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.

Tuesday, February 17, 2026

Ian Frazier's New Book "The Snakes That Ate Florida"

The year begins auspiciously with a gift from Ian Frazier – a new collection of his incomparable reporting, essays, and criticism called The Snakes That Ate Florida. It’s been out for about a month. I’m just discovering it now. If I’d been on the ball, I would’ve seen a capsule review of it in newyorker.com’s “The Best Books of 2026 So Far.” But that’s a big “if.” The review reads as follows:

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.

I don’t know who wrote that, but whoever it was knows his/her Frazier. I’m trying to cut back on the number of books I buy this year. But this is one I absolutely must have. Frazier is one of my heroes. I love his work. I’ve likely already read a lot of these pieces when they originally appeared in The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books. But that’s okay. Like Chekhov’s stories, they’re worth reading and rereading. It will be great to encounter them again, this time as a collection – perhaps the most significant nonfiction collection of the year. 

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