Alternate title: why Rachel will almost certainly be late for work this morning.
My coworker B. rushed into the office earlier this week in a huff, grasping a copy of the New Yorker like a life preserver.
“Have you read this?” she demanded. “So good!”
B. was so engrossed in this piece that she accidentally stayed planted on the subway well past our Rockefeller Center stop. Once in the office, she promptly printed off a copy for me – that culturally lacking, extremely prone to comparison girl who gave up her New Yorker subscription years ago – to read at once.
I was so engrossed I took a highlighter to it and went through that thing where at first you feel the power of the writer’s emotions, then you notice the beauty of the writer’s prose and then you want to kill them for being so fucking good and, coincidentally, not you.
Thus confirming the reason I ditched the New Yorker in the first place.
Here’s my favorite quote:
“Evidently this is the way it has to be. I am committed. It is a question of writing or not writing. There is no other way. If there is, I missed it.”