Paul Yoon Reads Fiona McFarlane
Jul 1, 2026 · 1 hr 2 min · 13 segments
Paul Yoon joins Deborah Treisman to discuss “Hostel,” by Fiona McFarlane, which was published in *The New Yorker* in…
- Speakers
Paul YoonGuest
Deborah TreismanHost
Jul 1, 2026 · 1 hr 2 min · 13 segments
Paul Yoon joins Deborah Treisman to discuss “Hostel,” by Fiona McFarlane, which was published in *The New Yorker* in…
Paul YoonGuestDeborah TreismanHost
I've never told my husband this story, but I suppose I will eventually, on some sticky night in, say, February, as we lie naked in bed with the ceiling fan set at its highest speed.
We'll be waiting for a storm to bluster in from the south, and I'll see the relevant part of him lying flushed and heavy against his thigh, and I'll think about how I'd consider taking it in my mouth if the room were cooler by as little as two degrees.
That will remind me of Roy and his wife, and I'll feel like talking about them, and I'll start by telling my husband that I used to know this couple who, on learning they were going to have a baby, began taking long walks together in the evening.
It would be hard, though, not to reveal Roy's, which seemed almost to have shaped his personality.
His given name, much to his embarrassment, was Royal, and in defiance of his parents' grandiosity, he cultivated an unroyal persona.
He lived his life, at least his public social life, as if he were answering a survey about it.
The trouble was that he took his humility to such lengths that he actually came across in the end as kingly, detached, benevolent, devoid of individuality.
A polite king, I mean, who coexists with a constitution and whose irrelevance now and then sparks a complicated optimism about the possibility of a republic.
A name like this reveals nothing about her except perhaps that she was pretty and athletic.
The evening walks were a response to Mandy's fear that pregnancy might change her body.
They'd bought a tall, shuttered terrace house in North Newtown and fitted it with many skylights so that sunlight filtered down like luminous smoke through the stairwells and woke them each morning from a gleaming square above their bed.
I've never told my husband this story, but I suppose I will eventually, on some sticky night in, say, February, as we lie naked in bed with the ceiling fan set at its highest speed.
We'll be waiting for a storm to bluster in from the south, and I'll see the relevant part of him lying flushed and heavy against his thigh, and I'll think about how I'd consider taking it in my mouth if the room were cooler by as little as two degrees.
That will remind me of Roy and his wife, and I'll feel like talking about them, and I'll start by telling my husband that I used to know this couple who, on learning they were going to have a baby, began taking long walks together in the evening.
It would be hard, though, not to reveal Roy's, which seemed almost to have shaped his personality.
His given name, much to his embarrassment, was Royal, and in defiance of his parents' grandiosity, he cultivated an unroyal persona.
He lived his life, at least his public social life, as if he were answering a survey about it.
The trouble was that he took his humility to such lengths that he actually came across in the end as kingly, detached, benevolent, devoid of individuality.
A polite king, I mean, who coexists with a constitution and whose irrelevance now and then sparks a complicated optimism about the possibility of a republic.
A name like this reveals nothing about her except perhaps that she was pretty and athletic.
The evening walks were a response to Mandy's fear that pregnancy might change her body.
They'd bought a tall, shuttered terrace house in North Newtown and fitted it with many skylights so that sunlight filtered down like luminous smoke through the stairwells and woke them each morning from a gleaming square above their bed.
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