I don't like Alice Munro.

There, I've said it.

You're always on safer ground praising than criticising a writer, but never having seen a word against Saint Alice in print, I can hold myself back no longer. For decades she's received not just good reviews but eulogies in the literary press. I tried one book of stories by her, found them dull, and was tempted again ten years later, thinking I might have made a mistake. But no: still I found her stories slow, pedantic even, flatly written, too long for their content, banal.

One technique I dislike is the way she spins momentary, unremarkable thoughts into Socratic wodges of internal monologue that dam the flow of the action. For example, from "Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage":

"I just hope it's for a special occasion," the woman called out as Johanna was hastening into her now dingy-looking regular clothes.

"It's likely what I'll marry in," said Johanna.

She was surprised at that coming out of her mouth. It wasn't a major error – the woman didn't know who she was and would probably not be talking to anybody who did know. Still, she had meant to keep absolutely quiet. She must have felt she owed this person something – that they'd been through the disaster of the green suit and the discovery of the brown dress together and that was a bond. Which was nonsense. The woman was in the business of selling clothes, and she'd just succeeded in doing that.

"Oh!" the woman cried out. "Oh, that's wonderful!"

Was that inserted elaboration needed?