Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.78 AVERAGE
3.78 AVERAGE
Nothing I can write will justify the sublimity of short story art as practiced in this book. So...
------------------------------
He was scrupulously egalitarian, making it a point not to "snivel," as he said, to anybody, not to kowtow, and not to highhat anybody, either, to behave as if there were no differences. I took the same tack. There were times, later, when I wondered if it was a paralyzing prudence that urged this stand, as much as any finer sentiment, when I wondered if my father and I didn't harbor, in our hearts, intact and unassailable notions of superiority, which my mother and her cousins with their innocent snobbishness could never match.
He knew he had an advantage, and we had reached the point in our marriage where no advantage was given up easily.
Lily said she never let her husband come near her if he had been drinking. Marjorie said since the time she nearly died with a hemorrhage she never let her husband come near her, period. Lily said quickly that it was only when he'd been drinking that he tried anything. I could see that it was a matter of pride not to let your husband come near you, but I couldn't quite believe that "come near" meant "have sex." The idea of Marjorie and Lily being sought out for such purposes seemed grotesque. They had bad teeth, their stomachs sagged, their faces were dull and spotty. I decided to take "come near" literally.
It seems unlikely that on my way to the Turkey Barn, for an hour of gutting turkeys, I should have experienced such a sense of promise and at the same time of perfect, impenetrable mystery in the universe, but I did.
It is in imagining her affair to be a secret that Frances shows, most clearly, a lack of small-town instincts, a trust and recklessness she is unaware of; this is what people mean when they say of her that it sure shows that she has been away.
I joke about her, everybody does, but I defend her too, saying that she is not condemned to living with reservations and withdrawals, long-drawn-out dissatisfactions, inarticulate wavering miseries. Her trust is total, her miseries are sharp, and she survives without visible damage. She doesn't allow for drift or stagnation and the spectacle of her life is not discouraging to me.
That was the only time I talked to him, so far as I can remember. There was something about the direct approach, the slightly clumsy but determined courtesy, my own unexpected, lightened feeling of gratitude, that did connect with his attentions to women later, and his effect on them. I am sure he was always patient, unalarming; successful, appreciative, sincere.
Her children, who all live at a distance, send her beautiful books on subjects they are sure will interest her, but for the most part these books are large and heavy and she can't find a way to look at them comfortably, so she soon relegates them to her bottom shelf. She would not admit it to her children, but her interest has waned, it has waned considerably. They say in their letters that they remember how she taught them about mushrooms; do you remember when we saw the destroying angel in Petrie's Bush when we were living in Logan? Their letters are full of remembering.
The trees came down to the shore, on both sides of the building. Most of them were birch and poplar. The leaves were not quite out here, even though it was May. You could see all the branches with just an impression of green, as if that was the color of the air. Under the trees there were hundreds of white trilliums. The day was cloudy, though the sun had been trying to break through. The water looked bright and cold.
"And I thought, why should I be surprised? Isn't this just what you always hear? How love isn't rational, or in one's best interests, it doesn't have anything to do with normal preferences?"
"Where do you always hear that?" Douglas said.
"It's standard. There's the intelligent sort of love that makes an intelligent choice. That's the kind you're supposed to get married on. Then there's the kind that's anything but intelligent, that's like a possession. And that's the one, that's the one, everybody really values. That's the one nobody wants to have missed out on."
------------------------------
He was scrupulously egalitarian, making it a point not to "snivel," as he said, to anybody, not to kowtow, and not to highhat anybody, either, to behave as if there were no differences. I took the same tack. There were times, later, when I wondered if it was a paralyzing prudence that urged this stand, as much as any finer sentiment, when I wondered if my father and I didn't harbor, in our hearts, intact and unassailable notions of superiority, which my mother and her cousins with their innocent snobbishness could never match.
He knew he had an advantage, and we had reached the point in our marriage where no advantage was given up easily.
Lily said she never let her husband come near her if he had been drinking. Marjorie said since the time she nearly died with a hemorrhage she never let her husband come near her, period. Lily said quickly that it was only when he'd been drinking that he tried anything. I could see that it was a matter of pride not to let your husband come near you, but I couldn't quite believe that "come near" meant "have sex." The idea of Marjorie and Lily being sought out for such purposes seemed grotesque. They had bad teeth, their stomachs sagged, their faces were dull and spotty. I decided to take "come near" literally.
It seems unlikely that on my way to the Turkey Barn, for an hour of gutting turkeys, I should have experienced such a sense of promise and at the same time of perfect, impenetrable mystery in the universe, but I did.
It is in imagining her affair to be a secret that Frances shows, most clearly, a lack of small-town instincts, a trust and recklessness she is unaware of; this is what people mean when they say of her that it sure shows that she has been away.
I joke about her, everybody does, but I defend her too, saying that she is not condemned to living with reservations and withdrawals, long-drawn-out dissatisfactions, inarticulate wavering miseries. Her trust is total, her miseries are sharp, and she survives without visible damage. She doesn't allow for drift or stagnation and the spectacle of her life is not discouraging to me.
That was the only time I talked to him, so far as I can remember. There was something about the direct approach, the slightly clumsy but determined courtesy, my own unexpected, lightened feeling of gratitude, that did connect with his attentions to women later, and his effect on them. I am sure he was always patient, unalarming; successful, appreciative, sincere.
Her children, who all live at a distance, send her beautiful books on subjects they are sure will interest her, but for the most part these books are large and heavy and she can't find a way to look at them comfortably, so she soon relegates them to her bottom shelf. She would not admit it to her children, but her interest has waned, it has waned considerably. They say in their letters that they remember how she taught them about mushrooms; do you remember when we saw the destroying angel in Petrie's Bush when we were living in Logan? Their letters are full of remembering.
The trees came down to the shore, on both sides of the building. Most of them were birch and poplar. The leaves were not quite out here, even though it was May. You could see all the branches with just an impression of green, as if that was the color of the air. Under the trees there were hundreds of white trilliums. The day was cloudy, though the sun had been trying to break through. The water looked bright and cold.
"And I thought, why should I be surprised? Isn't this just what you always hear? How love isn't rational, or in one's best interests, it doesn't have anything to do with normal preferences?"
"Where do you always hear that?" Douglas said.
"It's standard. There's the intelligent sort of love that makes an intelligent choice. That's the kind you're supposed to get married on. Then there's the kind that's anything but intelligent, that's like a possession. And that's the one, that's the one, everybody really values. That's the one nobody wants to have missed out on."
Stories about everyday people, with common lives, but stories that seem so close to oneself, because these characters live, feel or think in ways you feel pictured yourself. Beautiful in its simplicity
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Para mi la primera mitad del libro fue muy buena pero ya después siento que se hace algo tedioso, recomendable para personas que les gusten los relatos cortos.
emotional
medium-paced
emotional
reflective
sad
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Some were better than others but overall lovely. Snippets of such real lives, snapshots into what it is to be a person in this world.
"His way with people is to be very reserved or very entertaining, and he believes that his preference is to be reserved. Therefore, he likes the entertainment to be appreciated.”
I view Munro’s books like good albums (maybe I should be doing this with all short story collections): each story has an individual flavor that can stand alone, but they create a full picture when read together and in sequence. She’s a strong psychological writer. She’s expressive without being flowery and she’s extremely unpretentious. She’s a difficult writer to fully grasp. I do think she has a singular voice despite not being a stylistic pioneer or anything of that sort. She seems to write her best when she’s writing about a coming-of-age moment for female characters. I think she’s good at capturing small-scale but significant events in a person’s life and writing them realistically. Usually her characters change throughout her stories or as a result of various consequences within the plot.
Bardon Bus may be the most acclaimed piece from this collection. It’s the meatiest story psychologically and was a mind bender for me. It probably showcases her brilliance more than any other story of hers that I’ve read. The titular story is a runner up. But I want to talk mainly about Accident, since it was my favorite here. I’ll say before I start: there was a mixture of good and bad stories in this collection, which is fair and should be expected. Some did not resonate with me at all, while others, like Turkey Season, tapped into some kind of rustic nostalgia and charm that I found irresistible.
Accident has many familiar Munro hallmarks: a young woman has an affair with an older married man and their relations lead to misfortune. Normally, Munro might be interested in understanding the psychological damage an affair can have on her women. She does that here too, but she creates an analogous misfortune when the cheating man’s son dies in a horrible car accident during one of the man’s sexual encounters. Frances, the young lady protagonist, worries that he will always associate his son’s death with her giving him oral sex. The juxtaposition of these two things is really startling to the reader and Munro’s frankness and candor here should be appreciated. Unexpectedly, the man, who is a teacher, lashes out at his principal amid the circulation of rumors that he’s cheating on his lame wife and quits, claiming that he will marry Frances. They do get married, and Munro has Frances return to her hometown decades later and reflect on her past. This was an interesting narrative technique. As Frances reflects, she realizes how her entire life was changed by this unexpected turning point. The sexual encounter in the janitor’s closet, the son’s death, her affair partner’s reckless abandon. How can one’s life be carried away as if by a tide? But most hauntingly, she wonders “what difference.” These words indicate that if not these events, something else would have swept her along. Life will happen no matter what. Does it matter how you spend it? Or with whom? I am still myself, Frances ponders. But even that she doubts. What does that even mean? Munro’s willingness to challenge conventional ideas about life and relationships exercises one’s expansion of consciousness.
I view Munro’s books like good albums (maybe I should be doing this with all short story collections): each story has an individual flavor that can stand alone, but they create a full picture when read together and in sequence. She’s a strong psychological writer. She’s expressive without being flowery and she’s extremely unpretentious. She’s a difficult writer to fully grasp. I do think she has a singular voice despite not being a stylistic pioneer or anything of that sort. She seems to write her best when she’s writing about a coming-of-age moment for female characters. I think she’s good at capturing small-scale but significant events in a person’s life and writing them realistically. Usually her characters change throughout her stories or as a result of various consequences within the plot.
Bardon Bus may be the most acclaimed piece from this collection. It’s the meatiest story psychologically and was a mind bender for me. It probably showcases her brilliance more than any other story of hers that I’ve read. The titular story is a runner up. But I want to talk mainly about Accident, since it was my favorite here. I’ll say before I start: there was a mixture of good and bad stories in this collection, which is fair and should be expected. Some did not resonate with me at all, while others, like Turkey Season, tapped into some kind of rustic nostalgia and charm that I found irresistible.
Accident has many familiar Munro hallmarks: a young woman has an affair with an older married man and their relations lead to misfortune. Normally, Munro might be interested in understanding the psychological damage an affair can have on her women. She does that here too, but she creates an analogous misfortune when the cheating man’s son dies in a horrible car accident during one of the man’s sexual encounters. Frances, the young lady protagonist, worries that he will always associate his son’s death with her giving him oral sex. The juxtaposition of these two things is really startling to the reader and Munro’s frankness and candor here should be appreciated. Unexpectedly, the man, who is a teacher, lashes out at his principal amid the circulation of rumors that he’s cheating on his lame wife and quits, claiming that he will marry Frances. They do get married, and Munro has Frances return to her hometown decades later and reflect on her past. This was an interesting narrative technique. As Frances reflects, she realizes how her entire life was changed by this unexpected turning point. The sexual encounter in the janitor’s closet, the son’s death, her affair partner’s reckless abandon. How can one’s life be carried away as if by a tide? But most hauntingly, she wonders “what difference.” These words indicate that if not these events, something else would have swept her along. Life will happen no matter what. Does it matter how you spend it? Or with whom? I am still myself, Frances ponders. But even that she doubts. What does that even mean? Munro’s willingness to challenge conventional ideas about life and relationships exercises one’s expansion of consciousness.
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
funny
lighthearted
reflective
relaxing
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No