Alice Munro reminds me of a forensic pathologist unearthing truth under each stone, and dissecting each bit of tissue she comes across. Her path reports gleam with the clarity of presentation. My new project is to study her collected works over time, but my colleagues are afraid I will become depressed from the reality displayed. I am unafraid because I relate to her inasmuch as she is a pretty, small town girl, unmonied, but with determination that has succeeded to win the Nobel prize for literature. Who could not relate with that? Who would not take advantage of study of the wordsmith skill seen with the stories? She embodies the truth that the ordinary is so often extraordinary. She continues to exhume the graves of her youth and mind, seeking the answers in the flesh of the buried that can propound new answers to old ideas. She respects the reader enough to often permit them a resolution. That is engagement. That can't possibly be depressing. It is therapeutic. It is however a writing scenario that doggedly and consistently pursues the abysmal, or the dismal, or the despair that surrounds us. Classification of Alice's autopsy findings should be; Adult Only.
For Jim's past posts, check out his old blog here: