The Girl on the Plane - Mary Gaitskill

 

I think I’m on my third version of this post, which, as one would expect, has taken on the flavor of the time in which it was written. It would be so much easier if I were able to write about the story immediately following reading it, and that is the goal, but we are where we are in this project, and I’ll be playing a little catch-up. As it stands now, I’m writing about the second story in the anthology and reading the twelfth. 

Write faster, man! 

Mary Gaitskill is one hell of a writer, and after reading about her, she’s one hell of a person, too. Fearless, bold, and looking over my shoulder, back at the early 90s, she fits perfectly into that new decade. I was going to opine on the story, “The Girl on the Plane”,  but there are so many others that have provided thoughts from every conceivable angle that I thought I’d focus more on a few words Mary wrote in the anthology's Contributors’ Notes - always a rich source, for additional insights into the author’s mind and story.

Just a brief brush against the story. I’m reading this story in 2026, and the world is a much different place than it was 34 years ago. The story today stirs different emotions in the reader than it did in 1992/1993; our collective tolerance of certain behaviors, perhaps, has gone through some societal psychotherapy, not to excuse the behavior, but perhaps it has uncovered and brought forth the raw, honest interior of humans.

“The Girl on the Plane” is a story about a conversation, the dynamics between men and women, and finally, perception from and of: the characters, the author, and the readers, illustrating that we need to own that perception and it’s our responsibility to consider the impact of our behaviors, which we seldom do.  

Here is a passage from the Contributors' Notes.  

“I don't see how people can be responsible for their behavior if they are not responsible for their own thoughts and feelings. In my opinion, most of us have not been taught how to be responsible for our thoughts and feelings. I see this strongly in the widespread tendency to read books and stories as if they exist to confirm how we are supposed to be, think, and feel. I'm not talking wacky political correctness, I'm talking main-stream. And not just written stories either; I was flabbergasted by the public debate over the film Thelma and Louise, in which grown people discussed a Hollywood movie as if its purpose was to instruct us on how to live our lives, condemning or praising it based on whether they thought the instructions were valid. (I would not be surprised if some of these same people also wrote essays bemoaning "victimism.") Ladies and gentlemen, please. Stop asking "What am I supposed to feel?" Why would an adult look to me or to any other writer to tell him or her what to feel? You're not supposed to feel anything. You feel what you feel.

Where you go with it is your responsibility. If a writer chooses to aggressively let you know what he or she feels, where you go with it is still your responsibility.”

I would love to see Gaitskills' notes or thoughts about this story before publication - just to see how the passage of time, post publication, influenced the above, if at all. 

Two portions that I’d like to highlight. 

“In my opinion, most of us have not been taught how to be responsible for our thoughts and feelings.”

And 

“You feel what you feel.

Where you go with it is your responsibility.” 

Wise words.

A Brief Intermission

It's easy to sidetrack me. Over the last few Christmases, I have asked for the latest volume of BASS. I can't help but dive into the introduction to see what the guest editor has to say about the state of the short story, their opinion on literature in general, and of course, "the times we live in…". The editor for The BASS 2025 is Celeste Ng. In her introduction, Celeste does a fine job of detailing her story selection process as well as listing a few details about each story. I decided to place this little intermission into this project, interrupting the reading of the 1993 volume, because Celeste does a fine job of reminding us about the importance of reading fiction (the importance of reading short stories will be in another Intermission, which will feature interview excerpts with the previous BASS series editor Heidi Pitlor).

 

Below you will find Celeste's thoughts about reading fiction as they were published in BASS 2025. The disinformation portion is quite important, but please pay attention to her thoughts on empathy and emotional truths. There's a lot of that missing in our time.        

 

 

Reading fiction matters immensely, especially right now.

 

This is surely not news to you, but we're living in an era of disinformation, in which knowingly false stories—or to put it more bluntly, lies—are purposefully deployed to manipulate others, usually for the benefit of a select few. 2024 is hardly the first year this has happened (and sadly, it surely won't be the last), but this past year we've seen incredibly clearly the real-world effects disinformation can have. I'm reluctant to repeat any of the complete falsehoods that have spread on social media and in the real world alike, often from people in positions of power, but I suspect I don't need to give you examples. If you lived through this year, and the past few years, you already know that the space between reality and fantasy has become increasingly blurred in many people's minds-and to many, the distinction may not even feel important anymore.

 

So why should we still read fiction in a time of lies? If "alternative facts" are running rampant, isn't the antidote (real) facts, rather than made-up stories? Aren't made-up stories part of how we got into this mess?

 

Facts and verifiable data are immensely important-and I'm deeply grateful to those who work to counter false claims with real information. But I'd also argue that that's only one front in the battle. Research shows, again and again, that a single personal story is more likely to change a person's mind than any amount of statistics.

 

Obviously, this doesn't mean that when you read a story, you'll suddenly find yourself in agreement with its characters or author-stories are not magic spells, and I'm not saying that just reading short stories will save the world, either. But stories build our empathy by asking us to imagine what it's like to be in someone else's position, thinking their thoughts and feeling their feelings. Unlike disinformation, a short story tells you up front that it is fiction, and when you know it's all just pretend, you're often more willing to play along: Okay, sure, I'll step into this world, it's just fifteen or twenty pages, and it's all pretend anyway... It's like taking a weekend trip to a place you've never been and aren't sure if you'll like, but hey—it's only a weekend, right?

 

At the end, though—assuming the story's done its job-this made-up story will have allowed you to access an emotional truth. Facts may tap politely at the prefrontal cortex, appealing to your rational brain, but fiction snakes its way into your limbic system and nests deep in your emotions. By skirting all the rational barriers we hunker behind, sometimes fiction can reach us in a more visceral way. And in doing so, short stories in particular can act like little tuning forks, helping us to clarify our own values—then allowing us to bring ourselves into alignment with what we believe. In a time when our values are being tested daily, it's hard to think of anything more important.