Alice Munro awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature 2013

The Canadian "writer's writer" hailed by the committee as a "master of the contemporary short story".

The "Canadian Chekhov", Alice Munro, has been awarded the 2013 Nobel Prize in Literature. The Swedish Academy called the author of 14 story collections, numerous essays and compilations a "master of the contemporary short story", before announcing the eight million kroner (£770,000) prize. Munro is the 13th woman to be presented with the award and the 1st Canadian - apart from Saul Bellow, who lived most of his life in the US. She also won the Man International Prize - not to be confused with the Man Booker Prize, despite newly overlapping criteria - for "continued creativity, development and overall contribution to fiction on the world stage" in 2009.

It has not yet been confirmed whether Munro has received the news. Winners are traditionally notified by phone in the hour before the announcement (a formal presentation occurs - where possible - some time after), but the Academy were unable to locate her so left a phone message instead.

Munro has long been considered a "writer's writer". Her stories deal with small-town life in and around the Great Lakes, and themes of gender, memory and missed opportunities, though they are best described as "long short stories" given that they often exceed the traditional structure of the short story both in narrative time (her stories are frequently non-linear) and word count. Not everyone is a fan. Munro is repeatedly praised for glorifying "decent, ordinary lives", but as Christian Lorentzen was keen to stress in the LRB: "Ordinary people turn out to live in a rural corner of Ontario between Toronto and Lake Huron, and to be white, Christian, prudish and dangling on a class rung somewhere between genteel poverty and middle-class comfort."

Lorentzen may need to go into hiding. The NS's lead fiction critic, Leo Robson, sees the arrangement of her stories as sometimes problematic, but had the following to say about her style: "Munro, though her one-time under-appreciation has now been over-corrected, is an astute and lavishly confident writer, her clean, well-shaped sentences delivering a near-constant supply of stinging insight, together with moments of wonderful soft-fingered grace. Her economy with words can be dazzling: 'you couldn't call it rape, she too was determined'".

Dear Life, Munro's most recent collection, closes with four brief sketches she describes as "the first and last – and the closest – things I have to say about my own life." The 82-year old Munro resides on a farm close to Clinton, Ontario, where she and her husband Gerald Fremlin lived until Fremlin's death in April this year.

Shortly after, Munro announced that Dear Life would be her final collection and that she had retired from the writing life.

Alice Munro at a readingin London in 2009. Photograph: Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood