Bierce’s stories can be roughly divided into three categories: those about the Civil War, horror and the supernatural, and comic or “tall” tales. Though his plots are mostly contrived, he writes with great economy and vividness, and his stories often have a caustic, almost misanthropic edge to them. The shot story was clearly an ideal medium for him.

His contrivances of plot include reordering of the time scheme such as analepsis (flashback) and prolepsis (flashforward), exploration of dreams and the surreal, and a preoccupation with the vagaries of perception. Through these techniques, he demonstrates an uncanny ability to record how humans record experience before organizing it conceptually.

In his most horrifying war story, “Chickamauga,” a deaf-mute child witnesses the retreat of the Confederate soldiers after the eponymous battle and wanders out toward the battlefield and encounters men crawling away from battle. The child thinks they are playing a game and tries to ride on the back of one of them, but the soldier flings him to the ground and then

The child retreats and then drawn by a great fire, leads the men as if into battle with his toy sword. Soon he recognizes the burning building as his own home, his mother lying dead before him, and he utters “a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries — something between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey — a startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil.”

The reversal of physical orientation is complete and serves as an emblem of the reversal of the story: war as a matter of youthful enthusiasm and heroism revealed as bloody horror.

From among his few short stories, William Austin‘s fame rests primarily with one, “Peter Rugg, or the Missing Man,” which became immensely popular and a favorite of Hawthorne and Longfellow. Austin incorporates legends of the Wandering Jew and the Flying Dutchman into a New England setting, much as Washington Irving had done with Knickerbocker materials in “Rip Van Winkle.”

The storytelling method is sophisticated in that Austin recounts Rugg’s situation by means of one narrative nested within another. The frame storyteller is Jonathan Dunwell, who presents events that transpire chiefly during 1820, although there is a distortion of time that heightens the sense of the supernatural.

After spending a stormy night with friends in Concord, Rugg and his young daughter, Jenny, fail to reach Boston and are cursed thereafter to travel continuously in an antiquated carriage (even by 1820 standards) and become precursors of storms (like the older Flying Dutchman).

Originally published on September 10, 1824, in the New England Galaxy in the form of a letter to the editor but carrying the title “Some Account of Peter Rugg, the Missing Man, Late of Boston, New England, in a Letter to Mr. Herman Krauff,” it was signed “Jonathan Dunwell,” about whom nothing was known. For the next seventeen years, the true author, a local attorney named William Austin, concealed his identity.

This collection of great American short stories contains over thirty of the finest ever penned by American writers from Washington Irving to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“History” really isn’t about history but how to convert the burden of the past into a survival kit for the future. “The fact narrated must correspond to something in me to be credible or intelligible.” Emerson believed that history could not be ignored, but for it to have currency we must imagine ourselves in it. “We . . . must become Greeks, Romans, Turks, priest and king, martyr and executioner, must fasten images to some reality in our experience, or we shall learn nothing rightly.”

Emerson’s essay on the unalienated human being, “Self-Reliance,” the essay for which he is most remembered, is a synthesis of the self-rule of classical stoicism, the bildung of Goethe, the ideas of Schleiermacher, the knotty musings of Kant — translated into a coherent, accessible English. “Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.” But it is not a mandate for selfishness. It recommends self-reliance as a starting point — not as a goal. A better society will come about only as an association of fulfilled individuals. Whereas “Self-Reliance” emphasizes the individual, “The Over-soul” focuses on the common mind. “Self-Reliance affirms individualism; “The Over-soul affirms “that great nature in which we rest,” a nature variously described as “a common nature,” “the great heart of nature,” “the common heart,” and “the great, universal mind.” The link between these two essays is Emerson’s idea that the power of the individual is the power of our common nature.

Also in this collection is “The Poet,” the finest piece ever penned about literature as a process, a form of expression as fundamental as any basic drive — like sex — but also one of the main purposes of human life. Poetry is not a skill or a trade, but a reflection of the human spirit, the inner fire: “For we are not pans and barrows, nor even porters of the fire and torch bearers, but children of the fire, made of it.”

The last essay in this collection is “The Divinity School Address,” given July 15, 1838, to the senior class of the Harvard Divinity School. Emerson had not been invited by the officers of the school, but by the senior class. What he delivered that evening was so objectionable to the clergy that nearly thirty years passed before he was invited to speak again at Harvard. Emerson’s address was both an attack on formal historical Christianity and a proposition of a personal religious consciousness, a sort of declaration of the divinity of the human. Emerson ended his talk with advice that asked a lot of the young graduates: “Let me admonish you to go alone; to refuse the good models . . . and to love God without mediator or veil.” The address would be Emerson’s last face-off with organized religion, though he would remain a deeply religious and spiritual man throughout his life.

For “The Dead” James Joyce drew upon an incident in Galway in 1903. There a young man named Michael (“Sonny”) Bodkin was courting Nora Barnacle (Joyce’s eventual wife), but he had tuberculosis and was soon bedridden. When Nora resolved to leave Galway for Dublin, the boy stole out of his sickbed and in the rain under an apple tree sang to Nora . Later, in Dublin, Nora learned that Bodkin was dead. When Nora first met Joyce, as she told her sister, what attracted her to him was his resemblance to “Sonny” Bodkin.

Apparently, Joyce was jealous of the dead suitor and grilled Nora ceaselessly about him. What bothered him was that her heart was still moved by the recollection of the boy’s love for her. This notion of a man in rivalry with a dead boy lying in a cemetery appears to be the genesis of Joyce’s most famous story.

Besides basing his story only on this incident, Joyce borrowed heavily from the ending of another book, one that is hardly read anymore, George Moore’s Vain Fortune. In that book a young bridal couple learn that a young woman whom the groom jilted has committed suicide. Both are tormented, and the bride asks her husband not to kiss her. She falls off to sleep, their marriage unconsummated, and the husband stares out the window at “the melancholy greyness of the dawn.” In that instant he realizes that his life is a failure and that his wife lacks the passion of the girl who killed herself. He does, however, achieve a sort of redemption through his agony: a resolution to try to make his wife happy. This is clearly the situation from which Joyce adroitly lifted: the dead lover who comes between the living lovers, the husband’s realization of his failure, his acceptance of mediocrity, the resolve to be at least sympathetic — it all came from this other book. Nonetheless, Joyce rarefies the story by having it arise not from the suicide of a former love but from the simple memory of the young love itself.

Before his wartime experiences, Dos Passos had only intellectualized his feelings of rebellion nurtured at Harvard, and later embellished during his bohemian days in Greenwich Village with its political radicals such as John Reed. These were heady days for someone who wanted to work in the arts. Dos Passos saw the Armory Show, which introduced Americans to the work of Picasso and Matisse; he attended performances of the Ballets Russes; and he was deeply affected by the literary radicalism of the poets Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot.

He had become a pacifistic, but knew that for a young man hoping to be a writer, he must experience the war firsthand. He volunteered for an ambulance unit and shipped to France on June 20, 1917. Near the end of July he joined a section of drivers headed toward the front. What he saw there was, he wrote in one of his journal entries, “horror . . . so piled up on horror that there can be no more. How damned ridiculous it all is! . . . All the cant and hypocrisy . . . all the vestiges of the old truth now putrid and false infect the air, choke you worse than German gas — the ministers from their damn smug pulpits, the business men — the heroics about war — my country right or wrong — Oh infinities of them!”

Initially the collection did not sell as many copies as Frost’s previous collection, North of Boston, probably because his publisher rushed the book into print. Nevertheless, it contains some of Frost’s best-known and most celebrated poems, such as “The Road Not Taken,” “Birches,” and “Out, Out—.” Frost wrote the majority of the poems during his stay in England; whereas he wrote a few before leaving for Europe and reworked them for book publication, such as “Birches” and “Putting in the Seed.”

Naturally, Frost was disappointed by the book’s lack of sales, but it was to be expected of a third volume following so quickly on the heels of two previous collections, A Boy’s Will and North of Boston. Despite the book’s abysmal sales figures, most scholars agree that it was a seminal book in the history of modern poetry, virtually on the basis of “The Road Not Taken” and “Birches.”

Barnes and Noble, Montclair, CA, 10/29/11

Borders’ liquidation this summer should have been Barnes & Noble’s grand opportunity to grab a sizable market share, just as the warehouse book-selling superstores benefited in the past when they ruthlessly forced countless smaller and independent bookstores to board up and call it quits.

But something isn’t quite right at Barnes & Noble. Call it bad zeitgeist or whatever you want, but the vibe is all wrong. A quick check of our local store this weekend revealed aisle upon aisle, indeed entire sections of the store, stocked with non-book items, junk we’d never have seen a few years ago. One would’ve thought that putting out their own proprietary eReader (Nook) should have kept Barnes & Noble in the game, but a price-slashing war with Amazon is exposing the retailer’s financial shortcomings.

These times, they are a-changing, and Barnes & Noble can kiss their glory days goodbye.

The bookseller just emerged from another dreadful quarter. Take the Nook and its digital downloads out of the equation and the stark reality is that sales actually fell by 11% at its superstores. Unlike Amazon, which has a habit of always turning a profit, Barnes & Noble posted another wider-than-expected deficit.

Losing money and market share is a recurring theme at their superstores, and stacks of the Steve Jobs biography at a 30% markdown isn’t going to staunch the bleeding. Barnes & Noble has missed Wall Street’s profit targets in each of the past six quarters, and industry analysts see nothing but losses for all of fiscal 2012.

We’re now heading into the Christmas season, by far the most profitable part of the year for booksellers, but with so many consumers purchasing gifts cheaper online (including books), how many will be crowding the registers at your local Barnes & Noble? For the real book lover in your family, wouldn’t a Kindle make a more attractive gift? Forget the Nook. Kindle owns the eReader market.

The original Starbucks in Seattle

The micro-lending revolution made it possible for community-based lending institutions to provide $25 loans for entrepreneurs in emerging markets — and is now making its way to your local Starbucks. Starting November 1, if your friends can’t spot you $25, you might be able to get financing from hundreds of thousands of coffee-drinkers. At over 7,000 Starbucks coffee shops around the nation, patrons will be able to give micro-donations as small as $5, which will then be re-packaged into larger loans for worthy local businesses.

The Create Jobs for USA micro-lending plan, made possible through the vision of Starbucks Chairman Howard Schultz and the Opportunity Finance Network, is elegant in its simplicity: groups of individuals, by pooling their limited financial resources, can effect change on a scale that large financial institutions cannot. The national reach of Starbucks, with the generosity of coffee drinkers willing to donate $5 or more, almost guarantees that this new micro-lending initiative will have a meaningful impact. According to Starbucks, every $3,000 raised will create one new job in America. Every $5 donation makes it possible for businesses to raise $35 in financing. That may not sound like much, but at a time when small businesses create 50% of all new jobs in America, this means that every $5 donation can lead to job creation and community revitalization.