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.

Friday, July 31, 2020

Old Favorites
























Lately I find myself spending more time re-visiting favorite old books than I do reading new stuff. By “old,” I mean books I acquired back in the seventies and early eighties. For example: Edward Hoagland’s Walking the Dead Diamond River (1973), Whitney Balliett’s Ecstasy at the Onion (1971), Janet Malcolm’s Diana & Nikon (1980), Sanford Schwartz’s The Art Presence (1982), John McPhee’s Pieces of the Frame (1975), M. F. K. Fisher’s As They Were (1982), Helen Vendler's Part of Nature, Part of Us (1980), John Updike's Picked-Up Pieces (1976). I love these books. I love everything about them – their dust jackets, their feel as physical objects, the wonderful writing they contain. If there were a fire, these are the books I’d try to save first.

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