“The Prospectors”
by Karen Russell
from Orange World and Other Stories
A read this story a few years ago when it appeared in The New Yorker. Here is the post. I'm posting on it again as part of an extended look at the stories in Russell's latest collection, Orange World. Rereading the story has brought me to a moment of reflection. See, usually when I read something by Karen Russell I'm drawn in by the voice and the imagined world. She has a sensibility that veers to the off-kilter and creepy, and I like it. But sometimes by the end I'm disappointed. I walk away thinking I didn't like the story. In fact, I quite liked the story; I just didn't like the ending. Rereading "The Prospectors" reminded of this — I enjoyed going through it again but the ending washed that enjoyment away. The story dies quickly, and when you look at its corpse it appears withered, dry, and hollowed out. Not much remains. This made me quite grumpy when I went through her collection Vampires in the Lemon Grove. I'm trying to figure out if I should feel as disappointed as I do, or if I should rewire my expectations a bit to enjoy these tales for what they are.
In "The Prospector," Russell goes to a favorite premise: a young person falls for — at least, temporarily — someone who is dead or some semblance thereof (see also "The Bog Girl," Swamplandia!). It begins as a realistic story with a historical setting. During the Depression, Clara and Aubergine, the first-person narrator of the piece, run away from home and make their way west, calling themselves "prospectors" because, to survive, they filch money from the men they seduce, men who think they're taking advantage of the girls. They are, of course, but the girls feel like they're in on the scheme and, therefore, somehow in control.
We met mining captains and fishing captains, whose whiskers quivered like those of orphaned seals. The freckled heirs to timber fortunes. Glazy baronial types, with portentous and misguided names: Romulus and Creon, who were pleased to invite us to gala dinners, and to use us as their gloating mirrors. In exchange for this service, Clara and I helped ourselves to many fine items from their houses. Clara had a magic satchel that seemed to expand with our greed, and we stole everything it could swallow. Dessert spoons, candlesticks, a poodle's jewelled collar. We strode out of parties wearing our hostess's two-toned heels, woozy with adrenaline. Crutched along by Clara's sturdy charm, I was swung through doors that led to marmoreal courtyards and curtained salons and, in many cases, master bedrooms, where my skin glowed under the warm reefs of artificial lighting.
Clearly, though, their ways of getting by have affected them. Indeed, it's not out of the realm of possibility that Clara, the one who seems to be the most attractive to the men they find, is being used by our narrator herself.
They've taken their route clear across the country and, when the story begins, have ridden up a ski lift to the grand opening of a luxury lodge on the mountain top above a town called Lucerne, Oregon. When they get to the top and find an escort waiting, Clara's act kicks in:
Already she was fluffing her hair, asking this government employee how he'd gotten the enviable job of escorting beautiful women across the snows.
When they arrive at the lodge and do indeed find themselves at a party, but one with only a couple dozen men.
The girls quickly realize that they have arrived at the wrong lodge and the wrong party, and it's a bit cheesy:
"Clara," I murmured, "I think we may have taken the wrong lift."
Years ago, at another luxury lodge, there was a terrible avalanche and most of the workers were killed. They find themselves at this party, among the dead. It's quite the lively graveyard.
Somehow aware not only of their predicament but also of what they need to do to escape, they vow to survive the night: the next morning a photographer is supposed to show up to document the party, and they just know they cannot have their photograph taken. They run off to the ski lift, and it's very anti-climactic.
And that's where I usually get frustrated and wonder what the point was, or, rather, wondering what important issue Russell may be exploring with her art. Russell's story does look at the ways some women have had to try to survive, the way it starts to feel like death. It's not much more than that, though. But why can't I let that go? Why can't I acknowledge I quite like her stories, even if many of them don't quite raise to the level of, say, William Trevor or Alice Munro (not a fair bar for anyone).
I've decided that I like Russell's work for their verve and setting, for the worlds she imagines, and not necessarily because they strike a resonant chord on any deeper theme. And I very much like the world she creates in "The Prospectors."
Hopefully releasing myself from the obligation to find something incredibly deep and nuanced I will find my way back to really enjoying Russell's work. I'm anxious to keep going with Orange World.
3 January, 2024
Hi, I’m here because I, too, found the story rivetting and yet – or maybe because of this – was searching for more meaning in K. Russell’s ending. Really appreciated your article.
Trevor and FFM and all:
I read the collection ‘Orange World’ when it came out, and earlier the story “The Prospectors” when it appeared in Best American SS 2016, when I was pulling whatever New Yorker mags I found in the library recycle box before I finally subscibed. Too bad I didn’t know about this site back then. But isn’t it nice that FFM finally responded to your commentary all these years later!
I’ve read three of Russell’s books: ‘Swamplandia’ I liked very much, and overall I liked ‘Orange World’ much better than ‘Vampires…’. I appreciated her imagination, which is why I read her. My disappointments are for other reasons.
I won’t reread the “The Prospectors” or the collection now, but am glancing through. I recall some stories pretty well, some only what they were about; my responses ran the gamut. *Spoilers ahead.
I did like “The Prospectors”. Trevor: I’m wondering exactly what you didn’t like, and at what point it lost you. I felt it was stylistically well written, though the story essentially not original: the premise being like Twilight Zone episodes in which someone dies and goes on imagining being alive until someone or something dispels their illusion. A good (be it sordid) fairy tale with a happy escape ending.
I could have done without “The Bad Graft” entirely. Simply a fantasy/horror tale, it wouldn’t have surprised me to find it in that sort of collection by someone else (maybe even King) which I wouldn’t have read. I found nothing meaningful about the story.
One I especially remember is “Black Corfu”. I very much liked it, except for the ending. When the corrupted body was discovered, everyone assumed the worst and the doctor was rejected by everyone, including his family. As I recall, he didn’t even try to defend himself. Due to my personal expectation of some degree of human realism, even allowing for the magical elements of the story, I felt his wife would have had to be unbelievably shallow, and their relationship hollow, for her not to know and have faith in her husband’s character. He should have been able to simply explain the situation for her to understand and stick by him when no one else would. A great fairy tale with a lousy ending.
The story I liked best was “The Gondoliers”. Like ‘Swamplandia’, the environmental setting and circumstances well presented, the first person narrator insightful, the story meaningful. Of *course one or more of her sisters would come to the rescue. Magic and realism well married. The ending? I assumed it was one way (though not revealed), but could have gone the other. What do you think?
Others? Limited recall, but:
“Big Girl” – Something about it bothered me. Ugly tale.
“Madame Bovary’s Greyhound” – I had read Flaubert. I wasn’t very impressed by this story, but it was okay.
“The Tornado Auction” – I enjoyed it, recall liking the fantasy scenario, don’t recall the story.
“Orange World” – Hardly remember it, but it wasn’t a big favorite.
Judging from photos of Russell, she never seems to be worried about criticism. As I see it, her thing is primarily fantasy, not so much the expectations related to so-called “literary fiction”. However, effective endings are critical in any genre, even if meaning isn’t necessarily required in some, (although it helps!)
I’ve tried writing stories, though not recently. The trouble is I never knew how to end a story. Maybe if I had gone through years of schooling and writing workshopping, like so many of our contemporary fiction writers, I’d have acquired the craft. But “craft” isn’t enough to give stories or their endings meaning, is it? For that, a writer needs “vision”.
What’s “vision” ? Oh-oh, this is too big a subject, and I’m starting to blather…
I hope to hear from others on these subjects. I haven’t read anything by Russell since ‘Orange World’, so I’d be interested in any impressions of her newer work. Has anyone read “Sleep Donation? Based on what I’ve said here, do you think *I should bother with ‘St Lucy’s…’?