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If you love short stories, or think you don’t love short stories, read Andre Dubus.
Please. Now.
Joshua Bodwell writes about how he found Dubus:
During the bitterly cold February of my twenty-third year, I made a Sunday pilgrimage to an independent bookstore. It was a bland store—utilitarian metal bookshelves, unremarkable carpeting, humming fluorescent lights—but I could always count on the staff’s recommendations. I had never heard of Dubus before, and it would be years of mispronunciation before I learned that his last name rhymes with “abuse,” like “duh-byoos.” But that day, Dancing After Hours (Knopf, 1996) leapt out at me.
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