Last year, I was rummaging through a used bookstore to see what titles would catch my eye. Somewhere among the endless titles was the author Alice Munro, whose Pulitzer Prize-winning anthology “Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You” was staring back at me. With curiosity, I bought it with intent on seeing if there was something about her prose that spoke to me. With phenomenal blurbs on the back, I’ve taken up the challenge of working my way through these pages to see if I have found a new favorite. Given that she has a fascination with time and interpersonal relationships, I’m sure this will be a fulfilling journey. The only way to find out is to dive right in.
Within the first two stories, one thing has become clear about Munro: she really knows how to make an ending. While not nearly as deflating as the previous work, “Material” asks the reader to pause and consider what the greater meaning is. The unnamed narrator should be happy in her new marriage, and yet she seems consumed by her previous one. Not only that, but those who haven’t taken time to analyze how the pieces have fallen together may wonder why it’s presented in this manner. Why was there a need to talk about their downstairs neighbor Dottie, who becomes a victim of a flood when the narrator’s husband Hugo refuses to turn off the pipe that would’ve kept everything fine? Why didn’t she do anything given Munro’s transparency that the narrator knew how to do it? Who is the real “moral idiot”? Also, is the protagonist actually happy?
Once again, “Material” is a densely layered story that requires a lot of attention if one is to solve its mystery. The narrator is the only unnamed character, a woman looking back on two marriages and the relationship with their daughter Clea. They want to write their first husband Hugo, but find themselves dropping into complaints about his career. Their recent husband, Gabriel, is described as being more carefree and not burdened by personal struggles. He’s so distant from the conflict that despite coming from a different culture, he has somehow forgotten his native language. There is a loss of identity and no sense of history. In some sense, it’s what the protagonist could probably benefit from because all they have is the past. They may consider their ex to be an asshole who wasn’t around often for Clea, but there’s still some ambiguity on how virtuous they end up being.
The easy read of Hugo is that he is intolerable. He is a writer who has been known to go on talking tours where women fall in love with him. The narrator speaks of these men being capable of having multiple families with even more children and somehow being able to juggle it all. There’s that disconnect from a simple life and Hugo comes across as an adventurous type. Well, he would if the narrator wasn’t so bitter that they deconstructed everything they did. In one scene, they pick up Hugo’s latest book to potentially buy for Clea. There’s some concern about price, which may paint them as frugal but also shows their unwillingness to praise his work with a purchase.
It should be noted that they think that there’s some flubbing going on in the biography. When Gabriel points out that the narrator described him as skinny, he has clearly gained weight and is looking worse for wear. Still, he is celebrated. His biography has many jobs that he claims to have had. The narrator picks apart all of them, pointing out that a few were things he did for only a few weeks. But alas, it makes him sound more impressive, like he’s a journeyman with all of this knowledge to share with the world. It’s not a lie, but Munro insists it’s a half-lie. There’s no modesty. Hugo from the very beginning has been full of himself, and this is the documented evidence of his arrogance and co-dependence on the narrator for any loose ends.
The narrator’s life is more observant compared to Hugo and Gabriel’s. Like the previous story, it’s of someone whose life feels unlived and as a result, is filled with jealousy. While this one doesn’t end with some sadistic deathbed twist, there’s still this sense of complacency and stagnation that harms the worldview. Marrying Gabriel should make her happy. He’s less grounded in self-interests. He’s more willing to accept them for who they are. The most that can be confirmed is that they are Clea’s mother, who was loyal and presumably there. It’s not clear, but somebody had to raise her, and given Hugo’s absence, it makes sense that they would be reduced to the role of housewife.
That is the great tragedy of “Material.” The narrator isn’t someone with this grand journey. They merely have an embarrassing marriage that fuels them with vitriol every time they put pen to paper. They may claim to not stay up to date with Hugo’s writing, but there’s still that jealousy that runs through the pages. If they were truly over Hugo, there wouldn’t be a need to end the story in a state of misery, writing out her sadness as the current husband accepts the condition, of being overwrought with some details from the past that maybe haven’t been shared.
Which brings Munro to an interesting crossroads. Outside of the immediate family, there is one predominant character. Dottie is the prostitute in residence who lives downstairs. With Hugo, the narrator forms a voyeuristic fascination with her life as people come and go from her life. Even as friends, there is distance in the prose. Hugo claims that Dottie is “material,” and thus begins to tie everything together. Structurally, living on top of Dottie also suggests some hierarchical superiority, that her life isn’t as impressive as his. In fact, it’s evident in Hugo’s unwillingness to consider her humanity when refusing to turn off the pipe one night. He lets her apartment flood, creating unnecessary misery. It was preventable, and yet he probably did it so she could have conflict and inspire him.
Maybe the narrator can be seen as material as well. Depending on how the story is construed, the narrator is discarded material that Hugo has lost interest in due to some martial stagnation. The sense of becoming irrelevant is haunting, and the narrator’s jealousy stems from that desperation. Maybe if flipped, the narrator sees Hugo as material for their own writing. Comparatively, Gabriel is too uneventful in his day to day to inspire them. With all of this said, much like them viewing Dottie for amusement, one has to wonder about the morality of using other people’s lives as inspiration for profitable work. Dottie’s apartment will still be flooded, but maybe Hugo will have a best-seller because of it.
With that said, Munro’s placement of characters may be telling on the narrator as well. While Hugo is the easiest target, one has to wonder what makes the narrator any more virtuous. This can be seen in Clea, who is rarely discussed and thus allows the reader to assume that she wasn’t as cared for by either parent. The narrator’s unwillingness to buy a book that would allude to Clea’s father’s accomplishments is like hiding some truth. Is there some shame in their marriage, or is it that he had all of the success while the narrator lingers in frustration, still stuck on the most basic thoughts. Hugo has a gift for expressing himself while the narrator can’t see past their own personal anguish.
This may be most evident in the pipe scene that grounds the story. Following everything that happens, Dottie’s apartment being flooded is emphasized in a way that suggests greater importance than any other relationship in the narrator’s life. The reader can assume that this is because Hugo is ultimately the idiot and the narrator is reveling in his downfall in a manner that would free them from some metaphorical superiority. By forcing Hugo to be blamed for this tragedy, Dottie has an easy person to resent and hopefully, this would impact the reputation.
In what has been Munro’s greatest gift as a writer, there is a need to pause and wonder whether the reasoning is entirely sound. It would be one thing if Hugo is written as the only character who knew how to turn off the pipe. However, Munro dedicates a significant space to discussing how the narrator could’ve turned the pipe off that night. Simply put, they had a way of stopping the tragedy from happening, but chose to let Hugo fall at the expense of her friend. Not only that, but it’s likely that it impacted Dottie’s career as she needs to find a new place to draw in customers.
There’s a lot of ways that one can determine this act. Hugo is still the worst offender here, but should the reader be angry at the protagonist for preventing disaster? There’s definitely pros and cons to it all, but what Munro may be alluding to is the fact that women have been designed, especially in light of the women’s liberation movement, to be the problem solvers when men come up short. The narrator could solve the problem, but then Hugo wouldn’t have learned anything and thus keep them in a submissive state. The clever part is one woman (the narrator) finding their liberation at the expense of another’s.
And yet, with the protagonist reaching middle age, one has to wonder if they’re happy or even have the potential to be. They’re so raptured by Hugo that it seems impossible. Gabriel is somewhat submissive, allowing them to be stuck in a bad headspace. Given his lack of connection to any greater identity, he cannot fully relate. He can try, but there’s a sense that their relationship is just as hollow as Hugo’s many loves. They exist mostly so they don’t have to go to sleep alone, that there’s someone who can support each other even if they don’t actually understand each other.
I think there’s reason to argue that Munro’s interest in the women’s liberation movement has produced two amazing short stories that reflect the complexities of women truly experiencing freedom. Where the first story had more emphasis on someone imprisoning their mind, there’s the sense that “Material” is more about adorning the blame on someone else. Even as they find a new marriage, there’s still the past that’s keeping them locked away from happiness. How can they experience joy when their ex is having a much better go of things?
The women of Munro so far are presented as unreliable narrators who have their own complex worldviews. On the one hand, there’s the reality that they have the chance to be free but can’t. While I haven’t done extensive research on it, I do think there’s something to be said about how Munro uses the women’s liberation movement as an allegory for personal happiness. When one is used to feeling trapped by others, what can one hope to possibly achieve when given free rein? It could be that her ex’s name alludes to Victor Hugo (and Dottie being a prostitute possibly Esmeralda from “The Hunchback of Notre Dame”), suggesting a history of male authors dominating the field and controlling the public’s taste. Given that Victor Hugo wrote about social issues, it could also reflect how their perspective has largely been more accepted than a woman’s.
Through and through “Material” is another exemplary work by Munro that captures complicated characters hiding some truths while revealing half-lies for other people. What is the real story going on here? Is the narrator as sympathetic as they make out? With so much to ponder over, one can look at each character and come to that determination for themselves. Munro uses everything economically, providing enough misdirection to make the reader trust their own biases instead of noticing what’s missing or not being directly stated. It’s a story about how we use each other as material, but one has to wonder if it’s more than future blackmail.
Coming Up Next: “How I Met My Husband"
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