The New Yorker Archives Open Through Fall

July 23, 2014

The-new-yorker-logoWith the launch of their new website The New Yorker has opened its entire archives since 2007, which will remain available until the fall. This isn’t new news, the announcement was made two days ago, but we’re chiming in with a direct link to all the available fiction as well as links to a few favorites.

140609_r25119-320“You Can Find Love Now” by Ramona Ausubel

You are lonely, but you don’t have to be. You have so many great qualities! Just think of all the single ladies out there who are waiting to hear from you. Whether you are looking for lasting love or just a little fun, this is the only guide to online dating you’ll ever need. Within the hour, you’ll be on your way to eternal happiness!  Read more >>


140623_r25156-320“Madame Lazarous” by Maile Meloy

Many years ago, after I retired from the bank, James brought a small terrier to our apartment in Paris. I told him I did not want it. I knew he was trying to keep me occupied, and it is a ridiculous thing, to have a dog. Maybe one day you rise from bed and say, “I would like to pick up five thousand pieces of shit.” Well, then, I have just the thing for you. And for a man to have a small dog—it makes you a fool. Read more >>

140609_r25122-320“The Bad Graft” by Karen Russell

The land looked flattened, as if by a rolling pin. All aspects, all directions. On either side of Highway 62, the sand cast up visions of evaporated civilizations, dissolved castles that lay buried under the desert. Any human eye, goggled by a car’s windshield, can graft such fantasies onto the great Mojave. And the girl and the boy in the Dodge Charger were exceptionally farsighted. Mirages rose from the boulders, a flume of dream attached to real rock. Read more >>


140317_r24742-320“The Relive Box” by TC Boyle

Katie wanted to relive Katie at nine, before her mother left, and I could appreciate that, but we had only one console at the time, and I really didn’t want to go there. It was coming up on the holidays, absolutely grim outside, nine-thirty at night—on a school night—and she had to be up at six to catch the bus in the dark.  Read more >>


140505_r24959-320“The Naturals” by Sam Lipsyte

Caperton’s stepmother, Stell, called.

“Your father,” Stell said.

“Larry?” Caperton said.

“He’s dying. You can say Dad.”  

For the full New Yorker Fiction Archive, click here.


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