Book Report: Carried Away by Alice Munro

Carried Away: Torgo approves

I've always been a fast reader. With novels, if I get caught up in the narrative, I'll just keep reading, foregoing sleep, food, the desperate cries of my bladder, my thriving social life, etc. Yet I've always struggled to complete short story collections. There always seems to be such a dreadful shock in transitioning from one story to the next that I get unsettled, unable to let go. I get attached to stories. I develop emotional attachments to plotlines and minor characters. And I take solace in knowing how many pages are left in a book, something I can calculate by numbers, see physically, and feel in my hand.

Short story collections mess with my head. I can look ahead and know there are 20 more pages until the next story, but it's less tangible when other stories follow. I want those other stories to continue on, to be related, to at least feel like descendants of the one I'm reading.

The only memorable exception to my frustrations with short story collections is "And the God Laughed," by Frederic Brown, a sci-fi writer who died in 1972. He was big on the short short story, irony (in the Twilight Zone model, pre-dating Rod Serling), and humor. I read the book in junior high or so, captivated first by the great title, then by the consistency and feeling of oneness in the book (ironic itself, as the book was posthumously compiled).

And now there's Alice Munro.

Carried Away begins with an introduction I didn't initially read by Margaret Atwood (earlier disparaged on this blog). I hate introductions, prefaces, forewards, generally speaking. They always tell you how great what you're about to read is, as though you need someone to encourage you to keep reading what you've already decided to read by reading something far less good by someone other than the author you want to read. (I later went back and skimmed it, finding nothing enlightening, though I was confounded by the 'chronology,' which parallels events in Munro's life with both a literary and historical context, the former mentioning not just the giants like Faulkner, Hemingway, Woolfe, Baldwin and Salinger, but seemingly far too many Atwood books, including The (specifically disparaged on this blog) Tents.)

Then, at long last, the stories. Munro sucked me in by beginning with two stories from "The Beggar Maid" featuring the same main character, "Royal Beatings" and the title story. Crafty, that Canadian, thereby giving the book the 'novel' feel and forcing me onward. Is it Edwidge Danticat, throwing me around in time with linked stories? No, the third story, "The Turkey Season," moves on, but it's such a strong story, one I remember vividly weeks and hundreds of pages later, that I had to keep going. "The Moons of Jupiter" I skipped. I had to. It starts off with a woman visiting her father in the heart wing of a hospital. At the time, it was a little close to home and not something I wanted to read. "The Progress of Love" came next. This is an excellently crafted story, one that does jump around in time, and has enough clever stories in it that it could've been perhaps 3 decent short shorts, but collectively it makes a solid long short.

"Miles City, Montana" followed. This is a story I know I had a reaction to that I wouldn't have had before becoming a parent. It's about a family of four making a long road trip, stopping for a break from the heat in the title town, where one of the little girls almost drowns in a swimming pool. It almost exploits the emotions of parents who read it, but the writing is strong, so I forgive it.

"Friend of My Youth" reminds me of Steinbeck. It covers generations swiftly, noting how the oddest mistakes and poor choices oppress people's lives.

I think I talked about "Meneseteung" before. A story about a poet, it can do no wrong.

"Differently" is a turning point. Here, Munro is shifting into 'adult contemporary,' writing about affairs among the highly educated, the type of story creative writing professors write, stories that may be competent and proficient, but aren't inherently interesting. At least not to me.

"Carried Away" feels like an attempt to reclaim the fading magic of the earlier stories. There's a violent decapitation, some repressed desire, and things never quite seem to live up to what they might.

"The Albanian Virgin" is a funny one. I want to believe that Munro got a grant to go to Albania and study folklore, then had to produce a paper, but she couldn't just write about folkloric Albanians, so she throws in a story about a bookstore-owning Canadian. It's ok. Not great.

Then we get to "A Wilderness Station." I guess I like frontier stuff. I mean, I know I'm fascinated by exploration stories, like Shackleton, Captain Cook, Robinson Crusoe, etc. And so much of Steinbeck involves people going west, setting out as pioneers, even "Travels with Charley," the n/f book, has him traversing the unseen corners of America. This Munro story plays as a Rashomon story, with multiple narrators, a central murder, and an ambiguous conclusion. It's excellent.

"Vandals" goes on and on and feels like it wants to be a novella, but there just isn't enough conflict. It's engaging, though.

"Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage" has a wretched title. Really. It's just awful. Then the story is ok. Not a highlight. Sloppy in ways the other stories aren't. I'm not sure why it was included.

"Save the Reaper" reminds me of Paul Auster. There's a central character taking a completely random detour into what clearly will lead to trouble, and that trouble is a messed-up card game (as in Auster's "Music of Chance"). Then, also like Auster, nothing much comes of it.

"Runaway" feels like a story written by someone who started it without being sure where it was going but then didn't feel like going back to revise it, being guided only by the principle that tension and crying make good stories. There's also a gaping plot hole (of sorts, more of an apparent narrative error) in the final part -- sloppy writing.

Lastly, "The Bear Came Over the Mountain." A total downer way to end the book. This reads like Philip Roth without quite as much "I'm Philip Roth. Be in awe."

Ok, so, looking back, the book really took a downhill turn about midway. But the beginning was so strong that I had to keep going. And the style was consistent, even when the quality wasn't, so that the individual stories fit together neatly. I don't know enough about Munro (and Atwood, frankly, doesn't help) to know if she was financially successful enough to get a teaching gig or just write for a living, but it seems so. Though I'd love to sell a chapbook of poems for a million dollars, there are so few writers who seem able to produce anything with the creative intensity and passion for the written word once they enter academia or have a big seller. The lesson? Wallow in obscurity, get discovered posthumously, appreciate your accolades from beyond the grave.

This report took almost as long to write as it did to read the book. To reward you for getting this far, I give you this.