Introduction

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 Galchen, 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.

Friday, June 27, 2025

June 23, 2025 Issue

There’s not much in this week’s issue that catches my eye. The magazine isn’t the problem. It’s me. I’m jaded. My range of interests is getting narrower and narrower. Usually, when I’m in this funk, “Goings On” bails me out. But even that stimulating section seems lacking this week. I miss art reviews. I miss Jackson Arn. I miss Peter Schjeldahl. I miss poetry reviews. I miss jazz reviews. I miss photography reviews. I miss good formalist book reviews like the ones James Wood writes. I miss Janet Malcolm. About the only thing I really like in this week’s issue is Jason Fulford and Tamara Shopsin’s witty artwork illustrating Hannah Goldfield’s “Ladies' Night.” It’s amazing what those two can do with a Sharpie, transforming a tall glass of foamy beer into a basketball hoop.


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