The Accidental Clarity

I finished this weekend Selected Stories by Alice Munro. I dare say Munro wrote better and better over time: the collection ranges from 1968 to 1993. Her stories are poignant and so true, no matter my total lack of experience with 19th- and early 20th-century Canada. I am experienced with emotion, with the complications of the heart and the confusions of adulthood. Alice has that shit down.

From “The Albanian Virgin”

And I did not think then, What nonsense it is to suppose one man so different from another when all that life really boils down to is getting a decent cup of coffee and room to stretch out in?

From “Differently”

At times the store was empty, and she felt an abundant calm. It was not even the books that mattered then. She sat on the stool and watched the street—patient, expectant, by herself, in a finely balanced and suspended state.

She thinks about sitting in the store in the evenings. The light in the street, the complicated reflections in the windows. The accidental clarity.

I'm still looking for my bookstore.