Wesley Yang, on the Paris Review blog, must have been to my room:
Bare cream walls, four Ikea Billy bookshelves of pressed chipboard—three of them white, one of them black—with the cardboard back hanging precariously by extruded nails.... Eleven liquor boxes of unpacked books stacked on the tops of the shelves: Georgi Vodka, Hennessy Privilege, Columbia Winery. A desk in a grotesque orange veneer with one side constantly slipping out, requiring a periodic succession of quick sideways hammer-fist blows to hold it in place, trash-picked off the corner of Clinton and Park Avenues.... A dresser in the cheapest marmalade veneer extant with shelves that sit crooked in their rolling slats, imperfectly controlled by knobs whose naked screws, between the knobs and the shelves, are visible. The dresser was donated to me by means of a Facebook status update—not the least of the many valuable things I have acquired through social networking.
His fairly stunning, yet also totally inevitable conclusion:
These are the material surroundings of the child of Korean immigrants who has deviated from the script.
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