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.

Showing posts with label Jenny Uglow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jenny Uglow. Show all posts

Monday, April 13, 2026

Inspired Sentence 10

The childhood of the boys he drew, like the snowman, had now dissolved into adulthood: most of all, Bewick was suggesting that art, even a simple woodcut, was the only true magic that could hold lives from melting into time.

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.