I know Alice Munro is one of the most celebrated contemporary authors around. I'd read a short story or two and had been meaning to read this collection for a while. I hated it.

To a one, the women unpleasant, narrow, either narcissistic and selfish or ignorant and pliant, and oppressed, my god, so oppressed by the absolute pricks in their lives that I wanted to run around the block screaming just to prove to myself it wasn't me trapped in that miserable existence. And the men, idiot jerks all of them, so cruel in their thoughtless entitlement, their smug, brutal condescension. The entire collection made me thank god I'm not married or living in the mid-twentieth century, and made me kind of hate men, which is really unhealthy and pointless and awful and unfair to feel, but, frankly, the stories made me hate women, too, for their stupidity and vapidness and willingness to live a cowed, stunted existence in exchange for...what? For motherhood, a dubious exchange according to these stories at best.

Fie. Bleh. I need to brush my teeth.