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| Alice Munro | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Conveying Our Dreams By MONA SIMPSON
Especially in Munro's past three books, the drama has become daring. A woman realizes the man she is falling in love with is a murderer; a doctor takes his brother's fiancé along on a suicide binge; a young violinist contemplates killing her baby. These stories, told with a lucidity equal to Chekhov's, are about the nature of storytelling and the moral cost of art. Munro is never show-offy. I have probably looked up only a handful of words during years of reading her. Yet there are dozens of indelible human positions, notes and tones I use in my daily imagination.
In the past 1 1/2 decades, Munro's stories have broken out of their forms, expanding the genre. She takes on huge swaths of time, with breathtaking skips and breaks and vision, while still writing about women, about Canadians, about the extraordinary nature of ordinary love. Alice Munro is 73 now, and she deserves the Nobel Prize. Her fiction admits readers to a more intimate knowledge and respect for what they already possess.
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FROM THE APRIL 18, 2005 ISSUE OF TIME MAGAZINE; POSTED SUNDAY, APRIL 10, 2005
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