I had high hopes for Paris Stories by Mavis Gallant, largely because of the glowing preface by Michael Ondaatje, whose novel, The English Patient, I admire greatly.
Unfortunately Gallant’s stories tend toward the ponderous, both in style of the prose and pacing. She is writing for another time and place, and while that does not discount a book’s quality (and in fact, it can be a virtue) for Gallant this scars the whole collection. I found myself constantly searching for a perch where, as a person, I could feel the pulse of Gallant's stories. I only found a few.
Yes, Gallant can write, and write well. And therein may be the central problem: her stories are too solidified, too set into place; they do not breathe, and this makes for suffocating reading.
Unfortunately Gallant’s stories tend toward the ponderous, both in style of the prose and pacing. She is writing for another time and place, and while that does not discount a book’s quality (and in fact, it can be a virtue) for Gallant this scars the whole collection. I found myself constantly searching for a perch where, as a person, I could feel the pulse of Gallant's stories. I only found a few.
Yes, Gallant can write, and write well. And therein may be the central problem: her stories are too solidified, too set into place; they do not breathe, and this makes for suffocating reading.
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