The New Yorker

The New Yorker July 29, 2019

Founded in 1925, The New Yorker publishes the best writers of its time and has received more National Magazine Awards than any other magazine, for its groundbreaking reporting, authoritative analysis, and creative inspiration. The New Yorker takes readers beyond the weekly print magazine with the web, mobile, tablet, social media, and signature events. The New Yorker is at once a classic and at the leading edge.

United States
Conde Nast US
47 期号



Jane Mayer (“The Case of Al Franken,” p. 30), The New Yorker’s chief Washington correspondent, is the author of “Dark Money: The Hidden History of the Billionaires Behind the Rise of the Radical Right.” Nathan Heller (“Driven,” p. 24), a staff writer, has contributed to the magazine since 2011. He is at work on a book about the Bay Area. Jill Lepore (“Ahab at Home,” p. 46) is a professor of history at Harvard. Her books include “This America” and “These Truths.” Carrie Battan (Pop Music, p. 68) began contributing to the magazine in 2015 and became a staff writer last year. Jelani Cobb (Comment, p. 13) teaches in the journalism program at Columbia. Naomi Shihab Nye (Poem, p. 56) teaches at Texas State University. Her latest poetry collections are “The Tiny Journalist” and “Voices…

the mail

THE WOMAN WITHIN As a woman with recurrent cancer—and now without breasts, a uterus, a cervix, ovaries, or fallopian tubes—I believe that I have the authority to say that you are more than the sum of your body parts. And so I cannot give in to the anger that Sarah Manguso and Darcey Steinke seem to feel about the loss of “privileged, fertile womanhood,” as expressed in Manguso’s review of Steinke’s book about menopause (Books, June 24th). Thanks to a newfound sense of freedom, the past few years have been the happiest of my life: every second counts as my world morphs, and I with it. My breasts, youth, and fertility carried enormous, overwhelming power that separated me from myself. If I feel any rage about losing those things, it is…

goings on about town: this week

Langston Hughes’s “The Black Clown,” from 1931, specifies that the speaker appear in “the white suit and hat of a clown,” establishing minstrelsy as his point of entry to American life. In Michael Schachter and Davóne Tines’s music-theatre adaptation, at the Mostly Mozart Festival July 24-27, Tines doesn’t wear the costume but exorcises the degradations it represents, drawing strength from twelve singers and dancers (including Jamar Williams, Hailee Kaleem Wright, and Jhardon Dishon, above) and the bittersweet strains of vaudeville and the blues. ART “Apollo’s Muse” Metropolitan Museum This absorbing exhibition celebrates the fiftieth anniversary of Apollo 11’s moon landing, largely through photographs. Chronologically organized, it begins before the advent of photography, when Galileo’s seventeenth-century drawings (based on his observations through a homemade telescope) shattered the Western world’s image of the moon as a…

tables for two: the fulton

The journey to the Fulton, the latest Jean-Georges Vongerichten creation, which occupies two floors of Pier 17, at the newly reborn South Street Seaport, can be disorienting. After exiting the Fulton Street subway station, you are likely to muscle through throngs of out-of-towners strolling along the historic port’s bustling cobblestoned streets, where brothels, saloons, and the Fulton Fish Market once stood, and which now feature ice-cream shops and hipster pubs. As you near the water, a nineteenth-century iron-hulled cargo ship named Wavertree looms against an incongruous backdrop of glinting skyscrapers across the East River, and a boxy structure resembling an oversized Christmas gift wrapped in blinding L.E.D. lights announces itself as Pier 17. You may wonder if this is a new iteration of corporate chic trying rather too assiduously to find…

comment: no going back

We have known since the earliest moments of Donald Trump’s political life that the epidermal lottery into which we are all cast is, to him, more than happenstance. Pigment is something foundational—a navigational star in the night sky of his world view. When a man introduces himself to the American electorate by lying about the origins of the first black President, and then proceeds to baselessly refer to Mexicans in the United States as rapists, nothing he does after that can be considered surprising. In that regard, Trump’s eruption last week, in which he attacked (but did not name) Representatives Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Ayanna Pressley, Ilhan Omar, and Rashida Tlaib, tweeting that they should “go back” to where they came from, and later accused them of hating America, could not be called…

brave new world: police blotter

The other week, in Los Angeles, when Dodger Stadium swayed for thirty seconds in the fourth inning of a game during a 7.1-magnitude earthquake, many residents opened Citizen, a crime-tracking app, to find out what was going on. (Earthquake detection is a precarious science; after a 2009 quake in central Italy, authorities tried to prosecute a group of seismologists for failing to predict it.) In Los Angeles, phone lines were jammed, but Citizen warned its L.A. users to “drop and take cover.” “Aftershocks are expected,” read one of its iPhone notifications. Andrew Frame, who launched Citizen, in 2017, sees the app as “a global safety network” that crowdsources the 911 emergency system to anyone with a smartphone. While the city’s mayor, Eric Garcetti, took to Twitter to implore Angelenos to…