Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing to be so little reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and fairly judge them. — Rainer Maria Rilke
Mavis Gallant had no natural constituency. Her childhood transplantings left her without early allegiances to population or place. At the time of her emergence as a writer, Canada had a small serious readership and a low regard for women artists, . . .
Brick published an interview with Mavis Gallant in issue 80 (Winter 2007/8) that was as endlessly layered as any of her stories. It was conducted in French by Contact presenter Stéphan Bureau and translated by Wyley Powell, and we weren’t . . .
I am reading Mavis Gallant on Malibu Beach. Sleek and sunset-lit, surfers weave around one another, a small army in their glistening black uniforms. They lean and swerve until walls of crumbling foam swallow them. Behind me, Porsches and Jaguars . . .
Perhaps one reason why I so love the ending of Mavis Gallant’s story “The Ice Wagon Going Down the Street” is that I’ve never quite understood it. I always think that if I reread it one more time, its meaning . . .
In a characteristic mingling of modesty and fierce pride, Mavis Gallant has said that “one of the hardest things in the world is to describe what happened next.” It’s hard because of the value- and emotion-laden nature, not just of . . .