These ten stories are at once poignant and atmospheric. I'll need, I think, to re-read them. There are revelations, flashbacks, guarded comments which bring about an understanding of character, circumstance. And which also leave the reader wondering - what REALLY happened? Did that middle-aged woman really murder her disabled cousin? Or ...?

There's something of the formula about these stories, which all contain an unexpected twist. But Trevor's fastidious use of language keeps each story on its own track: yet it's not always certain exactly what took place, or when, or how. Each character remains in many ways unknowable.

And that's why I want to read these stories again. I'm sure they'll set me thinking just as much as they did first time round. ( )

Although not a mystery writer in the usual sense, the late William Trevor was nevertheless a mystery writer. Each of the 10 stories in his final collection of short stories, “Last Stories,” is a little mystery, full of subtle clues that lead to a final resolution. Or don't. Sometimes the resolution, like the clues themselves, are so subtle readers may be left scratching their heads.

As in any good mystery, there is a lot of misdirection in Trevor's stories. Even the titles misdirect the reader. When the title refers to someone, the story is most often about someone else. "The Piano Teacher's Pupil," for example, is actually about the piano teacher, not the pupil. Once she had a lover who in time abandoned her, yet she treasures that time when he was hers. Now she has a student, more gifted than any other, who steals something each time he comes to her house. Yet she treasures having him as a pupil. Paradise comes at a price she's willing to pay.

"The Crippled Man," rather than being about the crippled man, is mostly about the woman who takes care of him, although it turns out that he is taking care of her.

In "The Unknown Girl," Trevor's focus falls on Harriet, a woman whose home this girl had sometimes cleaned before stepping into traffic and being killed. Gradually Harriet comes to realize that the girl's death may be related to her unrequited love for Harriet's son.

Trevor's stories are like paintings on which the artist adds a dab of paint here and a dab of paint there. Not until the final brushstroke does an observer realize what the painting reveals. At times he even refers to different characters in alternate sentences in the same paragraph, requiring careful reading (and rereading) to understand what exactly is going on.

His stories don't make easy reading, yet they are so tender, so beautiful, so delicate that they are all worth the effort. ( )

I only had time to read a few of the stories in this collection, and I would have loved to have had more time with it (I had a library copy - and not much time...) ( )

Last Stories is the final, posthumous collection of short stories by the Irish master, William Trevor. Drenched in melancholy and the aching nuances of regret, Trevor serves up ten stories that are as foreign to my own life experience as could be. A few even left me totally confused by what the story was about. I would have rated this book 3 stars, but Trevor does something with these tales that leaves me both satisfied by his intricate descriptions of ordinary lives sub-optimally lived, as well as bewildered by the details he leaves out.

As foreign as are the lives and choices of these stories' characters, I almost always find some strand of empathy for what they endure and how they respond to their challenges -- or pity for their failure to do so -- that compels me to continue reading Trevor's writing. These stories bother me. The desperation and poor judgment of these characters bother me. The mundanities are maddening. Yet in all these sketches of inner lives, I catch reflections of universal emotions in a shared humanity that makes us not so different from one other, whether we are in Ireland or America, the 1950s or the 2020s, wealthy or poor, in good health or ill, happy in our relationships or not, and more.

It gives me gratitude for my life, for my wife and family, for the joy I feel in doing all I can to provide for their comfort and happiness, and for the joy they bring me in our ordinary life. It's a life that is, thankfully, filled with a contentment that is not found in the pages of Last Stories. ( )

William Trevor was on another level. His stories feel as if they reveal subtleties of humanity and human behavior that most of us are unaware even exist. A “genius” piano student steals small items from his teacher. She tolerates it, bowing to his talent. Two brothers, honest but not truthful, paint a house where a death has gone unreported. A woman working as a prostitute steals from a man with dementia who may not even be aware.

Several of the stories here examine hearts gone astray. A man leaves his wife and daughters for the woman he tutored years ago, then returns to his family. A cleaning girl no one knows much about seemingly commits suicide and one of her clients believes it’s because she was in love with the client’s son. Two childless women appear to target motherless girls to convince them that one of the women is their mother.

Not everything is as it seems and deep emotional damage is caused by the decisions of the characters. But there’s no sense of judgement of their actions. More of a reportage, which makes the impact stronger. A fine collection which appears to be the final one of a long career. Fortunately William Trevor has left behind many, many words of exquisite writing. ( )