{"id":66887,"date":"2014-02-18T16:38:20","date_gmt":"2014-02-18T21:38:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=66887"},"modified":"2014-02-18T20:17:51","modified_gmt":"2014-02-19T01:17:51","slug":"hungry-for-details","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/02\/18\/hungry-for-details\/","title":{"rendered":"Hungry for Details"},"content":{"rendered":"

Remembering Mavis Gallant.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"Mavis<\/a><\/p>\n

Mavis Gallant, known for her prolific and trenchant short fiction, has died, at ninety-one. Born in Montreal in 1922, she had a brief career as a journalist, but soon after\u00a0The New Yorker<\/em> accepted her first short story, in 1950, she embarked for Paris, where she lived most of her life. As the Times<\/em> notes, she took as her primary subjects \u201cthe dislocated and the dispossessed\u201d: neglected children, failed parents, anyone living alone.<\/p>\n

In her 1999 interview with\u00a0The Paris Review<\/em><\/a>, she gave as eloquent and persuasive an argument for the necessity of fiction as any I\u2019ve ever encountered:<\/p>\n

\n

A journalism student in Germany once told me she was bothered by the fact that the most plain and simple and ordinary news stories could conceal an important falsehood. She gave me an example, say, a couple celebrating their seventieth wedding anniversary. They will sit holding hands for the photographer and they\u2019ve had their ups and downs over the years, but the marriage has been a happy one. The reporter can only repeat what they say. But what if the truth is that they positively hate each other? In that case the whole interview is a lie. I told her that if she wanted to publish the lie perceived behind the interview, she had to write fiction. (She became a critic, by the way.)<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

That ironic aside, deceptively casual, is characteristic of her work. In addition to this interview, the magazine published an excerpt from her diaries<\/a> in our Fall 2003 issue. The portion below\u2014in which Gallant reacts to the death of her neighbor, the French actress Alice Sapritch\u2014captures her matter-of-factness, her careful eye, her seemingly effortless powers of perception, and her black but empathetic humor. It reminds us what a talent we\u2019ve lost.<\/p>\n

\n

Sunday 25 March 1990<\/p>\n

People I know who had no great use for Alice S. as an actress seem hungry for details. The house, and her shuttered windows, appear on TV like a celebrity. Strangers collect in the street as if visiting a shrine. She was an eccentric, a deliberate, a calculated oddity, with her wide-brimmed garden party hats and long cigarette holder, the butt of male comedians and imitators on chat shows. Once a few years ago when we were both standing in the street, waiting for taxis, I asked her why she put up with it\u2014just like that. She said in a normal, not an affected, voice that I didn\u2019t understand her career, that it was important to be recognized and talked about. When the car came for her it wasn\u2019t a taxi but an open car with two young men in it, one in the backseat. The driver leaned over to open the door from the inside but when he saw me staring changed his mind and got out and came round to usher her in. His face and manner were supremely insolent: he was playing it for the fellow in the backseat and for a total stranger. Meanwhile she swept in, holding her hat. Did she have on long gloves? I mustn\u2019t add props to the scene. Impossible not to think of Gloria Swanson, and Sunset Boulevard<\/em>, except that Alice S. was in a real world every minute, every second, playing the idea<\/em> of an actress, a grande dame, a monstre sacr\u00e9e<\/em>. I\u2019d like to take it one further and say she knew it was a joke, but I can\u2019t be sure.<\/p>\n

Mme B., the concierge, tells me what happened yesterday. (Some of the friends who called me this morning kept asking if Alice S. had really died; there were contradictory stories going about.) Friends or relatives had arrived before the firemen, who were supposed to be giving first aid. The friends or relatives wouldn\u2019t let them in. They kept issuing statement, \u201cA.S. is alive and under intensive care.\u201d Meanwhile the captain of the fire brigade\u2014pronounced caption<\/em> by Mme B.\u2014sent for the police. That was how conflicting stories occurred. The capitan<\/em> told Mme B. that her loved ones would not accept the truth, and that she was \u201cdead, dead, dead.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Remembering Mavis Gallant. Mavis Gallant, known for her prolific and trenchant short fiction, has died, at ninety-one. Born in Montreal in 1922, she had a brief career as a journalist, but soon after\u00a0The New Yorker accepted her first short story, in 1950, she embarked for Paris, where she lived most of her life. As the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[7682,1132,3344,270,7845],"class_list":["post-66887","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-in-memoriam","tag-diaries","tag-interviews","tag-mavis-gallant","tag-paris","tag-short-stories"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nRemembering Mavis Gallant<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 18, 2014 \u2013 Remembering Mavis Gallant. 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