"Today the clerk in the fancy deli next door asked me how I was, and I said, 'I have deep longings that will never be satisfied.'"
Oh, Mary Gaitskill, you always do this to me. You begin a story like that, and it's brave and honest and true, and then I realize...
I'm shallow. And your stories are depressing. Sure there's a truckload of insight at work here, and occasionally dark humor rears its head, but really, these stories conjure dust bunnies sulking on dull linoleum. Transfixing dust bunnies, but dust bunnies. This collection is like the gentle, lurching violence of a typical bus ride to a destination you don't particularly want to arrive at, but can't avoid.
What you have to say about loneliness, longing, desperation, and the predatory (and sad and silly and tender) aspects of human nature rings true. It does. I relate (too much). I do.
But there are no moors in your stories, Mary Gaitskill. See, in reading this collection, I realized (yet again) that I like my depression dark and dramatic, with plenty of brooding atmosphere. I suppose it's the recovering goth in me. Why settle for quiet desperation when you can have noisy futility? I'll take Wuthering Heights over the withering depths, no matter how deftly rendered (and they are).
What I mean to say is, for me, these stories inspired deep longings, which they left unsatisfied.