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20 Under 40: Stories from The New YorkerFrom Treisman, Deborah (EDT)
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In June 2010, the editors of The New Yorker announced to widespread media coverage their selection of "20 Under 40"―the young fiction writers who are, or will be, central to their generation. The magazine published twenty stories by this stellar group of writers over the course of the summer. They are now collected for the first time in one volume.
The range of voices is extraordinary. There is the lyrical realism of Nell Freudenberger, Philipp Meyer, C. E. Morgan, and Salvatore Scibona; the satirical comedy of Joshua Ferris and Gary Shteyngart; and the genre-bending tales of Jonathan Safran Foer, Nicole Krauss, and Téa Obreht. David Bezmozgis and Dinaw Mengestu offer clear eyed portraits of immigration and identity; Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, ZZ Packer, and Wells Tower offer voice-driven, idiosyncratic narratives. Then there are the haunting sociopolitical stories of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Daniel Alarcón, and Yiyun Li, and the metaphysical fantasies of Chris Adrian, Rivka Galchen, and Karen Russell.
Each of these writers reminds us why we read. And each is aiming for greatness: fighting to get and to hold our attention in a culture that is flooded with words, sounds, and pictures; fighting to surprise, to entertain, to teach, and to move not only us but generations of readers to come. A landmark collection, 20 Under 40 stands as a testament to the vitality of fiction today.
- Sales Rank: #87524 in Books
- Brand: Treisman, Deborah (EDT)
- Published on: 2010-11-23
- Released on: 2010-11-23
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.23" h x 1.22" w x 5.53" l, .92 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 448 pages
Review
“The sweep of the storytellers included on this list is extraordinary . . . These 20 stories reassure us of the vitality of fiction today and are a testament to its necessity.” ―Elizabeth Taylor, Chicago Tribune
“One volume, then, that hits it out of the park.” ―Jeff Simon, The Buffalo News
“[T]his anthology is oddly uplifting and often transcends both charm and precociousness. If this is the future, the kids are all right.” ―William J. Cobb, Dallas Morning News
“One can't predict how these writers will handle whatever fame and fortune come their way. But the talent on display - and what its editors refer to as the "clear sense of ambition" characterizing this volume's best selections - will spur any reader to reach back for what these writers already have done, while eagerly awaiting their work to come.” ―Mike Fischer, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel
“In 1999, the last time The New Yorker compiled a list of young writers destined to shake up the literary landscape, the names included Jonathan Franzen, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Diaz, Sherman Alexie, David Foster Wallace, Edwidge Danticat, Michael Chabon and George Saunders, all of whom subsequently made tremendous impressions on the world of arts and culture. There's no telling if the new crop of authors featured in 20 Under 40: Stories from The New Yorker will fare as well, but there's great promise in most of their stories gathered here . . . 20 Under 40 offers a unique perspective into the future of fiction.” ―Connie Ogle, Miami Herald
“Of the 20 writers whose short fiction Treisman has gathered here, all are extremely accomplished, even gifted, and some already have a following of devoted readers.” ―Alan Cheuse, NPR.org
“If anyone knows who's who in fiction, it's The New Yorker. So we're loving their new compilation of stories from their buzzy ‘20 Under 40'-- the young writers whose names will be on everyone's lips in the next few years, if they're not already.” ―Marie Claire
“We seem to have entered a golden age of the short-story anthology, if the proliferation of annual and themed collections is any indication.” ―Kirkus Reviews
“A terrific guide to good reading today. Get even if you subscribe to The New Yorker; great for reading groups, hungry literati, students, and naysayers who must be shown that fiction is not dead.” ―Barbara Hoffert, Library Journal
About the Author
Deborah Treisman has been the fiction editor of The New Yorker since 2003, and was deputy fiction editor for five years prior to that.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Birdsong Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
The woman, a stranger, was looking at me. In the glare of the hot afternoon, in the swirl of motorcycles and hawkers, she was looking down at me from the back seat of her jeep. Her stare was too direct, not sufficiently vacant. She was not merely resting her eyes on the car next to hers, as people often do in Lagos traffic; she was looking at me. At first, I glanced away, but then I stared back, at the haughty silkiness of the weave that fell to her shoulders in loose curls, the kind of extension called Brazilian Hair and paid for in dollars at Victoria Island hair salons; at her fair skin, which had the plastic sheen that comes from expensive creams; and at her hand, forefinger bejewelled, which she raised to wave a magazine hawker away, with the ease of a person used to waving people away. She was beautiful, or perhaps she was just so unusual-looking, with wide-set eyes sunk deep in her face, that “beautiful” was the easiest way of describing her. She was the kind of woman I imagined my lover’s wife was, a woman for whom things were done.
My lover. It sounds a little melodramatic, but I never knew how to refer to him. “Boyfriend” seemed wrong for an urbane man of forty-five who carefully slipped off his wedding ring before he touched me. Chikwado called him “your man,” with a faintly sneering smile, as though we were both in on the joke: he was not, of course, mine. “Ah, you are always rushing to leave because of this your man,” she would say, leaning back in her chair and smacking her head with her hand, over and over. Her scalp was itchy beneath her weave, and this was the only way she could come close to scratching it. “Have fun oh, as long as your spirit accepts it, but as for me, I cannot spread my legs for a married man.” She said this often, with a clear-eyed moral superiority, as I packed my files and shut down my computer for the day.
We were friends out of necessity, because we had both graduated from Enugu Campus and ended up working for Celnet Telecom, in Lagos, as the only females in the community-relations unit. Otherwise, we would not have been friends. I was irritated by how full of simplified certainties she was, and I knew that she thought I behaved like an irresponsible, vaguely foreign teen-ager: wearing my hair in a natural low-cut, smoking cigarettes right in front of the building, where everyone could see, and refusing to join in the prayer sessions our boss led after Monday meetings. I would not have told her about my lover—I did not tell her about my personal life—but she was there when he first walked into our office, a lean, dark man with a purple tie and a moneyed manner. He was full of the glossy self-regard of men who shrugged off their importance in a way that only emphasized it. Our boss shook his hand with both hands and said, “Welcome, sir, it is good to see you, sir, how are you doing, sir, please come and sit down, sir.” Chikwado was there when he looked at me and I looked at him and then he smiled, of all things, a warm, open smile. She heard when he said to our boss, “My family lives in America,” a little too loudly, for my benefit, with that generic foreign accent of the worldly Nigerian, which, I would discover later, disappeared when he became truly animated about something. She saw him walk over and give me his business card. She was there, a few days later, when his driver came to deliver a gift bag. Because she had seen, and because I was swamped with emotions that I could not name for a man I knew was wrong for me, I showed her the perfume and the card that said, “I am thinking of you.”
“Na wa! Look at how your eyes are shining because of a married man. You need deliverance prayers,” Chikwado said, half joking. She went to night-vigil services often, at different churches, but all with the theme Finding Your God-Given Mate; she would come to work the next morning sleepy, the whites of her eyes flecked with red, but already planning to attend another service. She was thirty-two and tottering under the weight of her desire: to settle down. It was all she talked about. It was all our female co-workers talked about when we had lunch at the cafeteria. Yewande is wasting her time with that man—he is not ready to settle down. Please ask him oh, if he does not see marriage in the future then you better look elsewhere; nobody is getting any younger. Ekaete is lucky, just six months and she is already engaged. While they talked, I would look out the window, high up above Lagos, at the acres of rusted roofs, at the rise and fall of hope in this city full of tarnished angels.
Even my lover spoke of this desire. “You’ll want to settle down soon,” he said. “I just want you to know I’m not going to stand in your way.” We were naked in bed; it was our first time. A feather from the pillow was stuck in his hair, and I had just picked it out and showed it to him. I could not believe, in the aftermath of what had just happened, both of us still flush from each other’s warmth, how easily the words rolled out of his mouth. “I’m not like other men, who think they can dominate your life and not let you move forward,” he continued, propping himself up on his elbow to look at me. He was telling me that he played the game better than others, while I had not yet conceived of the game itself. From the moment I met him, I had had the sensation of possibility, but for him the path was already closed, had indeed never been open; there was no room for things to sweep in and disrupt.
“You’re very thoughtful,” I said, with the kind of overdone mockery that masks damage. He nodded, as though he agreed with me. I pulled the covers up to my chin. I should have got dressed, gone back to my flat in Surulere, and deleted his number from my phone. But I stayed. I stayed for thirteen months and eight days, mostly in his house in Victoria Island—a faded-white house, with its quiet grandeur and airy spaces, which was built during British colonial rule and sat in a compound full of fruit trees, the enclosing wall wreathed in creeping bougainvillea. He had told me he was taking me to a Lebanese friend’s guesthouse, where he was staying while his home in Ikoyi was being refurbished. When I stepped out of the car, I felt as though I had stumbled into a secret garden. A dense mass of periwinkles, white and pink, bordered the walkway to the house. The air was clean here, even fragrant, and there was something about it all that made me think of renewal. He was watching me; I could sense how much he wanted me to like it.
“This is your house, isn’t it?” I said. “It doesn’t belong to your Lebanese friend.”
He moved closer to me, surprised. “Please don’t misunderstand. I was going to tell you. I just didn’t want you to think it was some kind of…” He paused and took my hand. “I know what other men do, and I am not like that. I don’t bring women here. I bought it last year to knock it down and build an apartment block, but it was so beautiful. My friends think I’m mad for keeping it. You know nobody respects old things in this country. I work from here most days now, instead of going to my office.”
We were standing by sliding glass doors that led to a veranda, over which a large flame tree spread its branches. Wilted red flowers had fallen on the cane chairs. “I like to sit there and watch birds,” he said, pointing.
He liked birds. Birds had always been just birds to me, but with him I became someone else: I became a person who liked birds. The following Sunday morning, on our first weekend together, as we passed sections of Next to each other in the quiet of that veranda, he looked up at the sky and said, “There’s a magpie. They like shiny things.” I imagined putting his wedding ring on the cane table so that the bird would swoop down and carry it away forever.
“I knew you were different!” he said, thrilled, when he noticed that I read the business and sports sections, as though my being different reflected his good taste. And so we talked eagerly about newspapers, and about the newscasts on AIT and CNN, marvelling at how similar our opinions were. We never discussed my staying. It was not safe to drive back to Surulere late, and he kept saying, “Why don’t you bring your things tomorrow so you can go to work from here?” until most of my clothes were in the wardrobe and my moisturizers were on the bathroom ledge. He left me money on the table, in brown envelopes on which he wrote “For your fuel,” as if I could possibly spend fifty thousand naira on petrol. Sometimes, he asked if I needed privacy to change, as if he had not seen me naked many times.
We did not talk about his wife or his children or my personal life or when I would want to settle down so that he could avoid standing in my way. Perhaps it was all the things we left unsaid that made me watch him. His skin was so dark that I teased him about being from Gambia; if he were a woman, I told him, he would never find a face powder that matched his tone. I watched as he carefully unwrapped scented moist tissues to clean his glasses, or cut the chicken on his plate, or tied his towel round his waist in a knot that seemed too elaborate for a mere towel, just below the embossed scar by his navel. I memorized him, because I did not know him. He was courtly, his life lived in well-oiled sequences, his cufflinks always tasteful.
His three cell phones rang often; I knew when it was his wife, because he would go to the toilet or out to the veranda, and I knew when it was a government official, because he would say afterward, “Why won’t these governors leave somebody alone?” But it was clear that he liked the governors’ calls, and the restaurant manager who c...
Most helpful customer reviews
15 of 18 people found the following review helpful.
Poor Editor's Choice or a Reflection of Society? Probably Both.
By J. Tyler
I read this book eagerly, then hopefully, and finally only with determination to finish what I had started. I would finish this book even though I didn't want to. Quick background info: The book is composed of 20 short stories written by various authors from as varying backgrounds as could be possible. Selections were made by editors of the "New Yorker."
Good: The stories make you think. They present the world in a challenging way. Time after time, characters in the stories make startling decisions that, almost inevitably, make you hope you would do better, be wiser.
Bad: Either the editors that chose the selections have a terrificly depressing world-view, or the current state of literary fiction and the people who comprise it have a negative bent. Without exception, every story in this book is depressing, and in some cases, horrifically so. There is no light to the darkness, no good to the bad. Humans are inherently mean, self-centered, evil, and devoid of concious, and in the rare case that an author in this compilation presents a character who is not those things, then that character is devastatingly ruined, either by external forces or people. Don't get me wrong, life is tragic, and in any good story tragedy must occur. But the good authors, and especially the great authors are always able to exact some salvation for the protagonists. Think "Anna Karenina" - even in her death a sense of redemption can be found. Think of "Oliver Twist." The scope of tragedy in that story outstrips any in this book, but in "Twist" not all is lost. Reading this book, though, there radiates only bleakness. Only tragedy, only horrible decisions. You don't even get the pleasure of seeing the failures engender learning. All but two of the stories are tragic, purely for tragedy's sake. And frankly, though I am by no means a major in modern english literature, the writing is standard, prosaic. Hardly evocative, barely setting the scene in most cases. Hollow. I hope the future of literary fiction doesn't rest on these twenty author's shoulders alone. No offense to them, and not having read any of their other works, I am hardly informed. But if these short stories are a reflection of their larger works and these twenty authors represent the best that can be harvested from the "up-and-comers," then the future of literary fiction is a drab, dark, despairing world indeed.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Not a feel-good book, if that's what you are after
By Amazon Customer
The stories are very well written. The talent of the authors is definitely not in question, but not a single story has a happy ending, many of them are horrifying, the rest just dark or depressing. It's fiction, but it had me thinking how people in real life are capable of some similarly horrible things, and there are several stories that are surprisingly disturbing in this book. Maybe that was the point. I kept reading to the end, holding out hope that there was going to be something positive in a story or two, but there was not.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
and they do that beautifully nearly every week
By Marc
I'd call this a mediocre list of writers in my [very humble] view. Of course, I don't read the New Yorker for it's short story selection--their mainstay, in my view, is the non-fiction piece, and they do that beautifully nearly every week. If you ascribe to their monotonous ilk of writers, then this is certainly for you. There are more interesting writers out there, but they certainly aren't being published in the New Yorker.
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