The Cost of Living: Early and Uncollected Stories

The Cost of Living: Early and Uncollected Stories

Mavis Gallant

Language: English

Pages: 372


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Mavis Gallant is admired and beloved as one of the masters of the modern short story. Selected from early collections and the New Yorker, where many of the author's stories have appeared over the last fifty years, and with an introduction by Jhumpa Lahiri, The Cost of Living
reveals a writer coming into her own. The stories span the first twenty
years of a long career, from the poise and poignancy of her very first
published story, 'Madeleine's Birthday' (1951), to the masterly
exploration of the passage of time in the long story 'The Burgundy
Weekend' (1971) that appears here in book form for the first time.

Gallant's sensibility has always been cosmopolitan and these
stories take us from Quebec to postwar Europe, via New York and New
England, before settling, like their author, in Paris. Everywhere the
book reveals Gallant's subtly penetrating psychological insight, wit
and unsentimental sympathy for the excluded and the exiled, not to
mention her wonderfully wicked sense of humour.

Journal d'un écrivain en pyjama

Le Totem des Baranda

Grand ciel bleu par ici

Une femme comblée




















leader all at once? He had taken on authority without asking consent. This leader had a proclamation in his pocket, and they were on their way, all eighty of them, to the city hall of a Parisian suburb to read the proclamation to the mayor. The proclamation said they were against violence and murder, and that they stood for the Republic, whatever the Republic was. The owner of a fruit shop, who had joined in the one-hour strike, stood in his doorway, watching the fruit outside to make sure none

It is an association—people who were deported. My grandfather’s brother was deported to Buchenwald just because he was a relation. I never knew him either,” she said quickly, seeing a question growing on Lucie’s face. “My grandmother is invited to all those ceremonies.” And so the card table, cleared of ashtrays and Scrabble, was moved across the room. Marcelle, of the mustache and the felt slippers, brought plates in on a tray, fought off Lucie’s attempts to help. Lucie felt herself to be a

family, and from a good school,” she noted, as if this altered or improved the misdemeanor. He walked back to his desk and picked up the telephone. The voice of Miss Mercer followed that of the operator, a surprisingly young and healthy voice. “Of course, the responsibility is ours,” said Miss Mercer. “We often let some of the senior girls go to Albany on Saturdays, always in pairs. They usually shop or go to an approved movie or something like that, and they always come back together, in our

post—and reality was not what Bonnie demanded. She had enough reality on her hands: in the autumn that girl would be twenty-five. Wishart tried to get back on their old plane. “Distract her,” he said lazily. “Move on. Divert her with culture. Inspect the cathedrals and museums. Take her to the Musée de l’Homme.” “You don’t meet any men in museums,” said Bonnie, as if this were a sore point. “Anyway, what’s the good? She only comes to life for slobs.” After a moment she said quietly, “Don’t you

around Bonnie was asleep. The sirocco, unsteady, pulled her parasol about on the sand. Sitting, knees bent, she clasped her white feet. There was not a blemish on them. The toes were straight, the heels rosy. She had tended her feet like twin infants, setting an example for Flor. Once, exasperated by Flor’s neglect, she had gone down on her knees and taken Flor’s feet on her lap and shown her how it ought to be done. She had creamed and manicured and pumiced, while Flor, listless, surreptitiously

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