first,rnas the foremost (and perhaps funniest)rnliterary spokesman for Appalachia and,rnsecond, as a poet-novelist who is most atrnhome in the narrative genre, they may bernsurprised by C, a collection of a hundredrnnumbered poems whose lengthrnrarely exceeds a score of lines. Well, asrnthe poet (here, somewhat after Martial)rnsaith, “Small is Beautiful”:rnYou’ve told me, Gaurus, I havernlittle artrnBecause I make my teasing poemsrnshort.rnBut then am I to think yourrngenius soarsrnBecause you write twelve tomes ofrnPriam’s wars?rnTo carve a statuette is my hardrnduty.rnYou heap a bloat colossus of SillyrnPutty.rnAs Chappell duly notes, epigrams arernnotoriously hit-or-miss propositions, butrnsome may “Deliver intelligence / Withrnsuch a sudden blaze / The shine canrnmake us wince.” The misses are sometimesrna bit musty: “LXVI Definition:rnThe only animal that dares to play thernbagpipes. LXVU Corollary: Or wantsrnto.” The hits are tart and true: “LXXIXrnUpon an Amorous Old Couple / Thisrncoltish April weather / Has caused themrnto aspire / To rub dry sticks together / Inrnhopes that they’ll catch fire.”rnMy personal favorite follows a Martialrnimitation cataloguing “the thingsrnthat make life blest.” This one tellsrn”what things make life a bore”:rnSappy girls who kiss and tell;rnTelevangelists’ threats of hell;rnWhining chain saws, mating cats;rnRepublicans, and Democrats;rnExpertly tearful on their knees,rnPlushlined senators copping pleas.rnSwearing by the Rock of AgesrnThat they did not molest theirrnpages;rnInsurance forms and tax reports;rnFlabby jokes and lame retorts;rnDo-gooders, jocks, and feminists;rnPoems that are merely lists.rnWe might be tempted to add lazy bookrnreviewers who are content merely tornstring together favorite lines and stanzas,rnbut in a case like this the techniquernseems justified. Chappell’s “Apology,”rnquoted here in full, defines the appeal ofrnC much better than I or any critic can:rnIf any line I’ve scribbled herernHas caused a politician shamernOr brought a quack a troubledrnnightrnOr given a critic a twinge of fearrnOr made a poet’s flame appearrnTransitory as a candleflame.rnWhy then, I gladly sign my name:rnMaybe I did something right.rnThis plugger’s incomparable work wasrnawarded the 1993 T.S. Eliot Award.rnR.S. Gwynn is a professor of English atrnLamar University in Texas.rnShort Constructionsrnby William P. BaldwinrnThief of Livesrnby Kit ReedrnColumbia: University of Missouri Press;rn179 pp., $19.95rnThe Graywolf Annual Nine: StoriesrnFrom the New EuropernEdited by Scott WalkerrnSaint Paul Graywolf Press;rn224 pp., $11.00rnYou don’t have to read far into thernstory collection Thief of Lives beforernJohn Cheever’s name comes tornmind, but after so many years of writing,rnKit Reed must be used to that comparison.rnBy now she should be replying:rn”Yes, but I write as well as that man didrnand occasionally even better. And besides,rnhe’s dead and I’m alive.” Certainlyrnshe has established as good a claim asrnany to the territory of life. Hers is firstraternstorytelling, and her protagonists arernadmirably tenacious. Middle and upper-rnmiddle class, for the most part, theyrnare all attempting to struggle tliroughrnlife (usually middle age and beyond)rnwhile maintaining some shred of dignity.rnHusbands and wives, parents and children,rnodd assortments of in-laws andrnfriends: these relationships are her subjectrnmatter. Adults are looking back.rnChildren are looking forward. Or vicernversa. Everyone is blaming everyone elsernfor everything, and yet finally they allrnmust take responsibility for their ownrnlives. Most of the stories are linked byrnthese relationships and by an accompanyingrnvision of physical entrapment.rnWhether a submarine, bomb shelter,rnsnow cave, or vacation home, the centralrnimage is, in fact, that of the tomb.rnDeath has freed Lazarus of life’s responsibilities,rnand then, through the unsolicitedrnassistance of Jesus, he is raisedrnup and sent out to resume the struggle.rnOnly now he has more than a hint ofrnmortality and, apparently, few expectationsrnof an afterlife.rnThough the stories contain referencesrnto God and love, I wouldn’t classify themrnas “Christian.” The Bible is more arnsource of literary allusions than of comfort.rnAnd though many of the charactersrnare obviously suffering from easily diagnosedrnabandonment or a variety of similarrndisorders, psychiatry gets even shorterrnshrift than religion. Nor do therncharacters communicate in any fundamental,rnrational, outspoken way. Theyrnare cautious to a fault and timid beyondrnmeasure—laughably so. Sadly so. Theyrntap out messages to each other in soundless,rnemotional codes, exchange platitudes,rnor do without. But in the endrnmost still manage to triumph in somernoutwardly quiet way. They summon thernvigor to begin again, or, as the narrator ofrnthe title story more eloquently puts it,rn”as Lazarus with tables turned, sit downrnat their own banquet and [throw] heavilyrnfrosted chunks of cake: take that yournguys, whoever. And that.”rnHaving said what I liked about 13 ofrnthe stories, I will simply mention thatrn”Winter,” a tale of two spinsters eatingrntheir house guest, does not work. Andrneven more irritating for me was “AcademicrnNovel,” a loose itinerary of facultyrncouplings and uncouplings, which, wernare told, is a disguised form of love.rnMaybe. The tale is funny enough, but itrntended to enforce my already healthyrnprejudices and undercut the solid storiesrnthat surround it.rn« * *rnThe concept of a fractured Europernoffering a variety of cultures (and literatures)rnis not totally new to me. Fifteenrnyears ago my then-neighbor, the editor ofrnthis journal, expounded on this subjectrn32/CHRONICLESrnrnrn