Collected Stories (Penguin Classics)

As he was driving his newly acquired Caprice in Tulsa one fine summer day, R. Royce was thinking about a lecture series of information briefings he had attended in the latter part of 1994, during a Combined Arms Seminar. Since discussion was encouraged, in order to provide constructive criticism and instantaneous feedback on the various topics being presented, he decided to contribute something positive after listening to a particularly moving and uplifting speech about the daily activities in an Army Mechanized Infantry Brigade which had once been located somewhere in central Louisiana. The post boasted a slower, more relaxed pace of life. It was a place where older soldiers eased into retirement gradually, quietly and gracefully, without much fan-fare. Processing was sort of like putting old race-horses out to pasture in a field of morning glories and daisies. At the end of the speech, Royce had made the comment, "Spoken like a true Samurai warrior." In the summer of 2006, Royce had found a late model Buick for a neighbor and swapped it for her buffed shiny silver 1995 Caprice Classic. He needed a reliable commuter car for transportation back and forth to work in and around Dallas at the time. He was living on the edge of the city, in the suburbs near the Speedway. Largely obsolete now, compared with the latest models coming out of Detroit, this particular vehicle had the unique distinction of being shaped like a big lemon, and was rapidly becoming a very popular car to customize, in certain inner-city circles. The body, paint, and leather interior was already in showroom condition. The sticker on the frame indicated the presence of an economical 4.6 liter motor, but someone had removed it altogether and dropped in a new 5.9 liter V-8 instead, which transformed the vehicle into an excellent highway car. Most importantly, it was a clean car with a clear title. All Royce had to do was tune up the motor, change the oil, install an aluminum radiator from California and a heater coil, replace the hi-fi stereo and speakers, add a lift-kit, and put a sharp set of 16-inch alloy wheels and new high-performance tires all the way around. Once completed, the modified vehicle was an eye-catching sight to behold, a one-of-a-kind original. As Royce steered the Caprice into the "Seven-Eleven" parking lot he noticed a pale green four-door Monte Carlo parked off to the side of the building, but didn't think too much about it at the time. He stopped his car and walked cheerfully into the convenience store for refreshments. He located the soda fountain and snack aisles. While waiting patiently in line, he heard a deep resonant voice behind him mutter into his ear, "I want your car." What an odd, uncouth thing to say to somebody you don't even know in a busy, crowded convenience store, Royce thought. Sometimes acting normal and doing nothing is the best course of action to deescalate a potential incident. You never know when someone might come unglued, become unhinged, or fly completely off the handle. So, Royce ignored him. The tactic did not work. The short man of bulky stature--perfect for any eight-man football running back position, he thought, repeated himself, only louder and with a more insistent tone of voice this time. The youth had a dark complexion and a round smiley-face which gave him the appearance of a "Pillsbury dough boy." Was he merely pretending he was a tough-guy, and wise to the ways of the world, instead of being a junior college drop-out or some delinquent reject from technical training school? "Not for sale," Royce stated matter-of-factly, plainly and calmly, turning slightly to get a better angle on his antagonist, looking directly into his steady gaze and dull eyes. There is safety in numbers, Royce considered. Too many people around for trouble, he rationalized. He stepped up smartly to the cashier, paid for his soda and chips, and walked calmly outside, creating greater distance between himself and the other. Moving quickly to his vehicle then, Royce got in, started the motor, and put the transmission in reverse to leave the scene immediately. That was when he noticed there were actually four young men in the green Monte Carlo, including the one who tried to strike up a conversation a moment ago, who had just returned and taken a back seat. Punks, he thought. A Sunday driver and his joy-riding friends. Nothing to be taken seriously. Across the busy boulevard at the next intersection was a branch office of Royce's bank. He had planned to withdrawal cash for his trip back to Texas there, having visited family and friends in Oklahoma for a few days. Now he had to go back to work. As he exited the empty teller-machine lobby and strolled to his car, he couldn't help but notice, of all things, the green Monte Carlo with the four occupants moving slowly forward, leering, almost prowling. They pulled up and stopped their car beside his vehicle. Their windows were all rolled down. They must have followed him over to the bank, it appeared. Royce climbed into his Chevrolet and rolled down his window, too. He smiled as if he were meeting old friends at "Walmart" by chance. "What do you have under the hood?" one of them asked, the taller, slender, buck-tooth passenger in the front seat, with a gold-plated incisor. His inquiry did not appear to be made in a menacing or threatening manner, but you never know how someone might react, if you say something rude, insulting, or terribly offensive. So, Royce wanted to be careful how he responded. "A big V-8 engine," Royce replied pleasantly, not too smugly, hoping they wouldn't want to street-race for money. "And there are several notable safety and security features built right into the vehicle," he continued. "Standard issue." He let this information gradually sink in. There was no overt reaction by the other party. As long as they stayed in their vehicle the situation was cool. Nobody could accuse Royce of being modest and humble. Or shying away from trouble for that matter. He actually considered himself more of a Cowboy, than a top-rated Nascar racing driver, which really meant that he could be counted on to drive fast if the need had arisen to get from point A to point B in an awful hurry, but he would rather roam around on the range. Becoming much bolder and braver now, he suppressed the urge to grimace, groan, and growl. He stifled his trade-mark snarl, sneer, and howl. He thought of himself more as being among the rugged, trail-riding, cattle-driving cowboys who galloped horses across the silver screen and into the history books. So, no he didn't want a drag race. "See you around," said Bucktooth, postponing the inevitable. "Not if I see you first," replied Royce. They had obviously reached an impasse, a water-shed moment in their daily lives. They might have re-evaluated the situation or made a rapid risk-assessment, but nobody said another word when Royce grinned and calmly drove away at a leisurely pace through lively city streets, and onto the Broken Arrow expressway leading up to the turnpike gateway. He didn't expect them to follow. And they didn't. Cruising in a westerly direction on the Interstate toward OKC, Royce pushed the speakerphone button on his beeping phone. "Good evening, Mr. Royce. Did you meet the backup unit?" he was asked. "Greetings and salutations, Mr. Wright! Yes, I certainly did, but it was more of a confrontation. I wasn't made to feel overly enthusiastic by the enigmatic encounter with Destiny's children." "They have been trained in undercover work, and they know the city." "Bunko Squad definitely knows how to ruffle a fellow's feathers. But, at least they don't act like game rangers or look like rent-a-cops." "Can you keep me informed when the deal goes through?" "Sure, Chief. I always try to keep you in the loop. But, when you're up against organized crime and a crooked Ponzi scheme in a high-stakes poker game, you can't always predict end results. When I read the Collected Stories of Wallace Stegner, published in 1990 and written between 1938 and 1990, I gasped almost in disbelief and concluded, "Truer words have never been written." I reflected on the group of them. Imaginative stories generally require a "suspension of belief," or so I'd heard, in order to get anything really meaningful out of them. But Wallace Stegner's tales ring true any way you shake them. They smack you like a fist-punch in the face. You feel as if you'd just been blind-sided while talking on your portable telephone. You weren't watching where you were going and you blundered, walking directly into a corner-post column made of impervious six-by-six treated pine lumber. Knock on wood. Of the thirty-one stories in the book, I would estimate that over a dozen fall into the categories of most interesting, quite extraordinary, and unparalleled fiction-writing which is capable of captivating a wide range of audiences from coast to coast. The three that impressed me the most were "The Maiden in the Tower," because I like visiting my old haunts; "Women on the Wall," because I can relate to corresponding with loved ones over great distances; and "Blue-winged Teal," because I'm a sentimental and an incurable romantic. Of course, there's "Berry Patch," which is all you need to know about true love, in my opinion. The author included a longer story, "Genesis," which turned out to be a common-theme story-line for many an epic Western novel or Hollywood film about courageous cowboys. Many of his stories are about growing up in the wilderness and have frontier settings. They are all about survival. The stories I could least relate to, being from a mostly rural county, a proverbial hay-seed of infinite possibility, depicted a sensible, moralistic photographer and his liberal-minded, idealistic, social-worker wife trying to convert their sprawling city into some form of perfect utopia and revitalized cosmopolitan metropolis, if not actually improving the living conditions there. My immediate reaction was, "Why are you wasting your time bringing losers home with you, trying to educate them? They're animals." On the other hand, eradicating them would be completely wrong, I suppose. At the other end of the spectrum, the stories which involve living among high-society misfits and malcontents did not make much of a suitable impression on me or do anything to significantly improve my edification, either. These kinds of stories are not meant to inflate your ego or soothe your psyche. I merely believe that they are stories meant to be about living among wolves in sheep's clothing.

Wallace Stegner is one of the finest American writers. His stories have great characters, interesting plots and utterly brilliant writing. Anyone who loves quality writing will love this collection.

these stories really hit the mark for tales with unforgettable, age-old messages with just the right spice of complexity. They stick to the brain, so you are left mulling them over for a long time. Although no one would classify them as "thrillers", that is exactly what I found them to be,

Skillful handling of material

I fell in love with Stegner's prose reading his Angel of Repose. There were sentences that stopped me cold. The metaphors were brave and startling. I'm back for more.

I have only begun this book, however I just completed two of Wallace Stegner's books and have been thoroughly entertained. Stegner gives a good history of what it was like to grow up in the 20's and 30's. He does not disappoint. I'll probably read all of his books.

Book in perfect condition. Superb writer

When people ask who my favorite author is, Wallace Stegner is invariably one of the four or five names I toss out. And often I get the same response... "I've never read any Stegner" or even "I don't know the name". Stegner seems to be one of American literatures best kept secrets.These stories are an excellent introduction to Stegner, his style, and his ability to write vividly about life. A number of the stories in this collection were eventually incorporated as chapters in three of his novels: "The Big Rock Candy Mountain", "Recapitulation", and "Wolf Wilow".

I had been looking for some American short stories to share with my discussion group; Having read the novel by Stegner, "Crossing to Safety", I felt sure I would enjoy his stories and I certainly do. In each one Stegner's sense of place is so strong that I have a picture full of atmosphere, onto which he tells a story - simple but full of thought provoking emotion. He builds tension and holds it in such a short time - the collected short stories is a wealth of enjoyment.

All fine - thank you.

Again the cover was creased and dog-eared.