I’m afraid I’ve just continued to drift away from one of my favorite short story writers, and I’m not sure it’s his fault because, in retrospect, this is a pretty nicely executed story, even if I found it a bit predictable and Saunders’ style and structure familiar as to him (not as to others, since I still think Saunders has his own strangeness). I started this story on Monday morning and felt like I was making steady progress, but it took me three days to actually finish it. Where I once looked forward to his stories in The New Yorker, and have recommended his earlier story collections to others, I was a bit saddened when I saw his name in this week’s issue. I have been having a hard time with George Saunders lately. "Tenth of December" by George Saunders Originally published in the Octoissue of The New Yorker.
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