We say of some things . . . that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do --- we do it all the time.

Not through aversion but prioritization, there is little literary fiction on my shelves. Lawrence Durrell, John Gardner, Robert Graves, Robertson Davies, a few others as well as some odds and bobs. There is so much I wish to know that most the space is taken up by science, history, travel writers, poetry, philosophy, exploration, archaeology, economics, etc. There are drifts of books around the house, not on bookshelves but pulled out to be gotten to soon. But so many, that soon is never as soon as I would like. So where is there space and time for literary fiction?

Alice Munro, a name I know and recognize but have never read, has just won the Nobel Prize for literature. As a consequence there are a flurry of reviews. This one comes as close to making me want to add another book in line as I ever come; Reading Alice Munro by Jesse Kornbluth.

Kornbluth achieves this in part by letting Munro speak for herself. He opens with a passage from her most recent book, Dear Life.

I did not go home for my mother's last illness or for her funeral. I had two small children and nobody in Vancouver to leave them with. We could barely have afforded the trip, and my husband had a contempt for formal behavior, but why blame it on him? I felt the same. We say of some things that they can't be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do --- we do it all the time.

What a beautifully true last line. She's on my radar screen now.