You and your books have been a real downer lately. It's not me, it's you. This was not in the stack. If it had been, I would have known that sadness awaited. True, I stacked them there. But "disturbing and yet deeply moving" on the back cover did
Is it too much? Or, just enough. What am I to make of this final story in my Alice Munro reading project. (I read her last collection, Dear Life, in 2012.) While rereading Too Much Happiness, I was constantly aware of the references to being happy, to happiness, in the
The majority of my reading time this year has been devoted to the books which have been living for years, though neglected, on my own bookshelves. In May and June, I had a planned rebellion, and I enjoyed a great number of new books. But now I have returned to
Facts are only the random detritus of our lives until they are connected by story. Stories, to paraphrase Robert Kroetsch, make us real. If there is anything like truth accessible to us in the world, it must be through the ways we tell of ourselves to each other. Tomson Highway's
I can no longer claim that reading about grown-up Anne is boring, when that would clearly mean I, as a grown-up, must be boring too. So I have had to come up with other reasons to avoid reading the final Anne book. Knowing what a chore it was for LMM
