According to New Yorker staff writer Elizabeth Kolbert, we're heading for a sixth extinction, which she characterizes as "the amazing moment that to us counts as the present, [when] we are deciding, without quite meaning to, which evolutionary pathways will remain open and which will forever be closed."
LAST SPRING, A THIRTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD COLLEGE DROPOUT–TURNED–ENERGY EXECUTIVE named Billy Parish came to talk to my journalism class at Vanderbilt University. The course focused on climate reporting, and Parish had recently been profiled in Fortune magazine as a young virtuoso in the solar industry.
TO BE IN THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME—nothing requires and activates this bromide as much as photography. And there, then—in the center of it all in New York and Paris, and yet out of the picture, behind the camera—was the photographer Berenice Abbott (1898–1991). “The photographer
IT'S PERHAPS AN UNDERSTANDABLE, if by no means a pardonable, oversight to greet the spectacle of a corps of well-dressed, extravagantly staffed, rhetorically skilled lawmakers and imagine that they are devoted to the public's business.
There is a difference between the sexes that has always fascinated me. We women—we're always apologizing: We could have; we should have... Men, on the other hand, they always have an explanation, an excuse—even if they are, like former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan, standing over the violently debauched corpse of our present economy, the knife in their hands still dripping blood.
About four-fifths of the way through this collection of letters, Malcolm Cowley writes: "I'm weak, deplorably weak, in knowledge of the sixteenth century lyric." Nobody's perfect! The remark doesn't come off as disingenuous; instead, it reflects Cowley's enduring engagement with literature as a critic, an editor, and one of the most influential men of letters (or freelance intellectuals, if you prefer) of the twentieth century.
It's harder than ever these days to get ahead. But some do. Who are they? To Malcolm Gladwell, it's easy enough: You just have to nearly get bombed, lose a parent as a child, have dyslexia, be less talented (but secretly more talented!) than your competitors, or go to the University of Maryland instead of Brown. Wait, what? you say, just as the author wants you to. It's all so very counterintuitive.
In the early chapters of Lawrence in Arabia—note the “in”—Scott Anderson describes how the young T. E. Lawrence reacted to the death of his brother. Though the book is named for the British intelligence officer who improbably led an Arab revolt against the Ottoman Turks during World War I,
Of the major German-language writers of the past century, we may have a harder time pinning down the satirist Karl Kraus, who sat in judgment over the hothouse of Vienna from its combustible fin de siècle to the run-up to the Anschluss, than any other. We shouldn’t feel bad about it. Forever
Barbara Stanwyck had many gifts, but none was more central to her career than her capacity to communicate feeling in a way that seemed artless and unmediated. Her performances in a remarkable range of films are well known, or at least available for inspection. Her life, sometimes traumatic, was more opaque. Some actors disport or destroy themselves in spectacular ways; some go to war; some go into politics. Stanwyck just worked.