I’ve been working my way through the winter fiction issue of the New Yorker.  First, big ups to an excellent Adrian Tomine cover.  Second, as always, excellent critical work.  Third, man, that fiction doesn’t do it for me.  All respect to the top tomatos over at America’s finest magazine, but the trend of contemplative stories just ain’t floating my imagination boat.  I should emphasize this has nothing to do with the “international” part of the fiction, it’s the fiction part.  The stories in this collection had a similar tone, slow to build, small actions, tense relationships, etc.  More later.