Every society has wisdom literature, or something that serves the same purpose. Most obvious are the holy books of the world’s religions, but more homely and modest examples are all around us. Our elders have retold and polished certain stories for so long that only the essence, the pearl, remains. Some of our wisdom literature is passed down to us as old songs, or plays, or novels. I think of wisdom literature this week because of the passing of Alice Munro, the writer from not so far north of Michiana. She lived most of her life in western Ontario, and she honored the people there with her keen attention and her artful sentences. And Munro paid special tribute to the short story, which she wrote almost exclusively for her entire long life.
Just as it’s not glamorous to live in a small place in a big country dominated by its far-off cities, it’s also not glamorous for a fiction writer to write short stories. Fiction writers usually prefer novels; some fiction writers even think that you should write your short stories early, while you’re just learning your craft. Nevertheless, a short story is a special way of paying attention, and Alice Munro honored the short story by devoting her life to writing dozens of them. In doing so, she added to the world’s store of wisdom literature. I’m thinking right now, on her passing, about one story in particular. It’s called “Face” and it appears in a book with the provocative title Too Much Happiness. How can I persuade you that “Face” is wisdom literature without ruining the story for those who might still want to read it? I’ll try.
On the first page we are introduced to a child who has a trait that few people can ignore. As a result, the child provokes strong reactions — some people reject him, some protect him, one or two love him as if the trait doesn’t matter while at the same time knowing that it’s a clue to his essence. Many episodes are recounted, many ups and downs. From each heart-breaking experience, nevertheless, an opportunity is built. With each uplifting experience, nevertheless, a trap will follow. No matter the episode, up or down, after every moment in Alice Munro’s story “Face” the main character and the reader are offered some sort of nevertheless.
I apologize for that annoyingly vague description of Munro’s story. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll find a copy of it on The New Yorker’s website or in her book Too Much Happiness and read it for yourself.
Every episode in “Face” opens up new opportunities for human action, for creativity and solidarity, or for alienation and abuse. Each time it’s a question of whether knowing just part of the hero is reason enough to others to write him off, or reason to seek him more deeply. Each episode in his life is not a final determination — as in your life or mine, the next word is always “nevertheless…” You know this kind of story yourself. Something happened, and it felt so final, so conclusive; nevertheless, the paths for choice and meaning did not conclude.
Nobel Laureate Alice Munro, writer of wisdom literature, died this week. Her voice has been stilled. Nevertheless, there are screens and pages where her keen sentences and crafty short stories will still open before us if we look their way.
Music: "Wrong Foot Forward" by Flook
