书名：Selected Stories爱丽丝门罗精选故事集
作者：Alice Munro
出版社名称：Vintage
出版时间：1997
语种：英文
ISBN：9780099732419
商品尺寸：12.9 x 2.6 x 19.8 cm
包装：平装
页数：418
爱丽丝·门罗是知名的加拿大女作家，被称为“现当代短篇小说大师”。她擅长利用时空转换，将记忆和现实生活打碎重新组合，讲述平凡人生的不同命运，引发读者的共鸣。Selected Stories《爱丽丝·门罗精选故事集》收录了爱丽丝·门罗1968-1994期间出版的故事作品，让读者和粉丝对作者本人和故事情节有更加深入的了解，具有一定的收藏价值。

This first-ever selection of Alice Munro's stories sums up her genius. Her territory is the secrets that cackle beneath the façade of everyday lives, the pain and promises, loves and fears of apparently ordinary men and women whom she renders extraordinary and unforgettable.

Review
"Munro is a great realist, and her powers come from her sense of the way in which communities – especially small, socially anxious, limited ones – construct and guard their reality."
(James Wood London Review of Books)

"One of the most esteemed writers in the world... Few writers capture the moral ambiguities, murkiness, messiness - and joy - of relationships with as much empathy and grace as Munro... An outstanding showcase for Munro's scrupulous, humane, unnervingly perceptive vision" (Guardian)

"Her work is practically perfect. Any writer has to gawk when reading her because her work is very subtle and precise" (Jane Smiley)

"The best short story writer alive... Munro can pack more into one of her stories - more subtlety, more grace, more tender twists of the human heart - than many novelists do in a lifetime's oeuvre" (Independent)

"One of the world's best living short-story writers... To say that she has made the short story her own and reinvigorated it somehow falls short - she has reinvented it"(Observer)
爱丽丝·门罗(Alice Munro)，加拿大女作家，被称为“现当代短篇小说大师”。她于1931年生在加拿大渥太华，大部分时间都在这个安静的城市度过，少女时代即开始写小说。1968年，门罗发表第1部短篇小说集《快乐影子舞》(Dance of the Happy Shades)，并获得加拿大总督文学奖，有人称呼她是“当代的契诃夫”。门罗多次获奖，其中包括三次加拿大总督奖，两次吉勒奖，以及英联邦作家奖、欧亨利奖、笔会马拉穆德奖和美国书评人奖等。2009年，获得第三届布克国际奖。2013年10月10日，爱丽丝·门罗获得2013年诺贝尔文学奖。爱丽丝·门罗是诺贝尔文学奖历史上获此殊荣的第13位女性作家。

Winner of the Man Booker International Prize for 2009, Alice Munrois the author of eleven collections of stories, most recently The View from Castle Rock, and a novel, Lives of Girls and Women. She has received many awards and prizes, including three of Canada's Governor General's Literary Awards and two Giller Prizes, the Rea Award for the Short Story, the Lannan Literary Award, the W.H. Smith Book Award in the UK, the National Book Critics Circle Award in the US, and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize for The Beggar Maid. Her stories have appeared in the New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, the Paris Review, and other publications, and her collections have been translated into thirteen languages. She lives with her husband in Clinton, Ontario, near Lake Huron in Canada.
Walker Brothers Cowboy
Dance of the Happy Shades
Postcard
Images
Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You
The Ottawa Valley
Material
Royal Beatings
Wild Swans
The Beggar Maid
Dulse
The Turkey Season
Labor Day Dinner
The Moons of Jupiter
The Progress of Love
Lichen
Miles City, Montana
Fits
Friends of My Youth
Meneseteung
Differently
Carried Away
Vandals
AFTER SUPPER my father says, “Want to go down and see if the Lake’s still there?” We leave my mother sewing under the dining-room light, making clothes for me against the opening of school. She has ripped up for this purpose an old suit and an old plaid wool dress of hers, and she has to cut and match very cleverly and also make me stand and turn for endless fittings, sweaty, itching from the hot wool, ungrateful. We leave my brother in bed in the little screened porch at the end of the front veranda, and sometimes he kneels on his bed and presses his face against the screen and calls mournfully, “Bring me an ice-cream cone!” but I call back, “You will be asleep,” and do not even turn my head.
Then my father and I walk gradually down a long, shabby sort of Street, with Silverwoods Ice Cream signs standing on the sidewalk, outside tiny, lighted stores. This is in Tuppertown, an old town on Lake Huron, an old grain port. The street is shaded, in some places, by maple trees whose roots have cracked and heaved the sidewalk and spread out like crocodiles into the bare yards. People are sitting out, men in shirtsleeves and undershirts and women in aprons—not people we know but if anybody looks ready to nod and say, “Warm night,” my father will nod too and say something the same. Children are still playing. I don’t know them either because my mother keeps my brother and me in our own yard, saying he is too young to leave it and I have to mind him. I am not so sad to watch their evening games because the games themselves are ragged, dissolving. Children, of their own will, draw apart, separate into islands of two or one under the heavy trees, occupying themselves in such solitary ways as I do all day, planting pebbles in the dirt or writing in it with a stick.
Presently we leave these yards and houses behind; we pass a factory with boarded-up windows1 a lumberyard whose high wooden gates are locked for the night. Then the town falls away in a defeated jumble of sheds and small junkyards the sidewalk gives up and we are walking on a sandy path with burdocks, plantains, humble nameless weeds all around. We enter a vacant lot, a kind of park really, for it is kept clear of junk and there is one bench with a slat missing on the back, a place to sit and look at the water. Which is generally gray in the evening, under a lightly overcast sky, no sunsets, the horizon dim. A very quiet, washing noise on the stones of the beach. Further along, towards the main part of town, there is a stretch of sand, a water slide, floats bobbing around the safe swimming area, a lifeguard’s rickety throne. Also a long dark-green building, like a roofed veranda, called the Pavilion, full of farmers and their wives, in stiff good clothes, on Sundays. That is the part of the town we used to know when we lived at Dungannon and came here three or four times a summer, to the Lake. That, and the docks where we would go and look at the grain boats, ancient, rusty, wallowing, making us wonder how they got past the breakwater let alone to Fort William.