Likes, dislikes, spits, kisses. Alice Munro. He will spit, he will kiss you, he will press you to your heart, he will tell you to go to hell, he will call you his own. He who loves silver will not be satisfied with silver, and he who loves wealth will not profit from it. And this is vanity

With thanks to Sarah Skinner

HATESHIP, FRIENDSHIP, COURTSHIP, LOVESHIP, MARRIAGE

Publishing house AZBUKA ®

Munro is one of the few living writers I think of when I say my religion is fiction... My advice, which I started with myself, is simple: read Munro! Read Munro!

Jonathan Franzen

She writes in such a way that you involuntarily believe every word she says.

Elizabeth Strout

The most passionate author I have ever read, as well as the most thoughtful, the most honest and the most insightful.

Jeffrey Eugenides

Alice Munro moves characters through time in a way that no other writer can.

Julian Barnes

A true master of verbal form.

Salman Rushdie

Amazing writer.

Joyce Carol Oates

When I first read her stories, they seemed like a revolution in literature, and I still hold the same opinion.

Jhumpa Lahiri

Amazing... Amazing... Time has not dulled Munro's style at all. On the contrary, over the years she hones it even more.

Francine Prowse

She is our Chekhov and will outlive most of her contemporaries.

Cynthia Ozick

She is one of the masters of short prose - not only of our time, but of all times.

The New York Times Book Review

Some stories can literally change your whole life. And for over thirty years, Alice Munro has been creating stories of similar power. This book, “He will spit, he will kiss, he will press him to his heart, he will send him to hell, he will call him his own,” is full of surprises, wisdom and love - love, which, like all elixirs, combines fire and water.

The Wall Street Journal

Until you finish reading, you don’t even realize how much these stories captivate you, you don’t understand what world you’re in. Returning later to so-called reality is like trying to get out of a car at full speed.

Newsweek

In “He will spit, he will kiss, he will press you to his heart, he will send you to hell, he will call you his own,” Munro habitually combines epic scope and close attention to the smallest everyday details, so that time itself becomes tangible.

San Francisco Chronicle

You believe her to such an extent that she can even describe afterworld from the first person, and you won't be surprised at all. “He will spit, he will kiss, he will press him to his heart, he will send him to hell, he will call him his own” - new proof that Alice Munro has become one of the world's main experts on the human soul.

Like Henry James, Alice Munro has a truly uncanny ability to condense into a gesture, into a short glance, some fateful revelation - fateful for both the hero and the reader.

The Philadelphia Inquirer

These nine stories, presented in seemingly simple language, reveal amazing plot abysses. In just twenty pages, Munro manages to create a whole world - alive, tangible and incredibly attractive.

Minneapolis Star Tribune

Alice Munro is not just a writer, but a magician and hypnotist, she is capable of bewitching us with anything that falls under her magic magnifying glass, even a puddle of spilled ketchup.

The Globe and Mail

Like everything Munro does, it is flawless and has no analogues. She is the world's best chronicler of unpredictable love, forbidden desire, and the fragility of life itself.

Houston Chronicle

No one can tell about the secrets of a woman's heart the way Munro does - without a drop of excessive sentimentality, with utmost clarity.

The Oregonian

About the hardships of love and the gifts of fate, oh family ties and the mysteries of human nature, Munro writes as if no one had written about it before.

The Seattle Times

In the intricacies of the plots, Munro never ceases to amaze: banal everyday dramas turn into completely unusual psychological situations, and a typical quarrel leads to real tragedy. At the same time, the story ends as unexpectedly as it began: Munro does not draw conclusions or proclaim a moral, leaving the right to judge to the reader.

News

All her stories begin with a hook from which it is impossible to get off without reading to the end. The portraits of the characters are full-blooded and convincing, the judgments about human nature are not hackneyed, the language is bright and simple, and the emotions, on the contrary, are complex - and all the more interesting are all the stories, the outcome of which is almost impossible to guess.

TVNZ

Munroe presents all this as if we were visiting her, and in the process of making coffee she spoke about her own acquaintances, having previously looked into their souls.

Russian newspaper

The banality of the disaster seems to be what occupies Munro above all else. But it is precisely the recognition that when “the husband left for someone else,” this is a real disaster, that makes her prose so feminine and, what’s more, great. The writer sifts through life events in the same way, leaving only the most important, just as she perfects phrases in which there is not a single extra word. And what kind of a feminist is she if, from text to text, the most important thing for her heroines remains children and men.

Poster

It is into these “deep wells,” the abyss hidden in the lives of ordinary people, that Alice Munro peers. Each of her stories is also a complex psychological puzzle, which, in full accordance with Chekhov’s literary views, poses a question but does not answer it. The question is still the same: how could this happen?

Vedomosti

Excellent quality of prose.

RBC Style

But Munro speaks calmly and honestly even about the most terrible things, masterfully conveying the complex emotions of characters in exceptional circumstances using the spare means of storytelling. And her restrained, everyday intonation contrasts with the plot and balances it.

Psychologies

Munro's stories are truly akin to Chekhov, who prefers subtle matter pulled from colorless everyday life to spectacular narrative gestures. But... Munro is more like the David Lynch of literature, writing his Lost Highway: her poetry of everyday life is generously flavored with violence and eroticism.

Newspaper. RU

American critics called her the English-speaking Chekhov, which the Russian reader would not need to know in order to avoid unnecessary expectations. Indeed, as Anton Pavlovich often did, Alice shows his heroes at turning points, when their character is most fully revealed or a turning point occurs in their worldview. This is where the obvious similarities end - in any case, Munro tells his stories more talkatively, focusing on the inner world...

Lydia stretches sweetly. The sun has crept through the curtains and tickles her eyelashes, which means that now there will be coffee in bed and morning sex with Stiles. Stiles is diligent and courteous, he always pampers Lydia with gifts and is ready to selflessly give her cunnilingus for at least an hour straight. Since fate brought them together, Stiles has become much more... noticeable. He has strong arms, large palms and broad shoulders. His features sharpened and Stiles stopped looking like a teenager and turned into a handsome man. He is gentle and caring in Lydia's presence, but demanding and persistent at work. Now he is the sheriff. One can only dream of such a husband, but Lydia can afford not to appreciate it at all.
“I want to sleep,” she whines when the breakfast tray lands on the bed and her husband’s hand lands on her knee.
Stiles closes the curtains, kisses her forehead, and meekly leaves. Twenty minutes later, Lydia hears him turn the key in the lock, start the car and drive away. IN Lately she refuses him too often.
Once it's clear that Stiles hasn't forgotten anything and won't be back until the evening, Lydia goes down to the kitchen. She's sick of coffee and donuts, so she fries herself a four-egg omelette, half made of bacon.
“You’re pregnant,” comes from behind.
- Shut up, Peter. It's none of your business.
“You know perfectly well what’s mine.”
Lydia can't stand Peter. Over all the years that they have known each other, she has completely ceased to be afraid of him, only irritation remains. His very presence infuriates her, and Lydia wants to make his ever-curving mouth bleed. Sometimes he even allows her to do it. Peter is the complete opposite of Stiles.
– What will your husband say when the child is born a werewolf? – Peter continues. He comes closer and places his hands on Lydia's shoulders. This touch makes her shudder and make her feel hot.
- Of course he will say that this is his child and will love him, and if you start arguing, he will put a bullet in your forehead.
Lydia is unperturbed, she speaks the truth. She always knows in advance what Stiles will do, but she can never guess what Peter will do. Deep down, she wants to push them, to force them to show what they are ready for for her. Lydia was fed up with Stiles' forgiveness and Peter's indifference; it seems to her that these two tolerate each other only because they don’t really love her.
-Your husband is a wuss.
She turns around as usual and slaps Peter in the face, although she is not at all affected by his words. She hits him with her fists and scratches him until she is exhausted. Then he takes Lydia on the table, throwing her snow-white legs over his shoulders. Peter doesn't care if she likes it, and maybe it's just to spite him that she always cums.
He never asks her to get a divorce, to leave Stiles. He doesn’t claim sole ownership of her, but he always fucks her to that sweet numbness when it doesn’t matter what happens next. When he pulls on his lowered trousers and buttons his fly, Lydia always thinks that now she can die in peace.
Maybe it’s not because they don’t love her, Lydia thinks. Maybe, on the contrary, they both love her too much...

With thanks to Sarah Skinner

He will spit, he will kiss you, he will press you to his heart, he will tell you to go to hell, he will call you his own

A long time ago, before train service on many local lines had yet been canceled, a woman with a high, freckled forehead and curls of reddish hair came to the station and inquired about shipping furniture.

The station clerk usually began to make light fun of the women right away, especially the obviously simple-minded ones, who seemed to even like it.

What, furniture? - he asked again as if such an idea had never occurred to anyone before. - Yeah... Well, well. And what kind of furniture are we talking about?

Dining table and six chairs. Full bedroom furnishings, sofa, coffee table, two bedside tables, floor lamp. Plus a china cabinet and a sideboard.

Wow! The whole house can be furnished.

“There’s really not that much there,” the woman said. - There is no kitchen furniture, only for one living room.

Her teeth jutted out, crowding together as if ready for an argument.

Isn't it easier to hire a truck? - he said.

No. I want to send it by train. There, to the west, to Saskatchewan.

She spoke to him loudly, as if he were deaf or stupid, and somehow did not pronounce the words quite correctly. What kind of accent? Dutch, or what? Lately, the Dutch have been arriving here in droves, but she did not have the corpulence characteristic of Dutch women, did not have their wonderful blush, and she is not that blonde. She's probably about forty years old, but what difference does it make? You can't call her a beauty queen, that's for sure.

The clerk became serious:

But you will still need a truck - you have to at least deliver everything here... from where you have it, I don’t know, it’s stored. And let's find out if there is a railway running through that place in Saskatchewan. Otherwise, you need to order delivery... well... from, say, Regina.

I need Gdynia,” the woman said. - The train passes through it.

The clerk took down the greasy reference book hanging on a nail and asked for the name - well, spell it out. Reaching out, she took a pencil, also hanging on a cord, and wrote on a piece of paper taken from her purse: GDYNIA.

What kind of nationality is this? I wonder if they live there?

The woman herself did not know this.

He took the pencil from her and began to move it along the lines.

In those parts there are villages entirely populated either by Czechs, or by Hungarians or Ukrainians,” he explained.

And before he had time to say it, he thought: maybe she’s just one of these? Well, so what, he was just stating a fact.

Yep, here it is, found it. The train is actually passing.

Yes, she said. - I want to send it on Friday, is that possible?

We will send it, but I can’t promise that the cargo will get there on the same day,” said the clerk. - It will depend on the order of movement of trains that day. And when the cargo arrives, will there be anyone there to meet it?

So, there is a cargo and passenger service on Friday at two eighteen in the afternoon. That means the van is needed on Friday morning. Do you live here in the village?

She nodded and wrote the address. Exhibition Road, building 106.

The houses in the village had recently been numbered, so he could not visually imagine the indicated place, although he knew approximately where this same Exhibition Road passed. If at the same time she had mentioned the name McCauley, perhaps some interest would have awakened in the clerk and everything would have turned out differently.

It is said during fortune telling: when pronouncing each word, one petal of a chamomile is torn off, and according to the word that contains the last one, the relationship of the h-to the girl is determined.

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“He loves - he doesn’t love - he will spit - he will kiss - he will press him to his heart - he will tell him to go to hell” in books

Solitaire “Loves - does not love”

From book The best fortune telling from A to Z author Loma Elena

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From book Big Book bitches. A complete guide to stervology author Shatskaya Evgenia

“He loves - he doesn’t love,” or I won’t go to a fortune teller to tell a fortune. If you come back at nine in the evening instead of seven, and he hasn’t called the police yet, it means that love is already over. Marlene Dietrich To be a real woman, a real bitch, to feel bright and beautiful,

John Updike Van loves Ada, Ada loves Van

From the book Classic without retouching [Literary world about the work of Vladimir Nabokov] author Nabokov Vladimir

Freeze. Love does not love…

From the book Don't let yourself be deceived! [Body language: what Paul Ekman didn’t say] by Vem Alexander

Freeze. Loves - does not love... We all know that a man perceives and loves a woman with his eyes, and a woman with her ears. All this is true, but... Recent research in this area has shown that men and women find each other by smell. Each person has his own concept

IT WILL PRESS IT TO YOUR HEART... IT WILL SEND IT TO THE HELL...

From the book Let's sit well! author Kalinauskas Igor Nikolaevich

IT WILL PRESS IT TO YOUR HEART... IT WILL SEND IT TO THE HELL... You never know where you will find it or where you will lose it. Folk wisdom We are made of people. People are super-irritants for us, and the place of relationships with people is foggy, foggy. Once upon a time, I remember, I tried to describe a person as a space of relationships,

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THE ONE WHO DOESN'T LIKE BEING IN BAD COMPANY DOESN'T LIKE LONELINESS

From the book LONELY.NET! by Enikeeva Dilya

THE ONE DOESN'T LIKE LONELINESS WHO DOESN'T LIKE BEING IN BAD COMPANY When you're sad alone, the mirror doubles your loneliness. Alfred King And now that we have looked at the predisposing factors, let's talk about women for whom loneliness is not conditional

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From the book High School of Bitches. Managing love and career. Step-by-step technology author Shatskaya Evgenia

“He loves - he doesn’t love,” or I won’t go to a fortune teller to tell a fortune. To be a real woman, a real bitch, to feel bright and beautiful, you need to be loved. Note that it is not you who loves, but you who are loved, given gifts, given compliments and skillfully, passionately loved

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From the book The Bible of Bitches. The rules real women play by author Shatskaya Evgenia

“He loves - he doesn’t love,” or I won’t go to a fortune teller to tell a fortune... If you come back at nine in the evening instead of seven, and he hasn’t called the police yet, it means that love is already over. Marlene Dietrich To be a real woman, a real bitch, to feel bright and beautiful,

Likes, dislikes / Art and culture / Art diary / Cinema

From the book Results No. 3 (2012) author's Itogi Magazine

The Teacher loves the one whom the Creator loves

From the book Book 21. Kabbalah. Questions and answers. Forum 2001 (old edition) author Laitman Michael

The Teacher loves the one whom the Creator loves Question: The Student loves the Teacher, because through him he feels the Creator, the Teacher becomes the only connection with the Source of Life. But the Teacher feels the Creator directly, so why does he love the student? Answer: Because the Teacher has found

21. He who has My commandments and keeps them, it is he who loves Me; and whoever loves Me will be loved by My Father; and I will love him and appear to him Myself.

From the book The Explanatory Bible. Volume 10 author Lopukhin Alexander

21. He who has My commandments and keeps them, it is he who loves Me; and whoever loves Me will be loved by My Father; and I will love him and appear to him Myself. Somewhat expanding here the circle of persons who can be worthy, like the apostles, of His appearances, Christ says that in order to be

9. He who loves silver will not be satisfied with silver, and he who loves wealth will not profit from it. And this is vanity!

From the book The Explanatory Bible. Volume 5 author Lopukhin Alexander

9. He who loves silver will not be satisfied with silver, and he who loves wealth will not profit from it. And this is vanity! The money lover is unable to quench his thirst for wealth and therefore always remains unsatisfied and

Fortune loves those who love themselves

From the book 18 squared [or A book for women who want to become irresistible, rich, make a career, build a family] author Kriksunova Inna Abramovna

Luck loves those who love themselves Have you noticed that there are people who sincerely love themselves and believe that life belongs to them? Of course, I don’t mean pompousness and selfish narcissism, but real, sincere self-love. Such people don't do

Chapter 8 Nobody loves someone who doesn’t love anyone A nullo diligitur, qui neminem diligit The story of Taisiya and Vladimir’s short-lived joint relationship is unique in that it is described from a male and female point of view

From the book Russian families are happy in their own way author Pokusaeva Olesya Vladimirovna

Chapter 8 Nobody loves someone who doesn’t love anyone A nullo diligitur, qui neminem diligit The story of Taisiya and Vladimir’s short-lived joint relationship is unique in that it is described from a male and female point of view. A friend of Khoja Nasreddin once came to him to consult about a matter. . Having laid out

Oh, girl, you are lucky in life to be married to a liar. After all, he is protecting you, fool. He exchanges his immortal soul for candy wrappers so as not to disturb you. And few people are ready for this; they strive to be honest and truthful. Such a person will come home in the evening, there is no face, and he is silent. He’s silent for an hour, silent for two, and then he’ll take it and dump the whole truth on the table like nuts. A whole mountain of nuts, round and hard: if you want to chew it, you’ll break a tooth, but if you rush to remove it, you’ll spill it.

They'll roll out and scatter across the floor so that you won't be able to step on them even if you take a step. And after a year, it happens that you walk barefoot, and out of nowhere he comes under your foot, and screams. It seems like a trifle, but it hurts. So the truth will scatter throughout your life and get lost, as if nothing had happened, and then one day you step defenselessly - and it will remind you, it will chill you to your very liver.

And what about the deceiver - he seems to show up with candy, smile and lay out a bunch of... When did you step on a chocolate candy? It's sticky, slippery and a little disgusting, but that's okay. And it smells sweet, you can live.

Oh, girl, whoever doesn’t drink, everyone who isn’t sick drinks. So you don’t know what’s on his mind, but once he’s drunk, his tongue will loosen and he’ll tell you everything he didn’t even know. And he becomes kind and affectionate. There are people who start to misbehave, so don’t tease them. Hide, sit quietly, and when he starts to get tired, approach him in a good way and take him to sleep.

She took off her pants, rolled him under the wall, and let him sleep. I was a bad young girl, I beat my friend while I was drunk. There is such anger that you just hit him, hit him with your fist. And in the morning he gets up, doesn’t remember anything, and says “everything hurts for some reason, Natasha.” And I told him: “I don’t know who you fought with yesterday, where you got your eyes wet, ask there.” And I’ll laugh all over myself.

Oh, girl, don’t cry - he hits you, that means he loves you. Some won’t touch you with a finger, but will use words so hard that the eyelid won’t heal. But the bruise is nothing, it will hurt and stop. Or silently - is it possible with them? He's blacker than a cloud, he won't look at you, he won't say a word for days, and you sit there and worry about what's wrong.

And this one will take your soul away, shove you once, and then feel sorry for yourself, walking around feeling guilty. And afterwards he comes with affection, with gifts, but you break a little for show, and take it and take it. If you are not a fool, he will reward you a hundredfold. Such a life. Like a chamomile.

We, little ones, tore off the petals: loves - doesn’t love, spits, kisses, presses to the heart - sends to hell. You tear and tear leaf after leaf, and you won’t notice how you run out. This is how a woman’s life will fly around.

Another time, don’t stand there like a stone, cover yourself with your hand and scream and cry, they can’t stand tears, they weaken.

Oh, girl, you should give birth to a baby. Scary? What’s scary, what’s there to be afraid of? My mother carried seven of them, raised three, and four died. She told me how they gave her in marriage, the old woman taught her with a saying: “I give birth, I also bury,” so that the children would not heal for a long time.

They lived hard, they were hungry. And now why not give birth? Those who are lazy themselves do the chopping, they cut the stomach and take out the baby, all that stuff. She’s scared, but, – there’s a man, why is she scared? Yes, you can give birth to anything, our dad drank, and my mother carried and dragged, one after another. “It won’t feed you,” look.

Yes, if we thought about when to give birth, and from whom, and what to feed, then the people would increase. But we need a child. A man will soon leave you alone, if you grow a little older, and what you become for him, he will find a young woman. And from a child, and from two - where will it go, take out thirty-three percent and put it in... Why is it so difficult? They look after each other, the older ones look after the younger ones, and that’s how they grow, and they help you in your old age. But what kind of life does a woman have, what is the point - only children...

a lion