ABSTRACT
A recent cartoon in the New Yorker by the admirable Roz Chast epitomizes a certain distinct sensibility of the ’90s.3 We are shown a balding man from behind, seated at a table, looking at the obituary page of a newspaper which we also read (as it were) over his shoulder, just as one sneakily regards someone else’s newspaper on a subway train or in a crowded café. The dead are provided with summary features, but no names are given. Instead we read only: ‘Two Years Younger Than You,’ ‘Exactly Your Age’; ‘Three Years Your Junior’; ‘Twelve Years Older Than You’; ‘Five Years Your Senior’; and ‘Your Age On The Dot.’
