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 25, 2025

Inspired Sentence #3

On Mondays, Eugène or Julia would yank a rabbit out of its hutch, kill it with one brisk corkscrew twist of the neck, flay it to its blueish plum-colored stretch of newborn baby skin, and hang it next door to a twist of bluebottle-encrusted flypaper until Sunday, when it would be jugged and slowly cooked with prunes, its liver either eaten as a starter or added to the stew to deepen it up. 

This is from Patrick McGuinness's Other People's Countries (2014), which I'm currently reading. What a wonderful book! It’s an evocation of the ancient Belgian town of Bouillon, where McGuinness has a house, inherited from his mother’s side of the family. Eugène is his grandfather. Julia is his great-grandmother. I relish the specificity of the description (“blueish plum-colored stretch of newborn baby skin,” “twist of bluebottle-encrusted flypaper”) and the vivid, active verbs (“yank,” “flay,” “hang”). “Jugged” is inspired! The whole sentence is inspired – a surprising, delightful, original combination of words and images. 

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