يحاولGOLD- Free

YOU TELL ME
The New Yorker|March 18, 2024
Why Percival Everett cant say what his novels mean.
- MAYA BINYAM
YOU TELL ME

In a narrow, windowless room at the University of Southern California, a group of graduate students is workshopping a short story. Its author is silent as her classmates deliver gentle feedback. Some suggest minor improvements of pacing, setting, and tone. One student would appreciate a more robust description of the protagonist’s emotions, but enjoys the sparseness, too. “I like this version,” another adds. “I don’t think I have much in the way of critique.”

While they speak, their professor, the novelist Percival Everett, sits quietly at the head of a too-large table, one palm steadied against it, his body swivelling almost imperceptibly from side to side. His head, decorated with errant coils of dark gray hair, is framed by a gargantuan television that hangs behind him, its screen a black expanse. He wears the uniform of a professional Everyman: slacks, button-down, glasses. He talks at a low volume, but the sounds he makes have the electric quality of speech being filtered through a mike.

“I think you guys must be a whole lot smarter than me,” he says, pushing his glasses to his forehead. “Because I’m just a dumb old cowboy, and I can’t figure out what’s going on.”

هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة March 18, 2024 من The New Yorker.

ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.

هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة March 18, 2024 من The New Yorker.

ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.

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