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.

Friday, April 12, 2024

April 8, 2024 Issue

Pick of the Issue this week is Robert Sullivan’s delightful “Talk” story “Find a Grave." It’s about three members of Dervish, a band from Ireland’s County Sligo, and their search for the grave of Michael Coleman, a Sligo fiddler. Coleman is buried in St. Raymond’s Cemetery, in the Bronx. The trio rent a vehicle and use GPS to find St. Raymond’s. The process isn’t straightforward. Sullivan writes, “Kelly was busy with his phone. The cemetery offices, he discovered, were closed, and the precise location of Coleman’s grave was inscrutable.” But they persist and eventually find Coleman’s grave. They gather around it and play a tune in Coleman’s honor:

Instruments came out of the car, Morrow starting off with a reel called “Sligo Maid.” Suddenly, his fiddle popped its tuning peg. “That’s Coleman!” Kelly said. Tunes started up again as a plane departed LaGuardia.

Kelly smiled. “This is a big moment for us.”

“It’s practically spiritual,” Mitchell said.

After a while, they packed up their instruments. Clouds had covered the sun. Mitchell put his hands in his pockets and shivered. “It’s cold, lads,” he said.

The piece is practically a prose poem. I love it. Sullivan is a master “Talk” story writer. This is one of his best.

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