Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Dear life, by Alice Munro



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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