Who is this Alice Munro, and how does she manage to suspend her devastating insights on such smooth and simple stories?

I just got around to her story, “Passion,” in the March 22, 2004 NYer, which at first glance looked like it might be a fluffy confection, some treacly pastoral romance that I neither wanted nor needed. Thank peaches that I decided to dive in anyway—it made for far more than just a good train ride. Any bit that I would like to quote might clobber some of the surprise for you, my Unknown, so I'll try to hold back. It seems to me she has a sharper sense of what's true and awful about life and love than anyone else on Earth, with the possible exception of Jhumpa Lahiri.

... and in the middle of that she had come on a rock-bottom truth, a lack of hope that was genuine, reasonable, everlasting.

When I was in college I hung with a crowd who talked a lot about "place," and about the land, and about how the land affects our thoughts. One of the favorite metaphors was "bedrock." How do you find bedrock? We always wanted to know. One prerequisite seems clear at this moment: to give up the need for that fundamental truth to be something sweet.