Lorrie Moore is back in the pages of The New Yorker. The last story she published in the magazine was “Referential,” back in 2012; “Referential” was a gloss on Nabokov’s “Symbols and Signs,” and I loved it (though other commenters did not).
In “Face Time” Moore seems to be addressing current horrors of dying remotely due to the coronavirus. Here’s how it begins:
I asked my father if he knew where he was and he said, “Kind of.”
“You are in the hospital. Your hip surgery went well. But there is a virus and you have been found to have it. You are contagious. No one can get near. It’s happening all over the world. You caught it in your assisted-living facility. The chef had it.”
I’m not sure I’m interested in a story about all of this at this time, so that’s all I’ve read. I have faith that Moore isn’t simply writing an emotional tale about something we’ve at least seen in the news if we haven’t lived through it ourselves, so I certainly am interested . . . just not on this particular day.
I’m definitely interested in your thoughts at any time you wish to leave them, though. Feel free to comment about the story below.