Beginning today and lasting to the end of the summer, the New Yorker website is free — and includes its complete archive. Our humble suggestions of where to begin your reading frenzy.
When the narrator was a boy, cold titanic masses appeared in the skies above London: Icebergs. As explorers both official and amateur try to climb the snowy pekas, packs of children follow in their frigid shadows.
Parker took a slow sip, the whiskey burning his throat. ‘I never thought it would come to this. I never thought it would go this long.’
Anna leaned into Parker’s shoulder and closed her eyes. ‘Pride does things to time,’ she said.
A mother abandoning her children is an inversion of the orphan tale. It may even feel to some readers like a perversion. It’s a story that’s easy to read and say, without thinking, ‘I can’t imagine.’
And yet, most of us can.
"If One Story Collected is a stethoscope to the heart of contemporary American fiction, the news is good: despite a run of economic shocks to the publishing industry, the muscle that pumps fresh blood into the system is still beating like a tom-tom.”
The boy’s death stuck a hot knife into various scars they thought time had healed. Their separate lapsed religious faiths seemed too much to contemplate as their families huddled near them in tears, saying prayers with the curiosity-seekers at the boy’s funeral. Their fury at themselves made them feel scrutinized in the full reveal of public grief. Their judgment of themselves was remorseless.