Good morning everyone. The short story in the latest New Yorker written by Jonathan Lethem is a startling pick for the magazine. When was the last time you read science-fiction in the New Yorker??
Told in a series of letters written by a female astronaut stranded in a space station to her signficant other, Chase living in New York, this excerpt is sure to get your day started on just the right depressing note!
We’re soaring atoms, Chase, that’s what orbit consists of, the inhuman hastening of infinitesimal specklike bodies through an awesome indifferent void, yet in our cramped homely craft, its rooms named to evoke childhood comforts, with our blobs of toothpaste drifting between our brushes and the mirror, our farts and halitosis filling the chambers with odor, we’ve defaulted to an illusion of substance. Inside Northern Lights, we’ve managed to kid ourselves that we exist, that we’re curvaceous or lumpy or angular, bristling with hair and snot, taking up a certain amount of room, and that space and time have generously accorded a margin in which we’re invited to operate these sizable greedy bodies of ours, a margin in which to dwell, to hang out and live our pale stinky stories.
Read story here.
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