The Reread Diaries: Open Secrets
I recently reread Open Secrets by Alice Munro for the fifth time. Yes, I know, that sounds excessive, but it is a remarkable book, one of my all-time favorites. Each time I return to it, I discover new pleasures and remember why I always go back to it. Actually, I’ve reread almost all of Munro’s books, but Open Secrets has to be my favorite. There’s not a dud in the entire collection.
Perhaps I return to Open Secrets with such fondness because it was the first book of hers that I read, way back in 1994. I bought it in hardcover, eager to discover what all the fuss was about. Munro was one of those writers who critics raved about. I saw—but mostly ignored—her stories in The New Yorker (which I started reading regularly at about the same time). I wasn’t necessarily skeptical, but I doubted she’d be a writer who would have much of an impact on me. She was a woman, from Canada—how good could she be?
I must admit, I didn’t really “get” the stories at first. “Carried Away,” the opening story, is brilliant, but it has a very sophisticated structure, and though I loved segments of the story—I can never forget the description of the accident at the piano factory, or that glass of wine Louisa has each night—I didn’t understand what it all added up to. Five times later (actually, I’ve probably read it more than that), I still don’t, but that’s the beauty and joy of Munro’s stories: they’re mysteries, never meant to be solved. But pondered over and over again, they yield truths about life, human nature, love.
I soon warmed up to Munro’s subtly radical structures, relishing every story, with their unexpected turns (“A Real Life”) and their almost-macabre comedic touches (“Open Secrets). I also couldn’t believe their breadth. I’m not the first person to ever note that Munro can pack entire novels into 30 pages. Just read “The Albanian Virgin” or “A Wilderness Station” to see Munro at her most brilliant—expansive yet compact, historical but personal.
“Open Secrets” was probably my favorite at the time, because I am sucker for “vanishing” people stories. Indeed, a friend read the story and said it reminded him of one of our favorite movies, Picnic at Hanging Rock. I still love that story, and “The Jack Randa Hotel,” too. But over the years—over the multiple readings—I grew to love every story, even “Vandals,” the last story. Like another disturbing story in an earlier collection, “Fits,” I still haven’t quite figured out what Munro is trying to say with this story. But that is why I keep going back—the stories are so rich, each rereading is a reward.
I must admit that Munro is one of those writers I read to get my own writerly juices flowing. I don’t dare try and ape her—I have plenty of failed short stories that I had hoped were “Munro-esque” moldering in my files—but the pleasure I take in her work reminds me why I write.
I have a galley of Munro’s newest work, to be published in November. It’s called Too Much Happiness. Fitting, I think, because that is what her stories give me. After the publication of her prior book, The View from Castle Rock, Munro said it was her last. But thankfully it wasn’t. And here’s hoping she keeps writing her vibrant short stories for many years. I’ll need more books to read—and reread.