The New Yorker continues to be a great source of summer reading. The current issue (June 14
and 21; they are slower in the summer!) has eight short stories by young writers (part of "20 under 40," which features 20 writers under the age of 40). Two stories caught my eye.
Rivka Galchen contributed "
The Entire Northern Side was Covered with Fire," a story about a woman who can't focus on her husband's departure, or a meeting about movie rights to her book or her pregnancy. Instead, she's thinking about the mail she gets from prisoners and the
Tunguska event (to which the title refers).
She talks to a friend about her husband:
Then he said, “I thought it was a work of fantasy, Trish. I mean, I guess I should have told you about it—”
“What?”
“The blog,” he said. “His blog. I-Can’t-Stand-My-Wife-Dot-Blogspot-Dot-Com—”
“Are you going through one of your sleepless phases again?”
“Trish, I know it makes me sound snoopy, but Jonathan always seemed a little off to me, you know? So after he left your apartment one time, when I was alone there, I don’t know, I’m sorry, I opened up his laptop, and I looked through the browser history. I was curious about his porn. I thought maybe there would be some really weird porn—”
“There was weird porn?”
“None at all, actually. Which in itself was kind of weird. No porn. Just his blog. And—”
I like the ending.
Did I then take that movie meeting, all unprepared, after dressing in a way to accentuate my pregnancy, then to downplay it, then changing outfits again to accentuate it? Did I have no ideas? Did I start talking about the Kantian sublime, and about meteors and about love? A trans-generational love story with an old shepherd in Siberia, and a latter-day woman who knits, and a transfigurative event, and the sense that life is an enormous mystery but with secret connections that, you know, knit us all together? I did. All those things which I so studiously knew nothing about. Meteors enter the Earth’s atmosphere every day. I was betraying so many, I felt so clean. ♦
You can read it
here.
The other one that I read "
Lenny Hearts Eunice" by
Gary Shteyngart starts out as a romance between two Americans in Rome, told from their two very different perspectives.
His:
"But don't bury me yet, judgmental diary. A new Lenny heart beats more convincingly than the old one. Eunice Park will save me. You just watch.
He's in love.
Hers:
"P.S. I met this old, gross guy at a party yesterday and we got really drunk and I sort of let him go down on me. There was another even older guy, this sculptor, trying to get into my pants, so I figured, you know, the lesser evil.
It's a love story, and I won't spoil it for you. The writer says (in his interview)
"Good fiction makes me turn off all the other parts of my brain, so that I become quiet and submissive, entirely at the mercy of the work at hand.
Give it a try.
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