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Master of modern short story

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25 October 2013 10:39 pm - 0     - {{hitsCtrl.values.hits}}

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I hadn’t heard of Alice Mun­ro un­til last week, which is ac­tual­ly my fault, not hers.
The Cana­di­an short story writ­er was awar­ded the No­bel Prize for Lit­er­a­ture be­cause the com­mit­tee con­sid­ered her to be a “mas­ter of the mod­ern short story.”
It came as a sur­prise. How come I hadn’t heard of her be­fore? Now in­to her 80s, (she was born in 1931) Mun­ro re­tired re­cent­ly from writ­ing, but has been at it since her first short story col­lec­tion was awar­ded the Cana­di­an Gov­er­nor Gen­er­al’s Award for fic­tion in 1961. She has won it three times al­to­geth­er, along with the 2009 Man Book­er In­ter­na­tion­al Prize for a life­time’s work. One Cana­di­an crit­ic con­sid­ers her to be “our Che­khov.”
My on­ly ex­cuse is that one can’t pos­si­bly get to know all the good writ­ing, fic­tion and non-fic­tion, that have been pub­lish­ed all over the world over the past few dec­a­des. Far from be­ing threat­ened with ex­tinc­tion faced with the ebooks threat, more and more books keep get­ting pub­lish­ed in Eng­lish each year.

Not hav­ing read her work, I can’t make any crit­i­cal as­sess­ments. But fel­low Cana­di­an Mar­gar­et At­wood was full of praise fol­low­ing the No­bel an­nounce­ment. She writes: “Alice Mun­ro is among the ma­jor writ­ers of Eng­lish fic­tion of our time. She’s been ac­cor­ded arm­fuls of su­per-su­per­la­tives by crit­ics in both North Amer­i­ca and Brit­ain. She’s won many awards, and she has a de­vo­ted in­ter­na­tion­al read­er­ship. Among writ­ers, her name is spo­ken in hush­ed tones. She’s the kind of writ­er about whom it is of­ten said – no mat­ter how well known she be­comes – that she ought to be bet­ter known.”

Mun­ro has pub­lish­ed ten col­lec­tions of short sto­ries, to­ttal­ing 90-100 sto­ries al­to­geth­er. Her No­bel makes one aware that the short story me­di­um can be as pow­er­ful as the nov­el, though it has al­ways lan­guish­ed in the shad­ow of its more pres­ti­gious sib­ling. Most of the best-known nov­el­ists have dis­tin­guish­ed them­selves with short fic­tion, rang­ing from Tol­stoi and Dos­to­ev­sky to Jo­seph Con­rad, Wil­liam Faulk­ner, D.H. Law­rence and Ra­bin­dra­nath Ta­gore.
But Mun­ro be­longs to a se­lect group of writ­ers who have spe­ci­al­ised in the short story genre, though she has pub­lish­ed one nov­el (a group which in­cludes Cath­er­ine Mans­field and H. H. Mun­ro, or ‘Sa­ki’). That ex­plains why it has tak­en her so long to get the rec­og­ni­tion she de­serves. Apart from any­thing else, she was born in­to a so­cio-eco­nom­ic mi­lieu in which earn­ing a liv­ing from writ­ing (par­tic­u­lar­ly short sto­ries) was im­pos­si­ble. Can­a­da it­self was some­thing of a back­wa­ter when it came to fic­tion. Even in the 1960s, there were very few Cana­di­an pub­lish­ers.

Mar­gar­et At­wood sums up the sit­ua­tion suc­cint­ly: “Or you could do art as a hob­by, if you were a wom­an with time on your hands, or you could scrape out a liv­ing at some poor­ly paid qua­si-ar­tis­tic job. Mun­ro’s sto­ries are sprin­kled with wom­en like this. They go in for pia­no play­ing or write chat­ty news­pa­per col­umns. Or – more trag­i­cal­ly, they have a re­al though small tal­ent, like Al­me­da Roth in ‘Me­ne­se­teung,” who pro­du­ces one vol­ume of mi­nor verse called Of­fer­ings, but there is no con­text for them.”

Mun­ro was born in a re­gion sprin­kled with small towns. As At­wood notes: “Through Mun­ro’s fic­tion, So­we­to’s Hur­on Coun­ty has joined Faulk­ner’s Yo­kna­pa­taw­pha Coun­ty as a slice of land made leg­en­dary by the ex­cel­lence of the writ­er who has cele­bra­ted it, though in both ca­ses “cele­bra­ted” is not quite the right word. “Ana­tom­ised” might be clos­er to what goes on in the work of Mun­ro, though even that term is too clin­i­cal.”

"A good writ­er pro­du­ces uni­ver­sal lit­er­a­ture, no mat­ter where the desk and com­put­er might be placed on the globe. Af­ter read­ing the above pas­sage, I re­al­iz­ed that Mun­ro’s Hur­on coun­try de­scribes us, as well as peo­ple liv­ing in the sub­con­ti­nent, be­cause this re­gion ranks high in the list of those  where ‘si­lence and se­cre­cy are the norm in sex­u­al mat­ters.”
But we don’t have a sin­gle writ­er who can write about it with the hon­es­ty of Alice Mun­ro"


At­wood says fur­ther: “Mun­ro’s ar­tis­tic char­ac­ters are pun­ish­ed for not suc­ceed­ing, but they are pun­ish­ed al­so for suc­cess. Hon­es­ty, in Mun­ro’s work, is not the best pol­i­cy: it is not a pol­i­cy at all, but an es­sen­tial el­e­ment, like air. The char­ac­ters must get hold of at least some of it, by fair means or foul, or – they feel – they will go un­der.

“The bat­tle for au­then­tic­i­ty is waged most sig­nif­i­cant­ly in the field of sex. The Mun­ro so­cial world – like most so­ci­et­ies in which si­lence and se­cre­cy are the norm in sex­u­al mat­ters – car­ries a high erot­ic charge, and this charge ex­tends like a ne­on pe­num­bra around each char­ac­ter, il­lu­mi­nat­ing land­scapes, rooms and ob­jects. A rum­pled bed says more, in the hands of Mun­ro, than any graph­ic in-out, in-out de­pic­tion of gen­i­ta­lia ev­er could. Mun­ro’s char­ac­ters are as alert as dogs in a per­fume store to the sex­u­al chem­is­try in a gath­er­ing – the chem­is­try among oth­ers, as well as their own vis­cer­al re­spon­ses. Fall­ing in love, fall­ing in lust, sneak­ing around on spou­ses and en­joy­ing it, tell­ing sex­u­al lies, do­ing shame­ful things they feel com­pel­led to do out of ir­re­sis­ti­ble de­sire, mak­ing sex­u­al cal­cu­la­tions based on so­cial des­per­a­tion – few writ­ers have ex­plored such pro­cess­es more thor­ough­ly, and more ruth­less­ly.”
A good writ­er pro­du­ces uni­ver­sal lit­er­a­ture, no mat­ter where the desk and com­put­er might be placed on the globe. Af­ter read­ing the above pas­sage, I re­al­iz­ed that Mun­ro’s Hur­on coun­try de­scribes us, as well as peo­ple liv­ing in the sub­con­ti­nent, be­cause this re­gion ranks high in the list of those  where ‘si­lence and se­cre­cy are the norm in sex­u­al mat­ters.”
But we don’t have a sin­gle writ­er who can write about it with the hon­es­ty of Alice Mun­ro.

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