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Lovers. Not a soft word, as people thought, but cruel and tearing.

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
Word
Thought
Heart
People
Tearing
Cruel
Soft
Lovers
Broken

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My head was a magpie's nest lined with such bright scraps of information.
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She was learning, quite late, what many people around her appeared to have known since childhood that life can be perfectly satisfying without major achievements.
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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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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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It's certainly true that when I was young, writing seemed to me so important that I would have sacrificed almost anything to it ... Because I thought of the world in which I wrote -- the world I created -- as somehow much more enormously alive than the world I was actually living in.
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Because if she let go of her grief even for a minute it would only hit her harder when she bumped into it again.
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There were people whom you positively ached to please. If you failed with such people they would put you into a category in their minds where they could kee you and have contempt for you forever.
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That's something I think is growing on me as I get older: happy endings.
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It's as if tendencies that seem most deeply rooted in our minds, most private and singular, have come in as spores on the prevailing wind, looking for any likely place to land, any welcome.
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I read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same.
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A story ... has a sturdy sense of itself of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you.
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What she wants to do if she can get the time to do it, is not so much to live in the past as to open it up and get one good look at it.
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Now i no longer believe that people's secrets are defined and communicable, or their feelings full-blown and easy to recognize.
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Life would be grand if it weren't for the people.
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And now such a warm commotion, such busy love.
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It was at this time that she entirely gave up on reading. The covers of books looked like coffins to her, either shabby or ornate, and what was inside them might as well have been dust.
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For we did makeup. But we didn't forgive each other. And we didn't take steps. And it got to be too late and we saw that each of us had invested too much in being in the right and we walked away and it was a relief.
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Hatred is always a sin, my mother told me. Remember that. One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk. I was struck by that and meant to try it, but knew I shouldn’t waste the milk.
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I want the reader to feel something is astonishing. Not the 'what happens,' but the way everything happens. These long short story fictions do that best, for me.
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In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.
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