Alice Munro has single-handedly cured me of my irrational fear of the short story. Her writing is wonderful, her characters relatable and her plots are so poignant that they really only make sense as short fiction. I adore her writing. The View From Castle Rock is different in that it's a family memoir rather than a collection of short stories. It's also a lot more personal, with Munro not only laying bare her roots but using her own childhood for a book. That doesn't mean her writing hasn't always been personal, but it's different when the first-person narrator is actually, clearly the author. Tracing her family's history, Munro writes several episodes starting in 18th-century Scotland and finishing with her ageing and actively taking an interest in her forefathers. While those later episodes are real chronicled memories, the ones in the first part of the book are mostly based on nothing more than a letter or a few diary entries, with the time between actual events being filled with fiction. And since Alice Munro is a brilliant writer, those half-imagined accounts are the most powerful. There is something incredibly touching about the few thoughts we catch of a great-great-grandmother during a sea voyage that meant she would never see her home again, and the eventual, emotionless account of her death. I got genuinely attached to those people, so much that the news of their deaths, which aren't news at all, really touched a nerve. Also, Munro manages to convey her thoughts on what life must have been like for women. She doesn't elaborate, but the few lines we do get are immensely powerful. Births, hungry infants, lost husbands, dead children are merely chronicled or touched upon in half-sentences, but those have a life of their own. For me, the first part of the book had a much stronger pull than the latter one. Maybe I just prefer the unknown to the more recent and verifiable. Maybe I just prefer my fiction expressly fiction-y. Or maybe I just got out of the groove when I had to put the book down once too often. It's still a great book, and I can't stress enough how much I adore Alice Munro. I think I've made myself quite clear there...

I only read the one title short story, but really enjoyed it. Thanks to Chrissie for posting the link.

This a true slice of life. We see a family's voyage, by ship, from Scotland to Nova Scotia. There are the different classes of passengers and even the different type of person in the family.

One of my favorite things about shorts is that the author can give you a glimpse, almost a Polaroid, of an event or time of life without the baggage of explaining everything. Justifying. Building a foundation and then building it up. This was a beautiful example of that.

A collection of short stories, loosely based on Alice Munro's family and life, is my introduction to this well-known and respected Canadian writer's work. I enjoyed the ease with which I sank into this book and loved the stories of Munro's immigrant family and their experiences in "America", which was Canada really. The latter stories in the book did not grab my attention as easily, but the links between people and the loose connections which come when people live in the same town were a wonder to behold.

Alice Munro is a Nobel Laureate. Alice Munro needs no introduction. The View from Castle Rock is the first Alice Munro book that I have read, and while turning the pages, either at my lunch table or in bed before I switched off the lights, I felt as if Munro was narrating the tale directly to me. As if she wanted to share her story, and she had found a willing listener in me. I could sense her presence, however weird that may sound, and I am sure that these two reasons can explain this: a) The quality of her writing is impeccable; Munro does not search for the lengthiest of lines, nor the toughest of words, but keeps things simple and flowing, captivating you by the narrative, which could have been one of those campfire tales told by a wise old camper, b) The book is semi-autobiographic, in which Munro talks about her ancestry from Scotland, their desire to come to the American continent, their life in Canada, and eventually her own up-bringing; she illuminates the factual events with a bit of fictional touch here and there, never losing the rhythm of her story-telling. And so it feels as if she is narrating her story to me.

The View from Castle Rock is one of the most pleasant reads I have come across, which would soothe your heart and make you feel comfortable. It is difficult to describe how Alice Munro manages to work her magic in such a fashion, but some things have to be experienced to be really understood. It frees you away from the outside world, and while most of the books do the same, this one puts you in a placid environment, which is something much sought after in today’s hubbub. Or it may only have been me who felt this way, I do not know. Read it to find out for yourself.

This family-history-memoir-in-short-stories didn't hit me right at all. Very very dry, and churchy, with none of the psychological hijinks I love in a vintage Munro story. Plus I didn't like the audio narrator's schoolmarmish voice. Perhaps I will give it another go in text form down the road. But to be honest I'll probably read absolutely everything else by her first.

Couldn't get drawn in to make it thru the first chapter.

Tecnicamente non lo si può definire un pastiche, ma ne richiama il tono. Una raccolta di scritti in cui si mischiano appunti documentali, ricerche, diario e invenzione narrativa. Racconto. Il passo levigato della Munro carpisce la lettura. Avvolge. Accompagna nella Storia. Lo fa senza creare sussulti, né ansia cronologica, restituendo il piacere dell'ascolto sereno; dell'evasione. Si salta indietro; s'incontrano personaggi; si torna a un presente prossimo, o appena trascorso. Chiuso il libro, alla fine, si ha un quadro di umanità; si trattiene il tempo in archi più lunghi. Si respira l'intuizione di quell'ignoto che accomuna, rendendo incerta e stupefacente ogni vita. Il discorso intimo dell'autore è un telaio invisibile, su cui inconsciamente riposare.

Is it possible that this is my first Alice Munro? Yes, I believe that it is. In fact, though I've known the name for a long time, when her name came up in conversation a couple months ago as someone I should read, I first wrote it down in my notebook as "Alice Monroe" because it didn't click initially for me. Stellar.

This book was primarily recommended because Family History. It's technically fiction, but my mentor thought it would be good for me to read it and see how someone writes about family history stuff. It's not that easy, especially when you don't know that much about the part of your family about which you are trying to write, especially when you are writing nonfiction. So it was difficult for me to read this and keep in mind that it's fiction, short stories based on her family stories which is similar to something I tried to do in my undergrad years before some less-than-helpful professors tried to take it in a different direction and it turned into something I didn't care much about.

Munro is clearly a talented writer. I know people love her and she is one of those Canadian goddesses that more people should read. But I will be real - the writing often left me feeling cold. I was surprised by that. I loved the words on the page, the way the sentences rolled, but by the end of each story I found myself uncertain about how I felt about it as a whole. That's sort of strange to experience, especially by someone so many have told me they adore.

Flipping through the book now, I wonder if a lot of it has to do with the short sentences. I don't normally mind that sort of thing, and sometimes it works really well for an author, but maybe it didn't really work for me in this context. Family histories are complex, yes, but can be rife with salacious or juicy details. It's sad when they come across as dry at times.

Their Christmas tree was in the corner. The front room had only one window and if they had put the tree there it would have blocked off all the light. It was not a big or well-shaped tree, but it was smothered in tinsel and gold and silver beads and beautiful intricate ornaments. In another corner of the room was a parlor stove, a woodstove, in which the fire seemed just recently to have been lighted. The air was still cold and heavy, with the forest smell of the tree.
(p187)

And also, because I have so much going on, the collection of stories was often difficult for me to read. That's my fault, not Munro's. I'm in such a nonfiction place, filled to brim with essays and memoirs, that when I read these stories, I found myself confused when Munro wrote in the first perspective. She wrote about herself, yes, but she also wrote about "I" in the context of family members/characters in the 19th century. This was discombobulating for me, disorienting. So when it was really Munro's personal thoughts or part of the story, I wasn't sure if it was really her voice or not. Again, I blame only myself.

I want to and will read more by Munro. I hoped to learn something more from this than I was able, but it's just my place in time right now that prevented it from all coming together.

Also, spoiler alert, this has nothing to do with the Hulu show Castle Rock.

This one doesn't speak to me as much as Alice Munro's other collections do, and I had so hoped it would, given that this one is so much more personal for her. Having said that, it still has its share of those moments that make you look up from the book, lost in reflection, and have to re-read a few lines to find your place after a minute or so of pondering. (This is a good thing.) I was reminded a lot of The Beggar Maid, since the stories are all linked in some way.

What always impresses me most about Munro's writing is her honesty. She's so bluntly honest, even when writing about herself. I can't be that honest in my own private journal entries, not even just with myself. How she is able to notice certain things about herself and then express them for the world to see is just beyond me.

The View from Castle Rock is a book I'll revisit. I suspect that, as family histories grow more important to me as I get older, this sort of collection will be more meaningful.

This book of stories reads less like a memoir and more like a storyteller revisiting her thoughts, dreams, and choices after a lifetime of being in her own shoes, the boundaries of her own memory extending as far back as her ancestors and to the geological shaping of familial land.

Familiarity extends just on the cusp of awareness. It's something that, as a Canadian, is particularly familiar: the distance of time and space, displacement, efforts to find and gain belonging, the distinctive difference between all people who cross our paths - and yet the webbed roots that trace us back together.

In looking to unearth her sentiment belonging to her family and to the land they stole and stripped and bled dry by the sheer fear of hope and survival, Munro looks for memory where sometimes only story can function as a reliable medium. But it's a reality unabashed by the the faults of memory or by the nature of human stories.

It's brilliant. Soft and complex. Perfectly human.

Disappointing. Not what you would expect from the queen of short stories. If this is the first Munro you pick up, do yourself a favour and put it down. Pick another.

I think I liked the first half of the book better then the second half. Maybe a change of writing style? Or just because the familyhistorie comes more nearby?