Some practitioners of the short story, a form in flux that’s suffered since the erosion of magazines, are praised for their polish and compactness. Lauren Groff produces rough beasts that slouch off in unexpected directions and spawn. There’s often a little story within the story, a joey in a marsupial pouch ... they seem like a homecoming, and honestly, something of a relief. If they have a shared theme, it is how the bedrock of family crumbles, and its members are forced to shift into new formations, occasionally tectonic. The stories are folksy, a little retro and sensual, with multiple dips into earthy, furtive lesbian lust ... The stories in Brawler are, again, rough, in all senses of the word. Upsetting; uneven. But 'no writer worth his salt is even, or can be,' Eudora Welty wrote, reviewing Salinger’s lonely nine in these pages. And Groff is spilling so much salt right now, Morton should give her a jingle.
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