A genius, nutty Princeton student analyzed nine years of New Yorker fiction, and found it, well, a little boyish, East Coasty, and insular. Heh. Really?

The best part: Bill Buford, former fiction editor of the New Yorker, claims in response that "As a fiction editor, you are really on the receiving end of other people's agenda. You choose from what you are sent."

So we're a little confused why Buford used to get paid approximately one bajillion dollars while he was fiction editor of the New Yorker. (And, what about those Concorde tickets?) To take his word, he was a mere functionary — his sole job to pluck the whitest of the white men from the meager stack of manuscripts that he was allowed to see.
New Yorker Fiction, By the Numbers [NYT]