Walter Abish (December 24, 1931 – May 28, 2022) was an Austrian-born American author of experimental novels and short stories. He was conferred the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in 1981 and was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship six years later.
Early life
Abish was born in Vienna on December 24, 1931.[1] His family was Jewish.[2] His father, Adolph, worked as a perfumer; his mother was Friedl (Rubin). At a young age, he fled with his family from the Nazis, traveling first to Italy and Nice before living in Shanghai from 1940 to 1949. In 1949, they relocated to Israel, where Abish served in the army and developed an interest in writing. He settled in the United States in 1957 and became an American citizen three years later.[1]
This was followed by his first collection of stories, Minds Meet, a year later, with one story envisaging Marcel Proust in Albuquerque.[5] His second collection, In the Future Perfect, was released in 1977 and utilized words juxtaposed in unusual patterns to form alphanumeric games.[3] Writing in The Tennessean, Alfred Sims noted that, as in Abish's previous work, "Here again the old war horses of plot and narrative line are sacrificed in favor of reflections on the nature and use of language."[6]
He also received a Guggenheim Fellowship (1981) and a MacArthur Fellowship (1987),[9][10] and sat on the contributing editorial board of the literary journal Conjunctions.[11] Abish's third collection, 99: the New Meaning, was released in 1990 as a "limited edition of five collagist stories".[3]
His last novel, Eclipse Fever (1993), received mixed reviews, with James Atlas describing its protagonist in The Times Book Review as "even for a literary critic, something of a bore".[1] But Will Self, reviewing the book in The Independent, wrote: "Abish, unlike a populist film maker, doesn't simply produce snapshots to be passed among the mass. He tears treasured portraits from our culture's family album and thrusts them into his cunning slide carousel. Clicking from one page to the next, we reflect not on the death of literary fiction but on its vitality."[12]