The William Trevor Reader: “Raymond Bamber and Mrs. Fitch”
It seems possibly axiomatic to say all great writers—and all great artists—have a kind of complacent default setting that they click into in the absence of bigger or better ideas. Think ’s “Gimme Shelter”-tracked montages; think, for that matter, of doing his Sylvester-the-Cat falsetto over a phased bluesy vamp. In the arena of short stories, think ’s dinner tables and bottles of gin and long, bleary conversations going into the night.
