Alice Munro took Flaubert’s suggestion to “be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work” to new levels when the Nobel Prize Committee had to leave a message on her answering machine to let her know she’d won the Nobel for Literature in 2013. She was probably out for a walk.
Though the Canadian author has, for decades, been considered the master of the short story, her stories are not short. They are quite long, and many of the characters and locales intersect with one another. In her fifty-year career, even Munro’s own work wasn’t off-limits. She has tinkered with stories published decades ago, rewriting sections or expanding endings and republishing these Frankensteins in The New Yorker. Like an artist that repurposes her canvas, Munro’s is a constantly evolving work. That was until her death on Monday at age 92.
But Munro’s message, if there is any “message,” is that no artist’s work is ever complete. Perhaps there’s a feeling of satisfaction, as she acquiesced in a rare interview after she was awarded the Nobel. There’s a good feeling at a job well done. But just because one has published much, or accomplished much, doesn’t mean the work is finished. Death provides an ending in Munro’s work. But it leaves many unanswered questions.
