I’m such a lazy person. Too often I write really quite the best reviews in the world in my head – and that’s enough for me. I move on. They never see the light of day.
I read this at the same time as I read my first book of Alice Munro stories and my first inclination was to write something where something of a shadow cast over Munro would be to the benefit of Proulx, a writer who has never disappointed me and I’ve read all of them. Checking, I see that I’m talking about early 2014 – over four years ago, and this book by Proulx has been sitting in my queue, waiting for a mention and she’s coming out now, courtesy of my spring clean.
When I wrote about Munro’s Dear Life collection, I make comparisons with Lessing and Tyler and left Proulx right out of it. I no longer really recall why. I also rarely have a good memory for books these days past a short period post reading it. But I’m left with an impression that I was happy to read it even though I thought better of the comparison I’d intended to make with Munro. I will just make the comment now, however, that I suspect Proulx is the more rounded writer, able to go from long, to short, to somewhere in between (thinking there of Brokeback Mountain).
At any rate, both these writers are like Anne Tyler, old slippers that one keeps putting on, one opens to the first page, the first lines and yes…..there we are again….