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A Few Words about the New Yorker
The New Yorker has the same giant bullseye on it that anything that has risen to the level of cultural significance will. It sits at the top of the news chain alongside the New York Times, but its volleys are more focused because it doesn’t publish every day, and instead of shotgunning hundreds of stories a week into the world, it offers four or five high caliber rifle shots. The day a new issue comes out, you’ll hear one or three of the major stories as a headline on NPR or CNN or the networks or even ESPN (the magazine has lately been taking aim at the violence football does to the bodies and minds of those who play.) Also, the numbers: It has the broadest circulation of the few remaining smart people magazines, and because it is the most prestigious magazine in the world and one of the best paying, it can have its pick of writers. It serves, therefore, not just as a mirror to American culture (albeit from a usually-lofty and Eastern vantage point), but also as an influential shaper of American culture. Among its readers are the some of the most powerful among us, and, like it or not, power gets to do the greater share of the shaping. The New Yorker has the ear of some of the shapers.
I stopped subscribing to the New Yorker for three reasons. First, it’s expensive. You get a lot for your money — more issues a year, certainly, than almost any other decent magazine, and those issues unfailingly packed with interesting things — but it’s still enough money to make anyone on a tight budget think twice about writing the check. Second, it’s a big commitment. When those magazines were coming to my house every week, I couldn’t not read them, and the time it took was time I was taking from my own work. Third, I canceled my subscription at a time when I was particularly vulnerable to chasing enthusiasms not my own. I couldn’t read, say, a John McPhee article about pinball machines without spending the next two days at the library looking up increasingly less satisfying books about pinball machines.
Well, I’m hardier now, not much richer, but newly Kindled. I noticed a few afternoons back that I was once again reading the New Yorker while standing at the newsstand at the local Barnes & Noble. I’ve read it cover to cover for months this way. And I can subscribe to an electronically-delivered edition for $2.99 a month. So I did, and I’m not sorry I did.
Almost every issue has some kind of weirdness that validates the purchase even if there is nothing else of interest in the magazine. One recent pleasing weirdness is a profile of horror director Guillermo del Toro by Daniel Zalewski. It’s got the del Toro origin story (young Guillermo teaches himself English because he wants to read American horror fanzines), the del Toro mancave (a creepshow repository of comic books, horror movie monsters, and occult ephemera), and the requisite career talk (bad early TV stuff, Pan’s Labyrinth, Hellboy, the Peter Jackson debacle.) But the best part of the article is Zalewski’s sharp ear for revelatory dialogue. Here is one cherry example. Del Toro is talking about how he “inevitably imposed his sensibility on source material”:
“It’s like marrying a widow. You try to be respectful of the memory of the dead husband, but come Saturday night . . . bam.“
You can read the rest of Zalewski’s profile of Guillermo del Toro here.
Another worth noting, from the current issue, is Lawrence Wright’s longform (and I mean old school, McPhee-on-rocks length) journalism on Paul Haggis’s choice to quit Scientology, his reasons for quitting, his reasons for being fearful, and the general culture of fear and coercion many exiting Scientologists report upon quitting. (The whole thing is available, for free, here.)
There are many other things worth praising, not least this week’s Mary Gaitskill story. I think a lot of these things wouldn’t exist if there weren’t a deep-pocketed commissioner. How many of those are there, anymore? And of those that still exist, how many of them care enough to use those resources to make really good things, rather than celebrity profiles or pictures of models or discussions of ways to get richer when you’re already pretty rich? My main complaint about the New Yorker is that there aren’t more New Yorkers.
Tags: daniel zalewski, lawrence wright, new yorker
I stopped reading the New Yorker when I moved to New York. I kind of wish it would go away. The New Yorker has npthing to do with New York. The fiction is always either Alice Munro or Annie PROUWOUWOULX and it is never challenging. The articles are probably good, but I don’t read articles. I mean, Steve Martin and David Sedaris? (How in the FUCK did David Sedaris even happen?) And Sasha Jones’ writing is even shittier the music he applauds. But I’m glad the Kindle thing is cheap and good.
“In a tape recording made when he was five, he can be heard requesting a Christmas present of a mandrake root, for the purpose of black magic.”
Purely based on this quote, I will watch everything this dude makes forever.
i read it for the articles whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat
Under the current regime, they’ve published David Foster Wallace, Louise Erdrich, Chris Adrian, Edwidge Danticat, Adrian Tomine, Steven Millhauser, Denis Johnson, George Saunders, Cynthia Ozick, David Means, Richard Powers, Sam Lipsyte, Yiyun Li, Wells Tower, David Bezmogis, Karen Russell, Jeffrey Eugenides, Nathan Englander, Roberto Bolano, Junot Diaz, Daniel Clowes, Jennifer Egan, TC Boyle, Uwem Akpan, Ian McEwan, Don DeLillo, Sam Shepard, Chris Ware, Stephen King, Lorrie Moore, William Styron, J G Ballard, and Salman Rushdie. If that’s not an aesthetically diverse crew, I don’t know what is, and I don’t know any literary journal who publishes that much fiction or has that kind of range.
Isn’t there a “teacher” loophole making it not expensive.
“When those magazines were coming to my house every week, I couldn’t not read them, and the time it took was time I was taking from my own work.”
I agree but this blows me away, from you. I’ve never seen any motherfucker read like you, and read well. Like READ, not gloss. I don’t buy you couldn’t polish these off, maybe while flossing? That sounds rude. The floss thing had the wrong tone. Let me back up. I used to religiously knock them off, for a decade, easy, the entire mag. One a week, every week. It wasn’t that big a stress, and I get the feel you read faster than me.
What do you think of the poetry? I’m curious? I have sort of a sameness/suckness feel about it, with 4 times a year I’m wrong. Then when I’m wrong they don’t bring that poet back.
Will you address how the length of the essays have shrunk? They are not developed like even ten years ago. They are LOPPED off. Before the arch is complete. Some editor is fucking with the big essays. Are they still “smart people” (weird term—and yours, though I nod a bit) worthy??
You don’t want to address the similarity of the fiction? Did you get tired while writing this post? I do that. So understand.
I am on wine. Sorry. But not sorry. I love/hate this mag.
that Powers story a few months ago was crazy solid/good/enjoyable.
man, those 4 times a year when you’re wrong? yes.
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2009/01/12/090112po_poem_robbins
The poetry doesn’t really blow me away. Sometimes I wish they’d cede the poetry to a rotating editorship. Like: Issue 1: the Action Books people. Issue 2: Don Share and Andrew Hudgins. Issue 3: Carmen Gimenez-Smith. Issue 4: graduate students at the University of Alabama. Issue 5: Seamus Heaney and Paul Muldoon. Issue 6: The high school kids who do Best American Nonrequired Reading. Issue 7: Bob Hicok. Issue 8: Pilot and Wave. Issue 9: Emily Kendal Frey. Issue 10: Wislawa Szymborska. Etc. Probably this won’t happen.
Sometimes they’re doing longform stuff again. This Scientology piece was novella length, I think. They aren’t doing longform stuff on non-timely stuff anymore, like oranges or the Swiss army or anything on art by Lawrence Weschler or Jane Kramer, which is a loss. But I think some of that comes with the Conde Nast territory. They have constraints they’re working within, and they’re doing a pretty good job working within them. Re: Fiction: See response above.
As for Steve Martin: He’s a pretty good writer. Did you read his memoir? It was awesome.
McEwan Siberia piece was insane (I think it covered two issues).
I have not subscribed in two years and miss it. Maybe this post makes me miss it. Fuck. I spend 23% of my money on HTML posts. I mean piles of books. Now this? Oh well.
I agree that the NYer has a pretty impressive range these, even though far too many writers like to make jokes about “The New Yorker story.” My favorite recently was Stephen O’Connor’s Ziggurat about a minotaur and a girl playing video games in his labyrinth.
I have to admit I tend to skip over the fiction though, mostly cause I read enough in lit mags and books as it is.
Ziggurat was sick, though I’m not sure how recent. I actually though that stood out because it was NOT a New Yorker story. I dug that story. Will always remember it well.
historically, poetry, mainstream suckfest… the rest. yes! but as a poet… solicit horrorville. either that, or everybody’s trying. i try sometimes. i admit. i love the new yorker (but i don’t read it for the poetry)
Your poetry idea is a never.
If they are ACTUALLY doing long-form essays, I’d be back on board. That’s what I loved, McPhee, etc.
The problem is they’re masters of timing. Maybe not; maybe it’s coincidental. But I get the renewal notices– and not the friendly “renew your 10-family subscription” infomercially cards, but the “you’ll never be able to set eyes on another of our sacrosanct words without a spleen donation, ever” cards– JUST as they send the year’s one redeeming issue.
That Mary Gaitskill was mightily good. So was the Dexter Filkins piece on Afghan buck hunting, and the Lawrence Wright cult bit. A -lot- of good writing. So I yack it up & hope for the best, rinse, repeat. It’s not unlike a lottery; when you win, the winnings are big.
That said, if anyone wants to buy me a kindle?
The problem is they’re masters of timing. Maybe not; maybe it’s coincidental. But I get the renewal notices– and not the friendly “renew your 10-family subscription” infomercially cards, but the “you’ll never be able to set eyes on another of our sacrosanct words without a spleen donation, ever” cards– JUST as they send the year’s one redeeming issue.
That Mary Gaitskill was mightily good. So was the Dexter Filkins piece on Afghan buck hunting, and the Lawrence Wright cult bit. A -lot- of good writing. So I yack it up & hope for the best, rinse, repeat. It’s not unlike a lottery; when you win, the winnings are big.
That said, if anyone wants to buy me a kindle?
The problem is they’re masters of timing. Maybe not; maybe it’s coincidental. But I get the renewal notices– and not the friendly “renew your 10-family subscription” infomercially cards, but the “you’ll never be able to set eyes on another of our sacrosanct words without a spleen donation, ever” cards– JUST as they send the year’s one redeeming issue.
That Mary Gaitskill was mightily good. So was the Dexter Filkins piece on Afghan buck hunting, and the Lawrence Wright cult bit. A -lot- of good writing. So I yack it up & hope for the best, rinse, repeat. It’s not unlike a lottery; when you win, the winnings are big.
That said, if anyone wants to buy me a kindle?
The problem is they’re masters of timing. Maybe not; maybe it’s coincidental. But I get the renewal notices– and not the friendly “renew your 10-family subscription” infomercially cards, but the “you’ll never be able to set eyes on another of our sacrosanct words without a spleen donation, ever” cards– JUST as they send the year’s one redeeming issue.
That Mary Gaitskill was mightily good. So was the Dexter Filkins piece on Afghan buck hunting, and the Lawrence Wright cult bit. A -lot- of good writing. So I yack it up & hope for the best, rinse, repeat. It’s not unlike a lottery; when you win, the winnings are big.
That said, if anyone wants to buy me a kindle?
Well yeah “recent” here means last two years or so.
I’ve begun taking “New Yorker story” to mean “I’m bitter the New Yorker is not publishing my work.”
Or, “I’ve never read the New Yorker, but I’m gonna talk shit anyway.”
That Haggis/Scientology article was so epic. I’ve read it twice and think it’s such a fine example of long form journalism.
How’d you have time to read it twice? I’m still recovering (In a good way) from the first time.
George Saunders’s sicko-terrifying story “Escape from Spiderhead” from the Dec. 20/27 2010 issue was worth the price of a year’s subscription.
I think that it is easier to say that there are “New Yorker poems” than it is to say there are “New Yorker stories,” though Muldoon has done a decent enough job of bringing newer poets and poems in, and also poems that rely less on the perpetual epiiphany-for-closure routine. I like to think of the mag as a sporting team that has a 97-55 record. It’s consistently good and never without at least one, if not two or three reputable pieces of language.
It’s true that they don’t always publish “New Yorker stories,” but sweet Christ when they do it’s enough to make you want to give up on the whole enterprise.
I mainly like them for the journalism.
[…] Minor shares (more than) a few words about the most recent issue of The New Yorker. Seriously, is this the best issue to come out in the last few years? Everybody loves […]
to be fair, since last year both jennifer l knox and dottie lasky have been in the new yorker, so i’m going to say they’re taking steps in poetry.
I’ve had it on the Kindle ever since I got one almost two years ago, and I’ve never thought about taking it off. The political articles are probably their greatest strength, these days. One of the things I’ve noticed is the secret of their ability to wield power is the length they’re willing to give to their content, by virtue of having less content over less time.
New Yorker Poetry is fucking ridiculous, but the prose is occasionally worth the effort.
As to the issue of whether or not it’s ‘New York’ or not, I do wish people who move here would spend less time worrying about what’s ‘New York’.
It’s hard to go a day in the subways of Manhattan without seeing someone reading this magazine.
As someone who makes his living as a journalist I can say that one of the things I love about the New Yorker is when I read a journalism piece and the writer mentions something like, “I first met with X in 2009…” and it’s 2011. And the realization that there is still an outlet that publishes a long-form piece of journalism that someone has worked on for almost two years and sometimes longer is always awesome.
Very good point.
Very good point.
it’s free online, the short stories
it’s free online, the short stories
The real champions of journalism on that subject were those St. Petersburg articles that got Haggis questioning things in the first place.
I tracked down those St. Petersburg articles and they are excellent.
I read fast.
I read the articles frequently. The fiction is tedious. Maybe 2 of the 20 Under 40 stories were memorable.
It’s not that expensive. $1 a week.
my only complaint with the NYer is that, because their fiction runs in columns, it’s house style to make all every ‘okay’ an ‘OK.’ and then BASS, always puling stories from the NYer, they seem to have adopted the same suck-style, though they’ve got the whole page to play with. and, if the NYer and BASS are doing it, should’t everybody else? no. not if you’ve got any self-respect.
anyway, every once in a while I’ll dig their fiction (in spite of the non-abbreviations), though, like Kyle, there’s not enough time in the week to be faithful, or to feel guilty for not submitting to the compulsion, anyway, that chance of something maybe good (however, WIRED and DISCOVER and WEIRD TALES and FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION, I’ll make time for them, yes, because the chance of something great there’s so much higher, for me). however, as a trendsetter, I do think the NYer brand of fiction’s completely dangerous and unhelpful. but, every once in a while. Richard Rayner’s “After the Movie” (2007) was one.
and, Kyle: that shotgun vs rifle thing’s slick. makes me want to shoot a cannon, now.
npthing