Here Lies — A Reader’s Guide

Hoarded Words and Deliberate Pacing

The narrator tells us that for Chauncey and Shep, “words being precious things, both old boys hoarded every syllable.” This principle governs the story’s early paragraphs. Sentences are short, often fragmentary: “No hurry.” “A masterpiece.” The description of Shep’s whittling is painstakingly detailed—the scalpel-point of the knife, the satin finish of the links, the possibility that a single link might take a week. This slow accumulation of detail creates a sense of timeless routine. Yet within this stillness, small actions carry disproportionate weight. Chauncey’s question about the stick is described as “tantamount to fury,” a clue that the quiet surface conceals strong feeling. The narrative pace is not static; it is a coiled spring, and the reader is made to feel the pressure building beneath the calm.

The Irony of Practical Communism

Chauncey is introduced as a “practical communist” whose “generosity was limitless.” The story tests this principle through Shep’s quiet exploitation. Shep charges tobacco to Chauncey’s account, prefers a superior grade, and hoards plugs “in case the cause of communism ever collapsed.” The narrator’s tone is wry, not judgmental. The communism is not ideological but a domestic arrangement: “share and share alike.” The irony deepens when we learn that Shep has been opening Chauncey’s mail, first by steaming it open, then openly. The progression from subterfuge to open slit suggests a gradual erosion of boundaries. The story does not moralize; it simply presents the arrangement and its consequences, leaving the reader to gauge the balance of generosity and taking.

Setting as Character and Contrast

The physical setting reinforces the story’s themes. The log-built house on St. Paul’s Hill is described as “a jewel of conscientious carpentry.” One hundred twenty feet below stands the former ice-house, now Shep’s residence, equipped with furnishings as complete as the main house, including plumbing. The vertical separation is literal and symbolic: Chauncey above, Shep below. Yet the housekeeper, Celia Lilleoden, moves between both houses with “easy efficiency,” and the men sun themselves “like two old snakes.” The simile is telling—snakes are patient, still, and potentially dangerous. The setting is not merely backdrop; it embodies the careful, almost architectural balance of the relationship. The hill, the woodpile, the kitchen—each location becomes a stage for the unspoken negotiations between the two men.

Readers should attend to the story’s shifts in tempo. The opening’s deliberate, almost hypnotic rhythm gives way to moments of abrupt action—the ax stroke, the spat, the wagging jaw. These changes are not random; they mark the points where the unspoken contract between Chauncey and Shep is tested. The story’s irony depends on reading these silences and eruptions together. Notice also how the narrator withholds judgment, letting the details of whittling, tobacco, and mail speak for themselves. The result is a compact, unsettling fable about the limits of generosity.