The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Deborah Treisman Reads David Foster Wallace

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

He Was a Hypocrite, Like the Assyrians in Isaiah

The appointment was for afternoon, but when the door bell had rung so early and his motherd alled to him up the stairs, he had known. A terrible kind of blankness had commenced, falling through him. He might be somewhat of a hypocrite, like the assyrians in isaiah, which would be a far grave sin than the appointment he had decided. Lane said how sorry she knew he was, and that if he was wrong in believing they'd truly decided together when they decided to make the appointment, she should please tell him. Because he thought he knew how she must have felt as it got closer and closer, and how she must be so scared.

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