SCOTT SIMON, HOST:
Mavis Gallant once observed that literature is no more and nothing less than a matter of life and death. The 91-year-old Canadian author died on Tuesday in Paris, where she had lived much of her life. She wrote hundreds of short stories, many of them published in "The New Yorker" - she was one of their most prolific writers. Mavis Gallant has been compared to Eudora Welty and Anton Chekov. Russell Banks and Jhumpa Lahiri were huge fans. As was Frank Browning, who has this remembrance.
FRANK BROWNING, BYLINE: Mavis Gallant came to Paris to write fiction on a private wager with herself, a gamble she recounted several years ago.
MAVIS GALLANT: I decided I would send three stories to "The New Yorker" one after the other, and if they took two out of three, or even one, but if they rejected the whole lot, I was going to give up the idea completely. And the first one they sent back, and said have you anything else you could show us?
BROWNING: The next one she sent opened the door to "The New Yorker" and to a Europe recovering from the ruins of war. Writer Michael Ondaatje has long admired Gallant. He says she captured the intimacy of lost souls wandering across the landscape of a Europe in the throes of reconstruction.
MICHAEL ONDAATJE: They're in transit. They're in waiting rooms. They're halfway across a bridge. They're overhead in balloons. And we get a very unusual underground map of Europe in the 20th century in her work. She's wonderful at creating a sense of place in Europe. You know, there's one essay where she talks about a chapel in Paris, and she talks about a small, dim chapel of gentle ugliness. And in that kind of little detailed landscape she's able to draw these lost souls that are seldom written about, not even by many European writers.
BROWNING: One of Mavis Gallant's best loved stories, "Old Friends," takes place on a train. It's about an exchange between a young woman and a German government official who tries to pick her up while she teases him.
GALLANT: (Reading) To make the conversation move faster, to tease, to invent, to build a situation and bring it crashing down she said no one's expecting me. Are you expected anywhere? Oh, not until Monday. I live in Frankfurt. He looked out the window for some time. He put the card in his pocket and sat with the tips of his fingers pressed together. If no one's waiting for you, he said finally, you could skip Salzburg and come on to Munich with me. I have some business there, so I'd be busy part of the day. But I'm free in the evening and it's a very lively place. We could go to a nightclub.
BROWNING: Gallant said a woman in the 1950s would never have recounted such an episode.
GALLANT: These are the things you learn through men, as a woman. But I wouldn't have known that on my own because no woman friend would have said to me, you know, I met this fellow on a train. These are things women keep to themselves and...
BROWNING: And men spill it out more easily.
GALLANT: No. Also I said that I was a writer. Don't forget that opens the door. I'm a writer, I'm a writer of fiction. That opens the door every time.
BROWNING: Gallant said her stories mostly started with little more than a fleeting image.
GALLANT: It's an image like a movie, like a still from a film - black and white really. It's of people caught in a situation and this has to open in some way. But sometimes it doesn't appear in the story at all, the first image. But the thing that's interesting is that I know who these people are. I know all about them. It's very funny. I know their names, I know what they're up to, and it develops from that. But that doesn't mean it's done in a hurry at all. It's very slow.
BROWNING: In part because of the exquisite detail on which her stories are built, says Michael Ondaatje.
ONDAATJE: We are always surprised by, not just the subject of the stories, but the way she writes them. I think this is what distinguishes her from all the other writers of our time I think. She says at one point I'm uncertain about every line I write and I'm uncertain until I get readers. And I think, for some writers, a kind of greatness emerges from that tentativeness about their work. She tries to be as good as she can. And as a result I think it pushes her to become flawless in some way. So, when we read the stories we are dazzled by the choreography of her work.
BROWNING: Mavis Gallant spent her life in her art, which meant that she mostly lived alone.
GALLANT: I was always better off on my own. I'm an only child. I felt better. I remember once, I went away for three months so that something would clear up and I could come back to Paris on my own and so on. And people said to me, oh, you must be in love. You look marvelous. It was freedom.
BROWNING: As she aged, she found it more and more difficult to get about - and without getting about she couldn't continue to gather the essential material she needed to make her stories. In our last conversation, she told me that when she found it no longer possible to go out, she would just go away. For NPR News, I'm Frank Browning in Paris.