When I first started reading (or in this case, not reading) Alice Munro, I would read the first two pages and stop. I just didn't care about adolescent girls and nature, especially when the stories were more about the latter. But a few months ago, Ms. Munro published a story called "Corrie" in The New Yorker and it was absolutely fantastic -- especially great because it was four pages long, compared to her usual fifty page plus stories. I would post that one here on the J-List, but unfortunately super new stories are exclusive to New Yorker subscribers (ahem). The next best thing I've read by her is this: The Bear Came Over the Mountain. Unfortunately, this story is a big one, but I absolutely guarantee that it will stick with you for a long time. Johnathan Franzen wrote in a review for Munro's newest book, citing this exact story as an example of her excellence, her ability to craft true drama (and trust me, it's one big drop after another in this story.) Anyways, without further ado, here is the story:
Fiona lived in her parents’ house, in the town where she and Grant went to university. It was a big, bay-windowed house that seemed to Grant both luxurious and disorderly, with rugs crooked on the floors and cup rings bitten into the table varnish. Her mother was Icelandic—a powerful woman with a froth of white hair and indignant far-left politics. The father was an important cardiologist, revered around the hospital but happily subservient at home, where he would listen to his wife’s strange tirades with an absent-minded smile. Fiona had her own little car and a pile of cashmere sweaters, but she wasn’t in a sorority, and her mother’s political activity was probably the reason. Not that she cared. Sororities were a joke to her, and so was politics—though she liked to play “The Four Insurgent Generals” on the phonograph, and sometimes also the “Internationale,” very loud, if there was a guest she thought she could make nervous. A curly-haired gloomy-looking foreigner was courting her—she said he was a Visigoth—and so were two or three quite respectable and uneasy young interns. She made fun of them all and of Grant as well. She would drolly repeat some of his small-town phrases. He thought maybe she was joking when she proposed to him, on a cold bright day on the beach at Port Stanley. Sand was stinging their faces and the waves delivered crashing loads of gravel at their feet.
Fuck dog, i need to find a passion
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