newyorker--2020-03-23--The Heroes Who Deliver Your Kebabs

The Heroes Who Deliver Your Kebabs

The new coronavirus has made all the easy stuff hard .
The rules are shifting .
Subways ?
Bad .
Cabs ?
Murky .
Mayor de Blasio says use them if you must and if you ’ re alone , but he banned shared rides for everyone but families and what he , strangely , called “ real couples.
” Takeout ?
The F.D.A .
thinks the virus doesn ’ t spread through food .
Other experts say maybe make some ramen .
“ New Yorkers are hungry , ” Lenin Cerón said last week .
Someone has to get @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of those people .
He is a courier for Relay , a delivery company that has instituted a “ contactless delivery ” system , a vital real-time experiment in safely feeding the shut-in city .
“ I take this very seriously , ” Cerón said .
“ When I get home , I have a bucket with soap and water , so I can step right into the bucket , and throw everything in .
I wash my hands , take off my clothes .
I clean all the knobs .
Then I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the morning .
I disinfect the bathroom .
I try to be as clean as possible.
” In his delivery bag , he ’ d stashed plastic gloves .
Hand-sanitizer bottles were ready in a pouch on his vest .
“ You can never use enough , ” he said .
Earlier in the morning , he ’ d bought a box of masks from a purported ninety-nine-cents store in Chinatown .
“ Fifty dollars !
” he said .
It was the first night of the ban on eating in restaurants .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ from Guerrero , Mexico , had commuted from the Bronx to Union Square with his electric bike .
He is a recent vegetarian , and a frequent smiler , under the mask .
He uses the word “ O.K.
” to describe the many things he feels fondly toward : people , the city , the pride he takes after a day ’ s work .
“ I ’ m very lucky , ” he said .
“ I still have one job .
I have two beautiful daughters .
And I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extra careful for them .
But I can ’ t be stuck at home .
I have too many responsibilities.
” The night ’ s first pickup was at Sticky ’ s Finger Joint , nearby .
Two paper bags were waiting on the counter .
“ I try not to take the bags by the handle , ” he said .
That ’ s where customers are most likely to touch .
Instead , he grabbed them by the collar , like a nightclub bouncer .
Then he hopped on his bike @ @ @ @ @ @ @ After an elevator tap with a gloved finger , he used the side of his cell phone to knock on the customer ’ s door .
He set down the bag and stepped back a safe distance .
The door opened : Brandon , human-resources professional ; spicy chicken , Cajun fries .
Brandon was “ a little weirded out , ” he said , when Cerón offered him a spritz of sanitizer .
“ But it showed he cared.
” Next : chicken fingers downtown , Persian dinner uptown .
Outside a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nose loudly .
Cerón flinched .
Even on a good day , delivery is a tough job .
“ I heard this morning that de Blasio is going to go easy on us , ” he said .
“ I have three tickets .
They want me to pay a thousand dollars !
” He has also been in three accidents—scrapes , a cracked collarbone .
“ It ’ s much easier now that the streets are empty.
” The virus has added new complications .
At around eight o ’ clock , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ near a housing project off Avenue D. “ We don ’ t usually go upstairs at this building , ” he said .
“ But in this situation , we need to.
” On the fourteenth floor , more bad news : for this order , Cerón needed the customer ’ s signature .
He slathered his phone and her hands with sanitizer .
The woman wiggled a hesitant pinkie and signed .
The delivery yielded six dollars , fifty-nine cents—worth it .
The night was slower than normal .
Tippers were skimping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is sleeping , ” Cerón said .
He had thirty-five dollars .
By this time on a regular night , he ’ d have sixty or seventy .
“ People are scared .
Delivery guys touch too many things , ” he said .
“ I understand.
” Three pizza orders came in .
The last customer wanted to pay in cash .
“ I don ’ t want to take cash right now , but I got ta take it , ” Cerón said .
In the lobby was a dispenser of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and then another .
On the eighth floor was George , retired photographer , former “ dogmatic commie ” ; plain pie with tomatoes .
They exchanged the cash without touching fingers .
Outside , Cerón put on new gloves .
He stopped for a final pickup , at a kebab joint .
Emerging , he was excited .
“ See , my people are running New York !
” he said .
Delivery guys ?
“ No , ” he said , pointing to the store .
“ Mexicans !
They ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ last delivery arrived safely , in NoHo , conveyed with no skin contact , but with a slight scent of rubbing alcohol .
Cerón hopped back on his bike .
He had made seventy dollars and seventy-one cents .
It was almost an hour ’ s ride home through empty streets back to the Bronx .
“ In one of the most humble jobs , I ’ m helping , ” he said , as he set off .
“ I feel O.K.
” ♦

Lenin Cerón Illustration by João Fazenda
The new coronavirus has made all the easy stuff hard. The rules are shifting. Subways? Bad. Cabs? Murky. Mayor de Blasio says use them if you must and if you’re alone, but he banned shared rides for everyone but families and what he, strangely, called “real couples.” Takeout? The F.D.A. thinks the virus doesn’t spread through food. Other experts say maybe make some ramen.
“New Yorkers are hungry,” Lenin Cerón said last week. Someone has to get them their food. Cerón is one of those people. He is a courier for Relay, a delivery company that has instituted a “contactless delivery” system, a vital real-time experiment in safely feeding the shut-in city. “I take this very seriously,” Cerón said. “When I get home, I have a bucket with soap and water, so I can step right into the bucket, and throw everything in. I wash my hands, take off my clothes. I clean all the knobs. Then I take a shower at night and in the morning. I disinfect the bathroom. I try to be as clean as possible.” In his delivery bag, he’d stashed plastic gloves. Hand-sanitizer bottles were ready in a pouch on his vest. “You can never use enough,” he said. Earlier in the morning, he’d bought a box of masks from a purported ninety-nine-cents store in Chinatown. “Fifty dollars!” he said.
It was the first night of the ban on eating in restaurants. Cerón, who is thirty-four and originally from Guerrero, Mexico, had commuted from the Bronx to Union Square with his electric bike. He is a recent vegetarian, and a frequent smiler, under the mask. He uses the word “O.K.” to describe the many things he feels fondly toward: people, the city, the pride he takes after a day’s work. “I’m very lucky,” he said. “I still have one job. I have two beautiful daughters. And I’m healthy. I have to be extra careful for them. But I can’t be stuck at home. I have too many responsibilities.”
The night’s first pickup was at Sticky’s Finger Joint, nearby. Two paper bags were waiting on the counter. “I try not to take the bags by the handle,” he said. That’s where customers are most likely to touch. Instead, he grabbed them by the collar, like a nightclub bouncer. Then he hopped on his bike and zipped to the first drop-off. After an elevator tap with a gloved finger, he used the side of his cell phone to knock on the customer’s door. He set down the bag and stepped back a safe distance. The door opened: Brandon, human-resources professional; spicy chicken, Cajun fries. Brandon was “a little weirded out,” he said, when Cerón offered him a spritz of sanitizer. “But it showed he cared.”
Next: chicken fingers downtown, Persian dinner uptown. Outside a teriyaki place, a man blew his nose loudly. Cerón flinched. Even on a good day, delivery is a tough job. “I heard this morning that de Blasio is going to go easy on us,” he said. “I have three tickets. They want me to pay a thousand dollars!” He has also been in three accidents—scrapes, a cracked collarbone. “It’s much easier now that the streets are empty.”
The virus has added new complications. At around eight o’clock, Cerón cradled an order of Dallas BBQ near a housing project off Avenue D. “We don’t usually go upstairs at this building,” he said. “But in this situation, we need to.” On the fourteenth floor, more bad news: for this order, Cerón needed the customer’s signature. He slathered his phone and her hands with sanitizer. The woman wiggled a hesitant pinkie and signed. The delivery yielded six dollars, fifty-nine cents—worth it.
The night was slower than normal. Tippers were skimping. “The city that never sleeps is sleeping,” Cerón said. He had thirty-five dollars. By this time on a regular night, he’d have sixty or seventy. “People are scared. Delivery guys touch too many things,” he said. “I understand.”
Three pizza orders came in. The last customer wanted to pay in cash. “I don’t want to take cash right now, but I gotta take it,” Cerón said. In the lobby was a dispenser of sanitizer. Cerón took a squirt, and then another. On the eighth floor was George, retired photographer, former “dogmatic commie”; plain pie with tomatoes. They exchanged the cash without touching fingers. Outside, Cerón put on new gloves.
He stopped for a final pickup, at a kebab joint. Emerging, he was excited. “See, my people are running New York!” he said. Delivery guys? “No,” he said, pointing to the store. “Mexicans! They’re making the food!”
The last delivery arrived safely, in NoHo, conveyed with no skin contact, but with a slight scent of rubbing alcohol. Cerón hopped back on his bike. He had made seventy dollars and seventy-one cents. It was almost an hour’s ride home through empty streets back to the Bronx. “In one of the most humble jobs, I’m helping,” he said, as he set off. “I feel O.K.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


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newyorker--2020-03-23--How to Talk to Coronavirus Skeptics

How to Talk to Coronavirus Skeptics

Naomi Oreskes , a professor of the history of science at Harvard , has focussed much of her career on examining distrust of science in the United States .
In 2010 , she and the historian Erik M. Conway published “ Merchants of Doubt , ” which examined the ways in which politics and big business have helped sow doubt about the scientific consensus .
Her most recent book , “ Why Trust Science ?
, ” examines how our idea of the scientific method has changed over time , and how different societies went about verifying its accuracy .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ why Americans have rejected climate-change science more than people in other countries have .
I recently spoke with Oreskes by phone .
During our conversation , which has been edited for length and clarity , we discussed the Trump Administration ’ s slow response to the pandemic , the Republican Party ’ s antiscientific propaganda , and strategies for convincing Americans that the threat of the coronavirus is real .
When you see the way people have responded to the new coronavirus , both in government and average people , do you think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ studied regarding the distrust of science ?
There ’ s been a lot of loose talk about distrust in science .
The reality is that , if we look at careful public-opinion polls , what we see is that most people do trust science on most things , and most people trust experts on most things .
People trust their dentists .
People trust their car mechanics .
In general , people use experts all the time , and most of us don ’ t spend a lot of time second-guessing experts on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exceptions to that .
If we have reason to believe that people are dishonest or incompetent , then we may be skeptical .
But , when it comes to science , the big exception has to do with what I ’ ve written about , which is implicatory denial .
That is to say , we reject scientific findings because we don ’ t like their implications .
All of the major areas where we see resistance to scientific findings in contemporary life fall into this category .
So if you ask yourself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of evolution ?
It ’ s not because evolutionary theory is a bad theory , or a weak theory scientifically , or that we don ’ t have good evidence for it .
It ’ s because some people think that it implies that there ’ s no God , or that it implies that life is meaningless and has no purpose , or that it ’ s all just random and nihilistic .
If we think about vaccinations , it ’ s a similar sort of thing .
It ’ s not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bad science or a weak science .
It ’ s not that the people who reject immunization really understand immunology and have an intellectual critique .
It ’ s a matter of , if their children are autistic , they feel upset that their children have a quite devastating disease and modern medical science doesn ’ t have an explanation for it .
So they feel upset and they want an explanation , and so they turn to something like vaccinations , and they say , “ Well , that ’ s the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forth with climate change , et cetera .
This is important because it means that you don ’ t persuade these people by giving them more scientific facts .
But , in some cases , you can persuade them by , in the case of evolution , saying , “ Well , actually , evolutionary theory doesn ’ t really disprove the existence of God , and it doesn ’ t mean that life is meaningless.
” And it ’ s through engagement in that kind of conversation that sometimes you can actually @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we reject science because it clashes with our beliefs or experience—how does that explain why people in Miami , whose homes are going to be flooded , reject global-warming science ?
Is it partisanship ?
The phrase I used was implicatory denial .
What we found in “ Merchants of Doubt ” was that the original merchants of doubt , the people who started the whole thing , way back in the late nineteen-eighties , didn ’ t want to accept the implication that capitalism , as we know it , had failed—that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and that there was a need for some kind of significant government intervention in the marketplace to address it .
So , rather than accept that implication , they questioned the science .
Now these things get complicated .
People are complicated .
One of the things that ’ s happened with climate change over the last thirty years is that , because climate-change denial got picked up by the Republican Party as a political platform , it became polarized according to partisan politics , which is different than , say , vaccination @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a talking point for Republicans , and then it became tribal .
So now you have this deeply polarized situation in the United States where your views on climate change align very , very strongly with your party affiliation .
And now we see a cognitive dissonance .
Let ’ s say you live in Florida , and you ’ re now seeing flooding on a rather regular basis .
This is completely consistent with the scientific evidence , but you don ’ t accept it as proof of the science .
You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we ’ ve always had flooding , or maybe it ’ s a natural variable.
” You come up with excuses not to accept the thing that you don ’ t want to accept .
Let ’ s turn to the coronavirus .
The Administration ’ s response was extremely slow , which could be explained by your theory , by the fact that the Administration didn ’ t want to see this for political reasons or just didn ’ t want to deal with it .
Do you agree with that ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ think about the position that Republican Administrations have taken over the last thirty years , it not only makes total sense—it ’ s completely predictable that this Administration did exactly what it did .
They didn ’ t want to acknowledge the severity of the issue , because this is a textbook example of why we need a federal government .
In fact , I ’ ve noticed that , just in the last week or so , increasingly I ’ m seeing people writing things like “ Coronavirus proves the need for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really difficult to control a pandemic on the state or local level .
The C.D.C .
is a federal agency .
The National Institutes of Health is a federal agency .
All of the organizations we have that are set up to deal with a crisis of this type are federal agencies .
And so for the Trump Administration to have acted briskly and promptly and in line with the scientific evidence on this would have been for it to embrace the role of the federal government and say , “ This is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government .
This is exactly why we have federal agencies of this sort.
” So I think that it would have been much easier for any Democrat to have responded to this issue than for any Republican to have responded .
And then you add on to it Donald Trump ’ s particular—how should I put this politely ?
—reflex to be hostile to science and hostile to experts .
Add that into the mix and I think that ’ s exactly what you ’ d expect .
Right .
I don ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ skepticism about its seriousness was motivated by some deep , small- “ C ” conservative concern about the size of the federal government .
Right , exactly .
You add them both together and there ’ s a pretty dangerous combination .
That ’ s why it makes sense that we saw what was essentially a two-month delay in having the kind of response that we should have had on this issue .

Naomi Oreskes, a professor of the history of science at Harvard, has focussed much of her career on examining distrust of science in the United States. In 2010, she and the historian Erik M. Conway published “Merchants of Doubt,” which examined the ways in which politics and big business have helped sow doubt about the scientific consensus. Her most recent book, “Why Trust Science?,” examines how our idea of the scientific method has changed over time, and how different societies went about verifying its accuracy. Her work often addresses climate change and why Americans have rejected climate-change science more than people in other countries have.
I recently spoke with Oreskes by phone. During our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we discussed the Trump Administration’s slow response to the pandemic, the Republican Party’s antiscientific propaganda, and strategies for convincing Americans that the threat of the coronavirus is real.
When you see the way people have responded to the new coronavirus, both in government and average people, do you think the response reflects what you’ve studied regarding the distrust of science?
There’s been a lot of loose talk about distrust in science. The reality is that, if we look at careful public-opinion polls, what we see is that most people do trust science on most things, and most people trust experts on most things. People trust their dentists. People trust their car mechanics. In general, people use experts all the time, and most of us don’t spend a lot of time second-guessing experts on most issues. There are some definite exceptions to that. If we have reason to believe that people are dishonest or incompetent, then we may be skeptical. But, when it comes to science, the big exception has to do with what I’ve written about, which is implicatory denial. That is to say, we reject scientific findings because we don’t like their implications.
All of the major areas where we see resistance to scientific findings in contemporary life fall into this category. So if you ask yourself, Why do people reject the evidence of evolution? It’s not because evolutionary theory is a bad theory, or a weak theory scientifically, or that we don’t have good evidence for it. It’s because some people think that it implies that there’s no God, or that it implies that life is meaningless and has no purpose, or that it’s all just random and nihilistic. If we think about vaccinations, it’s a similar sort of thing. It’s not that the science of immunology is a bad science or a weak science. It’s not that the people who reject immunization really understand immunology and have an intellectual critique. It’s a matter of, if their children are autistic, they feel upset that their children have a quite devastating disease and modern medical science doesn’t have an explanation for it. So they feel upset and they want an explanation, and so they turn to something like vaccinations, and they say, “Well, that’s the cause.” And so on and so forth with climate change, et cetera.
This is important because it means that you don’t persuade these people by giving them more scientific facts. But, in some cases, you can persuade them by, in the case of evolution, saying, “Well, actually, evolutionary theory doesn’t really disprove the existence of God, and it doesn’t mean that life is meaningless.” And it’s through engagement in that kind of conversation that sometimes you can actually make some progress.
This idea that we reject science because it clashes with our beliefs or experience—how does that explain why people in Miami, whose homes are going to be flooded, reject global-warming science? Is it partisanship?
The phrase I used was implicatory denial. What we found in “Merchants of Doubt” was that the original merchants of doubt, the people who started the whole thing, way back in the late nineteen-eighties, didn’t want to accept the implication that capitalism, as we know it, had failed—that climate change was a huge market failure and that there was a need for some kind of significant government intervention in the marketplace to address it. So, rather than accept that implication, they questioned the science. Now these things get complicated. People are complicated. One of the things that’s happened with climate change over the last thirty years is that, because climate-change denial got picked up by the Republican Party as a political platform, it became polarized according to partisan politics, which is different than, say, vaccination rejection.
And so then it became a talking point for Republicans, and then it became tribal. So now you have this deeply polarized situation in the United States where your views on climate change align very, very strongly with your party affiliation. And now we see a cognitive dissonance. Let’s say you live in Florida, and you’re now seeing flooding on a rather regular basis. This is completely consistent with the scientific evidence, but you don’t accept it as proof of the science. You say, “Oh, well, we’ve always had flooding, or maybe it’s a natural variable.” You come up with excuses not to accept the thing that you don’t want to accept.
Let’s turn to the coronavirus. The Administration’s response was extremely slow, which could be explained by your theory, by the fact that the Administration didn’t want to see this for political reasons or just didn’t want to deal with it. Do you agree with that?
I do agree. And when you think about the position that Republican Administrations have taken over the last thirty years, it not only makes total sense—it’s completely predictable that this Administration did exactly what it did. They didn’t want to acknowledge the severity of the issue, because this is a textbook example of why we need a federal government. In fact, I’ve noticed that, just in the last week or so, increasingly I’m seeing people writing things like “Coronavirus proves the need for big government.” Because it’s really difficult to control a pandemic on the state or local level. The C.D.C. is a federal agency. The National Institutes of Health is a federal agency. All of the organizations we have that are set up to deal with a crisis of this type are federal agencies.
And so for the Trump Administration to have acted briskly and promptly and in line with the scientific evidence on this would have been for it to embrace the role of the federal government and say, “This is exactly why we have a powerful federal government. This is exactly why we have federal agencies of this sort.” So I think that it would have been much easier for any Democrat to have responded to this issue than for any Republican to have responded. And then you add on to it Donald Trump’s particular—how should I put this politely?—reflex to be hostile to science and hostile to experts. Add that into the mix and I think that’s exactly what you’d expect.
Right. I don’t think Trump’s response and skepticism about its seriousness was motivated by some deep, small-“C” conservative concern about the size of the federal government.
Right, exactly. You add them both together and there’s a pretty dangerous combination. That’s why it makes sense that we saw what was essentially a two-month delay in having the kind of response that we should have had on this issue.


newyorker--2020-03-23--Coronavirus Diary: Antisocial Distancing

As a native New Yorker , I ’ ve always been at ease with the city ’ s ambience of benign social aggression and endemic noodginess , and have even done my share to maintain it .
Part of the beauty of the city ’ s intrinsic gregariousness is the countervailing drive for space and solitude in the public throng ; the city is the place for being alone in a crowd .
Lately , though , the balance is off ; in a time of contagion , the mandates of social distancing , inimical to city life , are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have always been here .
The sense of suspicion that the threat of contagion arouses is a cruel paradox of a crisis that calls for solidarity—especially in New York .
I live in Manhattan , in a part of town which , when I moved to it in the mid-eighties , was more rumpled , age-worn , and varied ( especially with its many German and Hungarian residents and stores ) than it is now .
It was also much less crowded ; the many high-rise buildings that have replaced small walkups and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Gimbels , at Eighty-sixth and Lexington ) are now disgorging their many people—most of whom are stuck at home—onto the streets of the neighborhood , whether for necessary errands , for a little fresh air , or even for a semblance of forward-looking normalcy .
( I saw , on a nearly empty street , a father teaching his young son to ride a bike . )
The result is a new kind of urban paranoia that , were it written into movies , could even seem entertaining .
Supermarkets have been doing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ customers allowed in at any given moment—yet the result has been lines of people outside , sometimes stretching nearly a whole block , and the six-foot rule doesn ’ t prevail there .
( Until now , a six-foot gap on a line in New York—a city where the unofficial slogan is “ If it isn ’ t nailed down ” —is an invitation to three people cutting in . )
I ’ ve been avoiding stores with outdoor lines , approaching ones without them and checking through the window to see whether @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fairly empty of shoppers .
Even so , a mental siren with no medical basis makes me nearly hold my breath upon entering , as if the very air were a soup of contagion .
In any case , most fellow-shoppers , whether masked and gloved or not , have been warily avoiding one another—for that matter , avoiding one another ’ s gaze and the implicit question , Are you a carrier ?
—and darting past one another in the aisles briskly , with heads turned away .
Yet those few who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those who push close at the checkout line , do the equivalent of setting off alarm bells—silently , in the heads of the bewildered and the panic-stricken .
Once , when unduly crowded , I actually exclaimed , “ Space !
” —to no avail .
Walking in the street , meanwhile , has become an elaborate chess-like maneuver , with the city ’ s seeming expanses now reduced to a virtual field of combat , where keeping the requisite distance requires a canny blend of strategy and tactics , thoughtful foresight and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ place with an eye on where the move will land me .
When did I first hear the term “ social distancing ” ?
I wish I had the exact date ; it will mark a firm borderline in a lifetime , a date akin to a marriage or a birth—or a death—for the radical shift in full-time reality that it marks .
Corners immediately struck me as a menace—where there are traffic lights , people were clustering without regard to distance .
What ’ s more , many corners are in effect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the first few days of quickly instilled new habits , that a few people approaching perpendicularly pushed by indifferently , a few runners dashed by and risked a collision .
Bus stops ?
While nearing one , I felt someone actually brush by as he ran for the arriving vehicle .
Scaffolding ?
It not only narrows the sidewalk space with its vertical stanchions but also , with its horizontal bars , makes avoidance impossible .
Seeing people walking two or three abreast up the block , I step into the gutter or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ case , what is six feet ?
I know what it looks like vertically , more or less , but what that distance looks on the sidewalk still escapes me ; since I can ’ t equip myself with a girdle of six-foot spikes around my waist , to put my mind at ease , I ’ ve been maintaining something more like six metres .
Some elements of these involuntary fears and aversions are completely new ; others dovetail readily with long-standing habits .
I ’ ve always been a bit germaphobic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hand washing , avoided touching doorknobs and subway poles , shunned exposed food in public places .
( I never , never take samples offered in food stores . )
Suddenly , this neurotic idiosyncrasy seems not inconvenient but vitally useful ; it ’ s like being a gawky seven-footer when basketball was invented .
Sunday was the first day on which I felt as if most people in my neighborhood were taking the contagion seriously .
People strolling in the neighborhood were suddenly far rarer .
Within a few blocks of my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poem , Robert Frost ’ s “ Acquainted with the Night , ” came to mind : “ I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet ” ; Sunday , I did the same thing while acquainted with bright daylight .
Nonetheless , as I continued to stroll briskly while circling back toward home , I passed a knot of people ; I took advantage of the sparse traffic and walked in the road , aware of the ironic possibilities of avoiding the virus and being hit by a car .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ prevails and , indeed , grows stronger in the face of this crisis .
The heroic courage of people who are making a semblance of daily and ordinary life possible , who staff the supermarkets and restaurants and deliver food to them and from them , who keep the pharmacies and bakeries open , who make sure that the city ’ s infrastructure remains sound ( such as a group of hard-hatted workers I saw climb down a ladder into a pit in the middle of an avenue , three days ago ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sacrifices asked of those in military service during wartime .
The sense of a city under siege is amplified by the sense of a virtual siege by the cruel hands-off approach of the federal government ; if a policy could be crafted to target cities and its residents , this would be it .
I ’ m not alone in now habitually thanking people who do jobs often referred to as thankless , not for services rendered or purchases completed but simply for being there ; the mutual regular greetings at the doors @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in leaving , with exhortations and wishes to stay safe and well , turns the blandest commercial transactions into displays of public spirit and civic pride .
New York ’ s civic pride has always coexisted with paranoia , which is a central part of the city ’ s inherently artistic , inherently cinematic identity ; I ’ m looking ahead to the time when antisocial distancing resumes its venerable role as peevish creativity .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

As a native New Yorker, I’ve always been at ease with the city’s ambience of benign social aggression and endemic noodginess, and have even done my share to maintain it. Part of the beauty of the city’s intrinsic gregariousness is the countervailing drive for space and solitude in the public throng; the city is the place for being alone in a crowd. Lately, though, the balance is off; in a time of contagion, the mandates of social distancing, inimical to city life, are sharpening the temptations of antisocial distancing that have always been here. The sense of suspicion that the threat of contagion arouses is a cruel paradox of a crisis that calls for solidarity—especially in New York.
I live in Manhattan, in a part of town which, when I moved to it in the mid-eighties, was more rumpled, age-worn, and varied (especially with its many German and Hungarian residents and stores) than it is now. It was also much less crowded; the many high-rise buildings that have replaced small walkups and big stores (such as the former Gimbels, at Eighty-sixth and Lexington) are now disgorging their many people—most of whom are stuck at home—onto the streets of the neighborhood, whether for necessary errands, for a little fresh air, or even for a semblance of forward-looking normalcy. (I saw, on a nearly empty street, a father teaching his young son to ride a bike.) The result is a new kind of urban paranoia that, were it written into movies, could even seem entertaining.
Supermarkets have been doing their part to limit the number of customers allowed in at any given moment—yet the result has been lines of people outside, sometimes stretching nearly a whole block, and the six-foot rule doesn’t prevail there. (Until now, a six-foot gap on a line in New York—a city where the unofficial slogan is “If it isn’t nailed down”—is an invitation to three people cutting in.) I’ve been avoiding stores with outdoor lines, approaching ones without them and checking through the window to see whether it seems fairly stocked with merchandise and fairly empty of shoppers. Even so, a mental siren with no medical basis makes me nearly hold my breath upon entering, as if the very air were a soup of contagion. In any case, most fellow-shoppers, whether masked and gloved or not, have been warily avoiding one another—for that matter, avoiding one another’s gaze and the implicit question, Are you a carrier?—and darting past one another in the aisles briskly, with heads turned away. Yet those few who don’t walk by quickly, those who push close at the checkout line, do the equivalent of setting off alarm bells—silently, in the heads of the bewildered and the panic-stricken. Once, when unduly crowded, I actually exclaimed, “Space!”—to no avail.
Walking in the street, meanwhile, has become an elaborate chess-like maneuver, with the city’s seeming expanses now reduced to a virtual field of combat, where keeping the requisite distance requires a canny blend of strategy and tactics, thoughtful foresight and rapid improvisation, skipping away from one place with an eye on where the move will land me. When did I first hear the term “social distancing”? I wish I had the exact date; it will mark a firm borderline in a lifetime, a date akin to a marriage or a birth—or a death—for the radical shift in full-time reality that it marks.
Corners immediately struck me as a menace—where there are traffic lights, people were clustering without regard to distance. What’s more, many corners are in effect blind—and I noticed, approaching them in the first few days of quickly instilled new habits, that a few people approaching perpendicularly pushed by indifferently, a few runners dashed by and risked a collision. Bus stops? While nearing one, I felt someone actually brush by as he ran for the arriving vehicle. Scaffolding? It not only narrows the sidewalk space with its vertical stanchions but also, with its horizontal bars, makes avoidance impossible. Seeing people walking two or three abreast up the block, I step into the gutter or cross the street entirely. In any case, what is six feet? I know what it looks like vertically, more or less, but what that distance looks on the sidewalk still escapes me; since I can’t equip myself with a girdle of six-foot spikes around my waist, to put my mind at ease, I’ve been maintaining something more like six metres.
Some elements of these involuntary fears and aversions are completely new; others dovetail readily with long-standing habits. I’ve always been a bit germaphobic; I’ve always practiced longer-than-common hand washing, avoided touching doorknobs and subway poles, shunned exposed food in public places. (I never, never take samples offered in food stores.) Suddenly, this neurotic idiosyncrasy seems not inconvenient but vitally useful; it’s like being a gawky seven-footer when basketball was invented.
Sunday was the first day on which I felt as if most people in my neighborhood were taking the contagion seriously. People strolling in the neighborhood were suddenly far rarer. Within a few blocks of my apartment, a line from a favorite poem, Robert Frost’s “Acquainted with the Night,” came to mind: “I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet”; Sunday, I did the same thing while acquainted with bright daylight. Nonetheless, as I continued to stroll briskly while circling back toward home, I passed a knot of people; I took advantage of the sparse traffic and walked in the road, aware of the ironic possibilities of avoiding the virus and being hit by a car.
In many ways, a communal spirit prevails and, indeed, grows stronger in the face of this crisis. The heroic courage of people who are making a semblance of daily and ordinary life possible, who staff the supermarkets and restaurants and deliver food to them and from them, who keep the pharmacies and bakeries open, who make sure that the city’s infrastructure remains sound (such as a group of hard-hatted workers I saw climb down a ladder into a pit in the middle of an avenue, three days ago), reminds me above all of the sacrifices asked of those in military service during wartime. The sense of a city under siege is amplified by the sense of a virtual siege by the cruel hands-off approach of the federal government; if a policy could be crafted to target cities and its residents, this would be it. I’m not alone in now habitually thanking people who do jobs often referred to as thankless, not for services rendered or purchases completed but simply for being there; the mutual regular greetings at the doors of local stores, the mutual salutations in leaving, with exhortations and wishes to stay safe and well, turns the blandest commercial transactions into displays of public spirit and civic pride. New York’s civic pride has always coexisted with paranoia, which is a central part of the city’s inherently artistic, inherently cinematic identity; I’m looking ahead to the time when antisocial distancing resumes its venerable role as peevish creativity.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-23--Quarantine Culture Recommendations: Thomas Mann, “The Wedding Party,” and Tracy Chapman

Recommendations from New Yorker writers and artists for this time of social distancing .
Luckily for us , the life of two married writers living in a rural part of the country pretty much already meets the C.D.C .
guidelines for social isolating .
Our go-to recommendation for health-related holing-up is Thomas Mann ’ s “ The Magic Mountain , ” which is a wonderful and wonderfully long read for any extended sickness or fear thereof .
A word of caution , though : the rest cures therein depicted might encourage you to eat through your comestibles faster by developing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you to acquire a COVID-19 chair for taking the air .
As for us , we just got our well-washed hands on “ The Mirror & the Light , ” by Hilary Mantel , the last in her magnificent Thomas Cromwell trilogy , and are very much hoping our fate will be better than his .
One sign of these strange times is that , in between reading and writing , we seem to have taught our kitten to fetch .
Home schooling !
But , really , it ’ s a great @ @ @ @ @ @ @ skill .
—Casey Cep and Kathryn Schulz Funny what we take for granted : for years now , until about a week ago , small talk among my friends has begun and ended with rote recommendations for easily streamed TV and movies .
Everybody was a little TV Guide : Check out this terrible rom-com , this chintzy thriller nobody ’ s been talking about .
At best , this was something to be benignly tolerant of : there was just no way , unless this friend was an admired favorite—or was , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ remote—that you ’ d let this new thing skip the line on the list of things to see .
Nowadays , those spottily remembered offerings are all I can think about .
I ’ m always fairly hungry for comedy , and , now that I ’ m stuck at home , that desire has only grown .
I like to sit on my bed , criss-cross-applesauce like a preschooler , a snack lodged in the little cubbyhole between my legs and a drink somewhere nearby , laughing aloud as if surrounded by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ old recommendation fished up by my wife from Netflix ’ s search function—has been “ The Wedding Party , ” a big , kinetic , perfectly cast 2016 Nigerian comedy .
It ’ s about two families divided by class , attitude , and tribal origin but united by the wedding between their kids , Dunni ( Adesua Etomi-Wellington ) and Dozie ( Banky W. ) .
Dozie , who , along with his older brother , Nonso ( Enyinna Nwigwe ) , works for his philandering father , is a bit of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a bitter , snitty wreck—how ’ s he going to learn to treat Dunni ( who , we learn quickly , is a virgin ) right ?
Sola Sobowale and Alibaba Akporobome play Dunni ’ s parents—they ’ re the less hoity-toity family—and form a comedy duo that had me crying .
I ’ d watch a movie focussed on these two anytime .
They goad each other on—his good-hearted overreactions , her hysterical catastrophism—until it ’ s unclear whether their laughs are in the script or brought on by genuine , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ happens not during the wedding ceremony but at the reception : a perfect set piece for overstuffed comic fun .
The movie ’ s got everything : an overstressed event planner ; an oddly hostile yet charismatic preacher ; some uninvited guests intent on getting full ; fantastic dancing .
Let it distract you for a while !
—Vinson Cunningham The Internet is rife with advice for parents of small children hoping to stay sane under quarantine .
In my experience , most of these life hacks work only a fraction as well @ @ @ @ @ @ @ few minutes at a time .
Still , in the spirit of open-source collaboration , I ’ ll share one of the few tricks that has worked in our house , at least so far : instead of giving our nearly-three-year-old full control over Spotify , we ’ ve instituted a request system .
As in : first your request , then mine .
Repeat ad infinitum .
Every adult in the room gets a request ; no vote dilution allowed .
Right away , the Raffi ratio has fallen precipitously .
( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . )
Another advantage : sometimes one of my requests , or one of my wife ’ s , will catch on with the kid , and he ’ ll start requesting it himself .
It ’ s impossible to predict which ones will translate .
He likes “ Isn ’ t She Lovely ” ( “ the one with the baby ” ) and adores “ Raspberry Beret ” ; he is indifferent to Taylor Swift but can ’ t get enough of Kacey Musgraves ’ s “ Slow Burn , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Cried When I Pierced My Nose.
” The only way to find out which songs will take is through trial and error , and we have plenty of time for that .
A few days ago ( or was it years ? )
either my wife or I ( we ’ re all starting to blur together at this point ) used one of our requests to put on Tracy Chapman ’ s self-titled début album .
We both remembered it as a classic , but I don ’ t think either of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seem , with its achingly bittersweet melodies depicting desperate people ’ s attempts to find comfort in a scorched late-capitalist landscape .
It was released in 1988 , but , apart from the antiquated drum machines and the fact that the lyrics don ’ t include the phrase “ social distancing , ” it could have been yesterday .
The characters in “ Talkin ’ ’ Bout a Revolution ” and “ Fast Car , ” barely making ends meet on minimum wage , would surely be no better off today .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ well be about the futile attempt to hoard hand sanitizer .
Most of this goes over a toddler ’ s head , of course , but that ’ s just as well , at least for now .
And , as far as quarantine goes , the lyric “ don ’ t you know you better run run run ” can be repurposed as “ rub rub rub , ” which makes a great hand-washing anthem.—Andrew Marantz • How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros @ @ @ @ @ @ @ How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

Recommendations from New Yorker writers and artists in a time of quarantine.
Luckily for us, the life of two married writers living in a rural part of the country pretty much already meets the C.D.C. guidelines for social isolating. Our go-to recommendation for health-related holing-up is Thomas Mann’s “The Magic Mountain,” which is a wonderful and wonderfully long read for any extended sickness or fear thereof. A word of caution, though: the rest cures therein depicted might encourage you to eat through your comestibles faster by developing a taste for second breakfasts and cause you to acquire a COVID-19 chair for taking the air. As for us, we just got our well-washed hands on “The Mirror & the Light,” by Hilary Mantel, the last in her magnificent Thomas Cromwell trilogy, and are very much hoping our fate will be better than his. One sign of these strange times is that, in between reading and writing, we seem to have taught our kitten to fetch. Home schooling! But, really, it’s a great time to teach or learn any new skill. —Casey Cep and Kathryn Schulz
Funny what we take for granted: for years now, until about a week ago, small talk among my friends has begun and ended with rote recommendations for easily streamed TV and movies. Everybody was a little TV Guide: Check out this terrible rom-com, this chintzy thriller nobody’s been talking about. At best, this was something to be benignly tolerant of: there was just no way, unless this friend was an admired favorite—or was, inconveniently, your spouse, commandeering the remote—that you’d let this new thing skip the line on the list of things to see. Nowadays, those spottily remembered offerings are all I can think about.
I’m always fairly hungry for comedy, and, now that I’m stuck at home, that desire has only grown. I like to sit on my bed, criss-cross-applesauce like a preschooler, a snack lodged in the little cubbyhole between my legs and a drink somewhere nearby, laughing aloud as if surrounded by friends. My best discovery so far—an old recommendation fished up by my wife from Netflix’s search function—has been “The Wedding Party,” a big, kinetic, perfectly cast 2016 Nigerian comedy. It’s about two families divided by class, attitude, and tribal origin but united by the wedding between their kids, Dunni (Adesua Etomi-Wellington) and Dozie (Banky W.). Dozie, who, along with his older brother, Nonso (Enyinna Nwigwe), works for his philandering father, is a bit of a playboy. His parents’ marriage is a bitter, snitty wreck—how’s he going to learn to treat Dunni (who, we learn quickly, is a virgin) right?
Sola Sobowale and Alibaba Akporobome play Dunni’s parents—they’re the less hoity-toity family—and form a comedy duo that had me crying. I’d watch a movie focussed on these two anytime. They goad each other on—his good-hearted overreactions, her hysterical catastrophism—until it’s unclear whether their laughs are in the script or brought on by genuine, in-the-moment appreciation. Most of the plot happens not during the wedding ceremony but at the reception: a perfect set piece for overstuffed comic fun. The movie’s got everything: an overstressed event planner; an oddly hostile yet charismatic preacher; some uninvited guests intent on getting full; fantastic dancing. Let it distract you for a while! —Vinson Cunningham
The Internet is rife with advice for parents of small children hoping to stay sane under quarantine. In my experience, most of these life hacks work only a fraction as well as advertised, and only for a few minutes at a time. Still, in the spirit of open-source collaboration, I’ll share one of the few tricks that has worked in our house, at least so far: instead of giving our nearly-three-year-old full control over Spotify, we’ve instituted a request system. As in: first your request, then mine. Repeat ad infinitum. Every adult in the room gets a request; no vote dilution allowed. Right away, the Raffi ratio has fallen precipitously. (I love Raffi, but in moderation.) Another advantage: sometimes one of my requests, or one of my wife’s, will catch on with the kid, and he’ll start requesting it himself. It’s impossible to predict which ones will translate. He likes “Isn’t She Lovely” (“the one with the baby”) and adores “Raspberry Beret”; he is indifferent to Taylor Swift but can’t get enough of Kacey Musgraves’s “Slow Burn,” which he insists on calling “Grandma Cried When I Pierced My Nose.” The only way to find out which songs will take is through trial and error, and we have plenty of time for that.
A few days ago (or was it years?) either my wife or I (we’re all starting to blur together at this point) used one of our requests to put on Tracy Chapman’s self-titled début album. We both remembered it as a classic, but I don’t think either of us predicted quite how timely it would seem, with its achingly bittersweet melodies depicting desperate people’s attempts to find comfort in a scorched late-capitalist landscape. It was released in 1988, but, apart from the antiquated drum machines and the fact that the lyrics don’t include the phrase “social distancing,” it could have been yesterday. The characters in “Talkin’ ’Bout a Revolution” and “Fast Car,” barely making ends meet on minimum wage, would surely be no better off today. “Mountains o’ Things” might as well be about the futile attempt to hoard hand sanitizer. Most of this goes over a toddler’s head, of course, but that’s just as well, at least for now. And, as far as quarantine goes, the lyric “don’t you know you better run run run” can be repurposed as “rub rub rub,” which makes a great hand-washing anthem.—Andrew Marantz
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-23--In a Nightmare Scenario During the Coronavirus Crisis, How Should We Decide Who Gets Medical Care?

In northern Italy , doctors were forced to begin rationing ventilators and other equipment , a nightmare scenario that soon could become a reality for medical staff in the United States ; New York has projected ventilator shortages in the thousands per week .
David Remnick talks with Philip Rosoff , a professor of medicine at Duke University and scholar of bioethics who has studied rationing .
Rosoff believes that medical institutions must also consider the needs of those who can ’ t be saved , and suggests that hospitals should stock up on drugs to ease suffering at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the U.S. medical system puts an emphasis on “ go for broke ” care at all costs , and is poorly prepared for those kinds of decisions , which leave hospital workers with an acute sense of “ moral distress.
” “ If we ’ re smart , we would have institutional guidelines and plans in place ahead of time , ” Rosoff says .
“ The way not to make [ a rationing decision ] is to make it arbitrarily , capriciously , unilaterally , and at the bedside in the moment @ @

Photograph by Jean-Francois Badias / AP
In northern Italy, doctors were forced to begin rationing ventilators and other equipment, a nightmare scenario that soon could become a reality for medical staff in the United States; New York has projected ventilator shortages in the thousands per week. David Remnick talks with Philip Rosoff, a professor of medicine at Duke University and scholar of bioethics who has studied rationing. Rosoff believes that medical institutions must also consider the needs of those who can’t be saved, and suggests that hospitals should stock up on drugs to ease suffering at the end of life. Rosoff notes that the U.S. medical system puts an emphasis on “go for broke” care at all costs, and is poorly prepared for those kinds of decisions, which leave hospital workers with an acute sense of “moral distress.” “If we’re smart, we would have institutional guidelines and plans in place ahead of time,” Rosoff says. “The way not to make [a rationing decision] is to make it arbitrarily, capriciously, unilaterally, and at the bedside in the moment.”


newyorker--2020-03-23--The Coronavirus Crisis Is the Time to Cultivate the Art of Sitzfleisch

These are first-person-plural times .
What I did today is the same thing , I hope , that you did : we stayed at home .
We watered the plants , pet the dog , antagonized the cat , sprayed down our groceries as best we could , half-assed our way through a yoga video , took a nap , read too much news , cooked dinner , looked at social media , watched a movie , tried to distinguish chest-tightening symptomatic of anxiety from chest-tightening symptomatic of something worse .
We ’ re all in this thing together , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ proportional to the degree that we act like it .
“ I am he as you are he as you are me , ” as John Lennon said .
“ E pluribus unum , ” as the penny reminds us .
“ We Are One ( Ole Ola ) , ” as Pitbull featuring Jennifer Lopez and Claudia Leitte so aptly put it during the 2014 World Cup .
So excuse me as I slip into something a little more comfortable : the first-person singular , I , me , mine ( that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I ’ ve been at home for nearly two weeks , suspended in the deep burrowing state familiar to writers on deadline .
But I do have to leave the house every so often , to walk the dog and buy food .
And what did I see this past weekend when—sporting a hideous pair of purple nitrile gloves , like a color-blind Fosse dancer or a homicidal mime—I fearfully opened the door to take to the streets of Brooklyn ?
I saw people .
People of all kinds , but far @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just like me : healthy-looking millennials who are doing what in a normal time would be healthy-looking activities , such as jogging , biking , and crowding the farmers ’ market .
People were out and about .
They were strolling .
They were milling .
Some , if you can believe it , were picnicking .
And it is my belief that , though many were maintaining the requisite six-foot distance , too many were not .
Governor Andrew Cuomo , who visited the city on Saturday , noticed the same thing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thin out the crowds , while lambasting the young for their carelessness in the manner of a dad who has had it up to here .
“ Young people aren ’ t invincible , ” he said .
And it ’ s true .
We ’ re not .
I get it .
It ’ s hard to be inside when spring is springing , but it ’ s necessary—hell , it ’ s a matter of life and death .
At a time like this , it helps to have trained at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , because that ’ s what ’ s required : training .
You can ’ t do ten sit-ups and expect to look like you ’ ve spent months at Muscle Beach , and the same is true for the art of sitting still .
I suggest that , in addition to doing calisthenics and learning a new language and writing a novel and anything else you might be doing under these strange , disturbing circumstances , this is a time to cultivate the art of Sitzfleisch .
Literally “ sitting meat , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the material that one sits with—the tush , the booty , the rump , whatever—and the ability to remain seated upon it for periods of great duration .
Some people are natural sitters .
They take to meditation like a fish to water .
Me , not so much .
I ’ m more like Grace Paley , whose father warned her , “ You will never write because you have no Sitzfleisch.
” ( Fortunately , he was wrong .
But , unfortunately , he was also right , because she was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and didn ’ t write as much as she should have . )
While working , I like to get up , bounce around , do a stretch , have a putter , make up a little dance , clip my toenails .
I like distraction so much that , a few years ago , I made a short list of guidelines to follow for a necessarily imperfect Sitzfleisch session , which I offer to you here as mere suggestion and inspiration , amended for coronavirus times .
You may walk to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as many cups as you like .
( Caffeine-free , otherwise your sitting will be shot . )
You may eat a piece of chocolate .
( Have the whole bar .
Hell , have two . )
You may sit dreamily on the toilet .
( A great place to work on your Sitzfleisch . )
You may put on and take off socks .
You may dust relevant working surfaces but not so that you get distracted by cleaning .
( I am part of the class of writers who love @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gives us the illusion of doing something necessary and productive .
In this climate , I encourage breaking your sit to clean any and everything . )
You may heat up soup .
You definitely should cook an ambitious meal .
You may not check Twitter .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

Some people are natural sitters. Others might take the time to practice Sitzfleisch—literally “sitting meat” in German. Photograph by Yale Joel / The LIFE Picture Collection / Getty
These are first-person-plural times. What I did today is the same thing, I hope, that you did: we stayed at home. We watered the plants, pet the dog, antagonized the cat, sprayed down our groceries as best we could, half-assed our way through a yoga video, took a nap, read too much news, cooked dinner, looked at social media, watched a movie, tried to distinguish chest-tightening symptomatic of anxiety from chest-tightening symptomatic of something worse. We’re all in this thing together, and our chances of success are directly proportional to the degree that we act like it. “I am he as you are he as you are me,” as John Lennon said. “E pluribus unum,” as the penny reminds us. “We Are One (Ole Ola),” as Pitbull featuring Jennifer Lopez and Claudia Leitte so aptly put it during the 2014 World Cup.
So excuse me as I slip into something a little more comfortable: the first-person singular, I, me, mine (that’s George Harrison for you). I’ve been at home for nearly two weeks, suspended in the deep burrowing state familiar to writers on deadline. But I do have to leave the house every so often, to walk the dog and buy food. And what did I see this past weekend when—sporting a hideous pair of purple nitrile gloves, like a color-blind Fosse dancer or a homicidal mime—I fearfully opened the door to take to the streets of Brooklyn? I saw people. People of all kinds, but far, far too many people who are just like me: healthy-looking millennials who are doing what in a normal time would be healthy-looking activities, such as jogging, biking, and crowding the farmers’ market. People were out and about. They were strolling. They were milling. Some, if you can believe it, were picnicking. And it is my belief that, though many were maintaining the requisite six-foot distance, too many were not. Governor Andrew Cuomo, who visited the city on Saturday, noticed the same thing, and called on the Mayor to thin out the crowds, while lambasting the young for their carelessness in the manner of a dad who has had it up to here. “Young people aren’t invincible,” he said. And it’s true. We’re not.
I get it. It’s hard to be inside when spring is springing, but it’s necessary—hell, it’s a matter of life and death. At a time like this, it helps to have trained at a sedentary, solitary, indoor profession, because that’s what’s required: training. You can’t do ten sit-ups and expect to look like you’ve spent months at Muscle Beach, and the same is true for the art of sitting still. I suggest that, in addition to doing calisthenics and learning a new language and writing a novel and anything else you might be doing under these strange, disturbing circumstances, this is a time to cultivate the art of Sitzfleisch. Literally “sitting meat,” this excellent German term indicates both the material that one sits with—the tush, the booty, the rump, whatever—and the ability to remain seated upon it for periods of great duration.
Some people are natural sitters. They take to meditation like a fish to water. Me, not so much. I’m more like Grace Paley, whose father warned her, “You will never write because you have no Sitzfleisch.” (Fortunately, he was wrong. But, unfortunately, he was also right, because she was antsy to be out in the world and didn’t write as much as she should have.) While working, I like to get up, bounce around, do a stretch, have a putter, make up a little dance, clip my toenails. I like distraction so much that, a few years ago, I made a short list of guidelines to follow for a necessarily imperfect Sitzfleisch session, which I offer to you here as mere suggestion and inspiration, amended for coronavirus times.
You may walk to the window.
You may drink tea, as many cups as you like. (Caffeine-free, otherwise your sitting will be shot.)
You may eat a piece of chocolate. (Have the whole bar. Hell, have two.)
You may sit dreamily on the toilet. (A great place to work on your Sitzfleisch.)
You may put on and take off socks.
You may dust relevant working surfaces but not so that you get distracted by cleaning . (I am part of the class of writers who love to clean to procrastinate, because it gives us the illusion of doing something necessary and productive. In this climate, I encourage breaking your sit to clean any and everything.)
You may heat up soup.
You may not definitely should cook an ambitious meal.
You may not check Twitter.
Stay strong, and sit long.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-23--Adages for the Age of Quarantine

Adages for the Age of Quarantine

See a penny , DON ’ T YOU FUCKING TOUCH IT .
A bird in the hand is how we @ @ @ @ @ the first place .
A stitch in time is a pretty accurate description of the @ @ @ @ @ homeschooling ” day .
Step on a crack , break your mother ’ s heart @ @ @ @ @ outside ?
?
Many hands made light work , back when we could be in @ @ @ @ @ You can ’ t hoard your cake and eat it , too .
Birds of @ @ @ @ @ virtual hangout spaces ONLY .
A journey of a thousand miles just isn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ .

See a penny, DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH IT.
A bird in the hand is how we got into this mess in the first place.
A stitch in time is a pretty accurate description of the arts-and-crafts segment of my “homeschooling” day.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s heart, what are you doing outside??
Many hands made light work, back when we could be in the same room together.
You can’t hoard your cake and eat it, too.
Birds of a feather flock together in virtual hangout spaces ONLY.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, to a point.
A journey of a thousand miles just isn’t gonna happen anytime soon.
Unwashed hands are the devil’s playthings.


newyorker--2020-03-23--How Loneliness from Coronavirus Isolation Takes Its Toll

At a White House press briefing on Friday , Peter Alexander , a correspondent for NBC News , asked President Trump about the psychological toll of the COVID-19 crisis : “ Nearly two hundred dead , fourteen thousand who are sick , millions , as you witnessed , who are scared , ” Alexander said .
“ What do you say to Americans who are watching you right now who are scared ?
” Trump shot back , “ I say that you ’ re a terrible reporter , that ’ s what I say .
I think it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I think it ’ s a very bad signal that you ’ re putting out to the American people.
” For weeks , the President seemed oblivious to the scope of the coronavirus threat ; now he seems heartless about the spiralling anxiety among Americans and ignorant about the physiology of fear , after a week unprecedented in American history , during which much of the country has closed down , the economy has ground to a halt , and millions have been told to stay home .
Since last week , state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in New York , California , Illinois , New Jersey , Connecticut , Michigan , and Massachusetts—to remain indoors .
For many of the rest of us , normal life has been suspended as the tally of cases soars .
It all feels eerily apocalyptic—and , for most , scary .
The Los Angeles mayor , Eric Garcetti , demonstrated more compassion than Trump when he appealed , on the same day , for residents of America ’ s second-largest city to stay home .
“ I know there ’ s been a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s O.K .
to cry , ” he said .
“ I know there ’ s been a lot of fear , and it ’ s O.K .
to be afraid.
” On Saturday , the governor of New York , Andrew Cuomo , acknowledged the “ truly significant ” psychological and social stresses of our uncertain times .
“ People are struggling with the emotions as much as they are struggling with the economics , ” he said .
“ This state wants to start to address that.
” He appealed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to volunteer to contact the state to help set up a network to provide mental-health assistance for people who are anxious or isolated .
As governors across the nation began ordering lockdowns , I talked with neuroscientists and psychologists about the impact on the human body—not of this new pathogen but of the various stresses that accompany it .
The novel coronavirus has swept the globe at a time when more people are living alone than ever before in human history .
The trend became noticeable in the early twentieth century , among @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nineteen-sixties .
In the United States , the numbers have almost doubled over the past half century , according to the research aggregator Our World in Data .
In 2019 , twenty-eight per cent of households were single-person—up from twenty-three per cent in 1980 .
Stockholm may represent the apex of this trend : in 2012 , sixty per cent of households in the Swedish city had only one person .
Psychologists note the difference between living alone and loneliness .
I live alone and have no family , and usually don ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as the new pathogen forces us to socially distance , I have begun to feel lonely .
I miss the ability to see , converse with , hug , or spend time with friends .
Life seems shallower , more like survival than living .
If only we could all emulate Tom Hanks ’ s character in “ Cast Away , ” who survived four years stranded on a remote island with only a volleyball—nicknamed Wilson , with a face crafted off an imprint of his bloodied hand—as a companion .
( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like Teddy bears , that they are still for sale on Amazon and at Wilson Sporting Goods . )
But science shows us that anxiety and isolation exact a physical toll on the brain ’ s circuitry .
They increase the vulnerability to disease—by triggering higher blood pressure and heart rates , stress hormones and inflammation—among people who might otherwise not get sick .
Prolonged loneliness can even increase mortality rates .
In 2015 , Julianne Holt-Lunstad , a neuroscientist and psychologist at Brigham Young University , published an analysis of seventy studies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the impact of social isolation , loneliness , and living alone .
The results were notable in light of today ’ s pandemic .
The review found that loneliness increased the rate of early death by twenty-six per cent ; social isolation led to an increased rate of mortality of twenty-nine per cent , and living alone by thirty-two per cent—no matter the subject ’ s age , gender , location , or culture .
“ Keep in mind , this is looking at chronic effects over time , ” Holt-Lunstad told me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a disruption in our usual pattern .
We all hope this is temporary and not something that will become a more chronic state.
” But , she cautioned , the danger is that people remain isolated after the risk dissipates .
In situations where public drinking-water systems became unsafe , even after the problem was resolved and the water was made safe again , people didn ’ t trust them and refused to drink from them .
Another psychologist cited survivors of the Holocaust who ended up living in developed nations and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ food because the trauma was so imprinted on their brains .
“ When we get out of a habit , it ’ s hard to get back in , ” Holt-Lunstad said .
“ So , just like we ’ re worried about an economic recession , we should worry about a social recession—a continued pattern of distancing socially , beyond the immediate pandemic , that will have broader societal effects , particularly for the vulnerable.
” Understanding the science helps .
Loneliness is not just a feeling .
It ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ humans , much as hunger is a signal that leads a person to seek out food , or thirst is a signal to hunt for water , Holt-Lunstad said .
Historically , connections have been essential for survival .
During the coronavirus pandemic , the loneliness signal may increase for many—with limited ways of alleviating it .
The intersection of multiple challenges during the COVID-19 crisis—to health , employment , home , and access to resources—has produced an extreme confluence of circumstances that significantly increases the risk of depression and the kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ associated with war zones or physical violence .
About half of the people impacted by Hurricane Katrina , which hit Louisiana and the Gulf Coast in 2005 , developed mental-health disorders due to the loss of homes , loved ones , income , or financial security , Dr. Sue Varma , the founding medical director of the World Trade Center mental-health program at New York University , told me .
“ What ’ s different today from the 9/11 attacks or Hurricane Katrina or the tsunami in Japan is that those episodes had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we see no end in sight , so it ’ s more traumatic.
” Trauma is compounded because people don ’ t have the usual outlets—other people—to go to .
“ The power of touch releases oxytocin , which is a natural cuddle hormone .
You see it during mother-infant bonding , an orgasm , and hugs , ” Varma said .
Under the current conditions , people are not getting the same level of oxytocin release from human contact .
Studies show that the health consequences of prolonged loneliness are equivalent to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
The condition can prompt cardiovascular disease and stroke , obesity , or premature death .
It is associated with a forty-per-cent increase in the risk of dementia , a study by the Florida State University College of Medicine concluded , in 2018 .
Loneliness also increases the risk of clinical depression , which has its own statistical dangers .
Just one episode of a major depressive disorder—meaning two weeks or more of a depressed mood , and five of nine known symptoms—increases the risk of a second episode by fifty per @ @ @ @ @ @ @ include low mood , loss of interest in activities that bring pleasure , guilt , low energy , concentration problems , appetite or weight change , sleeplessness , or slowing down .
Two episodes of depression increase the likelihood of a third by seventy-five per cent—and three episodes increase the likelihood of a fourth by up to ninety-five per cent .
The cycle of depression becomes increasingly hard to break .

At a White House press briefing on Friday, Peter Alexander, a correspondent for NBC News, asked President Trump about the psychological toll of the COVID-19 crisis: “Nearly two hundred dead, fourteen thousand who are sick, millions, as you witnessed, who are scared,” Alexander said. “What do you say to Americans who are watching you right now who are scared?” Trump shot back, “I say that you’re a terrible reporter, that’s what I say. I think it’s a very nasty question, and I think it’s a very bad signal that you’re putting out to the American people.” For weeks, the President seemed oblivious to the scope of the coronavirus threat; now he seems heartless about the spiralling anxiety among Americans and ignorant about the physiology of fear, after a week unprecedented in American history, during which much of the country has closed down, the economy has ground to a halt, and millions have been told to stay home. Since last week, state officials have ordered one in three Americans—living in New York, California, Illinois, New Jersey, Connecticut, Michigan, and Massachusetts—to remain indoors. For many of the rest of us, normal life has been suspended as the tally of cases soars. It all feels eerily apocalyptic—and, for most, scary.
The Los Angeles mayor, Eric Garcetti, demonstrated more compassion than Trump when he appealed, on the same day, for residents of America’s second-largest city to stay home. “I know there’s been a lot of crying, and it’s O.K. to cry,” he said. “I know there’s been a lot of fear, and it’s O.K. to be afraid.” On Saturday, the governor of New York, Andrew Cuomo, acknowledged the “truly significant” psychological and social stresses of our uncertain times. “People are struggling with the emotions as much as they are struggling with the economics,” he said. “This state wants to start to address that.” He appealed to psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists willing to volunteer to contact the state to help set up a network to provide mental-health assistance for people who are anxious or isolated.
As governors across the nation began ordering lockdowns, I talked with neuroscientists and psychologists about the impact on the human body—not of this new pathogen but of the various stresses that accompany it. The novel coronavirus has swept the globe at a time when more people are living alone than ever before in human history. The trend became noticeable in the early twentieth century, among industrialized nations; it accelerated in the nineteen-sixties. In the United States, the numbers have almost doubled over the past half century, according to the research aggregator Our World in Data. In 2019, twenty-eight per cent of households were single-person—up from twenty-three per cent in 1980. Stockholm may represent the apex of this trend: in 2012, sixty per cent of households in the Swedish city had only one person. Psychologists note the difference between living alone and loneliness. I live alone and have no family, and usually don’t think much about it. But, as the new pathogen forces us to socially distance, I have begun to feel lonely. I miss the ability to see, converse with, hug, or spend time with friends. Life seems shallower, more like survival than living.
If only we could all emulate Tom Hanks’s character in “Cast Away,” who survived four years stranded on a remote island with only a volleyball—nicknamed Wilson, with a face crafted off an imprint of his bloodied hand—as a companion. (Wilson replicas became so popular, almost like Teddy bears, that they are still for sale on Amazon and at Wilson Sporting Goods.) But science shows us that anxiety and isolation exact a physical toll on the brain’s circuitry. They increase the vulnerability to disease—by triggering higher blood pressure and heart rates, stress hormones and inflammation—among people who might otherwise not get sick. Prolonged loneliness can even increase mortality rates. In 2015, Julianne Holt-Lunstad, a neuroscientist and psychologist at Brigham Young University, published an analysis of seventy studies, involving 3.4 million people, examining the impact of social isolation, loneliness, and living alone. The results were notable in light of today’s pandemic. The review found that loneliness increased the rate of early death by twenty-six per cent; social isolation led to an increased rate of mortality of twenty-nine per cent, and living alone by thirty-two per cent—no matter the subject’s age, gender, location, or culture.
“Keep in mind, this is looking at chronic effects over time,” Holt-Lunstad told me. “What we are experiencing now is a disruption in our usual pattern. We all hope this is temporary and not something that will become a more chronic state.” But, she cautioned, the danger is that people remain isolated after the risk dissipates. In situations where public drinking-water systems became unsafe, even after the problem was resolved and the water was made safe again, people didn’t trust them and refused to drink from them. Another psychologist cited survivors of the Holocaust who ended up living in developed nations and doing well financially afterward but still hoarded food because the trauma was so imprinted on their brains. “When we get out of a habit, it’s hard to get back in,” Holt-Lunstad said. “So, just like we’re worried about an economic recession, we should worry about a social recession—a continued pattern of distancing socially, beyond the immediate pandemic, that will have broader societal effects, particularly for the vulnerable.”
Understanding the science helps. Loneliness is not just a feeling. It’s a biological warning signal to seek out other humans, much as hunger is a signal that leads a person to seek out food, or thirst is a signal to hunt for water, Holt-Lunstad said. Historically, connections have been essential for survival. During the coronavirus pandemic, the loneliness signal may increase for many—with limited ways of alleviating it.
The intersection of multiple challenges during the COVID-19 crisis—to health, employment, home, and access to resources—has produced an extreme confluence of circumstances that significantly increases the risk of depression and the kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, or P.T.S.D., associated with war zones or physical violence. About half of the people impacted by Hurricane Katrina, which hit Louisiana and the Gulf Coast in 2005, developed mental-health disorders due to the loss of homes, loved ones, income, or financial security, Dr. Sue Varma, the founding medical director of the World Trade Center mental-health program at New York University, told me. “What’s different today from the 9/11 attacks or Hurricane Katrina or the tsunami in Japan is that those episodes had finite endings. With this pandemic, we see no end in sight, so it’s more traumatic.”
Trauma is compounded because people don’t have the usual outlets—other people—to go to. “The power of touch releases oxytocin, which is a natural cuddle hormone. You see it during mother-infant bonding, an orgasm, and hugs,” Varma said. Under the current conditions, people are not getting the same level of oxytocin release from human contact.
Studies show that the health consequences of prolonged loneliness are equivalent to smoking fifteen cigarettes a day, Varma said. The condition can prompt cardiovascular disease and stroke, obesity, or premature death. It is associated with a forty-per-cent increase in the risk of dementia, a study by the Florida State University College of Medicine concluded, in 2018. Loneliness also increases the risk of clinical depression, which has its own statistical dangers. Just one episode of a major depressive disorder—meaning two weeks or more of a depressed mood, and five of nine known symptoms—increases the risk of a second episode by fifty per cent, Varma said. Those symptoms include low mood, loss of interest in activities that bring pleasure, guilt, low energy, concentration problems, appetite or weight change, sleeplessness, or slowing down. Two episodes of depression increase the likelihood of a third by seventy-five per cent—and three episodes increase the likelihood of a fourth by up to ninety-five per cent. The cycle of depression becomes increasingly hard to break.
The pandemic is forcing the human species—and our brains—to do the opposite of what we’ve learned to do over millennia in order to survive. James Coan, a neuroscientist at the University of Virginia, compared the way the brain functions in times of stress to that of a salamander. “A salamander wants a cool, dark, wet place in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s adapted to the environment. It knows where to find food there. If a salamander walks out from under the rock into the sun on a hot dry day, it will have a stress response—and want to get back under the rock,” Coan said. “The dilemma for us today is that we’re all salamanders out in the sun told not to go back under the rock because that habitat is also the environmental niche for this virus.”
The brain has limited bandwidth to solve problems and to regulate emotions, Coan, who teaches a class on why people hold hands, told me. And so our intense sociability serves yet another purpose: to expand that bandwidth. The brain processes all manner of information more efficiently in the presence of other people, even if they are six feet away, than it does while alone, or while engaging with someone on a screen or a phone. “Virtually all of us prefer a live person rather than a remote person,” he explained. “It’s a biological principle called the economy of action. The brain wants to do something at the lowest cost possible, and being with others lowers the cost of almost everything it does.” Coan has found that simply holding hands with a loved one can decrease the anxiety that causes a person to mount a stress response, and even reduce activity in the “neurologic pain signature,” resulting in an analgesic effect comparable to medication. Touch quiets the brain’s emotional activity, but connecting via video conference requires an extra circuit of the brain to get the same effect. “Videoconferencing can help,” Coan said, “but it will require more work from the brain than physical presence would.”