Fiction
A hundred years of great writing, curated for The New Yorker’s centenary.
“Visitor”
What no one tells you is that sometimes, even if you’ve figured yourself out, you’ll have no one around you to share what you’ve found.
“Appreciation”
In the spring of 2010, the daughter and the man broke up. The reasons for the marriage’s end are not clear, though there are theories.
“Another Manhattan”
What kind of man courts a woman by letting her make an enormous bouquet for his wife, then asks her to pare back?
“People Like That Are the Only People Here”
The whole thing is like a cloud that just lands, and everywhere inside it is full of rain.
“The Elephant Vanishes”
The search went on for several days, but the authorities were unable to discover a single clue to the elephant’s whereabouts.
“Miles City, Montana”
It seems to me now that we invented characters for our children. We had them firmly set to play their parts.
“The Book of Sand”
Late one evening, a few months back, I heard a knock at my door. I opened it and a stranger stood there.
“The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”
Even before the official opening of her prime, Miss Brodie’s colleagues in the Junior School had been gradually turning against her.
“Snowing in Greenwich Village”
The snow, invisible except around street lights, exerted a fluttering, romantic pressure on their faces. “Coming down hard now,” Richard said.
“A Mild Attack of Locusts”
On a farm by the Zambezi River, a woman experiences a return of the locusts—rust-colored creatures that invade the crops like smoke or a bad storm, devastating the landscape.
“Slight Rebellion Off Madison”
As soon as Holden got into New York, he took a cab home, dropped his Gladstone in the foyer, kissed his mother, lumped his hat and coat into a convenient chair, and dialled Sally’s number.