Woody Allen in The New Yorker

Great little story by Woody in this week's New Yorker...I like his writing better than his films at this point.

Twenty years in the homicide division of the N.Y.P.D. and, brother, you’ve seen everything. Like when some Wall Street broker juliennes his little petit four over who gets to work the channel changer, or this lovesick rabbi decides to end it all by salting his beard with anthrax and inhaling. That’s why when someone reported a dead body on Riverside Drive at Eighty-third with no bullet holes, no stab wounds, and no signs of struggle I didn’t freak to some film-noir conclusion but put it down to one of the thousand natural shocks the Bard claims the flesh is heir to but don’t ask me which one.

more....
http://www.newyorker.com/shouts/content/articles/061002sh_shouts