By ke-cellardoor on Sunday, December 4th, 2011

The short story, “Hard-Luck Stories,” by Alice Munro, is comprised of a several accounts of ‘hard luck,’ while being an entire story of hard luck, as well. The story follows three middle-aged adults: the narrator, her friend Julie, and Douglas. The three of them are having lunch after a conference. They are all in the business of books—from librarian to rare-book collector. During lunch, they finish off two bottles of wine and the conversation flows with honesty. Julie, an especially loquacious drunk, recounts two different times in her life when she might have been in love. Both stories she tells have a rather tragic quality to them. If not out-right tragic, than both hold a tone of sadness. Neither were happy. Neither were confident of passionate. Neither proclaimed a deep feeling of love. Both were very lonesome. After the lunch, they decide to visit a church. All three pile into the car and go for a drive. The narrator then tells a story about love. She was with a man she felt very much in love with. She went to visit friends of his with him. They stayed at his friend’s home. The friends were named Keith and Caroline and they were married with children. Keith and Caroline also had another house guest, named Martin. Caroline was secretly sleeping with Martin. They all sat out on the deck having drinks and talking. Tension arose. The narrator later asked her boyfriend if he had slept with Caroline before because he seemed deeply upset that Caroline was sleeping with Martin, besides the fact that she was married. He said yes, long ago. They made love and he was still upset. They fell asleep, and the narrator awoke later, realizing that her boyfriend was in love with Caroline. The narrator realized she was being used.

Julie and Douglas agree that the story is very sad. The narrator feels more affected that she would have thought in telling the story aloud. The narrator explains that it was then, when she felt used by her boyfriend, she realized there are two types of love:

“There’s the intelligent sort of love that makes an intelligent choice. That’s the kind you’re supposed to get married on. Then there’s the kind that’s anything but intelligent, that’s like a possession. And that’s the one, that’s the one, everybody really values. That the one nobody want to have missed out on.”

When they are standing in the church, Douglas subtly touches the narrator. He places his hand on her shoulder, then lets his hand glide down her spine, resting upon her waist momentarily. Then, he walks away to talk with Julie. She doesn’t like that he touched her in that way, without a promise of anything. She walks around the church and looks at the beautiful stained glass. She decides to feel resolved. She would always be in the dark, not knowing too much, about what ‘he’ wants, he being any man. She becomes more talkative. They all do. They drive back from the church and stop for gas. Julie and the narrator see all of Douglas’ credit cards. They laugh and talk about running away together to Nova Scotia, live off his money and then they would all be “happy.”

The story ends on a fantasy about being happy, not actually being happy. Or, actually, they are happy in that moment when they are day-dreaming. But, in the end, they are three middle-aged people still caring about love, or if they will or have missed out on passionate love. The fact that there are three of them, two women and one man, also seems to poise a problem. If Douglas were to be interested in one of them, the other’s feelings would be hurt. It is never revealed whether or not he was interested. It is, however, hinted at in the church scene. Love is a very unsure thing, of course. The reader is left with three individuals that have not resolved anything, really. Real life rarely does resolve such issues as loneliness, restlessness, curiosity about one’s happy state. We are left with a fantasy. We all are always left with a fantasy. Or, we all end on a fantasy. We would prefer that than to think about the reality. It helps us carry on. Is that hard-luck? To prefer thinking about what could be, than what actually is? Yes, in a way it is.

Lesson: Let the characters reveal the issues, not you. Let their thoughts and situations set up the bigger point. You don’t always have to resolve things. Sometimes not going full circle is best. Or, at least, it is more realistic. 

By ke-cellardoor on Sunday, December 4th, 2011

Once again, in Alice Munro’s “Prue,” subtly is key. However, this story takes on a more matter-of-fact tone when describing the characters, as opposed to the rather distant tone of the narrator in “The Moons of Jupiter.” While this tone holds a distance from its characters, it does so because it wants to portray them just as they are without any opinions or judgments—hence, the matter-of-fact tone.  So, with such a tone, again the story seems to be very subtly saying so very much than what is presented. Alice Munro really forces the reader to read in between the lines. This, I would say, is a genius move by any author. I have heard creative writing professors say so many times ‘don’t beat us over the head with information!’ If you force the reader to think a certain way, they won’t want to. Readers can be like children in that way. If you tell them to do one thing, they won’t want to just to smite you. Or, at least, that’s how my younger sister works. Anyways, Alice Munro does not beat. She taps. No, she massages the information into us. We are so entranced in the lives of her characters that we don’t even hear her behind us, working little puppet strings.

In “Prue,” the protagonist, Prue or Prudence, is a forty-something old woman who is divorced, extremely liked by all, and a bit flighty (she doesn’t know she is flighty). To the world, she is care-free and happy. To herself, she is also care-free and happy. To me, the reader, an omnipresence in her life, she might not be as happy and care-free as it seems. She has an open relationship with a man, Gordon. They see other people, but they have affection for one another. Gordon is seeing another girl, a younger girl. He tells Prue that once he is over being in love with the younger girl, he wants to marry her. Prue, of course, takes this information casually. It seems she agrees that it would be best for Gordon to ‘get over’ being in love first, then they could really have a happy marriage. After Gordon tells Prue he would like to marry her, every time she is at his house, she begins to pick up very small items to keep. The items are ordinary and wouldn’t be missed or hardly noticed by Gordon.

“She does not take something every time she goes to Gordon’s house, or every time she stays over, or to mark what she might call memorable visits. She doesn’t do it in a daze and she doesn’t seem to be under a compulsion. She just takes something, every now and then, and puts it away in the dark of the old tobacco tin, and more or less forgets about it” (page 133).

Munro does a fantastic job at hitting a grand slam right in the last inning, just when you thought the game would be a tie. Just when you expected to go home with indifference; not upset, not content, just satisfied, she hits it home. The above quote is made up of the very last few sentences of the story. I think that Prue has the ability to take what she needs from people, tuck it away inside of her, and then more or less forget about it. Is that the only way to be happy? Not take anything personally? Whether it’s the win or loss of the game, just be indifferent? Is Prue so happy and likeable because she is able to remain indifferent to personal situations in her life? She loves her family and friends and lovers, but she is secretly able to remain detached somehow. I am reading this story in this way. I must say, it is a talent to remain indifferent to personal or intimate situations. But, will the old tobacco tin run out of space eventually?

Lesson: Be a quiet writer.

By ke-cellardoor on Sunday, December 4th, 2011

I enjoyed this story very much. I now see why Alice Munro was recommended to me.  Her voice is something I have been trying to perfect for quite some time now. Well, not her voice exactly, but a voice like hers. A soothing voice, somewhat detached, and yet entirely aware of life’s most miniscule tragedies, as well as the larger ones. In “The Moons of Jupiter” she does not call forth sadness in all its terrifying and overwhelming state. No, she is subtle about it. She is subtle with death. She is subtle with a dying father and his heart monitor. She is subtle about the protagonist’s grieving because the protagonist does not know how to grieve, or even how to really approach loss. The entire story works as a tool, emphasizing a detached state of mind (the protagonist’s) circling the greater object, which is her father’s death as well as her broken relationship with her daughter. At the end of the story, the protagonist says, in regards to a tomb outside a museum, “I always meant to look, but I never do.” Here, the author makes quite a statement. The protagonist means to face her issues, but she never does. It seems that she wants to have a better relationship with her daughter, but she cannot bring herself to mend whatever was broken.  She does not want to look at her father’s death, though she believes that she is doing so. During a flashback scene, the narrator is speaking about a time when she was bringing her oldest daughter, Nichola, at the time very young, to the hospital to test for leukemia. The narrator says, “ There was a care—not a withdrawal exactly, but a care—not to feel anything much. I saw how forms of love might be maintained with a condemned person but with the love in fact measured and disciplined because you have to survive.”  Such a powerful line. It is not too poetic, and yet not too prosaic. Here, I feel, is the heart of the story. Our protagonist is a guarded woman, though she may not necessarily fully realize how guarded she is. Then again, no one may realize how guarded they are.

My favorite moment in the story:

The main character is sitting in the hospital room with her father. He is on a heart monitor. While they are talking, he makes a critical comment about her leaving her husband, an event that took place long ago. After a few moments, she thinks of a statement to refute him…

“I turned to remind him of this, but found myself looking at the line his heart was writing. Not that there seemed to be anything wrong, any difference in the beeps and points. But it was there.”

The author is by no means blatant here. She is not telling me anything in particular, but allowing me to feel the moment as if I were the protagonist. The monitor reminds her of his fragile life. I could go on to say things like, “arguments are petty in the scheme of things,” but she is not necessarily making a huge statement such as that. It is just there, his heart beat upon a screen, as if his very soul were on T.V. There is something very precious about capturing the life-force, something seemingly intangible, and transferring its movement onto a monitor. Suddenly, life feels too fragile. It could stop moving across the monitor screen at any moment.

Lesson: Be subtle. Let the reader feel your statements as if they were already inside their mind from long ago. Let your words unfold between the imagery and the dialogue, present itself with modesty. But, let its beauty or power or tragedy or happiness become overwhelming overtime, like a seed which grows into a wild flower, and spreads throughout a field.