Munro’s short stories are always marvelous, and often so
superior to most books of novel length.
I had read one or two in this collection before in the New
Yorker, but most were new to me. At
the end of the book is a section of four works that the author says “are
not quite stories. They form a separate unit
one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in
fact. I believe they are the first and last – and the closest – things I have
to say about my own life.” It was here
that I realized that the author is much older than I thought, born in 1931, and
I also realized that someday her wonderful stories will come to an end. She’s just the best. 319 pp.
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