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Dear Life by Alice Munro: A collection of highs and lows

If Munro’s relationship with the short story is, for the most part, blissfully happy, her relationship with the story collection is prone to highs and lows, writes Leo Robson.

Dear Life
Alice Munro
Chatto & Windus, 336pp, £18.99

Alice Munro’s 13th collection of short stories takes its title from a sentence that occurs on the penultimate page, in the last of four not-quite- rewarding “not quite stories” about the writer’s childhood that come after the ten very-much stories that make up the bulk of the book. The late position of the phrase and the mundanity of its deployment (“My mother had grabbed me up, as she said, for dear life”) suggest that Munro wants her title to inspire broader associations – life as precious and fragile, or as a familiar old friend, or as the recipient of a letter from a child: “Dear Life, please make mummy stop crying.”

Another phrase from the same not-quite story has a greater impact in context and a more cohesive range of resonance beyond it. Writing as far as we can tell in her own voice, Munro uses a memory of one of her neighbours in the southern Ontario village where she grew up to acknowledge the discrepancy that exists, despite appearances, between what she experienced and how she writes: “Roly Grain, his name was, and he does not have any further part in what I’m writing now, in spite of his troll’s name, because this is not a story, only life.”

Munro is so often praised for her clear-water qualities, for offering a sense of “unmediated access to life”, that readers might be surprised to discover the presence in her stories not just of artifice and manipulation but of sociological curiosity, mischievous humour and a narrative charge. All of these are on display in “Corrie”, a thriller-ish tale about an affair between a married architect and the daughter of a factory owner that moves briskly from set-up to payoff, asking as it goes delicate questions about the impact of class, politics and religion on personal morality. The Roly Grain who marks this out as a story and not life is Lillian Wolfe, introduced ever so slyly as the woman “in charge of the fires” at Corrie’s house but who soon emerges as the possessor of just enough knowledge to complicate things for the central couple. Later on, a man called Jimmy Cousins, whom we have met in what seemed like passing as the man who cuts the grass outside a library, becomes suddenly relevant, as a bringer of local news.

Stories such as “Corrie” or “Train”, which charts the peregrinations of an itchy-footed ex-soldier, show that Munro has taken not a Carver-ish vow of poverty but a Chekhovian vow of luxury and ambition. The stories that work less well are those – “Gravel” is among them – that take unexpected turns of a familiar kind or that stake out their territory almost immediately and then work to inspire interest through a delayed revelation or reversal, rather than the thickening of plot and texture.

History flickers palely at the edges of most of the stories, never obtruding directly but often having a decisive impact, if not on a general way of life, then on individual lives. One of Munro’s ambitions in Dear Life is to construct a composite counter-history showing how postwar social change registered in small Canadian towns. It was a case, in her portrayal, of a gentle shaking up rather than a major overhaul. (An unwritten rule states that story-writers can only be compared to other story-writers, but Munro, with her amused irony and the sense she conveys of possessing insight on an endless spool, brings to mind Anne Tyler, the central difference being that while both excel at evoking the rural or small-town community, for Munro it serves as backdrop, for Tyler as subject.)

“Haven” takes its title from the narrator’s Aunt Dawn saying that a woman’s most important job is “making a haven for her man” – and Uncle Jasper is certainly the dominant figure in the marriage. The setting is the 1970s but the narrator, remembering herself as a girl, is sure to staunch the rush of images: “The boys’ hair was longer than it had been, but not straggling down their backs, and there didn’t seem to be an unusual amount of liberation or defiance in the air.” And though the story hinges on Aunt Dawn’s first ever act of rebellion, the terror attending it suggests that if news of feminism had reached her ears, its effect was to inspire a moment of bravery rather than to instil a sense of entitlement.

The stern uncle and submissive aunt are offered in contrast to the narrator’s parents who have “dumped” her (“my word for it”) to do missionary work in Ghana. The urgency and potential efficacy of this work appears to be limited: “Christianity bloomed disconcertingly all around them, even on signs on the back of buses.” Hippiedom might have won out over patriarchy but, in “Haven”, both the deserting parents who “gave the kind of parties where people ate chilli out of clay pots” and the oldfashioned childless couple are made the objects of an equally unimpressed detachment.

If Munro’s relationship with the short story is, for the most part, blissfully happy, her relationship with the story collection is prone to highs and lows. None of these ten stories read on their own would provide nearly so rich a  exhibition of Munro’s confidence and poise or so abundant a portrait of sexual relations in Ontario and British Columbia as all ten read together in a row. Yet to digest them in this way, like reading a whole shelf of a novelist’s work, is to receive too compact a survey of Munro’s habits: her approach to beginning and ending stories, for example, or her recourse, frequent enough to qualify as dependency, to the chance encounter, the sudden death, the present tense, the dying fall – and the dash.

Leo Robson is the New Statesman's lead fiction reviewer

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2012 issue of the New Statesman, The plot against the BBC

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This Ada Lovelace Day, let’s celebrate women in tech while confronting its sexist culture

In an industry where men hold most of the jobs and write most of the code, celebrating women's contributions on one day a year isn't enough. 

Ada Lovelace wrote the world’s first computer program. In the 1840s Charles Babbage, now known as the “father of the computer”, designed (though never built) the “Analytical Engine”, a machine which could accurately and reproducibly calculate the answers to maths problems. While translating an article by an Italian mathematician about the machine, Lovelace included a written algorithm for which would allow the engine to calculate a sequence of Bernoulli numbers.

Around 170 years later, Whitney Wolfe, one of the founders of dating app Tinder, was allegedly forced to resign from the company. According to a lawsuit she later filed against the app and its parent company, she had her co-founder title removed because, the male founders argued, it would look “slutty”, and because “Facebook and Snapchat don’t have girl founders. It just makes it look like Tinder was some accident". (They settled out of court.)

Today, 13 October, is Ada Lovelace day – an international celebration of inspirational women in science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM). It’s lucky we have this day of remembrance, because, as Wolfe’s story demonstrates, we also spend a lot of time forgetting and sidelining women in tech. In the wash of pale male founders of the tech giants that rule the industry,we don't often think about the women that shaped its foundations: Judith Estrin, one of the designers of TCP/IP, for example, or Radia Perlman, inventor of the spanning-tree protocol. Both inventions sound complicated, and they are – they’re some of the vital building blocks that allow the internet to function. 

And yet David Streitfield, a Pulitzer-prize winning journalist, someow felt it accurate to write in 2012: “Men invented the internet. And not just any men. Men with pocket protectors. Men who idolised Mr Spock and cried when Steve Jobs died.”

Perhaps we forget about tech's founding women because the needle has swung so far into the other direction. A huge proportion – perhaps even 90 per cent - of the world’s code is written by men. At Google, women fill 17 per cent of technical roles. At Facebook, 15 per cent. Over 90 per cent of the code respositories on Github, an online service used throughout the industry, are owned by men. Yet it's also hard to believe that this erasure of women's role in tech is completely accidental. As Elissa Shevinsky writes in the introduction to a collection of essays on gender in tech, Lean Out: “This myth of the nerdy male founder has been perpetuated by men who found this story favourable."

Does it matter? It’s hard to believe that it doesn’t. Our society is increasingly defined and delineated by code and the things it builds. Small slip-ups, like the lack of a period tracker on the original Apple Watch, or fitness trackers too big for some women’s wrists, gesture to the fact that these technologies are built by male-dominated teams, for a male audience.

In Lean Out, one essay written by a Twitter-based “start-up dinosaur” (don’t ask) explains how dangerous it is to allow one small segment of society to built the future for the rest of us:

If you let someone else build tomorrow, tomorrow will belong to someone else. They will build a better tomorrow for everyone like them… For tomorrow to be for everyone, everyone needs to be the one [sic] that build it.

So where did all the women go? How did we get from a rash of female inventors to a situation where the major female presence at an Apple iPhone launch is a model’s face projected onto a screen and photoshopped into a smile by a male demonstrator? 

Photo: Apple.

The toxic culture of many tech workplaces could be a cause or an effect of the lack of women in the industry, but it certainly can’t make make it easy to stay. Behaviours range from the ignorant - Martha Lane-Fox, founder of, often asked “what happens if you get pregnant?” at investors' meetings - to the much more sinister. An essay in Lean Out by Katy Levinson details her experiences of sexual harassment while working in tech: 

I have had interviewers attempt to solicit sexual favors from me mid-interview and discuss in significant detail precisely what they would like to do. All of these things have happened either in Silicon Valley working in tech, in an educational institution to get me there, or in a technical internship.

Others featured in the book joined in with the low-level sexism and racism  of their male colleagues in order to "fit in" and deflect negative attention. Erica Joy writes that while working in IT at the University of Alaska as the only woman (and only black person) on her team, she laughed at colleagues' "terribly racist and sexist jokes" and "co-opted their negative attitudes”. 

The casual culture and allegedly meritocratic hierarchies of tech companies may actually be encouraging this discriminatory atmosphere. HR and the strict reporting procedures of large corporates at least give those suffering from discrimination a place to go. A casual office environment can discourage reporting or calling out prejudiced humour or remarks. Brook Shelley, a woman who transitioned while working in tech, notes: "No one wants to be the office mother". So instead, you join in and hope for the best. 

And, of course, there's no reason why people working in tech would have fewer issues with discrimination than those in other industries. A childhood spent as a "nerd" can also spawn its own brand of misogyny - Katherine Cross writes in Lean Out that “to many of these men [working in these fields] is all too easy to subconciously confound women who say ‘this is sexist’ with the young girls who said… ‘You’re gross and a creep and I’ll never date you'". During GamerGate, Anita Sarkeesian was often called a "prom queen" by trolls. 

When I spoke to Alexa Clay, entrepreneur and co-author of the Misfit Economy, she confirmed that there's a strange, low-lurking sexism in the start-up economy: “They have all very open and free, but underneath it there's still something really patriarchal.” Start-ups, after all, are a culture which celebrates risk-taking, something which women are societally discouraged from doing. As Clay says, 

“Men are allowed to fail in tech. You have these young guys who these old guys adopt and mentor. If his app doesn’t work, the mentor just shrugs it off. I would not be able ot get away with that, and I think women and minorities aren't allowed to take the same amount of risks, particularly in these communities. If you fail, no one's saying that's fine.

The conclusion of Lean Out, and of women in tech I have spoken to, isn’t that more women, over time, will enter these industries and seamlessly integrate – it’s that tech culture needs to change, or its lack of diversity will become even more severe. Shevinsky writes:

The reason why we don't have more women in tech is not because of a lack of STEM education. It's because too many high profile and influential individuals and subcultures within the tech industry have ignored or outright mistreated women applicants and employees. To be succinct—the problem isn't women, it's tech culture.

Software engineer Kate Heddleston has a wonderful and chilling metaphor about the way we treat women in STEM. Women are, she writes, the “canary in the coal mine”. If one dies, surely you should take that as a sign that the mine is uninhabitable – that there’s something toxic in the air. “Instead, the industry is looking at the canary, wondering why it can’t breathe, saying ‘Lean in, canary, lean in!’. When one canary dies they get a new one because getting more canaries is how you fix the lack of canaries, right? Except the problem is that there isn't enough oxygen in the coal mine, not that there are too few canaries.” We need more women in STEM, and, I’d argue, in tech in particular, but we need to make sure the air is breatheable first. 

Barbara Speed is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman and a staff writer at CityMetric.