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.

Tuesday, May 25, 2021

Saïd Sayrafiezadeh's Brilliant "Audition"

Illustration by David Benjamin Sherry, for Saïd Sayrafiezadeh's "Audition"














I see Saïd Sayrafiezadeh has a short story titled “A, S, D, F” in the May 31 New Yorker. I’m looking forward to reading it in the print edition. His “Audition” (September 10, 2018) is one of the best New Yorker stories of the last ten years. Written in the first person, it reads like a chunk of real personal history, and perhaps it is. The opening line is terrific: “The first time I smoked crack cocaine was the spring I worked construction for my father on his new subdivision in Moonlight Heights.” I read that and just kept going. My favourite part is Sayrafiezadeh’s description of smoking crack in Duncan Dioguardi’s basement:

Soon, a perfect aluminum-foil pipe emerged from Duncan Dioguardi, glinting silver in the Magnavox light, reminding me of the way some family restaurants will wrap your leftovers in aluminum foil in the shape of a swan. But into this particular swan’s mouth disappeared a piece of the Chore Boy, followed by one small chip off the drywall, and then Duncan Dioguardi ran his lighter back and forth, orange flame on silver neck, and from the swan’s tail he sucked ever so gently, cheeks pulling, pulling, until, like magic, he tilted his head back and out of his mouth emerged a perfect puff of white smoke.

That is one of the damnedest great descriptions I’ve ever read. “Aluminum-foil pipe,” “glinting silver in the Magnavox light,” “a piece of the Chore Boy,” “one small chip off the drywall,” “orange flame on silver neck,” “from the swan’s tail he sucked ever so gently,” “perfect puff of white smoke” – what a surprising, original, delightful combination of words! 

Art is where you find it. In “Audition,” Sayrafiezadeh finds it in his memory of being nineteen and working for his father’s construction company as a general laborer while dreaming of becoming an actor. It doesn’t sound like promising material. But Sayrafiezadeh’s shaping perception transforms it into meaningful experience. It’s a tremendous story. I enjoyed it immensely.

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