What is The New Yorker? I know it’s a great magazine and that it’s a tremendous source of pleasure in my life. But what exactly is it? This blog’s premise is that The New Yorker is a work of art, as worthy of comment and analysis as, say, Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Each week I review one or more aspects of the magazine’s latest issue. I suppose it’s possible to describe and analyze an entire issue, but I prefer to keep my reviews brief, and so I usually focus on just one or two pieces, to explore in each the signature style of its author. A piece by Nick Paumgarten is not like a piece by Jill Lepore, and neither is like a piece by Ian Frazier. One could not mistake Collins for Seabrook, or Bilger for Goldfield, or Mogelson for Kolbert. Each has found a style, and it is that style that I respond to as I read, and want to understand and describe.
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| Photo by John MacDougall |
Yesterday evening, walking Bagnall Lane, near the old Sea Sound trailer park (now empty and abandoned), I found a dense patch of forget-me-nots. The light from the overcast sky wasn’t great, but I took a picture anyway. These are the first forget-me-nots I’ve seen this year. Tiny blue flowers with yellow centers growing in the grass along the edge of a gravel road – what a discovery! I was elated.
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