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.
John MacDougall, Comacchio (2023)
One of my favorite places in the world is Comacchio, in Emilia-Romagna, Italy. There’s a path that goes along the lagoon there that affords views of some of the most arresting fishing shacks I’ve ever seen. This one, for example, so rickety-looking, ramshackle, and time-worn. Yet, so enduring, too. The vivid dabs of red of the wild poppy blossoms make the picture. I love the light – the glorious Italian saltwater sunlight! I wish I were there now.
jpg.webp)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment