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WINNER OF THE NOBEL PRIZE® IN LITERATURE 2013
The incomparable Alice Munro’s bestselling and rapturously acclaimed Runaway is a book of extraordinary stories about love and its infinite betrayals and surprises, from the title story about a young woman who, though she thinks she wants to, is incapable of leaving her husband, to three stories about a woman named Juliet and the emotions that complicate the luster of her intimate relationships. In Munro’s hands, the people she writes about–women of all ages and circumstances, and their friends, lovers, parents, and children–become as vivid as our own neighbors. It is her miraculous gift to make these stories as real and unforgettable as our own.
down the aisle till she located her own berth. She flattened herself against the curtain, turning, and rather expecting him to kiss her again or touch her, but he slid by almost as if they had met by accident. How stupid, how disastrous. Afraid, of course, that his stroking hand would go farther down and reach the knot she had made securing the pad to the belt. If she had been the sort of girl who could rely on tampons this need never have happened. And why virgin? When she had gone to such
“I don’t know,” he said. And after a moment, “I don’t see how she could.” “Ask her,” Juliet said. “You must want to, the way you feel about her.” They drove for a mile or two before he spoke. It was clear she had given offense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Happy, Grumpy, Dopey, Sleepy, Sneezy,” Sara said. “Doc,” said Juliet. “Doc. Doc. Happy, Sneezy, Doc, Grumpy, Bashful, Sneezy—No. Sneezy, Bashful, Doc, Grumpy—Sleepy, Happy, Doc, Bashful—” Having counted on her
running towards the lake, then the one dirt road running rather haphazardly along the lake’s edge. Now there was a village. Or a suburb, perhaps you could call it, because she did not see any Post Office or even the most unpromising convenience store. The settlement lay four or five streets deep along the lake, with small houses strung close together on small lots. Some of them were undoubtedly summer places—the windows already boarded up, as was always done for the winter season. But many
several umbrellas, parcels, and even jackets and hats and a disgusting-looking brownish fox scarf. But no paisley-cloth shoulder purse. “No luck,” he said. “Could it be under my seat?” she begged, though she was sure it could not be. “Already been swept in there.” There was nothing for her to do then but climb the stairs, walk through the lobby, and go out onto the street. She walked in the other direction from the parking lot, seeking shade. She could imagine Joanne saying that the cleaning
man had already stashed her purse away to take home to his wife or his daughter, that is what they were like in a place like this. She looked for a bench or a low wall to sit down on while she figured things out. She didn’t see such a thing anywhere. A large dog came up behind her and knocked against her as it passed. It was a dark-brown dog, with long legs and an arrogant, stubborn expression. “Juno. Juno,” a man called. “Watch where you’re going. “She is just young and rude,” he said to