Away from Her, Film Tie-In
(Sprache: Englisch)
Alice Munro has long been heralded for her penetrating, lyrical prose, and in "The Bear Came Over the Mountain" - the basis for Sarah Polley's film "Away From Her" -- her prodigious talents are once again on display. As she follows Grant, a retired...
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Alice Munro has long been heralded for her penetrating, lyrical prose, and in "The Bear Came Over the Mountain" - the basis for Sarah Polley's film "Away From Her" -- her prodigious talents are once again on display. As she follows Grant, a retired professor whose wife Fiona begins gradually to lose her memory and drift away from him, we slowly see how a lifetime of intimate details can create a marriage, and how mysterious the bonds of love really are.
Klappentext zu „Away from Her, Film Tie-In “
From Nobel Prize winning author Alice Munro, a true master of the form (Salman Rushdie), comes the brilliant short story that inspired the major motion picture starring Julie Christie and Gordon Pinsent featuring a Preface from Sarah PolleyI ve always loved Alice Munro s writing, but this story punctured something. I read it, stunned, and let it sit there. It seemed to enter like a bullet. So concise and unsentimental, nothing to cushion the blow of its impact. When I was finished, I couldn t stop weeping. Sarah Polley, from the Preface
Alice Munro has long been heralded for her penetrating, lyrical prose, and in The Bear Came Over the Mountain the basis for Sarah Polley s film Away from Her her prodigious talents are once again on display. As she follows Grant, a retired professor whose wife, Fiona, begins gradually to drift away from him, we slowly see how a lifetime of intimate details can create a marriage, and how mysterious the bonds of love really are.
Lese-Probe zu „Away from Her, Film Tie-In “
The Bear Came Over the MountainFiona lived in her parents' house, in the town where she and Grant went to university. It was a big, bay-windowed house that seemed to Grant both luxurious and disorderly, with rugs crooked on the floors and cup rings bitten into the table varnish. Her mother was Icelandic--a powerful woman with a froth of white hair and indignant far-left politics. The father was an important cardiologist, revered around the hospital but happily subservient at home, where he would listen to strange tirades with an absentminded smile. All kinds of people, rich or shabby-looking, delivered these tirades, and kept coming and going and arguing and conferring, sometimes in foreign accents. Fiona had her own little car and a pile of cashmere sweaters, but she wasn't in a sorority, and this activity in her house was probably the reason.
Not that she cared. Sororities were a joke to her, and so was politics, though she liked to play "The Four Insurgent Generals" on the phonograph, and sometimes also she played the "Internationale," very loud, if there was a guest she thought she could make nervous. A curly-haired, gloomy-looking foreigner was courting her--she said he was a Visigoth--and so were two or three quite respectable and uneasy young interns. She made fun of them all and of Grant as well. She would drolly repeat some of his small-town phrases. He thought maybe she was joking when she proposed to him, on a cold bright day on the beach at Port Stanley. Sand was stinging their faces and the waves delivered crashing loads of gravel at their feet.
"Do you think it would be fun--" Fiona shouted. "Do you think it would be fun if we got married?"
He took her up on it, he shouted yes. He wanted never to be away from her. She had the spark of life.
Just before they left their house Fiona noticed a mark on the kitchen floor. It came from the cheap black house shoes she had been wearing earlier in the day.
"I thought they'd quit doing
... mehr
that," she said in a tone of ordinary annoyance and perplexity, rubbing at the gray smear that looked as if it had been made by a greasy crayon.
She remarked that she would never have to do this again, since she wasn't taking those shoes with her.
"I guess I'll be dressed up all the time," she said. "Or semi dressed up. It'll be sort of like in a hotel."
She rinsed out the rag she'd been using and hung it on the rack inside the door under the sink. Then she put on her golden-brown fur-collared ski jacket over a white turtle-necked sweater and tailored fawn slacks. She was a tall, narrow-shouldered woman, seventy years old but still upright and trim, with long legs and long feet, delicate wrists and ankles and tiny, almost comical-looking ears. Her hair, which was light as milkweed fluff, had gone from pale blond to white somehow without Grant's noticing exactly when, and she still wore it down to her shoulders, as her mother had done. (That was the thing that had alarmed Grant's own mother, a small-town widow who worked as a doctor's receptionist. The long white hair on Fiona's mother, even more than the state of the house, had told her all she needed to know about attitudes and politics.)
Otherwise Fiona with her fine bones and small sapphire eyes was nothing like her mother. She had a slightly crooked mouth which she emphasized now with red lipstick--usually the last thing she did before she left the house. She looked just like herself on this day--direct and vague as in fact she was, sweet and ironic.
Over a year ago Grant had started noticing so many little yellow notes stuck up all over the house. That was not entirely new. She'd always written things down--the title of a book she'd heard mentioned on the radio or the jobs she wanted to make sure she did that day. Even her morning schedule was written down--he found it mystifying and
She remarked that she would never have to do this again, since she wasn't taking those shoes with her.
"I guess I'll be dressed up all the time," she said. "Or semi dressed up. It'll be sort of like in a hotel."
She rinsed out the rag she'd been using and hung it on the rack inside the door under the sink. Then she put on her golden-brown fur-collared ski jacket over a white turtle-necked sweater and tailored fawn slacks. She was a tall, narrow-shouldered woman, seventy years old but still upright and trim, with long legs and long feet, delicate wrists and ankles and tiny, almost comical-looking ears. Her hair, which was light as milkweed fluff, had gone from pale blond to white somehow without Grant's noticing exactly when, and she still wore it down to her shoulders, as her mother had done. (That was the thing that had alarmed Grant's own mother, a small-town widow who worked as a doctor's receptionist. The long white hair on Fiona's mother, even more than the state of the house, had told her all she needed to know about attitudes and politics.)
Otherwise Fiona with her fine bones and small sapphire eyes was nothing like her mother. She had a slightly crooked mouth which she emphasized now with red lipstick--usually the last thing she did before she left the house. She looked just like herself on this day--direct and vague as in fact she was, sweet and ironic.
Over a year ago Grant had started noticing so many little yellow notes stuck up all over the house. That was not entirely new. She'd always written things down--the title of a book she'd heard mentioned on the radio or the jobs she wanted to make sure she did that day. Even her morning schedule was written down--he found it mystifying and
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Alice Munro
Alice Munro is the author of thirteen collections of stories including Dear Life, Runaway, and Too Much Happiness as well as a novel, Lives of Girls and Women. Among the many awards and prizes she received are three Governor General s Literary Awards and two Giller Prizes in Canada; the Rea Award; the Lannan Literary Award; the National Book Critics Circle Award; and the International Booker Prize. Her stories have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The Paris Review, and other publications, and her collections have been translated into thirteen languages. She was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2013. Alice Munro died in 2024.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Alice Munro
- 2007, 96 Seiten, Maße: 12,4 x 18,8 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Vintage, New York
- ISBN-10: 0307386694
- ISBN-13: 9780307386694
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Praise for Alice MunroMunro has a strong claim to being the best fiction writer now working in North America. Jonathan Franzen, The New York Times Book Review
Her work felt revolutionary when I came to it, and it still does. Jhumpa Lahiri
The authority she brings to the page is just lovely. Elizabeth Strout
She s the most savage writer I ve ever read, also the most tender, the most honest, the most perceptive. Jeffery Eugenides
Alice Munro can move characters through time in a way that no other writer can. Julian Barnes
She is a short-story writer who . . . reimagined what a story can do. Lorrie Moore
There s probably no one alive who s better at the craft of the short story. Jim Shepard
A true master of the form. Salman Rushdie
A wonderful writer. Joyce Carol Oates
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