Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You
13 Stories. Winner of the Man Booker International Prize 2009
(Sprache: Englisch)
A collection of stories captures the lives of characters ranging in from childhood and adolescence to old age, including those of two sisters bound together by unrequited loves past and present, a young girl's passion for a barnstorming pilot, and a woman...
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A collection of stories captures the lives of characters ranging in from childhood and adolescence to old age, including those of two sisters bound together by unrequited loves past and present, a young girl's passion for a barnstorming pilot, and a woman dealing with her first husband's writing career.
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WINNER OF THE NOBEL PRIZE® IN LITERATURE 2013In the thirteen stories in her remarkable second collection, Alice Munro demonstrates the precise observation, straightforward prose style, and masterful technique that led no less a critic than John Updike to compare her to Chekhov. The sisters, mothers and daughters, aunts, grandmothers, and friends in these stories shimmer with hope and love, anger and reconciliation, as they contend with their histories and their present, and what they can see of the future.
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Something I've Been Meaning To Tell You"Anyway he knows how to fascinate the women," said Et to Char. She could not tell if Char went paler, hearing this, because Char was pale in the first place as anybody could get. She was like a ghost now, with her hair gone white. But still beautiful, she couldn't lose it.
"No matter to him the age or the size," Et pressed on. "It's natural to him as breathing, I guess. I only hope the poor things aren't taken in by it."
"I wouldn't worry," Char said.
The day before, Et had taken Blaikie Noble up on his invitation to go along on one of his tours and listen to his spiel. Char was asked too, but of course she didn't go. Blaikie Noble ran a bus. The bottom part of it was painted red and the top part was striped, to give the effect of an awning. On the side was painted: LAKESHORE TOURS, INDIAN GRAVES, LIMESTONE GARDENS, MILLIONAIRE'S MANSION, BLAIKIE NOBLE, DRIVER, GUIDE. Blaikie had a room at the hotel, and he also worked on the grounds, with one helper, cutting grass and clipping hedges and digging the borders. What a comedown, Et had said at the beginning of the summer when they first found out he was back. She and Char had known him in the old days.
So Et found herself squeezed into his bus with a lot of strangers, though before the afternoon was over she had made friends with a number of them and had a couple of promises of jackets needing letting out, as if she didn't have enough to do already. That was beside the point, the thing on her mind was watching Blaikie.
And what did he have to show? A few mounds with grass growing on them, covering dead Indians, a plot full of odd-shaped, grayish-white, dismal-looking limestone things--far-fetched imitations of plants (there could be the cemetery, if that was what you wanted)--and an old monstrosity of a house built with liquor money. He made the most of it. A historical discourse on the Indians, then a scientific discourse on the Limestone. Et had no way of
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knowing how much of it was true. Arthur would know. But Arthur wasn't there; there was nobody there but silly women, hoping to walk beside Blaikie to and from the sights, chat with him over their tea in the Limestone Pavilion, looking forward to having his strong hand under their elbows, the other hand brushing somewhere around the waist, when he helped them down off the bus ("I'm not a tourist," Et whispered sharply when he tried it on her).
He told them the house was haunted. The first Et had ever heard of it, living ten miles away all her life. A woman had killed her husband, the son of the millionaire, at least it was believed she had killed him.
"How?" cried some lady, thrilled out of her wits.
"Ah, the ladies are always anxious to know the means, said Blaikie, in a voice like cream, scornful and loving. "It was a slow--poison. Or that's what they said. This is all hearsay, all local gossip." (Local my foot, said Et to herself.) "She didn't appreciate his lady friends. The wife didn't. No."
He told them the ghost walked up and down in the garden, between two rows of blue spruce. It was not the murdered man who walked, but the wife, regretting. Blaikie smiled ruefully at the busload. At first Et had thought his attentions were all false, an ordinary commercial flirtation, to give them their money's worth. But gradually she was getting a different notion. He bent to each woman he talked to--it didn't matter how fat or scrawny or silly she was--as if there was one thing in her he would like to find. He had a gentle and laughing but ultimately serious, narrowing look (was that the look men finally had when they made love, that Et would never see?) that made him seem to want to be a deep-sea diver diving down, down through all the emptiness and cold and wreckage to discover the one thing he had set his heart on, something small and precious, hard to locate, as
He told them the house was haunted. The first Et had ever heard of it, living ten miles away all her life. A woman had killed her husband, the son of the millionaire, at least it was believed she had killed him.
"How?" cried some lady, thrilled out of her wits.
"Ah, the ladies are always anxious to know the means, said Blaikie, in a voice like cream, scornful and loving. "It was a slow--poison. Or that's what they said. This is all hearsay, all local gossip." (Local my foot, said Et to herself.) "She didn't appreciate his lady friends. The wife didn't. No."
He told them the ghost walked up and down in the garden, between two rows of blue spruce. It was not the murdered man who walked, but the wife, regretting. Blaikie smiled ruefully at the busload. At first Et had thought his attentions were all false, an ordinary commercial flirtation, to give them their money's worth. But gradually she was getting a different notion. He bent to each woman he talked to--it didn't matter how fat or scrawny or silly she was--as if there was one thing in her he would like to find. He had a gentle and laughing but ultimately serious, narrowing look (was that the look men finally had when they made love, that Et would never see?) that made him seem to want to be a deep-sea diver diving down, down through all the emptiness and cold and wreckage to discover the one thing he had set his heart on, something small and precious, hard to locate, as
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Inhaltsverzeichnis zu „Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You “
Something I ve Been Meaning To Tell YouMaterial
How I Met My Husband
Walking on Water
Forgiveness in Families
Tell Me Yes or No
The Found Boat
Executioners
Marrakesh
The Spanish Lady
Winter Wind
Memorial
The Ottawa Valley
Autoren-Porträt von Alice Munro
Alice Munro grew up in Wingham, Ontario, and attended the University of Western Ontario. She has published thirteen collections of stories as well as a novel, Lives of Girls and Women, and two volumes of Selected Stories. During her distinguished career she has been the recipient of many awards and prizes, including three of Canada s Governor General s Literary Awards and two of its Giller Prizes, the Rea Award for the Short Story, the Lannan Literary Award, England s W. H. Smith Book Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the Man Booker International Prize. In 2013 she was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Her stories have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, Granta, and other publications, and her collections have been translated into thirteen languages. She lives in Clinton, Ontario, near Lake Huron. Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Alice Munro
- 2004, Repr., 256 Seiten, Maße: 13 x 20,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0375707484
- ISBN-13: 9780375707483
- Erscheinungsdatum: 04.05.2012
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Munro, the hugely gifted chronicler, is fast becoming one of the world s great totemic writers. . . . Each short story is a mansion of many rooms. The New York Times Book ReviewHow honest and how lovely. . . . A spellbinding tour through a world of love, menace and surprise. . . . [Munro] is a writer of enormous gifts and perception. Los Angeles Times
Wonderful. . . . A sheer pleasure. Seattle Post-Intelligencer
A rich exploration of womanhood. . . . A more supple, honest, sensitive and sympathetic imagination would be hard to find among writers of fiction today. Ms.
Masterful . . . proves beyond question Alice Munro s trenchant ability to capture the essence of personality in the vagaries of human impulses. . . . It is hard to imagine a perception more acute. Houston Post
Praise from fellow writers:
Her work felt revolutionary when I came to it, and it still does. Jhumpa Lahiri
She is one of the handful of writers, some living, most dead, whom I have in mind when I say that fiction is my religion. Jonthan Franzen
The authority she brings to the page is just lovely. Elizabeth Strout
She s the most savage writer I ve ever read, also the most tender, the most honest, the most perceptive. Jeffery Eugenides
Alice Munro can move characters through time in a way that no other writer can. Julian Barnes
She is a short-story writer who reimagined what a story can do. Loorie Moore
There s probably no one alive who s better at the craft of the short story. Jim Shepard
A true master of the form. Salman Rushdie
A wonderful writer. Joyce Carol Oates
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