Celebrated worldwide for her masterly novels, Carson McCullers was equally accomplished, and equally moving, when writing in shorter forms. This Library of America volume brings together for the first time her twenty extraordinary stories, along with plays, essays, memoirs, and poems. Here are the indelible tales “Madame Zilensky and the King of Finland” and “A Tree. A Rock. A Cloud.” as well as her previously uncollected story about the civil rights movement, “The March”; her award- winning Broadway play The Member of the Wedding and the unpublished teleplay The Sojourner; twenty-two essays; and the revealing unfinished memoir Illumination and Night Glare. This wide-ranging gathering of shorter works reveals new depths and dimensions of the writer whom V. S. Pritchett praised for her “courageous imagination—one that is bold enough to consider the terrible in human nature without loss of nerve, calm, dignity, or love.”
Two of McCullers’s characteristic themes are to be found in “Madame Zilensky and the King of Finland”: that solitude is inescapable and, more often than not, is the cause of unhappiness; and that a life without illusions (whether one calls them dreams or lies) is unbearable. Both these themes are illustrated in the life of Madame Zilensky. Her capacity for work and her energy for work are admirable traits in very substantive ways, but they are also traits that make for the kind of wretched and lonely life in which she is caught up. As McCullers says in so many ways in her fiction, in, for example, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (1940), Reflections in a Golden Eye (1941), “The Ballad of the Sad Café”—indeed, in almost every story she wrote: Love is the very core of a human’s being; without it, a person is nothing. Without it, one must fall back on one’s illusions, dreams, or (in the case of Madame Zilensky) lies.
In other words, Madame Zilensky’s parochial existence has not allowed any love into her life, beyond that which she feels for her music and her sons. McCullers would argue that that is not enough. Her solitude is of the worst kind. It is the solitude of loneliness. Rather than disintegrating, as some of McCullers’s characters do, Madame Zilensky resorts to a form of childish behavior—lying. She renders her solitude more bearable through the medium of her untruths. From McCullers’s description of her lies, it would seem that for the most part they are unimportant—and they do not advance her or any cause of hers in any way. Perhaps she deems them to have some special significance for her, but for her auditors, such as Mr. Brook, the fabrications are merely outrageous. The absurdity of the continual lying is compounded by the fact that her lies are so transparent—so easily recognized for what they are. In the end, McCullers is making a statement about an obsession of hers. A life of illusions may be unpardonable for some, but for the Madame Zilenskys of the world, a life without those sustaining lies is unbearable. That is why Mr. Brook’s righteousness changes instantaneously to compassion: He has read that message on Madame Zilensky’s fearful face.