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3.78 AVERAGE
3.78 AVERAGE
"The Moons of Jupiter" has been a real struggle for me. I've started reading regularly again two months back and really found enjoyment in the activity again! Alice Munro's collection of short stories is the first of the last 8 books that had ground my reading down to a snail's pace. I can't pinpoint the exact reason. All the elements that usually make for an enjoyable read are present: everyday stories with intriguing characters and great structure. Unfortunately, despite recognising all of the above, I was bored most of the time I spent reading "The Moons of Jupiter".
I believe a lot of people will love "The Moons of Jupiter". Sadly, I'm just not one of them.
I believe a lot of people will love "The Moons of Jupiter". Sadly, I'm just not one of them.
This site seems quite badly broken at the moment. The absence of notifications seems like some internet version of social distancing. What it's made me realise is how much I'd miss GR if it went down, never to resurface. At the moment it certainly seems to be short of breath.
Anyway, to the book. I've read a lot of Alice Munro stories this year and last night I put myself to the test: how many of them could I still remember? I discovered, very few. She doesn't really come up with memorable plots or charismatic unforgettable characters. The ordinary is her domain. Almost all her stories have a disappointed woman at their heart and are set in rural or small town Canadian backdrops. But because she's got a fantastic way with words she generally enlivens and even poeticises the ordinary. That said, this collection was my least favourite of her works. It begins well but towards the end inspiration seems to be running dry and there are a couple of rather dull stories, as if she's on automatic pilot. I did though enjoy her introduction where she speaks of the embarrassment of reading her own work. I've often wondered what that experience is like for a writer and imagined it might be like reading one's old love letters. She confirms this hunch.
Anyway, to the book. I've read a lot of Alice Munro stories this year and last night I put myself to the test: how many of them could I still remember? I discovered, very few. She doesn't really come up with memorable plots or charismatic unforgettable characters. The ordinary is her domain. Almost all her stories have a disappointed woman at their heart and are set in rural or small town Canadian backdrops. But because she's got a fantastic way with words she generally enlivens and even poeticises the ordinary. That said, this collection was my least favourite of her works. It begins well but towards the end inspiration seems to be running dry and there are a couple of rather dull stories, as if she's on automatic pilot. I did though enjoy her introduction where she speaks of the embarrassment of reading her own work. I've often wondered what that experience is like for a writer and imagined it might be like reading one's old love letters. She confirms this hunch.
emotional
reflective
tense
medium-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
Chaddeleys and Flemings 4.5/5
Dulse 3/5
The Turkey Season 2.5/5
Accident 5/5
Bardon Bus 3.5/5
Prue 3/5
Labour Day Dinner 4.5/5
Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Kidd 4/5
Hard-Luck Stories 3.5/5
Visitors 3/5
The Moons of Jupiter 4/5
Average 3.68 rounded up
Dulse 3/5
The Turkey Season 2.5/5
Accident 5/5
Bardon Bus 3.5/5
Prue 3/5
Labour Day Dinner 4.5/5
Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Kidd 4/5
Hard-Luck Stories 3.5/5
Visitors 3/5
The Moons of Jupiter 4/5
Average 3.68 rounded up
Let the record show, as it does, that I started reading this collection back in the beginning of February 2015. Let it also show that I barely managed to finish it in time to tuck it into my 2015 reading list. This is how I read Alice Munro, because I suspect that this is the only way my brain and heart can heal itself after most of her stories.
I recall when Munro won her Nobel Prize that many people wondered why she deserved it. There is nothing exceptional about her writing, except that it is always exceptionally good. She doesn't experiment with syntax or shape, though her shape and syntax is always too precise to be anything other than the production of a great many experiments. There is no moral urgency to her stories, except that her stories are about the quotidien and the urgencies that we bypass in our sunrise to sunset lives.
Sometimes I wonder, while reading one or two of her stories, or while sitting between the stories and reading something else, if maybe they were right. But each time I conclude, out of necessity, that they are wrong.
I have strong feelings about her, I suppose. Her writing is beautiful, her pacing is perfection, her shape and format of her stories are remarkably well tuned, her characters sound and feel alive and present and burdened. She has a deeply moral sense of the world, of justice, and resilience, and of resignation. Every story has a turn of phrase, at least one and often more, that is undeniably perfect, which cuts to the bone and a little deeper, hits the heart, and goes deeper because it is filled with a sadness that aches as though it depresses and moves the body through space - a sadness and reality that is, somehow, the very motivational discovery of humanity.
And this is the reality that I find when reading Munro - every now and then you read a story like "Accident" or "Labor Day Dinner" or "The Turkey Season" which are quite good, much better than most other stories you read from most any other writer, the kind of works that are masterful in many technical ways and which will keep you up at night as you race through hoping to finish before sleep once again claims you. Sometimes there is the occasional story that doesn't ring with the same kind of presence as most Munrovian works, like "Prue", but which is itself good enough to be published in The New Yorker (because even a bad Munro story is as good as most anybody else can hope for). And then sometimes, and it happens often, the truly masterful pops up and you feel as though Munro is shaping and revealing her knowledge of human nature. "Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Kidd", "The Moons of Jupiter", "Dulse", "Hard-Luck Stories", "Visitors".
My admiration for her work only grows as I read more. Now that I'm done this one and am reading a short-story collection by some other writer (one who is also very highly regarded for her accomplishments with the form) I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment. The writing isn't as precise, the characters seem more like caricatures, the stories are the kind of thing you'd give to a high school student to enjoy and tease out some superficial moral. But maybe I'm just in withdrawal and I'm craving something written by the master of the form.
I recall when Munro won her Nobel Prize that many people wondered why she deserved it. There is nothing exceptional about her writing, except that it is always exceptionally good. She doesn't experiment with syntax or shape, though her shape and syntax is always too precise to be anything other than the production of a great many experiments. There is no moral urgency to her stories, except that her stories are about the quotidien and the urgencies that we bypass in our sunrise to sunset lives.
Sometimes I wonder, while reading one or two of her stories, or while sitting between the stories and reading something else, if maybe they were right. But each time I conclude, out of necessity, that they are wrong.
I have strong feelings about her, I suppose. Her writing is beautiful, her pacing is perfection, her shape and format of her stories are remarkably well tuned, her characters sound and feel alive and present and burdened. She has a deeply moral sense of the world, of justice, and resilience, and of resignation. Every story has a turn of phrase, at least one and often more, that is undeniably perfect, which cuts to the bone and a little deeper, hits the heart, and goes deeper because it is filled with a sadness that aches as though it depresses and moves the body through space - a sadness and reality that is, somehow, the very motivational discovery of humanity.
And this is the reality that I find when reading Munro - every now and then you read a story like "Accident" or "Labor Day Dinner" or "The Turkey Season" which are quite good, much better than most other stories you read from most any other writer, the kind of works that are masterful in many technical ways and which will keep you up at night as you race through hoping to finish before sleep once again claims you. Sometimes there is the occasional story that doesn't ring with the same kind of presence as most Munrovian works, like "Prue", but which is itself good enough to be published in The New Yorker (because even a bad Munro story is as good as most anybody else can hope for). And then sometimes, and it happens often, the truly masterful pops up and you feel as though Munro is shaping and revealing her knowledge of human nature. "Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Kidd", "The Moons of Jupiter", "Dulse", "Hard-Luck Stories", "Visitors".
My admiration for her work only grows as I read more. Now that I'm done this one and am reading a short-story collection by some other writer (one who is also very highly regarded for her accomplishments with the form) I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment. The writing isn't as precise, the characters seem more like caricatures, the stories are the kind of thing you'd give to a high school student to enjoy and tease out some superficial moral. But maybe I'm just in withdrawal and I'm craving something written by the master of the form.
Favourites: Chaddeleys and Flemings: Connection, Dulse, Mrs Cross and Mrs Kidd, The Moons of Jupiter
This collection was very thought-provoking.
While short stories are generally not a format I enjoy reading, Alice Munro is a master of the short story. Not only was she able to pull me in with almost every story, but I was also often left thinking about philosophical life questions after I had finished one. Her metafictional prose turned ordinary lives into extraordinary stories.
My favorite stories were the opening and the closing: "Chaddeleys and Flemings" and "the Moons of Jupiter." They revolved around similar themes of family history and yet left me with different questions at the end. "Chaddeleys and Flemings" left me wondering about the human ability to construct narratives and stories, even for those we have never met. And "the Moons of Jupiter" left me with the existential question: "What are we doing here on earth?"
As I said, these stories were pretty thought-provoking. None the less, Munro's uncanny ability to construct these large themes in seemingly domestic, working-class stories is what makes her such an amazing author.
I look forward to reading more from her and decided to give this book 4.5 out of 5 stars.
While short stories are generally not a format I enjoy reading, Alice Munro is a master of the short story. Not only was she able to pull me in with almost every story, but I was also often left thinking about philosophical life questions after I had finished one. Her metafictional prose turned ordinary lives into extraordinary stories.
My favorite stories were the opening and the closing: "Chaddeleys and Flemings" and "the Moons of Jupiter." They revolved around similar themes of family history and yet left me with different questions at the end. "Chaddeleys and Flemings" left me wondering about the human ability to construct narratives and stories, even for those we have never met. And "the Moons of Jupiter" left me with the existential question: "What are we doing here on earth?"
As I said, these stories were pretty thought-provoking. None the less, Munro's uncanny ability to construct these large themes in seemingly domestic, working-class stories is what makes her such an amazing author.
I look forward to reading more from her and decided to give this book 4.5 out of 5 stars.
I've never quite understood Alice Munro, though her essays on writing are brilliant and spot-on. This work of fiction has enticed me for year, mostly for the name. It's not a long one, but it's dense, I don't know how if I could make it through her Collected without feeling the whole spectrum of human emotion. There were some stories in here that glittered. One thing I didn't expect--she's funny. I was reminded of Amy Hempel, of her undercurrent of feeling lying beneath the surface and how she can make us laugh and cry at the same time. Here is the wisdom accumulated through painful seconds. These stories varied widely in content, but have a masterful rhythm. You could tell they came from the same emotional place. There were a few that popped to the surface with startling truth, but others that disappeared to the periphery. I could read this a dozen more times and find something new each read. There is much to be said for significant detail and those gorgeous endings. She must start here than work her way back, weaving histories, years, multiplicities of character, with each rewrite. She packs more into a story than I've packed into a lifetime.
Read for Modern Canadian Lit course. My first time reading Munro and I really enjoyed it! I will be reading more! :)
slow-paced