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Highway 7 now avoids towns that it used to go right through, and it goes straight in places where, as she remembers, there used to be curves. When Grace goes looking for the Traverses’ summer house, in the Ottawa Valley, it has been many years since she was in that part of the country. If it was somebody coming to see them, the car would be slowing down by now. Sororities were a joke to her, and so was politics-though she liked to play “The Four Insurgent Generals” on the phonograph, and sometimes also the “Internationale,” very loud, if there was a guest she thought she could make nervous. Fiona had her own little car and a pile of cashmere sweaters, but she wasn’t in a sorority, and her mother’s political activity was probably the reason.

The father was an important cardiologist, revered around the hospital but happily subservient at home, where he would listen to his wife’s strange tirades with an absentminded smile. Her mother was Icelandic-a powerful woman with a froth of white hair and indignant far-left politics. It was a big, bay-windowed house that seemed to Grant both luxurious and disorderly, with rugs crooked on the floors and cup rings bitten into the table varnish. “ The Bear Came Over the Mountain,” The New Yorker, 1999įiona lived in her parents’ house, in the town where she and Grant went to university.

Queenie said, “Maybe you better stop calling me that,” and I said, “What?” Against a background of cold blue sky and black pine forests and treacherous northern rivers, plumed adventures planted the flags of England and or of France magnificent savages bent their backs to the portage. These companies supplied us with heroic calendars to hang, one on each side of the kitchen door. That is, he raised silver foxes, in pens and in the fall and early winter, when their fur was prime, he killed them and skinned them and sold their pelts to the Hudson’s Bay Company or the Montreal Fur Traders.

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So if you’ve been too intimidated to dive into this incredible writer’s formidable backlog, why not ease in with some no-commitment short stories? You won’t even have to buy a book. Below, you can read the openings of 25 Munro stories to see which one strikes your fancy-you could browse chronologically, or if you need a more pointed nudge, you could always start with my own personal favorite, “Wenlock Edge.” Once you’ve decided, click through-all of the below stories are available to read for free thanks to the magic of the internet (though depending on your subscriptions, you may have to get creative).

Munro turns 87 tomorrow, which is as good a reason as any (though let’s be clear: no reason is required) to finally delve into some of her work. Well, if you’re one of those people, you’re in luck.

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Such is the case for many with Alice Munro: people know they should read her, but have no idea how to break into her oeuvre. When a writer is universally beloved and highly prolific, it can be hard for the uninitiated to know where to start. It’s even more difficult when the writer in question is a master of the short story as opposed to the novel, because at least novels lend themselves to the kind of summary that might let you know if you’ll be interested in the book-it’s much harder to describe a story collection.

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