It seems like every three stories or so in The New Yorker now revolve around some love affair. I'm curious why this is. The stories aren't bad, McGuane's writing is good and a quick, pleasing read, but I'm just confused why this topic is so beaten to death. Is there nothing else to write about these days? Is this that all readers can really relate to? There is just so many love-affair stories that they are all blending together.

Maybe it's because it's the thing that people most relate to. We are in a time in our society where marriage is now supposed to be 100% based on love. I think this is causing problems in people's psyche, because although they might love and respect their partners, culture tells them that they should always be head-over-heels-in-love. It's a weird fascination with modern art that I just can't understand too much. To live a healthy and fulfilling live, there are so many other issues, but I think what people grasp onto is that of love and relationships.

This is shown in Roger completely leaving his job and career and spending most of his time at the bar. When the narrator and Roger meet up and discuss Joan's death, all the narrator can think about is Roger asking about their love affair. In here is a contemplation of suicide, but it's sparked by some disasterous form of love that was apparently Roger's whole life's mission. Maybe McGuane is warning not to focus too much on it, but the topic is still about it, and I'll just kind of slate this story as another-one-of-those.