New Yorker staff writer, Vogue contributing editor, semi-pro eavesdropper, overcaffeinated earth child.
Now writing THE PRIVATE ORDER for Penguin Press.
Just a reminder that my courteous, well-dressed, low-volume newsletter—announcing new pieces of my writing, my occasional public appearances, and nothing else—has been compelled to change platforms. It is now on Substack, and you can sign up here.
Story of a 66-year-old researcher, an immigrant, who rarely got grants, never got her own lab, never earned more than $60K. For four decades, she kept working on mRNA—a path considered foolish. Her work is the basis for the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines.
Because Biden has spoken publicly about trying to manage his stutter, I feel comfortable noting, as another person with a stutter: there is no greater nightmare than this. None. If he makes it to the end of this standing, he has steel in his bones.
Your annual reminder that Feinstein discovered Harvey Milk's dead body, had her house bomb-rigged and shot at, went against the CIA in investigating U.S. torture practices, etc. She is eighty-six and still tough as nails.
Sen. Dianne Feinstein says IG report "conclusively refutes" claims of political motivation by Pres. Trump, Attorney General Barr.
"There is no Deep State. Simply put, the FBI investigation was motivated by facts, not bias."
For a decade, humanities enrollment has plummeted. What’s going on? In this week’s
@NewYorker
, I report at two campuses—ASU and Harvard—and ask “what it might mean to graduate a college generation with less education in the human past” than any before.
The morning after the House passed infrastructure, I met Congressman Jamie Raskin at home for
@voguemagazine
. Raskin was in the Capitol with his family on January 6, a few days after his son’s suicide. From there, he immediately led the second impeachment.
Just discovered that my sister, when she makes a grocery list, pre-organizes it by likely location in the supermarket. No mind could be more different.
@jackshafer
Though there’s a difference between stones smoothed over by generations of human touch and a bit of quartz coming down the conveyor belt from the auto-mining of the quarry.
In this week's
@NewYorker
, I have what may be the most unusual, and personal, essay I've published. It's a memoir about California and family over decades. It's an urban history. It's an account of one path toward the American present. It's a love story.
This is an astonishing protest speech—not least because of the way it uses the national cameras and the crowd and frames itself to cut through expectation. The fact it was conceived—and dared—by a high-schooler is just breathtaking.
Olivia Colman's career didn't really take off until she was in her forties. Aside from being a real actor, she's carving out a path for actresses who, a while back, would have thought the window closed if they didn't break through as an ingenue.
So, I got laid off late last week as part of the ABC News layoffs. I won’t lie, it was a bit of a surprise, but if anything 2020 has been perspective-setting & I’m grateful for the past 5 years, if a little sad. So...onward. Some of my best work follows. (Hi, editors!) 1/
The state of California is the world’s fifth-largest economy and the seat of the tech industry, the entertainment industry, and, at the moment, Democratic institutional policy. Coverage matters. The L.A. Times’ mass layoff of more than a hundred journalists should raise alarms.
One of my extremely august New Yorker colleagues told me on our first meeting that after years of reading my writing she expected a much shorter man. I think about this once or twice a month.
Homelessness in America is usually written in pieces—this experience, that cause, such aid—but that’s not the nature of the problem or its intractability. In this week’s
@NewYorker
, I look at the ecosystem as a whole, focussed on one city: San Francisco.
Advice to young writers: never outline anything. Terrible idea. Every few years, I get weak and decide I’m going to outline something. I always end up losing time sorting out the mess the outline made.
In this week's
@NewYorker
, I report from San Francisco, which, in the eyes of the national press, went from metropolitan ideal to urban nightmare in suspiciously short order. What's actually going on?
The details of this photograph—the empty seats on the couch, the cameras all looking past her, the foregrounded yellow roses (which traditionally mean "cheer up" or "I'm sorry")—are quite extraordinary. That this was selected as her official birthday photo is perhaps more so.
Here's to a Better 2019 Dept.: In the first
@NewYorker
of the new year, I profile the philosopher Elizabeth Anderson, who has worked for decades to repair the structure of democratic culture among people predisposed to disagree.
There's a weird social fashion in a certain cultural and professional caste in San Francisco right now where San Francisco is supposed to be described as the worst place, a nightmare city. I have lived in a number of places and visited many more. This is a very strange narrative.
Almost exactly ten years ago I was working in a cubicle when mail from a NYer editor landed in my Outlook. They’d been reading—might I want to try a Critics piece on Pauline Kael? Five thousand words, say what you see fit, deliver in a month. Life-changing e-mail. It’s still fun.
In honor of Roger Angell, who turns 99 today, revisit his moving 2014 essay on aging. “Getting old is the second-biggest surprise of my life,” he writes, “but the first, by a mile, is our unceasing need for deep attachment and intimate love.”
Notable that one hears less from the moving-to-Texas-for- low-taxes-and-deregulation people when they can't leave home because the roads haven't been plowed, can't use the water because the processing plants are failing, can't boil the water because the grid was never winterized.
The degree to which coverage is focussed on what the President is saying about coronavirus—it’s too much. It isn’t the main story. To the extent that what he’s saying seems largely to fluctuate with his mood, it’s not even clear that it’s A story.
Hemingway is one of those constantly misread writers, in that people think his literary innovation had something to do with the machismo character he put on in life. No relation. The point when that persona seeped into the work is when the work ceased to be remarkable.
It is really genuinely strange that the defining Republican position in this election is “We do not take health and sanitation precautions during a pandemic.”
@jelani9
Thanks to the proliferation of checkout apps, there’s also huge expansion in pre-tipping—tipping for something that hasn’t happened yet—which makes it less a responsive gesture of gratitude and more transparently a topping-up of insufficient wages.
A notable thing about Le Carré's work is that it elevated espionage and geopolitics by deglamorizing it, bringing it down to the level of any enterprise—the office politics, the plodding and hapless employees. He showed it to be human, and in that sense a fit literary subject.
Let’s start with a topic we rarely hear about: the Oxford comma! We say: Use commas to separate elements in a series, but do not put a comma before the conjunction in most simple series: The flag is red, white and blue. He would pick Deb, Xin, Lou or Alfredo.
#APStyleChat
(1/9)
A lot of medical professionals on here seem baffled by the decision to give the President of the United States a high dose of a drug still in testing. (It just came out of a trial with 275 people.)
WORRIED—you almost **never ever** give someone a clinically untested drug like
@Regeneron
’s polyclonal antibody drug—unless it’s for compassionate use for someone severely ill, or you’re crazy. Right
@VincentRK
? This smacks of utter craziness or desperation.
#COVID19
#TrumpCovid
Writing is a great career for anyone who would like to recreate the feeling of having a term paper due the next day every day for the rest of your life.
Imagine a thriving techie nation where you control your personal information, where records (medical, financial, traffic) are on one platform, where founders and engineers flee industry for government. In the "World Changers"
@NewYorker
, I go to Estonia.
I'm not one of these people who think that certain things happen only in New York (they don't), but I did just watch someone at the mouth of the subway try to squeeze a border collie into a literary tote bag.
The New Yorker is an exquisitely special magazine, and its specialness emerges largely from the work of the people in this nascent union (which doesn't include us writers). It protects journalism when jobs that protect high quality have structural value and protection themselves.
No greater feat for a nonfiction writer than to invent a way of seeing and saying that renders a whole constellation of illuminating, not obvious, and previously unrenderable relationships—and to do it in a way that’s utterly distinctive but unoccluded by ego. RIP Janet Malcolm.
In this week's
@NewYorker
, I profile the remarkable director Luca Guadagnino, as he goes from "Call Me by Your Name" to "Suspiria"—a horror movie about motherhood and wartime guilt that he planned for more than thirty years.
This from "Charlotte's Web"—a kids' book!—is a one-paragraph masterclass. He builds the scene in order: from the basic first perception to sensory facts, general feeling, and finally details. He pulls out the time axis ("whenever"), then brings us back to baseline ("But mostly").
Imagine being in the oceans in the seventeenth century and still being around the place in 2019, when it's suddenly filled with junk and industrial nets and huge propellers.
Today’s placement is indeed embarrassing for the paper. She’s first U.S. poet ever to win the award; it’s an item in the middle of the brief box at the foot of the front.
When I was in high school there was a required English class called Critical Thinking, the theme of which was basically How To Know When You’re Being Had Intellectually. The class was phased out at the end of the two-thousands. I think about this constantly.
“I’m just a regular kid, and in a short amount of time, Joe Biden made me more confident about something that’s bothered me my whole life. Joe Biden cared.”
– Brayden Harrington
#DemConvention
Something fishy about Americans purporting to be so insanely busy, never having time for anything, then seeming to consume some fifty hours of podcasts and streaming series a week.
This is the poem I always think of when I think of Ferlinghetti, not least because I first read it in the City Lights poetry room, whose window always somehow frames the most San Franciscan kind of San Francisco light.
I’m happy to have a couple of stories on this list, but even more I’m struck by how many of these pieces are large, involved, patient, literary in concern, and off the main path. When people with shiny smiles tell you nobody is interested in reading anymore—don’t believe them.
It’s that time of year again. Here’s our list of the 25 most popular
@NewYorker
stories of the year. The list comes with my usual short reflection. My theme this year: news fatigue.
Harvard has just announced that it will conduct the whole 2020-2021 school year online. Incidentally I wrote about online education at Harvard, in its incipient stages, for The
@NewYorker
years ago.
In the
@NewYorker
I profile the director James Gray, who went from Little Odessa to Ad Astra: a huge film about Brad Pitt in space and, oddly, Gray's most personal. It's a profile about making art in the 21st century. Reporting began two years ago on set.
Standing tall over the harbor, her arm aloft, Lady Liberty says, Our apartments are very expensive. You probably can't afford to live here. "Please consider another city as you make your decision about where to settle in the U.S."
Dr. Ford's sense of civic duty can't be over-commended. She didn't have to do this. She's effectively putting herself in the line of fire to help the government realize its highest putative virtues.
I think of what E. B. White wrote on the moon landing, one of the most enduring things written to commemorate the occasion. Here is the whole of what he wrote.
It's truly embarrassing the degree to which my entire mood and outlook on life seems to depend on my current feelings about the state of whatever I'm writing.
Few things more disgusting to watch in metropolitan leadership than a city smothering its public library system to get a couple of coins—less than a third of a percent of the budget—in hand today.
NYC's public libraries will face Saturday closures, restricted weekday hours, cuts to educational programs and a freeze on new branch openings under cuts proposed by Mayor Adams.
A wise person once told me that when a man buys a boat it is because he is having, or wants to have, an affair, and it’s funny that the principle seems to have held even for Jeff Bezos.
If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you 3/547th times: 236/25 as much testing means 27/74 cases. Cut testing by 1/87th, and cases decrease by 𝛑/74 per cent. Not reported!
The worst news. I got to work with Agger at both Slate and the NYer over fifteen years. I’ve never met an editor with a better sense of how to make the old energy of print sing and speed in a digitally native form. Also—no joke—the calmest, sanest, most easygoing colleague ever.
Airport border control wanted to know what I write about, and what the word count on a New Yorker piece is. The answer was so long and qualified I was waved on.
A marvellous job at The New Yorker which, for those with preëxisting knowledge and a focussed mind, insures the sort of happiness that only gods, gambolling teen-agers, and ice-cream venders know.
Not sure which is better: the old way, where you did a typo, or the new way, where you must type the correct word three times under a full moon before autocorrect lets it pass.
In this week's
@NewYorker
, I have what seemed to me an urgent piece. It's about attention (why we're losing it, how to get it back). But it's also about coming together, a secret international order, and what happens between a person and a work of art.
A decade ago, when I was an even younger and callower writer, there were a bunch of magazine journalists whose sentences and paragraphs I’d study to figure out how they were put together. Ian Frazier is a writer whose sentences I find myself studying now.
More and more people are falling off social media, so I'm trying something. Here's a link to a newsletter with one purpose: directing my published writing into your inbox. Low volume, nothing to read but the thing itself, introduced in a couple of lines.
This is not just the best possible outcome; it is a truly fantastic outcome. Emily Greenhouse, the NYer's managing ed, is one of the smartest, wisest, and gentlest people in publishing. Actually, one of the smartest, wisest, and gentlest people, full stop.
In this week’s
@NewYorker
, I assess our decade of VENTURE CAPITAL. Discussed: postwar federal subsidies; whales; mail-order underwear; your annoyance at pop-up subscription windows; the golden thread that binds them.