Shay Youngblood A breathless novel traces the footsteps of Langston Hughes and James Baldwin, but sidles around the topic of race. A self-revealing reflection on the sick fixations of the media elite stalls out. My therapist thinks my male pal dumped me because he has the hots for me. W e're guessing it will happen on Feb. 21. Those unaccountable lights burning in the magazine's old, abandoned digs, those strange chills passing through the Algonquin lobby.
Nobody knows for sure.
Some say this is what will happen. Others say otherwise. But there's something weird gathering, all right. Last year, as the New Yorker's 75th anniversary drew nearer, books on the magazine began arriving in stray bursts of two or three. As for the rest of these books, when you look at them alongside the New Yorker memoirs of years past, they don't have much new information to offer.