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They were all in their early thirties. An age at which it is sometimes hard to admit that what you are living is your life.

Alice Munro

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Alice Munro
Age: 93
Born: 1931
Born: January 1
Author
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
Wingham
Ontario
Alice Ann Munro
Alice Ann Laidlaw
Alice Ann Laidlaw Munro
Alice Laidlaw
Alice Anne Munro
Life
Thirties
Admit
Early
Age
Living
Hard
Sometimes

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She would live now, not read.
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Life would be grand if it weren't for the people.
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Speculation can be more gentle, can take its time, when it is not driven by desire.
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In my own work, I tend to cover a lot of time and to jump back and forward in time, and sometimes the way I do this is not very straightforward.
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People have thoughts they’d sooner not have. It happens in life.
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People’s lives, in Jubilee as elsewhere, were dull, simple, amazing, and unfathomable – deep caves paved with kitchen linoleum.
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Writing is hard, but the more you write, and enjoy what you write, the better it gets.
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I knew I would be famous one day. That's because I lived in a very small town and nobody liked doing the same things I did, like writing.
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You think that would have changed things? The answer is of course, and for a while, and never.
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The story fails but your faith in the importance of doing the story doesn't fail.
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I was amazed as people must be who are seized and kidnapped, and who realize that in the strange world of their captors they have a value absolutely unconnected with anything they know about themselves.
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The deep, personal material of the latter half of your life is your children. You can write about your parents when they're gone, but your children are still going to be here, and you're going to want them to come and visit you in the nursing home.
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I just believed it easily, the way you might believe and in fact remember that you once had another set of teeth, now vanished but real in spite of that. Until one day, one day when I may even have been in my teens, I knew with a dim sort of hole in my insides that now I didn't believe it anymore.
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That's something I think is growing on me as I get older: happy endings.
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One stroke of lightning does not have to lead anywhere, but to the next stroke of lightning.
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I loved taking off. In my own house, I seemed to be often looking for a place to hide - sometimes from the children but more often from the jobs to be done and the phone ringing and the sociability of the neighborhood. I wanted to hide so that I could get busy at my real work, which was a sort of wooing of distant parts of myself.
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One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk.
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I have never kept diaries. I just remember a lot and am more self-centered than most people.
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As soon as a man and woman of almost any age are alone together within four walls it is assumed that anything may happen. Spontaneous combustion, instant fornication, triumph of the senses. What possibilities men and women must see in each other to infer such dangers. Or, believing in the dangers, how often they must think about the possibilities.
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Never underestimate the meanness in people's souls... Even when they're being kind... especially when they're being kind.
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