Alice Munro’s “Amundsen” is a love story — if cautionary tales count.
It’s the story of a smart woman who sees that the man she loves doesn’t have much capacity to love. Incident after tiny little incident allows her to see that. But she still wants love, still expects it, still feels that love is something that could come from him.
The Allies are closing in on Berlin. The narrator is a teacher who leaves Toronto to take up a job at a sanitarium for people with tuberculosis. He’s the resident doctor. Perhaps he’s a catch — or should be. But over and again, he shows her what he is and is not capable of. He’s stingy with his time, attention and hospitality.
Readers hope that she will come to her senses and run.
Most love stories are about endless possibilities. Munro’s story is about limits, the sad constraints of human personalities.
“Amundsen” is in Munro’s collection Dear Life. My edition begins with seven pages of blurbs from critics suggesting that Munro was a master of the short story. Her obituary appeared in Tuesday’s papers.
• Alice Munro, Dear Life; London: Penguin, 2012, pp. 31-66.
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