The Art of the Short Story: Cuban Masters and Modern Voices

The enduring power of a well-crafted short story is likened to a lightning flash, capable of encapsulating profound philosophical questions and delivering a decisive "knock-out" punch, as Argentine master Julio Cortázar once described.

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…a short story, ultimately, moves on that plane of man where life and the written expression of that life wage a fraternal battle, if you allow me the term; and the result of that battle is the story itself, a living synthesis as well as a synthesized life, something like a tremor of water within a crystal, a fleetingness in a permanence. Only with images can that secret alchemy be transmitted which explains the profound resonance that a great story has among us, and which also explains why there are many truly great stories.

Cortázar, in his reflections penned in Cuba, articulated that a short story exists in a space where life and its written expression engage in a "fraternal battle," resulting in a "living synthesis and a synthesized life." He emphasized the use of images to convey this "secret alchemy" that resonates deeply with readers, explaining why truly great short stories leave such a lasting impact.

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the novel always wins by points, while the short story must win by knock-out.

Cuba boasts a rich tradition of short story writers who master this art form. The article names Onelio Jorge Cardoso, Eduardo Heras León, Senel Paz, Francisco López Sacha, María Elena Llana, and Anna Lidia Vega Serova among those capable of delivering such impactful narratives. It then introduces Emerio Medina, whose collection "La línea en la mitad del vaso" (The Line in the Middle of the Glass) earned the Alejo Carpentier Prize for Short Story in 2016. Medina's five stories feature characters united by a sense of lack – be it love, self-esteem, money, or peace – regardless of their differing backgrounds or eras.

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She blamed herself for not having the courage. For not telling him openly “This and that is happening to me, and I can bear that, but not this (…)” But… what would Armando have said? How could she explain herself and make herself understood without leading to a violent argument?

The collection "Alguien tiene que llorar" (Someone Has to Cry) by Marilyn Bobes, a recipient of the Casa de las Américas Prize in 1995, is also featured. Bobes's work prioritizes a female perspective, offering rich insights into friendship, sexuality, and the fundamental need for love. The titular story is noted for its profound impact, conveyed as much by what remains unsaid as by what is written, leaving a memorable impression on the reader.

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She turned her gaze to the box: gray, absurd like the death it hid, like Lazarita's crying, like the whole ritual. I knew that Cary was flying with her thoughts elsewhere, perhaps to an imprecise, reserved time, where alongside Maritza, alongside her, I too would have wanted to be.