A friend, who has been reading Mavis Gallant and writing about it on his blog, made me want to read her again too. So I borrowed her Paris Stories from the library. Last night I read the first one, "The Ice Wagon Going Down The Street," about some Canadians in Europe. Yes, it's beautifully, miraculously well told, but it terrified me. Terror. Sleepless-afterward-terror. Existential-sleepless-afterward-terror. Up-all-night-mulling-it-over-terror. For now, at bedtime, I'll stick with Beckett's letters (volume 1), despite their ghastly embedding in anthills of footnotes, blackhole print on shiny white paper, and biblical weight. What was the publisher thinking of?