Introduction

What is The New Yorker? I know it’s a great magazine and that it’s a tremendous source of pleasure in my life. But what exactly is it? This blog’s premise is that The New Yorker is a work of art, as worthy of comment and analysis as, say, Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Each week I review one or more aspects of the magazine’s latest issue. I suppose it’s possible to describe and analyze an entire issue, but I prefer to keep my reviews brief, and so I usually focus on just one or two pieces, to explore in each the signature style of its author. A piece by Nick Paumgarten is not like a piece by Jill Lepore, and neither is like a piece by Ian Frazier. One could not mistake Collins for Seabrook, or Bilger for Galchen, or Mogelson for Kolbert. Each has found a style, and it is that style that I respond to as I read, and want to understand and describe.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

October 25, 2010 Issue


There are two dandy pieces in this week’s issue of the magazine: Ian Frazier’s “Fish Out Of Water,” and Tad Friend’s “Blowback.” I enjoyed them both immensely. “Fish Out Of Water” finds Frazier in Rust Belt country, moseying along the Illinois River, checking out the carp fishing. The story contains some wonderful details: “low-lying parking lots full of river mud cracked like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle”; “carp of mint-bright silver”; “Confederate-flag halter tops.” There’s a memorable description of an event called the “Redneck Fishing Tournament,” which contains this inspired sentence: “Crushed blue-and-white Busch beer cans disappeared into the mud, crinkling underfoot.” Here’s another great sentence from later in the story: “Through waving weedbeds of bureaucracy and human cross-purposes, the fish swim.” My response to the story was double. I learned about the Asian-carp invasion and I soaked up Frazier’s delightful prose. The Ralph Steadman illustration accompanying Frazier’s piece is also terrific.

One of the few New Yorker writers in Frazier’s league is Tad Friend. His style is different from Frazier’s. Frazier is a poet of “bleak,” whereas Friend is more a celebrant of suburban bosk. For example, in this week’s “Blowback,” he takes us to Orinda, California, where “the stands of live oaks, valley oaks, pines, redwoods, and mulberries are all as artificial as Lake Cascade, which was created in the nineteen-twenties to irrigate the local golf course.” And he describes a fascinating event called a “‘No Blow’ summit and barbecue” on the Kendall family’s back deck, overlooking Lake Cascade. Reading Friend’s brilliant piece, I experienced the same blissful double response that I’d enjoyed reading Frazier’s article. I related to the issue, namely, the noisy menace of leaf blowers; and I loved the specificity of the writing, particularly sentences such as this one: “He donned his Echo PB-500T backpack blower and earmuffs and blew off the driveway, corralling the leaves into a mound for his two colleagues to collect.”

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