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, May 19, 2026

Inspired Sentence 11

But what are those quadrangles with a colorful chess-board pattern under the hooves of the black cow?

I love that question. It’s so specific, it verges on the surreal. It’s from Zbigniew Herbert’s “Lascaux,” the first essay in his exquisite 1962 collection Barbarian in the Garden. Herbert is in the Lascaux cave, looking at the paintings of animals on the walls and vault. He’s unable to answer his question. He knows there are theories, but none are certain. He says, “Amidst the raucous breathing of the Lascaux animals, the geometric signs are silent and perhaps will remain silent forever.” Nevertheless, his question is a beauty – a form of serious noticing. 

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