Peoples lives, in Jubilee as elsewhere, were dull, simple, amazing, unfathomable-deep caves paved with kitchen linoleum. . . . What I wanted [to write down] was every last thing, every layer of speech and thought, stroke of light on bark or walls, every smell, pothole, pain, crack, delusion, held still and held together-radiant, everlasting.
Alice MunroI read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same.
Alice MunroThey were all in their early thirties. An age at which it is sometimes hard to admit that what you are living is your life.
Alice MunroOne drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk.
Alice Munro