Darkness at noon

In this latest collection from a short story master, bleakness overwhelms hints of light

November 29, 2009|Richard Eder, Globe Correspondent

In her mastery of the short story Alice Munro fashions a 24-hour day. There are nighttimes in her work, but the daylight lasts longer and, though struggling, it struggles harder.

Her new collection, “Too Much Happiness,’’ does not follow this pattern. With two exceptions, it is not just dark but of a dark extremity. Madness, murder, perversion occur in several stories; in others, the violence is internal and more abstract, but the movement is down and unredeemed.

None of it is framed as melodrama, and this makes it almost harder to take. Munro has an unsurpassed gift for infusing her nightmares into the calm if complex realism of life as we think it to be. Accordingly, the dark extremities in these stories are not extraordinary but almost matter-of-fact, a kind of relentless environmental degradation.

The first story, “Dimensions,’’ begins with a young woman taking a grueling succession of bus rides to visit her husband in a mental institution. Paranoid, controlling, and increasingly violent in their marriage, he had retaliated when she found brief refuge with a woman friend by killing their two children.

Totally bereft, she finds pitiful hope in letters he writes from the hospital insisting that, though dead, the children are still with him. Hope does not redeem horror; horror contaminates it.

In “Free Radicals,’’ a madman erupts into the house of a widow stricken by incurable cancer. He shows her a photograph of his parents and sister, whom he has just murdered, bloodily, for some perceived offense. She causes him to flee by out-horrifying him with the claim that she had poisoned a woman who stole her husband. She was no innocent making a clever escape, though: It was she who had stolen husband from wife, destroying a whole life of trusting partnership.

In “Wenlock Edge,’’ a student is encouraged by her roommate to have dinner with her lover. He is a rich old man who makes her strip, sit naked during the meal and, still naked, read to him from A.E. Housman’s “A Shropshire Lad’’ before sending her home, intact yet polluted. She takes revenge: not on him nor the roommate but on a middle-aged cousin who had befriended her. There is a reason, but it’s almost irrelevant. The point is that pollution spreads inexorably.

“Child’s Play’’ tells of the cruelty of two young girls toward a mentally handicapped girl who trails after them at camp. Munro writes it retrospectively when the two are old and have gone utterly different ways - one becoming a conventional housewife, the other a free-spirited writer. At the end we learn of their girlhood crime. Much of the story displays Munro’s usual skill and complexity, though the crime, foreseen by the reader, seems forced and gratuitous.

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