With spring just around the corner in the Northern hemisphere, it is qui
Gallant’s stories have the distinction of being profound but not jarring. They don’t have the existential vacuum of some short stories, a dark space manufactured and collapsed in a few brilliant pages. Instead Gallant’s essays, which revolve around mundane and circumstantial suffering, serve as a pretense for the beauty of the writing itself.
The majority of these essays involve privileged and educated expatriates, with their own private miseries. Today the spotlight has shifted from the expat to the migrant, the huddled masses trapped in the concrete maw of Le Corbusier. Perhaps rightfully so. However, it must be said suffering remains a constant in all human life, no matter how contrived or artificial. And it is a great pleasure, even a guilty one in today’s literary climate, to spend a few sunny hours watching Gallant’s delightful words dance across the page, like summer sunlight glinting on the Mediterranean — ephemeral but lastingly beautiful.