![]() ![]() So after considering and rejecting a number of other possibilities I harnessed my most determined version of myself, picked up my copy of Alice Munro and started reading.īecause reading Alice Munro is like finding yourself in the most perfect, most lovely little glade with a pool of water fed by softly flowing waterfalls, warmed by a perfectly angled and channelled sunlight, rimmed by weeping willows and sweet-scented climbing flowers where the grass is just perfectly warm and perfectly soft and the only sound is birdsong and the gentle rush of water, and somehow you’re entirely alone, unhurried, with nowhere to go. This is how I’ve ended up with a collection of Alice Munro’s short stories that’s been unread for several years, and my instinct after Leaves of Grass and Moby Dick was to give myself something a little easier, a little less of a challenge to read, but I’m all about challenging my instincts these days and it felt like confronting my dislike of short stories was the way to go. ![]() I have a bunch of short story collections in my library and every time I think about picking one up my mind goes ‘ugh’ and I think about all the disjointedness and the effort in moving from one story to another without continuation or common theme and I think ‘no way’ and the short story collection goes back on the shelf unread. ![]()
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