Thoughts of Barry Hannah—re-reading him, actually—have reminded me of the short story writers I've been able to tolerate, even like, even love: early Hannah, Leonard Michaels, Grace Paley, Lydia Davis, Chekhov & Mavis Gallant (those two, yes, I love), Harold Brodkey, some of both Barthelmes, a couple of stories by Lee K. Abbott, Richard Ford, Borges and his insane step-child Roberto Bolaño, Kafka, one or two stories by Robert Coover and Mary Robison, early Mark Richard, Denis Johnson, Cynthia Ozick, some James Baldwin, Francois Camoin and Darrell Spencer (two mentors), and Robert Walser. I also like Fitzgerald, some Updike (I lie; I can't read Updike), John Cheever (possibly another lie), Beckett, some William Gass, Raymond Carver (the Lish versions), and the guy—I can't remember his name—who writes all those stories about the Caribbean.
Alice Munro, no doubt wrongly, I find unreadable.
But most short fiction I find unreadable, including my own.
I invite my fearless readers to note some others—names I've forgotten or failed to find.
(Goodness. Will this blog—any blog—ever be anything other than an exercise in solipsism?)
Update: The Caribbean guy is Bob Shacochis.