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.

Saturday, August 23, 2025

Inspired Sentence 5

Years ago I found myself in Indonesia, in Djakarta, which was once called Batavia, sitting at a table in a restaurant in the heart of the Chinese quarter of Glodok – near Kota, to anyone who knows this city, immense in extent, where the long streets change their names every two or three blocks, causing the visitor to go mad.

That’s one of my all-time favorite sentences. It’s the opening line of Aldo Buzzi’s brilliant essay “Travels to Djakarta, Gorgonzola, Crescenzago, London, Milan,” included in his slim, exquisite 1996 collection Journey to the Land of the Flies. I love it for its exoticism – “Indonesia,” “Djakarta,” “Batavia,” “the Chinese quarter of Glodok,” “Kota.” I love the “I found myself” – indicating an element of chance or drift. And I love the hinged, irregular construction joined together by a relative pronoun (“which”) and a relative adverb (“where”). What an original assemblage! 

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