I read this story by Ben Marcus on the way home from the city. I don’t really like short stories all that much, but I loved this one. In part because it was like a novel in a nutshell. Partly because I felt tense the entire time I was reading it. I also thought that the details had god in them; the narration so assured I did’t need to worry. And most of all it felt real.
Is is real or is it Memorex?
Filed under: fiction, Short stories, The New Yorker, Writing | Tagged: Ben Marcus, The New Yorker, writing | 9 Comments »
Betsy Lerner 