"I know, but this was a dream," he said patiently, and she can see the white hairs on the insides of his thighs, where the muscles are wasted and starved. Once he played tennis, but those days are done. She thinks, with a viciousness that is entirely unlike her, You will have a heart attack, white man, that's what will finish you, and maybe they'll discuss giving you an obit in the Times, but if a B-movie actress from the fifties died that day, or a semi-famous ballerina from the forties, you won't even get that.Re-read Stephen King's short story 'Harvey's Dream', from last month's New Yorker. It's good. It was one of his explorations of suburbia he does every so often (most notably in The Regulators, which is a novel I'm not too keen on), and a look at the thinness of life. Also, spooky dreams and the occasional pop-culture reference (does the Emperor of Ice Cream count as pop-culture?) There was a little more politics than usual, which was interesting, and fitted well. Maybe it was only that there's a little more politics that I'm familiar with, since of course some of his early novels (The Dead Zone in particular), were very much concerned with that sort of thing.
I liked it. Hopefully when the next collection comes out, I won't have already read all the decent stories (that's what happened to Nightmares and Dreamscapes).
As for the New Yorker itself, it's a strange beast. Had some potentially interesting articles (on Ang Lee and Donald Rumsfeld), which just seemed too long. Good piece on the whole Jayson Blair thing at the NY Times, though. Good cartoons, too. Here's one you probably don't need the picture for:
"Damn it, Persky! I ask you for a fiercely choreographed rite of destruction and rebirth, and you give me a febrile study of dehumanised angst."