Probably at any time I feel excited and pleased when I discover a writer that I like. But at the moment, when it isn't easy to enjoy the company of others face-to-face, it is a special pleasure to find an articulate personality whose voice one can enjoy on paper.
The writer in question today is called Rivka Galchen. She's been active for ages but I only found out about her when I opened the latest issue of the New Yorker, to which I have had a subscription for years, but which lately I have been thinking I should give up on. Despite one or two tiny jarring notes - ("I was born, somewhat randomly, in Toronto" - who isn't born anywhere "somewhat randomly"; "I've long held the believe that being a fan or a cheerleader of New York is ethically and aesthetically dubious" - cut the pomposity and prissiness [which she almost immediately does, thank heavens]) - Galchen's piece on her neighbourhood in New York changed my mind; if there's more of this kind of stuff, I'll be a happy renewing subscriber. The article is exactly the kind of thing I have always loved about the magazine, but I thought had disappeared - a conjuring of a place, descriptive, thoughtful, full of the best kind of charm. To be given a portrait of a part of a faraway city is especially beguiling at a time when travel isn't allowed.
If you are curious to read it yourself, here is the link.
I also liked this by Galchen, and I thought this was a reasonably intriguing short story that she managed very well (although the apparent almost total social isolation of the "dusty librarian" character is maybe not quite convincing enough, which is not to say I could possibly rival the cleverness of the thing.)
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