I liked "Lovers of Their Time," William Trevor's last collection of stories, better than "Beyond the Pale." I still remember with a feeling of pleased surprise a couple of images from that book….

Yet in some of the other pieces in that book I felt that Mr. Trevor indulged himself in a sort of perverse minimalism, a kind of contest with himself to see how little he needed to make a story. Though everyone regards him as a master of understatement, I wonder whether it isn't conceited in a way to insist on writing such carefully removed stories, so breathlessly poised on the edge of non-existence.

At one time it might have been argued that these are the people who do not get written about, that they were born to blush unseen until Mr. Trevor saw them. But this is no longer the case, for I can think...