Here is a link to a short story Woody Allen wrote for The New Yorker in 2009. I had not known of its existence until I came across it on the Internet today, which I’m glad I did.
(SIDENOTE: For some reason, I’ve had Allen on the brain lately, as evidenced by my recent review of his movie Interiors on this blog. My interest in him was probably rekindled by my recent read of David Evanier’s biography of him. I’ve had a touch-and-go interest in Allen for the past couple of decades. I was a rabid fan of all of his work when I was younger. My interest waned after his 1992 controversies about his alleged molestation of his adopted daughter Dylan and his controversial relationship with one of Mia Farrow’s daughters, and for years my interest petered out altogether after a long string of Allen movies featuring elitist characters in whom I had not the slightest interest.
I have voluminous opinions about these Allen-related incidents, and I’d be glad to share them on this blog if anyone cares. In the end, all I can say with certainty is that, as an artist, Allen has at least been true to himself for all of his career, not taking the easy money to pander to any audience.)
In any case, if you’re at all a Woody Allen fan, please read the short story to which I’ve linked. It’s a terrific, darkly comic look at the injustice of life, and it should make you laugh uproariously, as his best work has always made me do.