the view from castle rock: stories by alice munro
those who have been around a while, or who have poked through the archives, might recall how absolutely crazy i went over alice munro, when i first started (finally!) to read her. if devouring everything that she had written in a very short time period might be considered crazy. suffice it to say, she's one of my top writers, people whom i adore and hold up as holy and whose writing i relate to and connect with in a way that might not be entirely healthy. as such, i was understandably delighted to hear that a new collection the view from castle rock was coming out, back when i first heard about it.
this collection, however, isn't like a typical munro collection. not exactly. yes, it consists of short stories, finely executed, rife with the important details that cut you to the core, frequently featuring complicated young women. but it's more than short stories too. as munro notes in her introduction, these are personal stories which draw upon her own family history and feature "characters" whose existence was quite real - munro's ancestors who made their way from scotland and settled in canada. now then, i suspect that most readers have drawn certain conclusions about the stories that munro writes, specifically that they are frequently drawn from her lived life, based on her own real life experiences, just like they tell you to do in fiction writing one oh one. and yet, somehow having the authors admission and assuming, as it leads you to do, that the narrative voice is ms. munro and that none of the names and details have been changed for the sake of the narrative, makes a difference.
as such, the view from castle rock doesn't exactly read like your average short story collection. instead it has an air of memoir and family history about it, especially as characters reoccur and allusions are made, from one story to the next, to things and people who have previously appeared. this gives the whole a consistency and a narrative thread that might not necessarily be in other collections. well, except the rose and flo stories, which didn't quite have the same versmilitude, at least in the "it really happened" sense. that being said, one thing that leads it to being shelved in "literature" instead of "biography" is the fact that munro freely admits to making things up - to drawing on her family history and filling in the gaps with her own inventions. or rather, imaginings i think would be a better way to term it.
in any case, it's a lovely and remarkable book. the stories would, and do, stand on their own. but packaged as they are and with that aforementioned rooting inl history and connected as they are, makes for a unique, personal and altogether satisfying literary experience. i was compelled, as i read along, to imagine myself in situations that i will never face, wondering how i might react to life if i were in a similar position to these characters. would i make it across the atlantic journey? could i bear children and raise them in a new, altogether unfamiliar land? when faced with the question of how to feed them, would i take to the road, selling furs to well-heeled ladies in summer hotels? would i act subservient and take a role as maid to one of those same ladies? how would i feel the stretches of loneliness and longing?
for a while, it was rumoured that this collections would be munro's last. that she had said all that she had to say and was content to sit out the rest of her life as a silent observer. this rumor - based on a speech she gave - has since been refuted (and could have easily been figured out when you realized that that story you read a while ago in the new yorker doesn't appear in this collection), thankfully. and yet, there's no denying as you read these stories, that there is an air of a woman at the end of her life. she knows that time stretching out behind her is longer than the time stretching out in front of her, and there seems to be a need to come to grips with how you fit with the whole. this point is especially brought home in a final story in the collection, when our narrator is faced with a lump in her breast, and the natural thoughts and fears that such a discovery leads to.
i wonder if, as one ages, there is a sort of inevitable geneological pull. as a librarian, i frequently meet amatuer geneologists, and it's not untrue to note that most of them have lived many more years than myself. and in my own family, i have seen my uncle who, upon hitting fifty or so, began to delve deep into our families roots, digging around in newspapers and archives, making phone calls to people in far away cities who happen to share a last name, in an effort to trace the connection. what seems mere curiosity and an interesting point to share over drinks (oh, my ancestors came from germany and the british isles. some of them were jewish, although the abandoned the faith when they got to america and i am distantly related to martha washington) is a matter of great urgency. and that's what the view from castle rock put me in mind of. and in doing so, it made me want to do the same, although i'm still young enough that it doesn't have the importance. it made me want to think lots more about the people whose action and movement literally gave birth to me. it made me want to sit down with my mom and have her repeat into a tape recorder stories from her childhood. it made me want to be a little girl again, sitting in the corner, seemingly playing with toys or reading a book, when really i was listening to her and my aunt reminisce over their own exploits, as well as those that they had heard stories of when they were young.
so, munro's very personal account of her family, becomes a consideration of my own. which is, in many ways, what the best of literature does. even if it does seem rather selfish to say it that way. fantastic.
this collection, however, isn't like a typical munro collection. not exactly. yes, it consists of short stories, finely executed, rife with the important details that cut you to the core, frequently featuring complicated young women. but it's more than short stories too. as munro notes in her introduction, these are personal stories which draw upon her own family history and feature "characters" whose existence was quite real - munro's ancestors who made their way from scotland and settled in canada. now then, i suspect that most readers have drawn certain conclusions about the stories that munro writes, specifically that they are frequently drawn from her lived life, based on her own real life experiences, just like they tell you to do in fiction writing one oh one. and yet, somehow having the authors admission and assuming, as it leads you to do, that the narrative voice is ms. munro and that none of the names and details have been changed for the sake of the narrative, makes a difference.
as such, the view from castle rock doesn't exactly read like your average short story collection. instead it has an air of memoir and family history about it, especially as characters reoccur and allusions are made, from one story to the next, to things and people who have previously appeared. this gives the whole a consistency and a narrative thread that might not necessarily be in other collections. well, except the rose and flo stories, which didn't quite have the same versmilitude, at least in the "it really happened" sense. that being said, one thing that leads it to being shelved in "literature" instead of "biography" is the fact that munro freely admits to making things up - to drawing on her family history and filling in the gaps with her own inventions. or rather, imaginings i think would be a better way to term it.
in any case, it's a lovely and remarkable book. the stories would, and do, stand on their own. but packaged as they are and with that aforementioned rooting inl history and connected as they are, makes for a unique, personal and altogether satisfying literary experience. i was compelled, as i read along, to imagine myself in situations that i will never face, wondering how i might react to life if i were in a similar position to these characters. would i make it across the atlantic journey? could i bear children and raise them in a new, altogether unfamiliar land? when faced with the question of how to feed them, would i take to the road, selling furs to well-heeled ladies in summer hotels? would i act subservient and take a role as maid to one of those same ladies? how would i feel the stretches of loneliness and longing?
for a while, it was rumoured that this collections would be munro's last. that she had said all that she had to say and was content to sit out the rest of her life as a silent observer. this rumor - based on a speech she gave - has since been refuted (and could have easily been figured out when you realized that that story you read a while ago in the new yorker doesn't appear in this collection), thankfully. and yet, there's no denying as you read these stories, that there is an air of a woman at the end of her life. she knows that time stretching out behind her is longer than the time stretching out in front of her, and there seems to be a need to come to grips with how you fit with the whole. this point is especially brought home in a final story in the collection, when our narrator is faced with a lump in her breast, and the natural thoughts and fears that such a discovery leads to.
i wonder if, as one ages, there is a sort of inevitable geneological pull. as a librarian, i frequently meet amatuer geneologists, and it's not untrue to note that most of them have lived many more years than myself. and in my own family, i have seen my uncle who, upon hitting fifty or so, began to delve deep into our families roots, digging around in newspapers and archives, making phone calls to people in far away cities who happen to share a last name, in an effort to trace the connection. what seems mere curiosity and an interesting point to share over drinks (oh, my ancestors came from germany and the british isles. some of them were jewish, although the abandoned the faith when they got to america and i am distantly related to martha washington) is a matter of great urgency. and that's what the view from castle rock put me in mind of. and in doing so, it made me want to do the same, although i'm still young enough that it doesn't have the importance. it made me want to think lots more about the people whose action and movement literally gave birth to me. it made me want to sit down with my mom and have her repeat into a tape recorder stories from her childhood. it made me want to be a little girl again, sitting in the corner, seemingly playing with toys or reading a book, when really i was listening to her and my aunt reminisce over their own exploits, as well as those that they had heard stories of when they were young.
so, munro's very personal account of her family, becomes a consideration of my own. which is, in many ways, what the best of literature does. even if it does seem rather selfish to say it that way. fantastic.