Review of Eyes: Novellas and Stories by William H. Gass

Gass makes impressive use of language to describe the thoughts and feelings of inanimate objects. 

By exploring perspectives in this way, he is able to layer on a bunch of observations.
It would appear that he holds plot and character development in contempt. Instead, he maneuvers the reader through a skewed world fraught with satire and emotional resonance.
The first story relates the exploits of photographers. There is a lot of learned interpolations and name-dropping. Photography is a theme and a visual technique in the story. Images take on life in more than one way.
The next story is stream of consciousness, one long paragraph stretching 70 pages, containing the rambling eloquence of a moneyed person as he is variously assaulted by charity requests. A relatable situation for most middle-income and higher people in America. It calls into question many institutions and beliefs. It is an intimate, even embarrassing experiment in detailed reaction and commentary.
Then follows a story from the viewpoint of the piano in Casablanca. It has seen many sets, but Bogey’s presence and the ambiance of the famous film left an indelible impression on it. This bit player gives us enough tidbits about cinema to tickle any cinephile.
After that we are treated to a story from the perspective of a chair in a barbershop. You might call what happens at the end plot, but it is more of an event. People are described in all of their faults. And one might draw any number of analogies toward linking the plight of chairs with that of people. But honestly, Gass just likes polishing sentences, varying the word choice and structure, and syncopating with syntax. He verges from maestro to anacreontic. He wheels and deals, roping in disparate impressions, glomming them into his minute portrayal of a moment.
The final enigma of a story is the most experimental. Gass chops sentences and rearranges them, in cut-up fashion, describing a kid’s train set, and the kid’s odd behavior, eerily conjuring that hazy naivete of childhood, combined with the stylistic choices, which suffer from ADHD.
All of these novella/ stories offer unique critiques on modern society. The only genre Gass fits into is good writing.
These are not as bloated and self-indulgent as his book The Tunnel, nor as nonsensical as some of his other productions.
Nice touch – those the photographs before each story, reminiscent of Willie Masters’ Lonesome Wife or whatever that other book was called.