Am I the only one who thinks the short fiction published in The New Yorker just isn’t that good? Every now and then there’s an exception, but this only serves to increase my general disappointment, as I approach the story in each issue and think, This time, it’ll be great.
Imagine the let-down at the end of a very mediocre and rather aimless story in the May issue, Jonathan Lethem’s “Ava’s Apartment,” when it began with this inspired sentence: “Perkus Tooth, the wall-eyed former rock critic, awoke the morning after the party he vowed would be his last, the night after the worst blizzard of the winter, asleep on a staircase, already in the grip of a terrible cluster headache.” And that was the single sublime moment of the story.
Considering that the other articles in this issue are about the wristwatch market, college lacrosse tryouts, the Supreme Court, frog extinction, Victor Fleming, and various operas and plays that are only showing in New York, I think it’s safe to say I won’t be renewing my subscription.
PS. I think the cartoons are dumb too.