“Stream System- The Collected Short Fiction” by Gerald Murnane

This is a collection of short stories written by Murnane over the past fifty years. Some stories are as short as five pages while the longest span around a hundred. What connects them all is Murnane’s use of imbedded stories within stories. “Somewhere today in a suburb of Melbourne is a man who calls himself a writer of fiction but who writes, in fact, a sort of diary of the man he wishes he could be.” He constantly mines the territory of his home state of Victoria, Australia. “I admired him, for one thing, because he preferred to look at his land rather than farm it.” He also returns to themes of writing, reading, and a relationship with books in general. “The writing of fiction was something that a certain sort of person had to do in order to explain himself or herself to an imagined parent or an imagined loved one or an imagined god.” Many of his stories involve the narrator describing the act of writing the very story Murnane is himself writing. Yet the narrator is not identical to Murnane. Or not quite. “I wrote fiction in order to learn the meaning of certain images in my mind.” Murnane again and again goes back to the craft of writing and the mind as the grounds for imagination. “I have always been interested in what is usually called the world but only insofar as it provides me with evidence for the existence of another world.” He is constantly plumbing the depths of the mind for both images and feelings. “A diagram of my mind would resemble a vast and intricate map with images for its small towns and with feelings for the roads through the grassy countryside between the towns.” Like in his novels, it is hard to decipher what comes from the facts of his real life and what details are made up whole cloth. “Even to his wife and children he had sometimes said that Sunday afternoon was the saddest time of the week: the time when you had to admit that you were no more than the person you were. To himself he would have added that Sunday afternoon was the time when he tried to understand how he had come to be who he was and where he was rather than someone else in some other place.” His nested stories and asides often seem more important and real than the original thread of his story. “I have trusted for many years that I will remember from every text that I read the few words or phrases that I need to remember.” His digressions into the recesses of his mind are so vivid and illuminating that one forgets where one is while reading his words. “Or I might finish this piece of fiction by mentioning that I have always been drawn to writers who have felt their minds threatened.”