The Garden Party, and Other Stories
1922
Katherine Mansfield wrote these stories in the final years of her life, and that mortality haunts every page. She shattered the conventional short story, discarding plot machinery to capture something more radical: the precise instant when feeling surfaces through the fabric of ordinary life. The fifteen tales here, many set in her native New Zealand, range from the luminous family portrait of "At the Bay" to the devastating "Miss Brill," in which a lonely woman's fragile Sunday ritual collapses when she overhears two young lovers mocking her. The title story finds Laura Burnell caught between the frivolous beauty of her family's garden party and the news of a neighbor's death, her innocence cracking against the indifferent machinery of class. Mansfield's innovation gave the form new strength and psychological intensity. These are stories that understand how quickly joy can curdle, how thin the membrane is between connection and isolation, how much loneliness fits into a single Sunday afternoon.
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“Isn't life,' she stammered, 'isn't life--' But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood.'Isn't it, darling?' said Laurie.””
— Katherine Mansfield
“You are a Queen. Let mine be the joy of giving you your kingdom.””
— Katherine Mansfield
“And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her.””
— Katherine Mansfield
“Oh,' said the little girl, 'my head's on your heart; I can hear it going. What a big heart you've got, father dear.””
— Katherine Mansfield
“What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful.””
— Katherine Mansfield
“Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? Late”
— Katherine Mansfield
“You're not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again. But now–at night time- it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling little funny room. It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things!””
— Katherine Mansfield
“It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate.””
— Katherine Mansfield
“As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.””
— Katherine Mansfield
