Isn't there something someone can do about the miserable fiction published in The New Yorker.

I am wondering whether there isn't something someone can do
about the miserable fiction published nine out of ten times
in The New Yorker.

There YOU are, reviewing first rate fiction
of all kinds, and doing so on a fine high level, and then there
is the dissonance that your and a few other's writing produces
 with stuff as in the issue of May 13 by one
Fiona McFarlane where one finds the dear woman writing,
no doubt in all innocence, sentences, dialogue as in the center
column of that story on page 59. 
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2013/05/13/130513fi_fiction_mcfarlane
The drearily boring and fraudulent
procedure of dialogue cum omnicient reflection I take it is probably
still appreciated by certain kinds of daft readers, and perhaps
the New Yorker uses its fiction to angle for them. However, I can't
imagine anyone for whom fiction is important even bothering after
being subjected to what the magazine puts out in that respect.
Sincerely,
Michael Roloff