I myself first read my favorite short story of all time (call it the FSSOAT) in an anthology assigned in a college creative writing class. Yes, we forgive them, and we read them, because pretty much everyone who is a consumer of short stories (or who has taken literature classes) has in their time discovered at least one great story in at least one anthology. But we forgive them, because it’s nearly impossible to fit a nebulous state of literature, with all its complexities of form, subject, race, class, gender, and nepotism (oh the nepotism) into a portable object made of paper.
Those that claim to represent the state of short fiction at any given time are typically lying, to whatever extent mute volumes of literature can lie. They have stories sticking out in odd places they have holes in their sides. They are sometimes ludicrous, often ugly, and almost uniformly tyrannical.
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