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 Goldfield, 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, December 17, 2019

Peter Schjeldahl's "The Art of Dying"


Peter Schjeldahl (Photo by Gilbert King)























Yesterday, visiting newyorker.com, I was shocked to encounter Peter Schjeldahl’s “The Art of Dying.” “Lung cancer, rampant” is its first line. Schjeldahl is one of my heroes. He’s created one of the most beautiful writing styles I’ve ever read. Now he’s dying, and he’s writing about it. I didn’t read the piece closely; I merely skimmed it. I want to wait for the print version, so I can immerse myself in it. But the news of his dying shakes me. The New Yorker won't be the same without him. The world won’t be the same without him. All the more reason to treasure every word he’s written, including his new piece. How will he adjust his exquisite, sensuous style to deal with … death? 
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