The short story peaked as an influential art form in the 150 years between 1820 and 1970: Hawthorne, Poe, Twain, Cather, Hemingway, Bradbury, Ellison, and endless others. What killed it off? Television, I suppose, with the internet and video games adding nails to the coffin. When wishing to escape into another world for a brief time (as we so often want to do), we find it easier to reach for the remote. By “killed off” I don’t mean that short stories no longer are written. I mean they no longer have the prominent place in the marketplace and culture that they once did. Only a handful of pulp fiction magazines remain in existence. Upscale magazines with literary pretensions (e.g. The New Yorker) are few and almost entirely the domain of well-established authors. Most new short stories today by unknown or lesser known authors are found only on their own obscure web pages. I have 50 posted at Richard’s Mirror
It still is rewarding occasionally though to put down that remote and crack open a book. (“Crack open” a Kindle doesn’t sound quite right.) On some of those occasions collections of short fiction fit our time requirements perfectly. Besides, as commented Sigrid Ellis at Apex Publications, “Short fiction is important, in part, because we can meet and learn from unpleasant people without lingering too long in their company.” So too. There is one genre of short story collection that weighed especially heavily in my youthful reading and which has not vanished from my shelves to this day. I grew up on Bradbury, Heinlein, Asimov, Schmitz, et al. It helped that these and other SF writers of the 1950s and 1960s really were giants in the field. If there are any doubts about this, I recommend the anthology The Science Fiction Hall of Fame edited by Robert Silverberg and Ben Bova. Ostensibly two-volume, but really three (“Volume 2” comes as IIa and IIb), all the stories and novellas contained in the set predate 1964, and all are superb.
There are excellent SF authors at work today as well, of course, even as the print market for their work has dwindled. (The internet being what it is, it is not a terribly onerous burden to find them.) I have my favorites but I rely on anthologies for exposure to a broader selection of authors. Collections of Nebula and Hugo Award nominees are useful. At the moment The Wesleyan Anthology of Science Fiction, which arrived a couple weeks ago from Amazon, lies open on my desk; it is as chronologically diverse as Hawthorne’s Rappaccini’s Daughter (1844) and Chiang’s Exhalation (2008).
Why does SF still appeal decades after my first (some might say “age-appropriate”) introduction to it? Emily Coon comments in Ploughshares Literary Magazine, “Science fiction has nourished work from the misfits, the beautiful weirdos, and the marginalized of many stripes.” She meant it as a compliment, and indeed it is. It is well to keep in mind that those misfits include the like of Aldous Huxley, George Orwell, Ursula Le Guin, and JG Ballard. SF introduces us to new ideas and perspectives in ways difficult or impossible to achieve in other literary formats. Said Robert Heinlein (defensively?), “For the survival and health of the human race one crudely written science fiction story containing a single worthwhile new idea is more valuable than a bookcaseful of beautifully written non-science fiction.” Well, I don’t want to endanger the survival and health of the human race, so I’ll do my bit by continuing to dedicate at least some of my shelf space to SF.
A widely forgotten flick from 1969 based a Ray Bradbury short story collection