The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Kevin Barry Reads V. S. Pritchett

The New Yorker: Fiction

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Prichard's Story Writing

I think this is her moment of becoming an artist, in a way. She wants to take all her gems and polished stones and pour them into missus corke's lap. And that's what her lies become. You know, he's so slippery, pritchet, as a story writer. On every sentence es he's shifting the meaning just a fractionn keeping you on your toes. He really was a master mea. A family man and true any story that people picked up. His last collection, i think, came out in 88 or 89, when he was 88 or 89. But it's just, is all true.

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