This week's New Yorker has an unbelievable story by one Uwem Akpan, a story that part of me love's and part of me detests, for its brutality and narrative power, for its absolutely awe-inspiring grit, how the narrative never falters, and yet a kind of predictability, a kind of western frame: as if story never gets understood until the writer fits it in a certain kind of word/emotional mill... My position is dangerously sort of cynical, and that's not quite what I mean. The story is brilliant, powerful, moving, wholly successful...yet something lingers there when I think of it as the commodity it is, arriving as it does in the folds of the New Yorker. But see for yourself. And you must do within the week or the link doesn't work.
And speaking of violence--did anyone read Alice Munro's offering in last week's New Yorker? My God, I was shocked.