My favorite writer isn’t for everybody. Or maybe she is. She writes only short fiction, and her subject matter rarely strays from the farms and small towns of southwestern Ontario. She almost never tells a story in linear fashion. Often I must read a story twice to figure out what happened. Despite her modest refusal to join literary circles and her steadfast attention to rural settings, countless fellow writers have hailed her as a master. (Jonathan Franzen devoted a 3,600-word piece in the New York Times to “the best fiction writer now working in North America.”) At one time such fans had to introduce her to a wider audience. No longer an undiscovered treasure, earlier this year Alice Munro was awarded a Booker Prize for her career. Now comes Too Much Happiness, with a title that is not entirely ironic.