Wednesday, June 15, 2005

This has been a productive work week so far and I am happy. Blissful. Sophie is a new dog since the temperature dropped thirty five degrees.

I know I've blogged about Candadian short story artist Alice Munro a number of months ago. I've taken Runaway, her latest collection of stories, out of the library again. Last night I read "Passion" and at the end I was breathless. I reread the last four to five pages at least that many times, and suddenly, I got it. This story is the first I've read (since I've actually been making a study of short fiction) that has demonstrated the power inherent in the genre. Idea, character, plot--the words for these things sound so basic, so trivial, but Munro took her idea, the emotions of her characters, their histories, and wrung out every last drop of meaning. There are no empty metaphors, no dead ends, everything, every word relates to the conflict and the idea. Unbelievable!

2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

dear judith,

i would email you but your email address is not public. i truly like your blog but it's almost painful to read because i read about all these contemporary authors and i get so jealous because they're well known and i'm not. i enjoy authors before 1950 that way i don't get jealous. i know there's a lot of authors out there competing for your attention but i would seriously like you to consider my book available at amazon.com. it's a quasi-romance with an entrance into the underworld in the final quarter. lorelei pursued is the title. here's an excerpt: three hours later i find myself in the privacy of my own home. the familiar objects, the family photos radiating warmth, stability, unconditional love, the miniature figurines, symbols of man’s ingenuitum, his skillful manipulation of materia, the cleanliness and order, clutter’s subtle entwistica unable to maul me – all these refresh my interior with garden, a sanctuary from the hostile exterior. this small area, although humble, although it lacks emblems of triùmpho, signs of eaglèskan accomplishment, nonetheless succeeds in investing my soul with security, the pyro-specter of homelessness chained in paraly-scourge.
within this home my solitude blooms in eucalyptum, it shelters me from the nausea of the saharifying public. amid these walls, clean, static, permanent, grand sensations have waylaid me, shimmerating ideas have eclipsed me in wonder, nutritious desires have teleported me into the dragonian arena. in one corner rests a television, my window to the world, a panoply of perspective, a silver-mine of knowledge, news and excitica. below it lay several films and through them have i seen intimate portraits of humanity, earned a glimpse into their struggles, how they have coped with the shreds of disappointment, how they have obtained or evaded romance’s delecto-grape. i have seen situations evolve into disastrum in these films, have discovered alternative means towards taming the seagullusiveness of the femme, have even seen history resurrect itself from the mold of libraries and jolt me with mind-stun flamazing.

8:30 AM  
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2:47 AM  

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