Lives of girls and women, by Alice Munro

18680159I bought this book to my mother for mother’s day, and she kindly lent it to me when she finished her reading. I’ve never read anything from the author before, so I don’t really know why I chose that for my mum. Maybe I liked the cover. Maybe I liked the back-cover’s synopsis. Maybe was the “Winner of the Nobel Prize” sign it had. Maybe were all of those reasons. It’s a really good book, the kind of book that gives me a warm feeling in my chest while I’m reading it. The kind of book I don’t want to finish, I don’t want to see the end of it.

Each chapter of the book feels like a secret journal’s entry, or more like a random train of thoughts from one situation to the other and you never know when is it going to end or what’s the point of it. Or the title, what was the title of the chapter and what does it said about the content of the chapter. Everything is elusive. Each chapter is a different moment in the life of this young girl, the narrator, who explains not only the lives of the women and girls that surrounded her, but also the men, only that the male characters always seem less interesting, less rich.