In the collections of short stories Alice Munro has published since 1968, her great gift has been observation. Whether her protagonist has just gotten a job in a turkey slaughterhouse or has decided to take a road trip with her husband and two small daughters across the northern United States, the details she notes are so precise and evocative that they enter a reader’s mind as if they were the reader’s own memories — not similar, something like, but that very thing.
I can’t think of another writer whose every paragraph is so quietly powerful. Munro does not assert, she describes and suggests. The world she evokes seems at first mundane. When she started out in the 1960s and ’70s, her stories were set close to home: rural Ontario, Vancouver, inside the house or out in the farmyard. But she understands the meaning of every detail and its connection to the larger pulse of aspiration and disappointment, love and death.
P.S. – I would like to apologize for my lack of attention to this blog and my readers. I started school once more, taking on more classes that give excessive amounts of homework. I have not been able to work out my routine yet, but I will make an effort to work on this blog despite my busy schedule. Thank you for sticking with me, and please continue doing so as I work it all out. And thank you for helping me reach 200+ followers. Maybe I will be able to make a video again. I don’t have a camera, but I will see what I can do with what I have. -Cheers, JhinelleW_RN