Benjamin Chambers writes:
In an article in the Canadian newspaper The National Post, Philip Marchand writes,

Whatever happened to the reputation of Morley Callaghan, who was once every bit as much an icon of Canadian literature as Margaret Atwood? For a while he practically owned The New Yorker, in the manner of Alice Munro. In 1965 Edmund Wilson—at that time the most prestigious literary critic in the English-speaking world—compared him to Chekhov and Turgenev. Yet today he is rarely taught in Canadian literature courses, and his works seldom opened. Are we so sure what happened to Callaghan won’t happen to Atwood?

If you’re scratching your head and muttering, “Morley Callaghan?”, you’re not alone. A quick check of the Complete New Yorker showed me that Callaghan published 20 stories in TNY between 1928 and 1938. That surprised me, since Wilson lauded him in 1965.
I wondered why Callaghan’s stories stopped appearing in the magazine so suddenly, but Wikipedia says that he wrote almost no fiction between 1937 and 1950, which partially explains why he didn’t show up there again. (Wikipedia also informed me that Callaghan knocked down Hemingway in a boxing match refereed by F. Scott Fitzgerald…)
In any case, it’s obvious Callaghan was both a prolific writer and a well-regarded one, so I look forward to reading his New Yorker stories.
Of course, it’s not always clear, years later, why an author of the past used to take home all the laurels. Taste, like tempus, fugit.