One might even accuse Wolff of trying to subvert the essence of the short story – which is usually focused on a single conflict and its resolution. Of course, Wolff doesn’t write like a subversive. On the surface his prose is smooth and controlled, avoiding ostentatious effects, and sensitive to the small nuances of the moment. He is especially good at "coming-of-age" stories, tales involving students or soldiers or other young adults adapting to the demands of growing up. Nothing avant garde here — at least not at first glance. But Wolff’s steadfast refusal to accept the traditional arc and closure of short fiction is more than an authorial quirk. Rather, it represents a radical attempt to bring some of the open-endedness of real life into his prose.
This author is especially good at setting up two different conflicts in the same story, and leaving it up to the reader to draw the connecting points. Wolff can present us with the mid-life crisis of a doctor, but let us discover that the real impetus for his malaise arises from a failed romance during his high school years. Or we can mull over the conflict between an editor and a journalist over a botched death notice, only to discover that the real story is found in the mysterious subject of the obituary.
In short, the three unities – Aristotle’s rules for structuring dramatic accounts by tightly controlling their action, place and time – are replaced by three discontinuities in Wolff’s writing. Is this experimental fiction? Not on the surface. But sometimes the best experiments are the ones we least notice.
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