Motherhood is no joke, and watching a woman evaporate before your eyes, especially when you come home from work, and find that woman going up in steam, and holding the thing that means the world to you, is a dish typically served hot.
Your real opponents and the smartest ones, are those that cultivate an indifference to your work and the people who were born indifferent. But we know that those who were born indifferent to literature are dead to the world, so they don’t count. Writers know that the world consists of an arrangement of letters, letters that live and breathe and cry out and sing.
Amy is smitten with Paul, a student who, in her words, has seen enough of the Ohio sun to make his hair the color of straw, and his eyes the color of cold water, from a pond. What does cold water look like? It is a great question, but a little bit quaint.
Harry leaves his wife and son at the start, which left me wondering where it was going, but he comes back. Harry is obsessed with getting laid, not uncommon in a marriage, but Updike digs into Harry for a long time, examining his former basketball career, (redone by Franzen in Freedom, if anyone other than me and Kakutani were paying attention).
It’s been awhile since I’ve reviewed a New Yorker story and there have been one or two near misses in the past several months. I’m glad I waited. You think that maybe this is the one but you’re not absolutely sure. Then you strike a pen that’s seems to write in liquid gold instead of ink and you are absolutely sure. So my advice, story lovers, is to wait for the real thing. Don’t compromise.
I finally got my hands on the much talked about Other People We Married by Emma Straub, and it sits quietly on my desk like a coiled snake. She’s everywhere, and seems to be more plugged in with what’s going on in the book world than almost anyone I know.