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.
This sentence, from Jenny Uglow’s Nature’s Engraver: A Life of Thomas Bewick (2006), beautifully expresses my own view of art’s purpose – “the only true magic that can hold lives from melting into time.” It’s a wonderful variation on James Wood’s idea that art is rescue: “Literature, like art, pushes against time’s fancy ... offers to rescue the life of things from the dead” (Serious Noticing, 2019). Both lines are inspired – two of my touchstones.
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