Episode 20 The Strangers

Transcript

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This is Episode 20 of Ed Falco On The Air, and in this episode, I'll be reading Frank O'Connor's The Guests of the Nation and talking a bit about the craft of writing. But before that, a little bit of business. I started this podcast after retiring from a long career teaching creative writing at Virginia Tech. I had exactly zero previous experience with podcasting and I've been finding my way along episode by episode ever since. Now, a few months into the project, I figured out a shape for the future that makes sense to me. I'll be dividing future podcasts into episodes and seasons. Each season will have 25 episodes and feature a new novel. Season 1, which we're now wrapping up, featured The Strangers. The plan, for now at least, is It's for season two to feature a Clyde Sine novel titled 2084. That novel, which I recently completed, imagines what our world might look like a century beyond George Orwell's imagining in his novel 1984. There'll be a break of indeterminate time. Between seasons one and two, but I'm hoping to have season two ready to go by the fall of 2025. We have five more episodes to go before the end of this season. In the remaining five episodes, which we'll post once a week on Mondays, I plan to answer a few questions I've received about The Strangers, Talk about writing in general, and read a few short works by other writers. In today's episode, I plan to read Frank O'Connor's short story, The Guests of the Nation. I'll explain why that story in a bit. But for now, I want to begin by answering what is far and away the most common question I've gotten in response to The Strangers. And it is, in a number of variations, How did you get the idea for The Strangers? And that question is a variation of one I've heard again and again over my writing life, both as a teacher of creative writing and as a writer giving readings of my own work. It's a question every writer has heard, and it's essentially Where do your ideas come from? The question is understandable. I imagine new writers staring at computer screens or blank sheets of paper and struggling to figure out what to write. On one level, the question is easy to answer. The ideas of the stories, mine and everyone else's, come from the writers of the stories. From their experiences, thoughts, dreams, concerns, obsessions, fears, anxieties, passions, etc. Unfortunately, That's a pretty useless answer, since it tells the struggling writer almost nothing about how to proceed with the actual writing of a story, which I believe is at the heart of their question. In The Strangers, Severn wakes up one night to find his wife dead beside him in bed. That's the starting place. Everything that follows in the novel results from me asking, what's going on, and what does Severn do? And trying to answer that question honestly and believably within the context of the story. For the rest of the novel, what happens because of what the characters do in reaction to a problem, conflict, or situation, leads me from event to event. Until I come to a resolution of the problem, conflict, or situation. Of course, what happens to a character, and what they do, is also connected to the underlying ideas the story is exploring, or, here we go, the theme of a story. But for me, as a writer, and for most writers I know, those ideas or themes evolve from the choices the characters make in response to a problem. And, here's the important thing. I don't know beforehand what my characters are going to do. I don't know how they're going to respond. If I'm doing a good job, my characters take on a life of their own. And they can and do make choices that surprise me. This is three quarters of the importance of writing to me. Because exploring characters and events honestly becomes a way of exploring what I believe. And surprises do happen. Ultimately, what I think I'm writing about in The Strangers is an exploration of humankind's violent nature. And maybe coming to the conclusion that our aggressively violent character is essential to what makes us human. That is not where I started the novel, but it's where the novel seems to have arrived by the end. I absolutely like the conflicted, aggressive, complicated humans of the novel much more than I like the peaceful, even tempered stewards of Earth's environment, the strangers. So, let's say the idea of this novel is that the violence in human nature makes us the fascinating complex species that we are, and that the passivity of the strangers makes them dull and uninteresting, and may in some way be connected to the horrendous act of saving a planet by eliminating the indigenous species that is destroying it, and what seems to me the insane act of believing you're saving the indigenous species by replacing it with a better copy. For me, To answer the original question, where did the idea for The Strangers come from, I have to go back to the characters, and the things that happen to them, and the way they react to those things. So where did the idea for The Strangers come from, if it's that maybe being savage killers is a necessary part of who we are as a species? It came from following the responses of my characters in a situation that interests me, because of the ideas it may wind up exploring. I believe. In the best writing, that's always where the writer's ideas come from. They come from and in the act of writing. Okay, enough talk about craft. I'll finish up today's episode by reading Frank O'Connor's great short story, The Guests of the Nation. If you can spare another 25 minutes, I urge you to stick with me while I read it for you. To my mind, It's a perfect example of how a simple, dramatic plot can lead to a story with a wonderfully complex and moving ending. It won't hurt to give you the basics of the plot before I begin. The story is set during the Irish War of Independence from Great Britain. We begin the story being introduced to four characters, two British Army privates, Hawkins and Belcher, who are being held as hostages by the Irish Republican Army, and two of their captors. Bonaparte and Noble, two IRA soldiers. In the course of a few pages, O'Connor shows us that the four of them have become friends in the months they've been spending together in a remote cabin. Then, early in the story, we learn that the British have executed IRA soldiers they were holding, and as a consequence, Bonaparte and Noble are ordered to execute their British hostages, Hawkins and Belcher. Once that order is given, once Bonaparte and Noble are ordered to execute two men with whom they have become friends, the story is hard to put down. The reader wants to know what will happen, and ultimately, what the meaning is. Frank O'Connor's Guests of the Nation One. At dusk, the big Englishman, Belcher, would shift his long legs out of the ashes and say, Well, chums, what about it? And nobler me would say, All right, chum. For we had picked up some of their curious expressions. And the little Englishman, Hawkins, would light the lamp and bring out the cards. Sometimes, Jeremiah Donovan would come up and supervise the game and get excited over Hawkins cards, which he always played badly, and shout at him as if he were one of our own. Aye, you devil, why didn't you play the tray? But ordinarily, Jeremiah was a sober and contented poor devil, like the big Englishman Belcher, and was looked up to only because he was a fair hand at documents, though he was slow enough even with them. He wore a small cloth hat and big gaiters over his long pants, and you seldom saw him with his hands out of his pockets. He reddened when you talked to him. Tilting from one toe to heel and back and looking down all the time at his big farmer's feet. Noble and me used to make fun of his broad accent because we were from the town. I couldn't, at that time, see the point of me and Noble guarding Belcher and Hawkins at all, for it was my belief that you could have planted that pear down anywhere from here to Claregoway and they would have taken root there like a native weed. I never, in my short experience, seen two men to take to the country as they did. They were handed on to us by the 2nd Battalion when the search for them became too hot, and Noble and myself, being young, took over with a natural feeling of responsibility. But Hawkins made us look like fools when he shouted that he knew the country better than we did. You're the bloke they call Bonaparte. Mary Bridge O'Connell told me to ask you what you'd done with a pair of her brother's socks you borrowed, for it seemed, as they explained it, that the second used to have little evenings and some of the girls in the neighborhood turned in, and seeing that they were such decent chaps, Our fellows couldn't leave the two Englishmen out of them. Hawkins learned to dance the Walls of Limerick, the Siege of Innes, and the Waves of Torrey, as well as any of them. Though, naturally, we couldn't return the compliment, because our lads at that time did not dance foreign dances on principle. So whatever privileges Belcher and Hawkins had with the second, they just came naturally with us. And after the first day or two, we gave up all pretense of keeping a close eye on them. Not that they could have got far, for they had accents you could cut with a knife and wore khaki tunics and overcoats with civilian pants and boots. But it's my belief that they never had any idea of escaping and were quite content to be where they were. It was a treat to see how Belcher got off with the old woman of the house where we were staying. She was a great warrant to scold, and cranky even with us. But before she ever had a chance of giving our guests, as I may call them, a lick of her tongue, Belcher had made her his friend for life. She was breaking sticks, and Belcher, who hadn't been more than ten minutes in the house, jumped up from his seat and went over to her. Allow me, madam, he says, smiling his queer little smile. Please allow me. And he takes the bloody hatchet. She was struck too paralytic to speak. And after that, Belcher would be at her heels, carrying a bucket, a basket, or a load of turf, as the case might be. As Noble said, he got into looking before she leapt, and hot water, or any little thing she wanted, Belcher would have it ready for her. For such a huge man, Belcher And though I am five foot ten myself, I had to look up to him. He had an uncommon shortness, or should I say, lack of speech. It took us some time to get used to him walking in and out like a ghost without a word, especially because Hawkins talked enough for a platoon. It was strange to hear Big Belcher, with his toes in the ashes, come out with a solitary excuse me chum, or that's right chum. His one and only passion was cards. And I will say for him that he was a good card player. He could have fleeced me a noble, but whatever we lost to him, Hawkins lost to us. And Hawkins played with the money Belcher gave him. Hawkins lost to us because he had too much old gab. And we probably lost to Belcher for the same reason. Hawkins and Noble would spit at one another about religion into the early hours of the morning, and Hawkins worried the soul out of Noble, whose brother was a priest, with a string of questions that would puzzle a cardinal. To make it worse, even in treating of holy subjects, Hawkins had a deplorable tongue. I never in all my career met a man who could mix such a variety of cursing and bad language into an argument. He was a terrible man, and a fright to argue. He never did a stroke of work, and when he had no one else to talk to, he got stuck on the old woman. He met his match in her, for one day, when he tried to get her to complain profanely of the drought, she gave him a great comedown by blaming it entirely on Jupiter Pluvius, a deity neither Hawkins nor I have ever heard of. Though noble said that among the pagans it was believed that he had something to do with the reign. Another day, he was swearing at the capitalists for starting the German war, when the old lady leaned out her iron, puckered up her little crab's mouth and said, Mr. Hawkins, you can say what you like about the war. And think you'll deceive me because I'm only an old, single, poor countrywoman. But I know what started the war. It was that Italian count that stole the heathen deity out of the temple in Japan. Believe me, Mr. Hawkins, nothing but sorrow or want can follow the people that disturb the hidden powers. A queer old girl, alright. We had our tea one evening, and Hawkins lit the lamp, and we all sat into cards. Jeremiah Donovan came in too, and sat down and watched us for a while, and it suddenly struck me that he had no great love for the two Englishmen. It came as a great surprise to me, because I hadn't noticed anything about him before. Late in the evening, a really terrible argument blew up between Hawkins and Noble, about capitalists and priests and the love of your country. Anyway, the capitalist, says Hawkins with an angry gulp, pays the priests to tell you about the next world, so you won't notice what the bastards are up to in this. Nonsense, man, says Noble, losing his temper, before ever a capitalist was thought of. People believed in the next world. Hawkins stood up as though he was preaching a sermon. Oh, they did, did they? he says with a sneer. They believed all the things you believe? Isn't that what you mean? And you believe that God created Adam, and Adam created Shem, and Shem created Jehoshaphat? You believe all that silly old fairy tale about Eve and Eden and the apple? Well, listen to me, chum. If you're entitled to hold a silly belief like that, I'm entitled to hold my silly belief. Which is that the first thing your God created was a bleeding capitalist, with morality and Rolls Royce complete. Am I right, chum, he says to Belcher? You're right, chum, says Belcher, with his amused smile, and he got up from the table to stretch his long legs into the fire and stoke his moustache. So seeing that Jeremiah and Donovan was going, and that there was no knowing when the argument about religion would be over, I went out with him. We strolled down to the village together, and then stopped, and he started blushing and mumbling and saying I ought to be behind, keeping guard on the prisoners. I didn't like the tone he took with me, and anyway I was bored with life in the cottage. So I replied by asking him what the hell he wanted guarding them for at all. I told him I'd talked it over with Noble and that we'd both rather be out with a fighting column. What use are those fellows to us, says I. He looked at me in surprise and said, I thought you knew we were keeping them as hostages. Hostages, I said? The enemy have prisoners belonging to us, he says. And now they're talking about shooting them. If they shoot our prisoners, we'll shoot theirs. Shoot them, I said. What else did you think we were keeping them for, he says. Wasn't it very unforeseen of you not to warn Noble and myself of that in the beginning, I said? How was it, says he. You might have known it. We couldn't have known it, Jeremiah Donovan, says I. How could we, when they were on our hands for so long? The enemy have our prisoners as long and longer, says he. That's not the same thing at all, says I. What difference is there, says he. I couldn't tell him, because I knew he wouldn't understand. If it was only an old dog that was going to the vets, you'd try not to get too fond of him. But Jeremiah Donovan wasn't a man that would ever be in danger of that. And when is this thing going to be decided, says I. We might hear tonight, he says, or tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. So if it's only hanging around here that's trouble to you, you'll be free soon enough. It wasn't the hanging around that was a trouble to me at all by this time. I had worse things to worry about. When I got back to the cottage, the argument was still on. Hawkins was holding forth in his best style, maintaining that there was no next world, and Noble was maintaining that there was, but I could see that Hawkins had had the best of it. Do you know what Chumby says with a saucy smile? I think you're just as big a bleeding unbeliever as I am. You say you believe in the next world, and you know just as much about the next world as I do, which is sweet damn all. What's heaven? You don't know. Where's heaven? You don't know. You know, sweet damn wall, I ask ye again, do they wear wings? Very well then, says Noble, they do. Is that enough for you? They do wear wings. Where do they get them, then? Who makes them? Have they a factory for wings? Have they a sort of store where you hand in your chit and take your bleeding wings? You're an impossible man to argue with, says Noble. Now listen to me. And then they were off again. It was long after midnight when we locked up and went to bed. As I blew out the candle I told Noble what Jeremiah Donovan was after telling me. Noble took it very quietly. When we'd been in bed about an hour, he asked me did I think we ought to tell the Englishmen. I didn't think we should, because it was more than likely that the English wouldn't shoot our men. And even if they did, the brigade officers, who are always up and down with the 2nd Battalion and knew the Englishmen well, wouldn't be likely to want them plucked. I think so too, says Noble. It would be a great cruelty to put the wind up them now. It was very unforeseen of Jeremiah Donovan anyhow, says I. It was the next morning that we found it so hard to face Belcher and Hawkins. We went about the house all day scarcely saying a word. Veltcher didn't seem to notice. He was stretched into the ashes as usual, with his usual look of waiting in quietness for something unforeseen to happen. But Hawkins noticed, and put it down to nobles being beaten in the argument of the night before. Why can't you take a discussion in the proper spirit? He said severely. You and your Adam and Eve. I'm a communist, that's what I am. Communist or anarchist, it all comes to much the same thing. And for hours he went round the house muttering when the fit took him. Adam and Eve, Adam and Eve. Nothin better to do with their time than pickin bleedin apples. Three. I don't know how we got through that day, but I was very glad when it was over. The tea things were cleared away, and Belcher said in his peaceable way, Well, chums, what about it? We sat round the table, and Hawkins took out the cards, And just then I heard Jeremiah Donovan's footstep on the path and a dark pre sentiment crossed my mind. I rose from the table and caught him before he reached the door. What do you want? I asked. I want those two soldier friends of yours, he says, getting red. Is that the way, Jeremiah Donovan, I asked. That's the way. There were four of our lads shot this morning, and one of them a boy of sixteen. That's bad, I said. At that moment, Noble followed me out, and the three of us walked down the path together talking in whispers. Feeney, the local intelligence officer, was standing by the gate. What are you going to do about it, I asked Jeremiah Donovan. I want you and Noble to get them out. Tell them that they're being shifted again. That'll be the quietest way. Leave me out of it, says Noble under his breath. Jeremiah Donovan looks at him hard. All right, he says. You and Feeney get a few tools from the shed and dig a hole by the far end of the bog. Bonaparte and myself will be after you. Don't let anyone see you with the tools. I wouldn't like it to go beyond ourselves. We saw Feeney go round to the shed and went in ourselves. I left to Jeremiah Donovan to do the explanations. He told them that he had orders to send them back to the 2nd Battalion. Hawkins let out a mouthful of curses and you could see that though Belcher didn't say anything, he was a bit upset too. The old woman was for having them stay in spite of us. And she didn't stop advising them until Jeremiah Donovan lost his temper and turned on her. He had a nasty temper, I noticed it. It was pitch dark in the cottage by this time, but no one thought of lighting the lamp and in the darkness the two Englishmen fetched their topcoats and said goodbye to the old woman. Just as a man makes a home of a bleeding place, some bastard at headquarters thinks you're too cushy and shunts you off, says Hawkins, shaking her hand. A thousand thanks, madam, says Belcher. A thousand thanks for everything, as though he'd made it up. We went round the back of the house and down toward the bog. It was only then that Jared Viadonovan told them. He was shaking with excitement. There were four of our fellows shot in court this morning, and now you're to be shot as reprisal. What are you talking about, snaps Hawkins. It's bad enough being mucked about as we are without having to put up with your funny jokes. It isn't a joke, says Donovan. I'm sorry, Hawkins, but it's true. And begins on the usual rigmarole about duty and how unpleasant it is. I never noticed that people who talk a lot about duty find it much of a trouble to them. Oh, cut it out, says Hawkins. Ask Bonaparte, says Donovan, seeing that Hawkins isn't taking him seriously. Isn't it true, Bonaparte? It is, I say. And Hawkins stops. Ah, for Christ's sake, chum. I mean it, chum, I say. You don't sound as if you mean it. If he doesn't mean it, I do, says Donovan, working himself up. What have ye against me, Jeremiah Donovan? I never said I had anything against you. But why did your people take our four of our prisoners and shoot them in cold blood? He took Hawkins by the arm and dragged him on, but it was impossible to make him understand that we were in earnest. I had this smith and wesson in my pocket and I kept fingering it, and wondering what I'd do if they put up a fight for it or ran, and wishing to God they'd do one or the other. I knew if they did run for it, That I'd never fire on them. Hawkins wanted to know, was Noble in it? And when we said yes, he asked us why Noble wanted to plug him. Why did any of us want to plug him? What had he done to us? Weren't we all chums? Didn't we understand him, and didn't he understand us? Did we imagine for an instant that he'd shoot us for all the so and so officers in the so and so British Army? By this time we'd reached the bog, and I was so sick I couldn't even answer him. We walked along the edge of it in the darkness, and every now and then Hawkins would call a halt and begin all over again, as if he was wound up about our being chums, and I knew that nothing but the sight of the grave would convince him that we had to do it. And all the time I was hoping that something would happen, that they'd run for it, or that Noble would take over the responsibility from me, I had the feeling that it was worse on Noble than me. Four. At last we saw the lantern in the distance and made toward it. Noble was carrying it, and Feeny was standing somewhere in the darkness behind him, and the picture of them so still and silent in the bogland brought it home to me that we were in earnest. And banished the last bit of hope I had. Belcher, unrecognizing Noble, said, Hello, chum, in his quiet way. But Hawkins flew at him at once, and the argument began all over again, only this time Noble had nothing to say for himself, and stood with his head down, holding the lantern between his legs. It was Jeremiah Donovan who did the answering, for the twentieth time, as though it was haunting his mind. Hawkins asked if anybody thought he'd shoot Noble. Yes, you would, says Jeremiah Donovan. No, I wouldn't, damn you. You would, because you'd know you'd be shot for not doing it. I wouldn't, not if I was to be shot twenty times over. I wouldn't shoot a pal. And Belcher wouldn't. Isn't that right, Belcher? That's right, chum, Belcher said, but more by way of answering the question than of joining in the argument. Belcher sounded as though whatever unforeseen thing he'd always been waiting for had come at last. Anyway, who says Noble would be shot if I wasn't? What do you think I'd do if I was in his place out in the middle of a blasted bog? What would you do? asks Donovan. I'd go with him wherever he was going, of course. Share my last bob with him and stick by him through thick and thin. No one can ever say of me that I let down a pal. We had enough of this, says Jeremiah Donovan, cocking his revolver. Is there any message you want to send? No, there isn't. Do you want to say your prayers? Hawkins came out with a cold blooded remark that even shocked me and turned on Noble again. Listen to me, Noble, he says. You and me are chums. You can't come over to my side, so I'll come over to your side. That show you I mean what I say? Give me a rifle, and I'll go along with you and the other lads. Nobody answered him. We knew that that was no way out. Hear what I'm saying, he says? I'm through with it. I'm a deserter or anything else you like. I don't believe in your stuff, but it's no worse than mine. That satisfying you? Noble raised his head, but Donovan began to speak, and he lowered it again without replying. For the last time, have you any messages to send, says Donovan, in a cool, excited sort of voice. Shut up, Donovan. You don't understand me, but these lads do. They're not the sort to make a pal and kill a pal. They're not the tools of any capitalist. I alone of the crowd saw Donovan raise his Webley to the back of Hawkins neck and as he did so I shut my eyes and tried to pray. Hawkins had begun to say something else when Donovan fired and as I opened my eyes at the bang it was I saw Hawkins stagger at the knees and lie out flat at Noble's feet, slowly and as quiet as a kid falling asleep, with the lantern light on his lean legs and bright farmer's boots. We all stood very still, watching him settle out in the last agony. Then Belcher took out a handkerchief and began to tie it about his own eyes. In our excitement we'd forgotten to do the same for Hawkins. And seeing it wasn't big enough, turned and asked for the loan of mine. I gave it to him and he nodded the two together and pointed with his foot at Hawkins. He's not quite dead, he says. Better give him another. Sure enough, Hawkins left knee is beginning to rise. I bend down and put my gun to his head. Then Recollecting myself, I get up again. Belcher understands what's in my mind. Give him his first, he says. I don't mind. Poor bastard. We don't know what's happening to him now. I knelt and fired. By this time, I didn't seem to know what I was doing. Belcher, who was fumbling a bit awkwardly with the handkerchief, came out with a laugh as he heard the shot. It was the first time I heard him laugh. And it sent a shudder down my back, it sounded so unnatural. Poor bugger, he said quietly. And last night he was so curious about it all. It's very queer, chums. I always think, now he knows as much about it as they'll ever let him know. And last night he was all in the dark. Donovan helped him to tie the handkerchief about his eyes. Thanks, chum, he said. Donovan asked if there were any messages he wanted to send. No chums, he says, not from me. If any of you would like to write Hawkins mother, you'll find a letter from her in his pocket. He and his mother were great chums, but my missus left me eight years ago, went away with another fellow, and took the kid with her. I like the feeling of a home, as you may have noticed, but I couldn't start again after that. It was an extraordinary thing, but in those few minutes Belcher said more than all the weeks before. It was just as if the sound of the shot had started a flood of talk in him and he could go on the whole night like that, quite happily, talking about himself. We stood round like fools now that he couldn't see us any longer. Donovan looked at Noble and Noble shook his head. Then Donovan raised his Webley, and at that moment Belcher gives his queer laugh again. He may have thought we were talking about him, or perhaps he noticed the same thing I'd noticed and couldn't understand it. Excuse me, chums, he says. I feel like I'm talking a hell of a lot, and so silly, about my being so handy about a house and things like that. But this thing came on me suddenly. You'll forgive me, I'm sure. You don't want to say a prayer, says Donovan? No, chum, he says. I don't think it would help. I'm ready. And you boys want to get it over. You understand that we're only doing our duty, says Donovan. Felcher's head was raised like a blind man's, so that you could only see his chin and the tip of his nose in the lantern light. I never could make out what duty was myself, he said. I think you're all good lads, if that's what you mean. I'm not complaining. Noble, just as if he couldn't bear any more of it, raised his fist at Donovan, and in a flash Donovan raised his gun and fired. The big man went over like a sack of meal, and this time there was no need for a second shot. I don't remember much about the burying, but that it was worse than all the rest because we had to carry them to the grave. It was all mad lonely. And nothing but a patch of lantern light between ourselves and the dark and the birds hooting and screeching all around, disturbed by the guns. Noble went through Hawkins belongings to find the letter from his mother and then joined his hands together. He did the same with Belger. Then, when we'd filled the grave, we separated from Jeremiah Donovan and Feeny and took our tools back to the shed. All the way, we didn't speak a word. The kitchen was dark and cold as we left it, and the old woman was sitting over the hearth saying her beads. We walked past her into the room, and Nobles struck a match to light the lamp. She rose quietly and came to the doorway with all her cantankerousness gone. What did ye do with them? she asked in a whisper. And Noble started so that the match went out in his hand. What's that? he asked without turning around. I heard ye, she said. What did ye hear? asked Noble. I heard ye. Do ye think I didn't hear ye? Puttin the spade back in the haseen? Noble struck another match, and this time the lamp lit for him. Was that what you did to them, she asked. Then, by God, in the very doorway, she fell on her knees and began praying. And after looking at her for a minute or two, Noble did the same by the fireplace. I pushed my way out past her, and left them at it. I stood at the door, watching the stars, and listening to the shrieking of the birds dying out over the bogs. It's so strange what you feel at times like that. You can't describe it. Noble says he saw everything ten times the size, as though there were nothing in the whole world but that little patch of bog with the two Englishmen stiffening into it. But with me, it was as if the patch of bog where the Englishmen were was a million miles away, and even Noble and the old woman mumbling behind me and the birds and the bloody stars were all far away, and I was somehow very small and very lost and lonely, like a child astray in the snow, and anything that happened to me afterwards, I never felt the same about again. That was Frank O'Connor's The Guests of the Nation. The final image of that story. Of the men in the bog at night, separated from the surrounding dark by a patch of lantern light. And then, what they do. It always gets to me, no matter how many times I read the story. Where did O'Connor get the idea for the story? From experience, he was an IRA soldier. The idea for the story may have been something like, what happens when two soldiers are ordered to execute two men with whom they become friends? The greatness of the story comes from the complex questions raised by the ending and by the effect of the experience on one of the characters. And anything that happened to me afterwards, I never felt the same about again. The story is an excellent example of how a simple plot can lead to a complex and moving resolution. And how the ideas underlying the story develop and expand in relationship to the situation. And the characters, actions, and responses. That was episode 20. I hope you'll come back for the final five episodes, each airing on Mondays, where I'll talk some more about writing, answer questions, and read stories, and maybe even a poem or two before wrapping up the season. If you have a question you'd like me to answer, you can email me directly at falco. ed at gmail. com. F A L C O dot E D. at gmail. com. In any event, I'm Ed Falco. Thanks for listening, and do come back next Monday for episode 21.