Tag Archives: Alice Munro

Bibliophilic housekeeping, plus Lethem and Munro—and beetles

It’s like musical goddamned chairs, my mood and my reading material—one moment I’m all eager for awkward crushing (Rainbow Rowell), the next I’m hungry for some straight-up murder shenanigans (Gillian Flynn); one day I’m bingeing myself with the best of historical romance (Courtney Milan, Mary Balogh, and so on) and before that day even ends I’ve tossed the ebooks into a dark corner of my hard drive to reach for comic books with lots and lots of explosions in them. [Continue reading.]

For the “weight that shifted around the heart”

More than the generosity of her stories, more than the scope—nothing short of meandering at times, the reader would be justified in suspecting—it’s this uncanny carriage among Munro’s people. There’s always this grace with her stories, borne (I’m whimsical enough to think) of how her characters will themselves to remain still under duress. So: The illusion of grace, then—but the illusion is more than enough. In the face of some keen shame, an unforeseen mortification, a half-expected disappointment. [Continue reading.]

03052013: The Unread of February

The “Currently Reading” counter on my Goodreads account has morphed into tally of bibliophilic failures; since the tail-end of January and all throughout February, the books themselves have been shuttling in and out of my bags, on top of desks both at work and at home, beneath my pillows, beside the bed, on the floor, and until recently—in the case of poor Simenon—where I keep my underwear. They’ve gone to and fro Quezon City and the heart of Manila, they’ve sat quietly inside my bag, beside computer cords and my make-up kit and chocolate bars, while I sat through meetings and had dinners both welcome and not. They’ve been opened, marked, closed, then set aside in favor of other books. [Continue reading.]

Alice Munro, Too Much Happiness, “the emotional housekeeping of the world,” and simple goodness

I’ve known this for a long time, and it always give me a thrill having it reaffirmed time and time again: Alice Munro is one of the best short story writers ever. Her latest collection, Too Much Happiness, was stunning—with complex characters and grand narratives and fluid prose, the stories pretty much pitch-perfect. I read […]

marginalia || Open Secrets, by Alice Munro

Another collection of interwoven stories: Open Secrets, from an old favorite of mine–considered the doyenne (hate that word) of short stories, Alice Munro. From Harold Brodkey to Alice Munro, a rather jarring transition: Munro is just so calm. I’ve never noticed that about Munro’s stories–and I’ve been reading her for years–but these ones were just […]

marginalia || Fault Lines: Stories of Divorce, ed by Caitlin Shetterley

Sometimes you pick up a book even if you have no bleeding clue if it’ll be worth the couple of bucks you shelled out for it. I did this a lot back then, back when I had no notion of TBR-piles toppling, or taking matters into their own hands and just forming their very own […]