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The short-story writer Mavis Gallant, who died today at 91, was a writer’s writer. That is a nice way of saying that she wasn’t super-widely read outside the coterie of literary obsessives in America, the kind who flip straight to the fiction pages when the New Yorker arrives, a population which is shrinking every minute. Her ascension was stifled by all the people out there who say, “I love to read, but I hate short stories.” And that’s a shame, because she was a genius, one of the people who could best convey anger and frustration and loss in startlingly beautiful but incredibly economical prose.
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And from Shelf Awareness:
Mavis Gallant, the internationally celebrated Canadian short story writer who lived and worked for most of her life in Paris, died yesterday, CBC reported. She was 91. The New Yorker published 114 of her stories and "nurtured her early career long before she was recognized in Canada," CBC wrote.
The Guardian noted that Gallant's "body of work--a dozen collections of short stories, two novels, a play and numerous essays and reviews--more than fulfilled her belief that style is 'not a last-minute addition to prose, a charming and universal slipover, a coat of paint used to mask the failings of a structure.' "
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And from Shelf Awareness:
Mavis Gallant, the internationally celebrated Canadian short story writer who lived and worked for most of her life in Paris, died yesterday, CBC reported. She was 91. The New Yorker published 114 of her stories and "nurtured her early career long before she was recognized in Canada," CBC wrote.
The Guardian noted that Gallant's "body of work--a dozen collections of short stories, two novels, a play and numerous essays and reviews--more than fulfilled her belief that style is 'not a last-minute addition to prose, a charming and universal slipover, a coat of paint used to mask the failings of a structure.' "
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