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Posts Tagged ‘Alice Munro’

Alice Munro, Laureate, and Other News

October 10, 2013 | by

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  • Alice Munro has won the Nobel Prize in Literature. The citation called the Canadian writer (the second Canadian laureate, if we count Saul Bellow) a “master of the contemporary short story.”
  • Ten things you need to know about Alice Munro. Need, people!
  • Here is a BBC Listener magazine crossword set in Greek, from 1936. The prize was the Collected Poems of T. S. Eliot. And no, no part of that would happen today.
  • Semi-related: American adults are bad readers.
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    Anonymous Library Sculptures, and Other News

    June 21, 2013 | by

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  • Anonymous, bookish sculptures have been popping up at Scottish libraries.
  • “It’s nice to go out with a bang”: Alice Munro may (or may not) retire.
  • This will, predicts The New Republic, result in the sort of tedious furor that accompanies any such statement.
  • Some pediatricians are prescribing books to small children: great! (Lollipops are, presumably, a thing of the past.)
  • Tom Wolfe’s next bookThe Kingdom of Speech, is a “nonfiction account of the animal/human speech divide.”
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    Nimble Surrealism: Talking with Gabrielle Bell

    November 12, 2012 | by

    Whether delving into memorable personal stories or exemplifying a sort of nimble surrealism, Gabrielle Bell’s comics are harder to classify than one might think. Reading her work chronologically, one can find her range expanding from sharp day-to-day observations to forays into the surreal and magic realist. The title story of the collection Cecil and Jordan in New York follows a young woman who moves to the city and searches for an apartment and a purpose. It’s fairly kitchen sink in its realism, right up until the point where the protagonist matter-of-factly decides to become a chair. It’s a dose of deadpan absurdism that opens up the storytelling possibilities, and keeps the reader on their toes.

    The Voyeurs is Bell’s latest book, covering several years in her life, and taking her from promoting a film in Tokyo to finding a space for yoga in her Brooklyn apartment to San Diego for Comic-Con. Its introduction comes courtesy of Aaron Cometbus, whose long-running zine suggests certain parallels to Bell’s deftly autobiographical work. We met at a bar near Bell’s apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn—a neighborhood that has provided the setting for much of her work.

    Lucky begins as a kind of slice-of-life documentation of your life. By the end of the first volume, though, it’s become less overtly realistic and more expressionistic. When did you make that leap?

    It was towards the end of writing Lucky, when I got to the point about Francophilia, when I talked about talking with Gerard Depardieu. That must have been the first time that I did that. Or maybe it was when I had this fantasy about being an art assistant, and the artist taking all my ideas. Read More »

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    Potter, Proust, and Papa

    July 11, 2012 | by

  • Many happy returns, M. Proust.
  • Many happy returns, Ms. Munro!
  • Beatrix Potter illustrations go on the block.
  • Listen to William Faulkner read his 1954 Nobel acceptance speech.
  • Finding the Great New Jersey Novel.
  • A Hemingway-themed vacation.
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    Faulkner, Munro, and Bribery!

    July 6, 2012 | by

  • A color-coded Sound and the Fury, just as Faulkner intended.
  • Are girly themes having a moment?
  • A beginner’s guide to Alice Munro.
  • In defense of cursive.
  • Oxford University Press is fined for bribery.
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    Alice Munro’s First Story, Rediscovered

    May 10, 2012 | by

    Miss Abelhart came out of the church alone. Her feet made quick, sharp, certain sounds on the cement steps—not the light tapping sounds pumps make, but harder, heavier claps. Miss Abelhart was wearing oxfords. She wore also a light tweed coat, a straight ugly coat, and an absurd little black hat. Most of her clothes were chosen for their ugliness or absurdity, and she wore them with a certain defiance, as though she proudly recognized in them a drabness closely akin to her own.

    She was not ugly or absurd, in herself, only a little dried and hollowed, with straw hair tightly and tastelessly curled, and skin somewhat roughened, as if she had been for a long time facing a harsh wind. There was no blood in her cheeks, and something like dust lay over her face. People who looked at her knew that she was old, and had been old always. She was thirty-three.

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