You find yourself regularly reaching for the book to squash the silverfish in your apartment.
You keep having to reread the first chapter because you've been distracted by an article about Gary Oldman's movies, ranked from best to worst.
You're ten pages into the book and think a murder investigation would really liven things up right about now. (You are reading "Little Women.") You're twenty minutes into reading the book and just now realize you've been asleep the whole time.
You're twenty years into reading the book and it's the only book that hasn't been burned or rewritten by our robot overlords, and yet you still can't seem to get emotionally invested in the story.
This story is from the April 01, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the April 01, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
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