This story ends in its middle, and then it burrows into itself until it ends again. Time warps so pleasantly here and there’s a playful antagonism at play – Wolff’s protagonist is so dislikable his only hope is either being shot or redeemed with some injection of humanity. Both happen. Reading it is some good release.
First published in The New Yorker, September 17, 1995. Read here. Collected in Our Story Begins, Bloomsbury, 2008
A Personal Anthology 