Late in life, Bernard Malamud began to see what a biography would look like in the form of a short story. He called his experiments “fictive biographies” and “biographed stories.”
“In Kew Gardens” is a story, but the historical figure of Virginia Woolf is recognizable. Can’t you see her in these lines?
Her erotic life rarely interested her. It seemed unimportant compared with what went on in the world.
The old king emerged from the wood, strumming a lyre. A silver bird flew over his head, screeching in Greek.
For years, she simply went mad.
She spoke in soft shrieks.
Malamud's late stories remind me of Guy Davenport’s meticulously researched historical fictions. We know the difference between fact and fiction, but some parts of the world have borders defined by fences and razor wire and others have vast frontiers with no boundary markers.
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