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O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory? such soothing words. the afterlife as a just reward - Jesus has taken the sting of death away; the victory that lies beyond the grave - for all those who love Him. but alas, there is no such savior, no such leavening of pain, no embracing of the afterworld in the three novellas that comprise Pale Horse, Pale Rider.Old Mortalityfirst: death is a mask, a veil, a shadow cast long and dark... it reshapes those it has taken, makes them more than themselves, makes them grand symbols of what has been and what you could never be. they tower over their children and their childrens children; death has given them a terrible glamour and death has reshaped memories. death is a snare in that first tale, it catches and it keeps. it takes some away while it clutches the living to its bosom, it captures their memories so their paths move never forward but always behind, always in contemplation and replication of the past. brave Miranda! idiosyncratic girl. that idiosyncrasy could save her, that yearning to be apart, to be different. she sees through those veils. they arent just veils, or memories or rituals, or quaint pictures on the mantle or keepsakes in the attic... they are obsessions, they doom her family, death smothers them with wistful sighs. go, Miranda, escape! leave that living death behind! Miranda is diffident in her own way, callous even, but you root for that escape. I liked her story, I respected Old Mortality but I did not love it. I felt very little connection to it on a personal level and I thank my parents for that, they are the children of Miranda, each escaped their terrible and shadowy families, each fled: little of the past obsesses them. the lives and deaths and obsessions of my ancestors mean virtually nothing to me. Im a modern sorta guy, rootless. I read this as if I were reading a story of fantasy.Noon Winesecond: death is a sudden thorn in the side, a surprise bite from an animal that you did not know was beside you. its just a thorn, its just a bite, its what happens, right? wrong. the bite itches and burns: you scratch that bite: it becomes infected. all you are, all you were, all you could be... reduced to that awful and painful infection. your life seeps out of you like pus. and you die, all because of a random bite. Noon Wine carefully and calmly sets up its story, its living & breathing characters. it makes you care for them, in its own hard way. unlike the stories that surround it, Porters life had little in common with this portrait of dairy farmers. but you wouldnt know that from reading it, so thoroughly and completely does she imagine these lives. she does not condescend to these characters. she does something else: she destroys them, and with a terrible sort of randomness. I can see myself as Mr. Thompson, his quick and angry act, a terrible reaction, that ax; a sudden thorn in the side, a surprise bite - they happen. but it was hard for me to envision an itch afterwards, a scratching to an infection to a death. sometimes people have to die. right? I wouldnt scratch that itch, I did what I did and now its time to move on. or so I say to myself, imagining myself as different, condescending to him and his family, their reactions, their horror. but how would I know? Ive never killed a man, not yet at least.Pale Horse, Pale Riderand last: death rides beside us, always! it is not something to escape; it is our partner, our guide; it is a sudden bite and it is a velvety shadow; it will transform us and take us, one and then the other. Pale Horse, Pale Rider is a work of perfection. not a phrase, not a word out of place. it moves from vivid dream to prosaic reality, to hallucination, and then to a new, cold-eyed reality. death is present in every crevice of this story. Miranda returns; she is full of life and yet she dreams of death. not of making her own death! death is separate from but yet still connected to her, not an idea but a thing, a real thing. in the beginning of this story, death rides beside her but as a glamorous stranger. the time, the people, the place: world war one is coming to a close; a lady reporter and a soldier about to be deployed are deeply in love; there is an outbreak of influenza in Denver. the novella is swooningly romantic and the novella swooningly despairs. but it breaks through it, in its own way. Miranda emerges but as someone truly different. someone better? no, someone harder, someone deeper. not better and not worse but different. the Miranda of Old Mortality has been obliterated; it is as if she never existed. who is this new Miranda who has seen death up close, who has lived and loved and lost and died and been reborn... who has made death her friend? why, she has become Katherine Anne Porter, of course.
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