In which Peter Stevenson is (briefly)
Gay Talese, and Christopher Walken
is Frank Sinatra

For me, the best non-fiction writing is the stuff that leaves you wondering, is the writer really that good, or the subject just so interesting, that anyone could write well about it? A case in point – and an indication that however by-the-(boring)-book its fiction, and political pieces, might be, the New Yorker is still worth reading – is Peter Stevenson’s account of his brief jaunt through Astoria with Christopher Walken.