The Girl Who Fixed the UmlautThe New Yorker - Nora EphronThere was a tap at the door at five in the morning. She woke up. Shit. Now what? She’d fallen asleep with her Palm Tungsten T3 in her hand. It would take only a moment to smash it against the wall and
The Very Comical Lament of Pyramus and ThisbeThe New Yorker - Susan Sontag(An Interlude)WALL: Thus have I, Wall, my part dischargèd so;And being done, thus Wall away doth go.—“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act V Scene 1. PYRAMUS: It separated us. We yearned for each other. We
LGA—ORDThe New Yorker - Ian FrazierThen, Beckett decided to become a commercial pilot . . . .“I think the next little bit of excitement is flying,” he wrote to McGreevy. “I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously nor too stupid about
Across the Street and Into the GrillThe New Yorker - E. B. WhiteThis is my last and best and true and only meal, thought Mr. Pirnie as he descended at noon and swung east on the beat-up sidewalk of Forty-fifth Street. Just ahead of him was the girl from the reception
The American Literary SceneThe New Yorker - James Thurber(AFTER READING SEVERAL ESSAYS, IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES, ON THE PLIGHT OF THE AMERICAN WRITER AND THE NATURE OF THE AMERICAN MALE) I have but now returned to England, and to my tranquil pen, after spending
Why We Laugh—or Do We?The New Yorker - Robert BenchleyIn order to laugh at something, it is necessary (1) to know what you are laughing at, (2) to know why you are laughing, (3) to ask some people why they think you are laughing, (4) to jot down a few notes,
Press Agents I Have KnownThe New Yorker - Groucho MarxThe little fellow climbed upon my lap and tugged me gently by the beard. “Tell me, grandfather,” he said, “about your first press agent.” I gazed into the fire. Unknowingly, the child had touched a tender
Just a Little OneThe New Yorker - Dorothy ParkerI like this place, Fred. This is a nice place. How did you ever find it? I think you’re perfectly marvellous, discovering a speakeasy up here in the Forties. And they let you right in, without asking a
The Whore of MensaThe New Yorker - Woody AllenOne thing about being a private investigator, you’ve got to learn to go with your hunches. That’s why when a quivering pat of butter named Word Babcock walked into my office and laid his cards on the I
The Browning-Off of Pelham ManorThe New Yorker - E. B. White(WRITTEN AFTER LOSING CONSCIOUSNESS AS THE RESULT OF A TOO CLOSE STUDY OF THE REFLECTIONS OF CHARLES A. REICH) I achieved Unconsciousness I before I knew anything was up. I was in the womb and restless
The Exegesis of St. NickThe New Yorker - Roger Angell(ANOTHER FRIGHTFUL BLOODLETTING IN THE BACK ALLEYS OF THE “NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS”) Nothing could be more flattering to a scholar than to have a work of his reviewed by so eminent an expert as Hermann
Sex and the Single BoyThe New Yorker - S. J. PerelmanLet’s see, now—exactly what do we know about Phil? He’s twenty-five years old, he’s an investment banker, and he went to Yale. We know he likes girls, because, by his own candid admission, he’s got a black
The Cliché Expert Testifies on the CampaignThe New Yorker - Frank SullivanMr. Arbuthnot—They have not kept nor do they intend to keep . . . They have undermined the foundations . . . They constitute a threat to our democratic institutions . . . And I say to you, my fellow-Americans.
