2010 New Yorker Story of the Year: "Foster" by Claire Keegan

Congratulations to Claire Keegan, whose brilliant short story "Foster" has been chosen as the 2010 New Yorker Story of the Year! Thank you to everyone who voted this year.

Here is the discussion we had about this story when it appeared in February: "Foster" by Claire Keegan.

Runner-up was "Costello" by Jim Gavin. Third place goes to "Boys Town" by Jim Shepard. Both of those were also wonderful stories.

6 Days Left to Vote for the New Yorker Story of the Year!

Here's a reminder. If you haven't already voted in our "New Yorker 2010 Story of the Year" poll, please do so. Choose one story from among the ten finalists, and you can find links to a discussion of all of the stories (plus links back to the stories themselves in many cases), right here.

The stories are by Joyce Carol Oates, Joshua Ferris, Wells Tower, Tea Obreht, Claire Keegan, Kevin Barry, Jim Gavin, Alice Munro, Jim Shepard, and Samantha Hunt.

Vote!

The New Yorker: "Escape from Spiderhead" by George Saunders

Most of this story will appeal to Saunders fans, I guess. It’s definitely got moments. The story is about Jeff, told in his point of view. Jeff is a willing participant in facility that does drug testing because, we eventually learn, it beats being the prison where he’s doing time for killing someone in a rage. We learn that some of the other participants in the trials have done even worse things than Jeff, but not before we already have a certain amount of sympathy for them. The guinea pigs here have attached to them devices (Mobipaks) that allow the testers—Abnesti and Verlain—to remotely adjust the drugs they’re being given from their command center, the Spiderhead. Saunders has come up with tradenames for these drugs: Verbaluce, which induces lucidity; Vivistif, which seems to have a Viagra effect; and Darkenfloxx, which sends the subject down a deep, dark hole from which he or she may or may not return.

On the day in question they’re testing chemically controlled feelings of love, and Jeff first loves Heather and then loves Rachel then loves neither, but in the meantime he’s had sex with each of them three times, and they’ve each had sex with two OTHER men also. But when—and this seems to be the crux of the test—Jeff has to choose whether Heather or Rachel will get the Darkenfloxx, he can’t do it. He is equally indifferent to both of them. Eventually, though, he is forced to watch what happens, unless he can “Escape from Spiderhead.”

Take a look at “This Week in Fiction” for a hint from Saunders about what he was after here. It seems to me that the choice that Jeff must make is crucial and that the artificiality of everything today makes real feelings suspect.

Didn’t love the ending, but otherwise it was entertaining.

December 20 & 27, 2010: “Escape from Spiderhead” by George Saunders

Vote for The New Yorker Story of the Year 2010!

It's time to vote for The New Yorker story of the year. Most people I've talked to think that New Yorker fiction has not been especially good this year, and there was little consensus on the stories that should be included in the final 10 stories for voting purposes, but--for better or worse--here's my list of favorites, in chronological order. A poll will appear in the sidebar to the right--you have until midnight on December 31 to vote and I'll announce the winner on New Year's Day. (Note: links are to the Perpetual Folly discussion of each story, where there may or may not be a link to the story itself, since The New Yorker is providing free access less frequently.)

Kevin Barry: Fjord of Killary (February 1)

Claire Keegan: Foster (February 15-22)

Joyce Carol Oates: I.D. (March 29)

Joshua Ferris: The Pilot (June 14-21)

Tea Obreht: The Blue Djinn (August 2)

Wells Tower: The Landlord (September 13)

Alice Munro: Corrie (October 11)

Jim Shepard: Boy's Town (November 8)

Samantha Hunt: The Yellow (November 29)

Jim Gavin: Costello  (December 6)

Please Vote!

The New Yorker: "Young Thing" by Naruddin Farah

Farah has a new novel coming out in 2011 and it sounds like this “story” is an excerpt from that. See this description of Crossbones 

In any event, this piece is about a young Somali who gets involved with a militia and sets out to do their bidding. He’s a kid, though, and that makes it difficult—carrying the weapons, remembering the instructions, following orders. As a result of these problems there is a mixup, and YoungThing brings his leaders—BigBeard, TruthTeller, and FootSoldier—into the wrong house, which happens to be occupied by a renter who happens to be a Somali visiting from Virginia. It doesn’t turn out well, but that’s all I’ll say about the plot because anything else would spoil it.

This piece almost works as a story and the writing is vivid (Think Flannery O’Connor in Somalia . . .). The thoughts and speech of YoungThing seem right on and it’s a completely suspenseful, compelling read.

December 13, 2010: “YoungThing” by Naruddin Farah

The New Yorker--pay to play?

Reader Andy suggested I create a post where readers could give feedback on the new policy at The New Yorker to limit access to most fiction to paying subscribers. (Thanks for the idea, Andy.) For the past several years, almost all fiction was available for free online. Now, most stories are closed and only subscribers with access to the "digital edition" can read them. I'm a subscriber, so the only thing that annoys me is that the magazine has been coming irregularly lately.

What are your thoughts on this? Does it make you want to subscribe? Given that many seem to think that the quality of New Yorker fiction has deteriorated, I'm not sure that the policy will help subscriptions. But maybe I'm wrong.

Thoughts?

The New Yorker: "Costello" by Jim Gavin

This is late, again, because my copy of the magazine is late, again, and I kept putting off reading the online version because I don’t like to read long stories online, and this is a long one. (And by online I mean in the digital version of the magazine, since this story is not available online to non-subscribers.) (Although you can't read the story online if you're not a subscriber, you can read Deborah Treisman's interview with Gavin: This Week in Fiction: Jim Gavin.)

Too bad, because it’s very readable. In fact, it’s worthy of the Best of the Year list, which I’ll post in a week or so.

Costello—Marty—is a plumbing salesman in Anaheim. He’s got two daughters, one just out of college and the other in college. He lives in a nice ranch house next door to another plumber. He’s sixty, a veteran, and life hasn’t always been easy, especially given the ups and downs of the housing market in LA. But he’s good at what he does and right now he’s up for an award that will be given at a banquet that is really just a drunken mess. (Must have been fun to write the scenes with the drunk plumbers playing polo golf.)

Oh, yeah, and his wife is dead. Except we don’t know that right away. We find out fairly soon that she’s gone, but it takes a while to learn why. The neighbors invite him over for dinner, but he makes an excuse and stays in to watch the Dodgers on TV. (He doesn’t drink much, but he eats a lot of really bad food, and he does that while watching TV, too.) But finally it is revealed that his wife died of cancer and his daughters are trying to help pull him out of the shell that he’s been in since she died.

There are five other strands to the story that are quite interesting. First, Marty is interested in water, sailing ships, and the ocean. Was he in the Navy? He has a copy of Moby Dick and uses various sailing terms in his thoughts and speech. Second, Marty has a pool. Now, the pool obviously is related to his interest in the water, but it also is connected to his wife, who chose the tile and also insisted on an extra-deep deep end. The pool now is scummy and green because Marty hasn’t been taking care of it. Third, there’s a lizard at the bottom of the pool, which prompts a recurring discussion of lizards. Fourth, Marty’s dealing with some faulty plumbing products that have caused a problem in the business. And Fifth, there’s Francine, “the parish retard,” who keeps coming to the house even though Marty’s wife, whom she used to visit is gone.

Eventually it becomes clear that the reason Francine is coming by is to get the wife’s jewelry that she was promised. She takes it and leaves, and maybe Marty is now letting go a little. He agrees to go out to dinner with her daughters and he settles on a visit to Catalina Island for this event—a sailing voyage, of sorts, that also represents his coming out. He doesn’t win his award, apparently because of the defective plumbing, but he gets public praise and seems satisfied. And then, finally, there’s the pool, which he cleans up with chemicals and at long last removes the lizard—the wife’s cancer?—from the pool. (In the story he tosses the lizard over the neighbor’s fence and hears it land in his pool, and I didn’t like that ending. It’s as if he’s cursing his nice neighbors!)

Except for that last line, it’s a terrific story.

December 6, 2010: “Costello” by Jim Gavin

The New Yorker: "The Yellow" by Samantha Hunt

Good news. You can read this story online, and, more good news, it’s worth the read. It’s fresh both in its plot and its language. And while the particular conflict that’s explored in the story is resolved, the main character’s problems certainly aren’t—leaving the reader with plenty to ponder.

Roy’s a mess. He’s 42 and back living with his parents, although the author leaves it completely to the reader to imagine what’s gone wrong with his life. A wrecked marriage? A sour career? Drugs? (Compare Jim Shepard’s “Boys Town” which also features a disturbed son who is back at home, but in that story Shepard gives us a fair amount of the backstory.) While his parents are away, he moves the excess furniture out of his room and paints the walls bright yellow. (The color brings to mind “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, the color on the walls may be as far as the parallel goes, except that both Roy and the protagonist from that story are a little nuts.) When his parents return Roy flees the house. Meanwhile, Suzanne has her own problems and is in danger of exploding under the pressure of her husband and kids who have mercifully left her alone.

But Roy runs over a dog in front of Suzanne’s house and brings the body to the door. She confirms that the victim is her children’s dog Curtains and as they both mourn the dog they . . . have sex on the floor. Um, sure, okay, why not? Except that Roy is awakened by the dog licking his shoulder! He’s not dead after all! (Hmm. Earlier Roy concludes “the dog was dead for certain,” “the neck was soft and floppy”; and he observes “there was blood on Roy’s jacket. Blood on her arm, in her hair. Curtains’s insides made pornographically public.” So if the dog’s not dead, and in fact seems to be fine, what’s all that about?)

And because they’ve had this bit of mournful sex, Suzanne decides the dog needs to be killed! Except Roy doesn’t want to, and just at that moment her family returns, sending both Roy and the dog into the back yard.

So what happened? Is Roy dreaming? He’s gone without sleep for a couple of days, apparently. The only thing he’s eaten is an onion and Cheddar sandwich. And the walls in his room are bright yellow. Has he passed out and dreamed all this? Or is he dreaming the resurrection of the dog, sleeping on the floor of Suzanne’s living room? Or did he only imagine all the details of the dog’s death, and now it’s actually alive?

Weird story. I like it.

November 29, 2010: “The Yellow” by Samantha Hunt

2010 New Yorker Story of the Year--Nominations are Open

As the year winds down, it's time to think about the best short stories from The New Yorker. Last year, as you may recall, we declared two great stories co-winners of the 2009 Story of the Year honors: Chris Adrian's "A Tiny Feast" and George Saunders's "Victory Lap."

To nominate, send me an email or leave a comment here mentioning your favorites. I'll take those nominations into consideration in formulating a list of the Top Ten New Yorker Stories of 2010, and then in late December I'll post a poll for voting. I'll announce the winner on January 1, 2011.

All of this year's stories (and a considerable number of novel excerpts) have been discussed to some degree on this blog. To refresh your recollection, brows through the posts: 2010 New Yorker Fiction.

I'm very curious to know what your favorites are!

The New Yorker: "Assimilation" by E.L. Doctorow

Another story NOT available to non-subscribers (but next week's is, so take heart!).

Ramon is a smart guy. His brother, at the beginning of the story, is in prison. Even in prison, though, he has access to information, and at the end of the story he looks like he has access to the kind of protection Ramon is going to need. Because our hero has pissed off the Russian (or some other unspecified East European) mob and things are going to get ugly.

Ramon, looking for money for graduate school but trying to avoid his brother’s world, takes a job as a dishwasher in Borislov’s restaurant. He’s promoted to bus boy—he’s being set up—and then to waiter, if he will agree to a green-card marriage. He heads to Russia (or wherever), marries Jelena, and then works with her at the restaurant. He decides he’s in love with Jelena, although she has a boyfriend at home and treats Ramon badly. Borislov and his mob friends put pressure on Ramon to make sure that Jelena will get her papers. Jelena, softening toward Ramon, tells him he should beat her, that she deserves it, but Ramon’s brother clues him in: if he beats her, or if they can make it look as though he beats her, they can cut him out of the picture that much earlier because the court will grant a divorce and Jelena will be free.

At this point, the reader—this reader, anyway—suspects that Jelena is in cahoots with the mobsters. Instead, though [spoiler alert], she agrees to run away with Ramon, and they head straight to Ramon’s brother, the only one with the firepower to protect them.

Uh oh. But that’s the end of the story. It’s going to get nasty, probably, but we’re not going to get to see it. Unless this is a novel excerpt. But I don’t even want to think that.

So it’s a readable story with a somewhat sentimental, unexpected ending that leaves a major question unanswered. It’s okay. Not my favorite, but okay. What’s okay about it is that Ramon is forced, for the sake of the girl, to enter his brother’s world, and it’s obviously a tough choice for him. It may still end badly for him, but it’s the kind of difficult decision that is interesting to see in fiction. I also like the multiple meanings of the title. What’s not so great, though, is that Ramon’s feelings for the girl are kind of a cliché. Sure, go through with the fraud, even feel sorry for her because she’s in a tough spot herself, but fall in love? I’m not buying that.

Also worth checking out for more insights into this story is Deborah Treisman's chat with Doctorow: This Week in Fiction.

November 22, 2010: “Assimilation” by E.L. Doctorow

The New Yorker: "The Trojan Prince" by Tessa Hadley

Sorry, non-subscribers, you can’t read this one either. No great loss, however.

Tessa Hadley has a novel coming out next year, and I thought at first this was an excerpt, but it doesn’t seem to be. First, the descriptions of the novel that I was able to find seem completely unrelated to this story. And second, the online feature that I’ve only just discovered—a short interview with the author—makes no mention that it’s an excerpt. See: This Week in Fiction: Tessa Hadley. 

So, I suppose it isn’t an excerpt.

But if sure does feel like one. This story feels very told, as if it is background material for something that is about to happen. (We even get a flash-forward, as if the author is confirming this very idea.)

It’s the 1920s, ambitious young James is hanging around with his rich cousin Ellen and their other cousin Connie. He think he’s interested in Ellen, although there are clues that he begins to lose interest—he doesn’t like the way her hair smells, for example. He then goes off to work for a shipping company and survives a shipwreck in Canada. When he writes home to announce his survival it is to Connie. And it’s Connie who meets him when he comes back.

End of story.  Not much here that I like, although James has potential—for the novel that this feels like it wants to be.

November 15, 2010: “The Trojan Prince” by Tessa Hadley

The New Yorker: "Boys Town" by Jim Shepard

Here’s another story that’s only available to subscribers. Next week is the same. It looks like The New Yorker is pulling the plug on free fiction. (My comments are late because my issue still hasn’t arrived and I really didn’t want to log onto the eNewYorker site to read it that way; now I have no choice.)

So if you don’t have access to this story, that’s a shame. It’s excellent, mostly because of the voice of Martin, the first person narrator. Martin is a loser and probably disturbed. His mother, with whom he lives, thinks he has post-traumatic stress disorder, but there are no mentions of deployments to Iraq or Afghanistan, although he was in the Army for four years and the reserves for another 4. He’s got some problems, though, that’s certain. He abused his wife and so has limited time with his son. He blames everyone else for his problems. And when he visits a woman he’s interested in and finds her ex-husband at her home he fires a gun through their window. He hears the police coming after him—he’s holed up in a tent in the woods—and he knows it’s not going to end well (fulfilling a prophecy that had been made about him years earlier).

His mother is no prize either, and it’s not hard to understand Martin. But lots of people have lousy mothers and don’t turn out to be the losers Martin is. And that’s why the title—a reference to the great movie with Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy—is significant.

If anyone ever tells you that you can’t write a story with an unsympathetic main character, point to this story as evidence that you sure as hell can.

November 8, 2010: “Boys Town” by Jim Shepard

The New Yorker: "Blue Roses" by Frances Hwang

I wanted to like this story. It’s about Chinese immigrants (who watch Korean soap operas?). It’s not about marital infidelity or cancer or child abuse--all pluses for me.. The narrator, Lin Fanghui, reminds me very much of Olive Kitteridge, the eponymous protagonist of Elizabeth Strout’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel-in-stories. (In the first story of that book, one doesn’t care for Olive either.) Here, Lin has a falling out with her daughter because the daughter won’t invite Lin’s friend, Wang Peisan, for Christmas dinner. Wang is recently widowed and, although she doesn’t really like Wang any more than anyone else does, Lin thinks it’s proper to reach out to the woman.

Wang deteriorates, Lin begins to feel that she’s moving in the same direction, and she reconciles with her daughter.  Not really much of a story, in the end.

What’s likeable, though, is all of Lin’s nuttiness along the way—how she interacts with her husband, her other children, Wang—and in the end this portrait of Lin is charming, in the same way that the portrait one eventually gets of Olive Kitteridge is charming. The character of Wang is also charming. Wang appreciates what Lin does for her. At one point Lin brings her a nice cake, but a month later Wang is still eating although it has “turned a mushroom shade and looked slick and congealed.”

The conclusion, though, is a bit sentimental. I had hoped for more. (By the way, I was relieved when in the story a nod is made to Tennessee Williams and the source of the title.)

November 1, 2010: “Blue Roses” by Francis Hwang

The New Yorker: "The Tree Line, Kansas, 1934" by David Means

There’s a lot about this story that I like. There’s very little action here until the end—mostly we get interior monologue from one of the characters. I like the repetition of “Five days . . .” I like the thoughtfulness of the character Lee, the older of two FBI agents on a stakeout in search of Carson, a notorious robber. During the stakeout, the younger agent, Barnes, displays his youthful inexperience: he thinks they’re wasting their time. But his logic becomes more and more convoluted: “This guy knows we’re looking for patterns, and he’s even considered, I’d venture to say, the idea that we’d expect him not to come back here, and in expecting him to expect us to expect him not to come back, he’d expect that we’d take that expectation into consideration . . .” He ties himself up in knots.

There’s more repetition, too (giving additional weight to Barnes’s talk about patterns): the two men take turns crawling off into the woods to smoke; Lee presents analytical lists, befitting his character; Lee’s narrative alternates between the present action of the stakeout story and sections that begin with “Years later . . .”, the author’s signal that Lee has shifted into retrospection.

It is also the signal for what’s coming in the story, and that is the story’s biggest failing for me. It’s predictable. Please, I said to the pages as I kept reading, don’t let that be what happens. Much too easy. Please let the author work harder to surprise us! But, no. No surprises. It’s a shame.

October 25, 2010: “The Tree Line, Kansas, 1934” by David Means

The New Yorker: "To the Measures Fall" by Richard Powers

 You trudge out to the mailbox and reach inside, hoping that the New Yorker has come. Surprise! You find that it has indeed come. You open to page 72 to read the new Richard Powers story and to your immeasurable disappointment you see that the story is written in the second person. You read the story anyway, conclude that the choice of second person is just a gimmick, as it usually is. You like some aspects of the story, although you sigh when you learn that the protagonist has cancer, because you’re permanently tired of stories about people with cancer, even though there are other elements here that might redeem the story, if only it weren’t for that damned second person.

Enough. Let me explain why I don’t like the second person. This “you” voice is really the first person in which the narrator is either addressing the reader or some other auditor (in which case, sure, second person is intimate and fine), or, more often, is really talking to him or herself (the gimmick). The “I” is merely sublimated to the “you” and the only time I buy it as being exactly the right narrative choice is where there has been some trauma that, as it were, splits the narrator in two. Now, the fact that at the end of this story the protagonist—the “you” and, I would argue, also the “I”—appears to be on her deathbed might be justification for the second person. Her dying self is looking back on her life from some distance and addressing herself as a young woman and as she grows older. So maybe it is actually justified in this case.

I still don’t like it.

The story—the narrator goes to England as a student, finds a used copy of a book that intrigues her. She tries to read it but fails. Later as she is working on her dissertation she tries again and loves the book. She becomes obsessed. She gets married, has an affair with her thesis advisor, quits her program, goes to law school, gets divorced. She concludes that her copy of the book is signed by Winston Churchill, but doesn’t get the signature verified, but still follows the obscure author’s writings and news about his work. She gets married again and has kids. She practices law. She gets sick.

Although I was drawn through this story by the fluid writing and the suspense created about the mysterious author, in the end it didn’t satisfy me, probably because I resisted the voice. You?

October 18, 2010: “To the Measures Fall” by Richard Powers

The New Yorker: "Corrie" by Alice Munro

Finally, a story worth reading. Unfortunately, it’s not available to non-subscribers. I wonder if the magazine planned this? Let’s let everyone read the light-weight junk, but when we publish an Alice Munro story, something with some real meat, we’ll make them pay. Wouldn’t surprise me.

The story is set in a small Canadian town and features Corrie, the polio-stricken daughter of a wealthy man. Her life is empty and there is nothing and no one in the town for her, despite her wealthy. But her father hires an architect to restore the steeple of the Anglican church—he’s Methodist, himself, but the church is important to the town—and introduces this architect to his daughter. (A nice bit of foreshadowing: as Corrie is preparing for a trip to Egypt, Howard thinks, “Some creepy fortune hunter was bound to snap her up.”) He’s married with children, but that doesn’t stop them from beginning an affair when she returns.

When Corrie’s father has a stroke, she hires young Sadie Wolfe to help out around the house. Howard visits often. When the father dies, Sadie moves on. But then Howard, attending a dinner party with his wife, runs into her. In a letter, which Howard destroys immediately, Sadie threatens to expose them, and so begins the blackmail, which wealthy Corrie happily pays, in cash, in an envelope that Howard delivers to Sadie.

The affair continues. Years go by. Accidentally, Corrie learns of Sadie’s death on the day of her funeral in the small town. She wonders how she can get the news to Howard. And then the truth dawns on her.

Aside from the plot, which has a nice twist to it, there’s a lot in this story, including the discussion of churches in the town. It is the collapsing Anglican steeple that first brings Howard and Corrie together. The father is a Methodist. Sadie’s funeral is in the new “Church of the Lord’s Anointed” and leads Corrie to recall that her father had said that only “freak religions” flourished in the town. At the reception following the funeral, Corrie sees many women of the town and notes that the United church and the Presbyterian church were barely hanging on and the Anglican church—again, the church that Howard was hired to save—and closed long ago.

The saga of Corrie’s father’s shoe factory is another element. He sold the factory, but despite assurances that they’d keep it open the buyers moved production elsewhere. Corrie tries to turn the place into a museum of shoe-making, but that is short lived. And, ironically, Corrie herself has a built-up shoe because of her lameness.

And then politics. Howard is rather conservative, but Corrie’s father and Howard’s wife are both left-wing supporters of the Saskatchewan premier.

A good story, with plenty to enjoy.

October 11, 2010: “Corrie” by Alice Munro

The New Yorker: "The Dungeon Master" by Sam Lipsyte

A bunch of kids are play Dungeons & Dragons after school (at least I guess that’s what this is—having never played the game, I don’t know if the description of the game is right or if the author has come up with something new) at the home of the “Dungeon Master,” a boy who seems a bit disturbed, although it could be nothing more than having grown up without a mother. The narrator is a shy boy on the periphery who eventually gets fed up with the Dungeon Master (the broken wrist the DM causes could have something to do with it) and moves on. 

But the DM doesn’t move on, lives in his fantasy world, and hints at a future suicide. Other kids in the group are also pretty marginal—one kid who is a thief in the game turns out to be a thief in real life.

Is there a point here? Is it that we—meaning the parents of impressionable kids—need to keep closer watch? Because it does seem to me that the Dungeon Master’s father could have been doing a better job with him, and the narrator’s parents aren’t so hot either. But, really, is that the point?

On the one hand, this story seemed far more readable than anything else I’ve read in The New Yorker lately. But I think it only appeals in a relative sense. My standards for this magazine have fallen.

October 4, 2010: “The Dungeon Master” by Sam Lipsyte

The New Yorker: "The Warm Fuzzies" by Chris Adrian

It turns out that the previous Adrian story in The New Yorker, which I liked very much, was an excerpt from the novel that he’s now finishing up. It looks like this one, which I like far less, is, too. See the Q&A with Chris Adrian.

Here we have Molly, the teen daughter of the Carters and a member of the Carter Family Band, a Partridge Family clone that sings Christian-themed songs written by the father. It’s a big family that is supplemented by foster kids, currently Paul, who prefers the name Peabo. There apparently has been a long stream of foster kids, and we get the impression that they’re always black. This one is fairly compliant—he shakes his tambourine in the band, is polite about the food—but there seems to be a connection between Molly and him. And that gets Paul/Peabo kicked out in a record short time. And it isn’t Peabo’s fault, really, but Molly looks to be heading that direction as well.

I can’t tell you how much I didn’t care. The story is too long for such a weak climax and ending. Way too long.

September 27, 2010: “The Warm Fuzzies” by Chris Adrian

The New Yorker: "Birdsong" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Set in Lagos, Nigeria, this is the story of an angry young woman having an affair with an older, married businessman. The affair proceeds somewhat predictably—it’s the sort of plot that is very difficult to do with rehashing some very tired situations—but the woman’s anger and her observations about her place in Lagos make this story work very well.

She’s stuck in traffic and she sees a woman in another car who makes her think of her lover’s wife, who lives in America. And as they sit in traffic, the narrator keeps remember aspects of the affair—that she felt hidden away (the dark restaurant they went to), invisible (the driver and the waiters don’t acknowledge her). And there are various other elements of the affair that also drive her into deeper anger. But it isn’t just the affair—it’s also her job, where she and another woman are treated poorly, and Lagos generally. “Rituals of distrust. . . That is how we relate to one another here, through rituals of distrust. . . . We know the rules and we follow them, and we never make room for things we might not have imagined. We close the door too soon.” As she’s delivering this speech, she begins to cry in front of her lover, something she doesn’t do. His wife cries, but she doesn’t cry, and so this is something of a shock—and it spells the end of the affair.

This is a very good story. And although the Q&A with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie tells us that she’s working on a novel, there’s no hint that this part of it. Maybe it is, but it seems to work well as a story.

September 20, 2010: “Birdsong” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The New Yorker: "The Landlord" by Wells Tower

Wells Tower fans aren’t likely to be any happier with me than they were when I discussed his last story in The New Yorker. Lots of people loved that one; it left me cold. Kind of like this one, only worse.

Is “The Landlord” a novel excerpt? I don’t know. I do know from the Q&A with Wells Tower that Tower is working on a novel, and I also know that this isn’t satisfying as a story, so I hope for Tower’s sake that it’s an excerpt.

The “story” is in the point of view of the landlord, who has suffered large losses as a result of the economic downturn. But he’s still collecting some rent and is considering some asset sales to reduce his debts. In the course of the “story” we see him interacting with some of his tenants and employees and also with his daughter. He’s not particularly good in any of those relationships—he’s something of a pushover (reminding me a little of the lawyer narrator of “Bartleby the Scrivener”) and it’s not hard to see why he’s fallen on hard times. Each of the vignettes in the “story” is interesting, especially the one that frames the piece—his dealings with Armando Colón who seems to be trying to make good on his arrears. And then there’s the daughter, Rhoda, and it’s what is left out about her that makes me suspect this is drawn from the work-in-progress. And in the middle of it all are Todd, the violent carpenter/debt collector, and the big, young newcomer, Jason. Interesting, but do they really move this story forward? What story?

Okay, there’s some good writing here, and if this is from a novel it seems like it might be pretty readable. But as a story I don’t think it works.

September 13, 2010: “The Landlord” by Wells Tower