#david-remnick

#david-remnick

One, this is just a headline from people magazine, quote, The biggest bombshells from RFK Jr.'s diaries: slicing off a raccoon's penis, flying with Epstein and listing the women he bedded.

During the run-through, he said softly into the mike, 'There's no way to rehearse this in the studio.' It was after hours, but the dances are designed to be performed when the library is packed.

In a bustling Boston café, Charlie is instantly smitten with Emma, who is quietly reading a novel. He approaches her, gushing about the book, only to realize she hasn't heard him.

Preston's reliance on A.I. and his use of unattributed work by another writer was deemed a clear violation of the Times's standards, leading to his dismissal.

If you don't read Nellie Bowles every Friday, you are leading a sad, barren, and empty existence. Everything she does is funny and wise. Her columns have the exact spirit of the 70's writers whom I adored and who were so damn funny-and also deeply in the know. She has been described as the lovechild of Tom Wolfe and Joan Didion and the funniest writer in America.

"Race Against Time: A Reporter Reopens the Unsolved Murder Cases of the Civil Rights Era" quickly became one of my favorite nonfiction books written by a journalist. I appreciated how he showed the grueling, day-to-day work local journalism requires, and how many layers of people fought him in revealing the despicable work of the Ku Klux Klan.

I take no pleasure in saying "I told you so." Really, I don't. But I was hardly shocked by this week's news that Tina Rivers Ryan, who was named editor-in-chief of Artforum in 2024 after the dumpster fire that was the magazine's handling of an open letter in support of Gaza, was stepping down (Daniel Wenger and Rachel Wetzler will step in as co-editors, scrapping the editor-in-chief title altogether).

Dilara, the protagonist of this début novel, is consumed by the absence of a stable home in her life. She and her family flee Turkey, where she is from, after a failed coup in 2016. When they end up in Italy, something inexplicable happens: Dilara's bathroom transforms into a cell in an infamous prison on the outskirts of Istanbul.

What does it mean to subscribe to something? Whether we mean a belief or a magazine, the definition is complicated. I began subscribing to The New Yorker when I was a sophomore in college; more than 30 years later, I have yet to stop and I feel strongly that I never will. Yet during some of those years-okay, many of them-the weekly issues have piled up in my home and gone mostly unread between biannual days of bingeing and purging. If these reading habits could somehow be converted into digital clicks, the resulting "traffic report" might look like I don't want the product at all.

A crack of thunder, a flash of light, and a sulfurous mist flooded my apartment. Marax, President of Hell, stood before me. Marax entered my summoning circle, eyes burning with unholy fire, and I gave him the stack of homework to flip through while I brushed my teeth. Marax marked up the papers and fleshed out my bullet points into thoughtful feedback before I even got to my molars. Then-three hours of my life, saved!-I banished him back to Hell.

We meet him as a Gumby-like figure, asleep on a dirt floor, with only a jug of water and a toy horse. He has no idea how he got there. When he's around seventeen years old, Kaspar meets his captor, rendered in the book as a shadowy, hatch-marked father: "The Man in Black." The man teaches him to write his name; he teaches him to take a few fumbling goose steps outside.

In this collection of essays, reported pieces, and criticism dating back to the nineteen-seventies, Frazier's sharp eye for finding the complex in the quotidian is on full display. From tales about monster trucks and the Maraschino-cherry empire to musings about lantern flies and Lolita, the collection-much of which was published in this magazine-spotlights the vibrancy of topics often under-noticed. In the playful and diligent hands of the seasoned staff writer, these ordinary things feel extraordinary.

A writer is a kind of magician. Their job is to create living, three-dimensional people out of the ordinary stuff of ink and paper. This is no easy task, because readers can't literally hear, touch, or observe a character. Everything that defines a human being in real life-the physical space they occupy, or how they smell, feel, and sound-is stripped away, replaced by description. But authors have one major, mystical advantage: They can show you what's happening inside of someone's brain.