I have many beautiful things to say about Dear Life, and Munro's writing in general, but I find it terribly difficult to put into words what I really feel about her stories. I feel Schulz has managed it in this passage:
Munro has style, too, of course, yet reading her feels completely different. Her stories rise up like a thought in the mind: realized. As such, they don’t even seem quite like stories, though I’ve never known what else to call them. Munro does, though. In that autobiographical coda, she writes, “This is not a story, only life.” Yes, exactly.
I love the way Schulz puts it here: realized.
I've had trouble getting this blog started. Perhaps the difficulty with blogging about her is that I don't simply read her stories, I live them. I want to relive them over and over again.
I'd say Munro's stories give me strong feelings, but maybe a better way to say is that her stories are strong feelings. Or thoughts and memories rising out of the subconscious, sometimes sweet and blissful, sometimes raw and hurtful. But they're always true. You can simply go inside them and feel them.
I have no words beyond that.
