Oct 1, 2025 · 49 min · 15 segments
Karen Russell joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss “The Stone,” by Louise Erdrich, which was published in The New Yorker in 2019. Russell is the author of six books of fiction, including the…
Karen RussellGuest
Deborah TreismanHostThe Stone.
Her family drove north every summer to stay at the end of an island in cold Lake Superior, and it was there that she found the stone.
She was wandering in the brush behind the cabin, uncurling ferns, kicking up leaves, snapping the heads off mushrooms.
Water had scoured two symmetrical hollows into the stone, giving it an owlish look, or a blind look, or anyway, some quality that was oddly attractive.
At first she was startled and a little spooked, but then she ran her hand over the stone and it felt like a normal stone.
The girl's mother called to her, and she got up, holding the stone, and carried it into the cabin.
At first, she put it beside her pallet in the bedroom she shared with her siblings.
But then, thinking that her brothers or her sister might take the stone, she tucked it right at the bottom of her sleeping bag.
That night, her feet rested on the cool curve of the stone, and she brushed the smooth eye sockets with her toes.
After a month, the family got ready to return to the city, and the girl put the stone in her backpack, which she kept at her feet for the whole long drive.
She did not let anyone else handle her pack, and when she got home, she went straight to her room, took the stone out, and set it on her nightstand, where there was also a digital clock and a pile of books.
She was old enough now to say goodnight to her mother and father before entering her room.
Her mother was not the type to go through her children's rooms often, or to clean for them, so school had started by the time her mother noticed the stone.
Did you find it there? The girl nodded, but her mother's remark gave her an uneasy feeling, and that night she put the stone at the bottom of her least-used drawer.
The Stone.
Her family drove north every summer to stay at the end of an island in cold Lake Superior, and it was there that she found the stone.
She was wandering in the brush behind the cabin, uncurling ferns, kicking up leaves, snapping the heads off mushrooms.
Water had scoured two symmetrical hollows into the stone, giving it an owlish look, or a blind look, or anyway, some quality that was oddly attractive.
At first she was startled and a little spooked, but then she ran her hand over the stone and it felt like a normal stone.
The girl's mother called to her, and she got up, holding the stone, and carried it into the cabin.
At first, she put it beside her pallet in the bedroom she shared with her siblings.
But then, thinking that her brothers or her sister might take the stone, she tucked it right at the bottom of her sleeping bag.
That night, her feet rested on the cool curve of the stone, and she brushed the smooth eye sockets with her toes.
After a month, the family got ready to return to the city, and the girl put the stone in her backpack, which she kept at her feet for the whole long drive.
She did not let anyone else handle her pack, and when she got home, she went straight to her room, took the stone out, and set it on her nightstand, where there was also a digital clock and a pile of books.
She was old enough now to say goodnight to her mother and father before entering her room.
Her mother was not the type to go through her children's rooms often, or to clean for them, so school had started by the time her mother noticed the stone.
Did you find it there? The girl nodded, but her mother's remark gave her an uneasy feeling, and that night she put the stone at the bottom of her least-used drawer.
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