Category: New Yorker Recycling Project

The Limner


Mr. Tuttle was among the masters who preferred their servants to be mute, deaf, and blind—except when his convenience required the matter otherwise. Of course, masters and servants had become citizens and hired help once the juster republic had declared itself. But masters and servants did not die out; nor did the essential inclinations of man.

The Limner by Julian Barnes, Jan 5 2009

Inspired by the life of John Brewster Jr., a deaf itinerant painter who made his living doing portraits of wealthy families in the early Republic, “The Limner” is a sketch of class and caste in 18th century America. The painter Wadsworth, standing outside of the normal strictures by virtue of his disability, his talent, and his lack of a permanent address, can make wry and telling observations about the interactions between masters and servants, as well as effect some quiet justice.

Barnes brings the society and culture of the period to life largely through Mr. Tuttle, a blowhard of a customs official, and Wadsworth, a clear-eyed and critical observer. Tuttle is not so terribly original–blowhards seldom are–but Wadsworth is a fascinating character.

The story’s title is taken from the professional name of the itinerant artists of the Colonial period, and derives from “illuminate” (as in illustration). And Wadsworth is certainly an illuminator. I also like the echo of “liminality,” suggesting someone in a transitional state, an in-betweener; and Wadsworth is very much that as well.

“He hoped that there would be painting in Heaven, but more than this he hoped that there would be deafness in Heaven.”

The Valetudinarian


They don’t give you a manual, Meredith, and who’s going to prepare you if not your grandpa? I’m not going to to pussyfooting around your bowel movements on account of your innocence, because one day you’re going to wake up and wonder why the world perpetrated treacherous lies against such a perfect creature as yourself…

The Valetudinarian by Joshua Ferris, August 3 2009

Joshua Ferris’ story of a widower adrift in a Florida retirement community, plagued by a wide range of physical ailments, annoying neighbors, and distant children, is both a hilarious character sketch and comedic romp, and an example of Tolkein’s eucatastrophe. Knocked out of his rut by a Russian prostitute and a Viagra-induced heart attack, Arty Groys is set on a course that may be for the better, or may be for the worst, but is certainly more interesting than morosely ordering pizza from his lonely apartment.

This was also the pick of The New Yorkerest; great taste, as per usual.

(A “valetudinarian,” incidentally, is “a person who is excessively concerned about his or her poor health or ailments.” “[F]rom valetudo “state of health,” from valere “be strong” (see valiant) ” I like this little play on words, since the valetudinous Arty does indeed exhibit some valiant tendencies at the end.)

I’d also like to give a little shout out to the Rae Armantrout poem, Money Talks; she packs a lot into a little, as always, turning a billboard into a wry economic commentary.

The Deepest Dive

What allows a person to hold his or her breath and dive to severe depths is an autonomic process called the mammalian diing reflex, which is activated when the nerves in the face come into contact with water, most eectively with cold water.

The Deepest Dive by Alec Wilkinson, August 24 2009

It’s not that I disliked Dave Eggers’ interpretation of “Where the Wild Things Are,” which was The New Yorkerest’s pick for this issue. Rather, I didn’t quite see the point of it. Maurice Sendak’s original picture book, which I’ve committed to memory since it was a favorite bedtime story in heavy rotation for a year or so, is like a poem, stripped down to simple archetypes of wildness and domesticity, longing for safety and adventure, a framework of dreams into which any child (or adult) can locate themselves. Making Max’s story specific, peopling it with a mean older sister, Mom’s creepy boyfriend, and an absent father, sacrifices the universality of the original. It’s as if “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” were retold as a tale about an accountant named Jerry who dreams of taking his boss’s beautiful and cultured wife to a seedy seafood restaurant on the docks; it might make for a good story, but it sacrifices the universality of poetry.

Alec Wilkinson’s piece on competitive free diving, though, profiling Sara Campbell’s quest to be the first woman to break the 100 meter barrier, is a fascinating glimpse into a world I never knew existed. It explores the physiology and psychology of deep diving, the culture of one of the most dangerous sports, and one woman’s quest for a record that carries with it more pride than fame. My own record is the seven feet at the deep end of the YWCA pool, so I’m very much in awe of the courage and strength required to make this sort of dive. A wild thing indeed!

War Dances


“So you want to borrow a blanket from us?” the man asked.
“Yeah.”
“Because you thought Indians would just happen to have some extra blankets lying around?”
“Yeah.”

War Dances by Sherman Alexie, New Yorker August 10-17, 2009

Despite his feigned outrage, the man in the hospital waiting room does have blankets, “a room full of Pendleton blankets,” and so the narrator’s father, feet amputated because of diabetes, is afforded a small comfort.

This story is all about small comforts, small moments, fathers, blankets, songs, “vodka straight up or with a nostalgia chaser,” fingers in brains, bound together by that unmistakable Sherman Alexie voice.

The New Yorkerest picked the “Travels in Siberia” essay, also quite good, but damned if I don’t get sucked in by Sherman Alexie every time.

The Daughters of the Moon


In this world where every object was thrown away at the slightest sign of breakage or aging, at the first dent or stain, and replaced with a new and perfect substitute, there was just one false note, one shadow: the moon. It wandered through the sky naked, corroded, and gray, more and more alien to the world down here, a hangover from a way of being that was now outdated.

The Beloved insists that I get rid of the stack of New Yorkers crowding the corner of the bedroom, and so I shall, so I shall. The New Yorker is a guilt-inducing publication, richly stuffed with complex and compelling articles that I never seem to find time to consume before the next one arrives. I always manage to get to the back-page comics, and flip through for the rest of the comics and book reviews, but too often I save articles and stories for a later that never arrives.

I finally got to the February 23, 2009, New Yorker (some of which I had read already), and read the Italo Calvino story, Daughters of the Moon, at last. And what a story it is! Calvino riffs on an observation about the battered state of the moon to craft a fable of a decaying moon, its legion of Diana protectresses, and a Thanksgiving Day Parade gone strange.

The article on Ian McEwan’s use of contemporary psychological research, Daniel Zalewski’s “The Background Hum,” is compelling, too, and was called out as the best article of the issue by The New Yorkerest, but I stand by Calvino and his moon maidens.

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