Reading The Vagrants (2009) was one of those reading experiences that I couldn’t bring myself to write about. Which made me feel cowardly as I can only imagine how difficult it was to write that kind of story, to put that kind of pain into words and then rework
Not one of them. Really? Not the woman vacationing with her lover? Or the young worker about to go home for Christmas Eve? Not the mother of teenagers choosing their eclairs? Or the young botany teacher who learned about plants from her father? Not the old friend who recites
“'Once there we are almost home. Pegnitz is a junction. Trains go through every few minutes, in all directions. In most directions,' he corrected." Herbert is careful to be exact when he's speaking to his young son, Little Bert, who believes every word his father says. Later when Herbert
Endicott, Manto, King, Bruneau and Lispector Short Stories in January, February and March Whether in a dedicated collection or a magazine, these stories capture a variety of reading moods. This quarter, I returned to two favourite writers and also explored three new-to-me story writers.
They are no longer only thieves and rascals: “All men are filth.” Bea is perhaps no more unhappy than Marian Kimber, but she is more outwardly disgruntled. And even though she says this with a laugh, there’s an undeniable edge to it. “My mother was a saint and my
