newyorker--2020-11-27--Economic Ruthlessness on the Open Road in “Nomadland”

Another takeaway from Zhao ’ s work : no land is more fertile than the border zone between documentary and fiction .
Brady , for instance , is played by a real-life rider , also named Brady , from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation , in South Dakota , and his wound is no invention .
His sister , Lilly , who has Asperger ’ s , plays a version of herself .
In the same vein , most of the folks in “ Nomadland ” are , as it were , true to themselves—genuine wanderers , recounting their experience @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a singular blend of stringency and warmth .
Thus , Linda , a smiling and capable figure with silver hair , is played by Linda May ; Swankie , who has seven or eight months to live , and who hangs a skull and crossbones on the side of her van , is played by Swankie ; and so on .
“ Nomadland , ” which won the main prize at this year ’ s Venice Film Festival , is based on the 2017 book of the same name , by Jessica Bruder @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through : a deep delve , patiently researched , into the rising number of Americans for whom a stable existence is unaffordable .
They may have been scathed by personal hardship , or spit out by the financial collapse of 2008 .
Most of them are of riper years , weathered by a steady-humored stoicism , and they ’ ve shrugged off the burden of property ownership in favor of what ’ s known as wheel estate .
According to the jargon , you can be a vandweller or , more specifically , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ travel around in your R.V .
in search of temporary jobs , some of which come with a place to park , plus access to power and water .
It was Bruder who came across Linda , Swankie , and other nomads , and reported in detail on the pattern of their endurance ; now they have migrated into Zhao ’ s movie and brought their weatherings with them .
But what ’ s so dramatic about it ?
Why is it not a documentary ?
In a word , because of Fern @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and she ’ s played by a bona-fide film star , albeit one with a hilariously low dose of airs and graces .
( If McDormand receives an Oscar nomination for her pains , as she should , expect her to show up in Crocs . )
One of the first actions that she is required to perform onscreen is to pee outside , in the middle of nowhere , on a freezing day .
Later , an upset stomach forces her to excrete noisily into a bucket .
At the other extreme @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a creek , gazing up at the sky , with arms flung wide : a tranquil sight , though it doesn ’ t look especially healing or transcendent .
It looks cold .
I tried to imagine another actress in the role , but soon gave up .
Only someone as rooted and as resilient as McDormand , perhaps , can play so rootless a character .
Fern used to live and to labor in Empire , Nevada , an old-school company town , owned by United States Gypsum .
As we ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ film , 2011 marked the end of Empire ; the plant was shut , and the town effectively died .
Fern was married to a guy named Bo , but he , too , passed away .
They had no children , and now it ’ s just her and Vanguard .
At a sporting-goods store , she runs into a family she knows .
“ Are you still doing the van thing ?
” the mother asks , as if nobody could keep up such a life for long .
“ My @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is that true ?
” her daughter says .
Fern , unfazed , replies , “ I ’ m just houseless .
Not the same thing , right ?
” Fans of that film will recall that Bobby , whom we first see on a California oil rig , is a former classical pianist .
It ’ s an odd conceit , yet we buy it , because of Nicholson .
Something similar occurs in “ Nomadland , ” when Fern , in conversation with a shy young drifter , suddenly declaims @ @ @ @ @ @ @ both unlikely and sublime , and it compels us to reassess Fern ’ s motives .
She was once a substitute teacher ; is that not a portable skill ?
Couldn ’ t she search for a school that needs a new teacher , drive there , and begin again ?
Or—here ’ s the rub—has she gradually grown allergic to social norms and addicted to the open road ?
“ All I wanted was to go somewheres ; all I wanted was a change , I warn ’ t particular.
” So @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chapter of his adventures , and it ’ s as if his craving has filtered down to Fern .
No wonder the film is so tense .
Fern is never attacked or robbed , thank heaven , yet the smell of possible danger hangs around .
Notice how she stares ahead as she eats , like a guard on watch .
In everyday dealings , her courtesy is a kind of armor , and , when she ’ s offered the chance to settle , in a safe haven , she rebuffs it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has broken down , she visits her sister , Dolly ( Melissa Smith ) , who lives on a pleasant suburban street—an alien planet , compared with the badlands and the wilderness where Fern prefers to roam .
“ You left home as soon as you could , ” Dolly says to her , remembering their childhood , and Fern , having borrowed cash , is soon gone again .
Then , there is Dave , a workamper , with too many miles on the clock .
He ’ s played by David @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spot , not just because of his stiff white beard but also because of the diffidence with which he ducks in and out of the frame .
Zhao is the foe of the meet-cute .
Early on , Fern walks away from a whimpering dog and , contrary to the laws of cinematic gratification , does not go back to claim it ; with Dave , who is in equal need of companionship , she proves no easier to sway .
Now and then , their orbits intersect—in the kitchen at Wall Drug @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where he flips burgers and she scrapes grease off the grill .
Like many nomads , Dave has fouled up his life .
( How , exactly , we can ’ t be sure ; but so expressive is Strathairn that we ’ re sure enough . )
Not without trepidation , he is returning to his family for the birth of his grandson .
Fern is invited to stop by , and so , at Thanksgiving , she rolls up , to the friendliest of welcomes .
“ You can stay , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I need to do laundry , ” she replies , though that isn ’ t what he had in mind .
The bed in the guest room is so soft that Fern has no option but to go and sleep in her van .
She leaves before anyone else is awake .
Somewhere , inside this lovely and desperate movie , there ’ s the ghost of a Western .
Though people still gather around a campfire , their talk is of cancer and P.T.S.D .
Instead of cowboys driving cattle to high @ @ @ @ @ @ @ converge , in certain months , on an Amazon warehouse—still obeying the rhythm of the seasons , I guess , as they bubble-wrap junk and box it in time for Christmas .
Bruder ’ s book called attention to the economic ruthlessness of the Amazon setup , and the effect of the toil on older employees ; Zhao is more focussed on Fern , as she greets her fellow-drones at lunch , and slices banana onto her peanut-butter sandwich .
“ Nomadland ” is not primarily a protest .
Rather , it maintains @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in its heroine ’ s eyes , alive to all that ’ s dying in the West .
That is why Zhao so often films at daylight ’ s decease , catching enormous skies of violet and rose , and why her fable speaks to us , in 2020 , as John Ford ’ s “ The Grapes of Wrath ” did to audiences eighty years ago .
Fern ’ s needs and rights are as basic as those of the Joad family , yet there was a breadth and an uplift to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a speck .
“ Fellow ain ’ t got a soul of his own , just a little piece of a big soul , ” Tom Joad said .
“ The one big soul that belongs to everybody.
” Some hope .
Fern has her own soul , and it ’ s hers alone , packed away tight in the van , together with her toothbrush and her chicken-noodle soup .
On she goes .
♦

One of the things we learn from the films of Chloé Zhao is this: bad luck is the stuff that happens before a story begins. As “The Rider” (2018) gets under way, the hero—a young fellow named Brady—already has an angry gash in his head, having tumbled from his horse at a rodeo and taken a hoof to the skull. And now, at the start of “Nomadland,” which Zhao wrote and directed, we meet Fern (Frances McDormand), who no longer has a husband, a regular job, or a home. Well, she does have a home, but it’s a white van that she has adapted, with lots of storage space, to be her only dwelling. She calls it Vanguard.
Another takeaway from Zhao’s work: no land is more fertile than the border zone between documentary and fiction. Brady, for instance, is played by a real-life rider, also named Brady, from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, in South Dakota, and his wound is no invention. His sister, Lilly, who has Asperger’s, plays a version of herself. In the same vein, most of the folks in “Nomadland” are, as it were, true to themselves—genuine wanderers, recounting their experience as birds of passage, and radiating a singular blend of stringency and warmth. Thus, Linda, a smiling and capable figure with silver hair, is played by Linda May; Swankie, who has seven or eight months to live, and who hangs a skull and crossbones on the side of her van, is played by Swankie; and so on.
“Nomadland,” which won the main prize at this year’s Venice Film Festival, is based on the 2017 book of the same name, by Jessica Bruder. That is nonfiction, through and through: a deep delve, patiently researched, into the rising number of Americans for whom a stable existence is unaffordable. They may have been scathed by personal hardship, or spit out by the financial collapse of 2008. Most of them are of riper years, weathered by a steady-humored stoicism, and they’ve shrugged off the burden of property ownership in favor of what’s known as wheel estate. According to the jargon, you can be a vandweller or, more specifically, a workamper, which means that you travel around in your R.V. in search of temporary jobs, some of which come with a place to park, plus access to power and water. It was Bruder who came across Linda, Swankie, and other nomads, and reported in detail on the pattern of their endurance; now they have migrated into Zhao’s movie and brought their weatherings with them. But what’s so dramatic about it? Why is it not a documentary?
In a word, because of Fern. She is a fictional creation, and she’s played by a bona-fide film star, albeit one with a hilariously low dose of airs and graces. (If McDormand receives an Oscar nomination for her pains, as she should, expect her to show up in Crocs.) One of the first actions that she is required to perform onscreen is to pee outside, in the middle of nowhere, on a freezing day. Later, an upset stomach forces her to excrete noisily into a bucket. At the other extreme, she gets to float naked in a creek, gazing up at the sky, with arms flung wide: a tranquil sight, though it doesn’t look especially healing or transcendent. It looks cold.
I tried to imagine another actress in the role, but soon gave up. Only someone as rooted and as resilient as McDormand, perhaps, can play so rootless a character. Fern used to live and to labor in Empire, Nevada, an old-school company town, owned by United States Gypsum. As we’re told at the outset of the film, 2011 marked the end of Empire; the plant was shut, and the town effectively died. Fern was married to a guy named Bo, but he, too, passed away. They had no children, and now it’s just her and Vanguard. At a sporting-goods store, she runs into a family she knows. “Are you still doing the van thing?” the mother asks, as if nobody could keep up such a life for long. “My mom says that you’re homeless, is that true?” her daughter says. Fern, unfazed, replies, “I’m just houseless. Not the same thing, right?”
Motion pictures, from their earliest days, have leaned toward people on the move. The medium is not made for staying still. It seems natural that Chaplin, left alone in the final shot of “The Circus” (1928), on a patch of waste ground marked by a circle where the big top stood, should not linger long, in reflective mood, but turn and amble away. As the iris closes around him, we don’t inquire where he might go next; what counts is the manner of his going. The same applies to Jack Nicholson, as Bobby Dupea, at the bitter end of “Five Easy Pieces” (1970), abandoning his girlfriend at the gas pumps, beside the Red Rooster Café, and hitching a ride on a logging truck—no wallet, no plans, not even a jacket, although, as the trucker says, where they’re headed will be colder than hell.
Fans of that film will recall that Bobby, whom we first see on a California oil rig, is a former classical pianist. It’s an odd conceit, yet we buy it, because of Nicholson. Something similar occurs in “Nomadland,” when Fern, in conversation with a shy young drifter, suddenly declaims a Shakespeare sonnet. The scene is both unlikely and sublime, and it compels us to reassess Fern’s motives. She was once a substitute teacher; is that not a portable skill? Couldn’t she search for a school that needs a new teacher, drive there, and begin again? Or—here’s the rub—has she gradually grown allergic to social norms and addicted to the open road? “All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn’t particular.” So says Huckleberry Finn, in the opening chapter of his adventures, and it’s as if his craving has filtered down to Fern.
No wonder the film is so tense. Fern is never attacked or robbed, thank heaven, yet the smell of possible danger hangs around. Notice how she stares ahead as she eats, like a guard on watch. In everyday dealings, her courtesy is a kind of armor, and, when she’s offered the chance to settle, in a safe haven, she rebuffs it. One day, after her van has broken down, she visits her sister, Dolly (Melissa Smith), who lives on a pleasant suburban street—an alien planet, compared with the badlands and the wilderness where Fern prefers to roam. “You left home as soon as you could,” Dolly says to her, remembering their childhood, and Fern, having borrowed cash, is soon gone again.
Then, there is Dave, a workamper, with too many miles on the clock. He’s played by David Strathairn, whom I initially failed to spot, not just because of his stiff white beard but also because of the diffidence with which he ducks in and out of the frame. Zhao is the foe of the meet-cute. Early on, Fern walks away from a whimpering dog and, contrary to the laws of cinematic gratification, does not go back to claim it; with Dave, who is in equal need of companionship, she proves no easier to sway. Now and then, their orbits intersect—in the kitchen at Wall Drug, say, in South Dakota, where he flips burgers and she scrapes grease off the grill. Like many nomads, Dave has fouled up his life. (How, exactly, we can’t be sure; but so expressive is Strathairn that we’re sure enough.) Not without trepidation, he is returning to his family for the birth of his grandson. Fern is invited to stop by, and so, at Thanksgiving, she rolls up, to the friendliest of welcomes. “You can stay,” Dave says. “Thanks, I need to do laundry,” she replies, though that isn’t what he had in mind. The bed in the guest room is so soft that Fern has no option but to go and sleep in her van. She leaves before anyone else is awake.
Somewhere, inside this lovely and desperate movie, there’s the ghost of a Western. Though people still gather around a campfire, their talk is of cancer and P.T.S.D. Instead of cowboys driving cattle to high pastures, Fern and her kindred spirits converge, in certain months, on an Amazon warehouse—still obeying the rhythm of the seasons, I guess, as they bubble-wrap junk and box it in time for Christmas. Bruder’s book called attention to the economic ruthlessness of the Amazon setup, and the effect of the toil on older employees; Zhao is more focussed on Fern, as she greets her fellow-drones at lunch, and slices banana onto her peanut-butter sandwich.
“Nomadland” is not primarily a protest. Rather, it maintains a fierce sadness, like the look in its heroine’s eyes, alive to all that’s dying in the West. That is why Zhao so often films at daylight’s decease, catching enormous skies of violet and rose, and why her fable speaks to us, in 2020, as John Ford’s “The Grapes of Wrath” did to audiences eighty years ago. Fern’s needs and rights are as basic as those of the Joad family, yet there was a breadth and an uplift to their yearning that has since dwindled to a speck. “Fellow ain’t got a soul of his own, just a little piece of a big soul,” Tom Joad said. “The one big soul that belongs to everybody.” Some hope. Fern has her own soul, and it’s hers alone, packed away tight in the van, together with her toothbrush and her chicken-noodle soup. On she goes. ♦


newyorker--2020-11-27--The Best Music of 2020

The Best Music of 2020

It seems safe to assume that 2020 is a year that not many of us are eager to linger over .
At the start of the pandemic , there were vague hopes of an artistic flourishing—that hoary and ultimately specious “ Shakespeare wrote ‘ King Lear ’ in quarantine !
” trope—but for me , at least , it was difficult to focus on much more than the ways in which my friends and neighbors were suffering .
I did wonder what sort of music this period would produce .
I ’ ve always believed that some amount of optimism @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the art-making impulse—that to dedicate oneself to something as difficult and thankless as creative work , one has to believe that the world is still good enough and open enough to be transformed , even briefly , by beauty .
The musicians who managed to hold onto that feeling—to go on believing in the essential decency of humankind and the various ways in which art can elevate us—kept me afloat through some strange days .
To all the musicians , both amateur and professional , who found the energy and faith to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back yards : thank you .
I never feel very confident that my year-end list actually represents the best records released in a given period—whatever that even means—but this year , I found myself especially uninterested in indulging anything other than what immediately sounded meaningful to me .
I tend to think of my listening process as partly cerebral ( chewing over precedents , context , ingenuity , craftsmanship ) and partly instinctive ( a little gasp or a flutter in my belly ) .
By June , I was operating chiefly on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ certain comforts ( I listened to all four sides of Bill Withers ’ s “ Live at Carnegie Hall ” at least a million times ) and a lower tolerance for anything that felt too cynical , calculated , or mercenary .
Usually , I genuinely savor the process of learning how to like something , but in 2020 I wanted only to be felled instantaneously .
Maybe in another year I would have bucked against that impulse .
In this one , it felt wise to cling to whatever got me grinning @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of 2020 , with honorable mention extended to Taylor Swift ’ s “ folklore , ” Megan Thee Stallion ’ s “ Good News , ” Natalia Lafourcade ’ s “ Un Canto por México Vol .
1 , ” Kehlani ’ s “ It Was Good Until It Wasn ’ t , ” Jay Electronica ’ s “ A Written Testimony , ” The Strokes ’ s “ The New Abnormal , ” and Waxahatchee ’ s “ Saint Cloud , ” any of which could have made it onto this list @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the midst of reporting a Profile of Bridgers when the pandemic took hold in the U.S. ( We started with lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar and ended with her mother giving me a gloved and masked FaceTime tour of Bridgers ’ s childhood bedroom , in Pasadena . )
During those increasingly tense weeks , “ Punisher , ” Bridgers ’ s second solo album , came to feel like a definitive statement on her generation ’ s particular anxieties , and also a prescient meditation on the precariousness of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ verse from “ I Know the End , ” which finishes the record , became a perfect coda for the spring and summer : “ Alfredo ” isn ’ t the first time that Gibbs , a rapper from Gary , Indiana , has worked with the Alchemist , a producer and d.j .
known for his collaborations with Mobb Deep , but both artists reach a kind of creative apex here .
The Alchemist seems to instinctively understand the sort of bold musical canvas that Gibbs ’ s lyrics—which are potent , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” is the sound of two masters in uncanny lockstep .
At some point in the last decade—perhaps concurrent with the rise of the # blessed hashtag—the notion of espousing boundless gratitude became vaguely treacly .
But on “ Shore , ” Fleet Foxes ’ s fourth LP , the singer and songwriter Robin Pecknold reclaims the idea of thankfulness in the face of grief , giving the practice real dignity and grace : “ I could worry through each night / Find something unique to say / I could pass as erudite @ @ @ @ @ @ @ man ’ s game , ” he sings on “ Young Man ’ s Game.
” I can ’ t overstate how good it feels to hear Pecknold pay earnest homage to the songwriters he loves and has lost ( Richard Swift , John Prine , Bill Withers , Judee Sill , Elliott Smith , David Berman , and Arthur Russell ) on “ Sunblind ” ; I , too , owe them—and Pecknold—so much .
When “ Rough and Rowdy Ways ” was first released , back in June , I found @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And yet , as surreal and shocking as this year has been , these songs continue to feel relevant , if not prophetic .
Dylan might be six decades into an extraordinary career , but he nonetheless manages to keep surprising me ; I suspect I ’ ll spend the next several years finding new ways to hear and understand this batch of wild and unruly songs .
Jyoti is the periodic sobriquet of the producer , songwriter , and musician Georgia Anne Muldrow , whose singular and entrancing work places her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Nina Simone , Erykah Badu , Gil Scott-Heron , and Pharoah Sanders .
“ Mama , You Can Bet !
” is the third installment in the Jyoti project , and the most entrancing .
Muldrow deftly incorporates elements of jazz , experimental music , hip-hop , and soul in a way that makes it easy to forget few artists can master such a dynamic palette .
Describing “ Fetch the Bolt Cutters , ” Apple ’ s fifth album , as achingly personal feels almost dumb—plenty of artists write songs that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and perform them with real vulnerability .
But the way in which Apple fully and completely inhabits these songs is incredible ; it feels as if she ’ s right there in the room , telling you everything she knows about herself .
“ Fetch the Bolt Cutters ” is bold , devastating , strange , immediate , noisy , and beautiful .
Standout track : “ I Want You to Love Me ” Lipa , who was born in London but spent much of her childhood in Kosovo , is responsible for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she released it in late March , just as Americans were grappling with the fact that none of us would be sweating on a dance floor again anytime soon .
For me , these songs hit like a sunbeam in the midst of a thunderstorm .
“ Future Nostalgia ” is muscular , retro-leaning disco-pop , expertly produced and embodied .
Lipa can be a coolly distant performer , but her voice—which contains just a bit of unexpected texture—is precise and intoxicating .
Lattimore , a Los Angeles-based harpist , partnered with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dream-pop band Slowdive , for this gorgeous , meditative collection .
It ’ s tempting to describe Lattimore ’ s music as hypnotic—I find that it relaxes muscles in my body I didn ’ t even know existed—but I worry that the characterization discounts her boldness and ingenuity .
“ Silver Ladders ” is dissonant and surreal , apt and welcome company for a year that felt the same .
I spent some time with Lenker this summer , in the weeks before she simultaneously released “ Songs ” and “ Instrumentals.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and songwriter in Big Thief , the excellent Brooklyn-based rock band , but there ’ s something uncommonly pure and striking in these records , which she made on her own , with the help of the engineer and producer Philip Weinrobe , at an off-the-grid cabin in western Massachusetts .
Lenker was facing down both the pandemic and a heart-wrenching breakup , and she funnelled her anguish into a collection of brittle , complex folk songs .
For the past few years , Sahel Sounds , an independent label specializing in music @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , between the Sahara Desert and Sudanian savanna—has been releasing guitar albums that make me reconsider everything I thought I knew about rock music .
“ No .
1 , ” the record I loved and played the most this year , wasn ’ t even released in 2020 ( it was first issued in 2018 ) , but was such a dominant part of my listening experience these past twelve months that it simply felt wrong to exclude it from this list .
Etran de L ’ Aïr , from central Niger @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; the band began as a trio of brothers , but these days there might be as many as nine family members involved .
“ No .
1 ” was recorded live , outside of the band ’ s compound in the outskirts of Agadez , and it contains absolutely everything I have desperately missed about non-virtual concerts : heady , spontaneous grooves , the sound of people clapping , involuntarily loosed whoops .
I put it on whenever I need to be reminded of what it feels like to be outside , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sound .

It seems safe to assume that 2020 is a year that not many of us are eager to linger over. At the start of the pandemic, there were vague hopes of an artistic flourishing—that hoary and ultimately specious “Shakespeare wrote ‘King Lear’ in quarantine!” trope—but for me, at least, it was difficult to focus on much more than the ways in which my friends and neighbors were suffering. I did wonder what sort of music this period would produce. I’ve always believed that some amount of optimism, conscious or unconscious, is inherent to the art-making impulse—that to dedicate oneself to something as difficult and thankless as creative work, one has to believe that the world is still good enough and open enough to be transformed, even briefly, by beauty. The musicians who managed to hold onto that feeling—to go on believing in the essential decency of humankind and the various ways in which art can elevate us—kept me afloat through some strange days. To all the musicians, both amateur and professional, who found the energy and faith to broadcast from their bedrooms or bathtubs or back yards: thank you.
2020 in Review New Yorker writers reflect on the year’s highs and lows.
I never feel very confident that my year-end list actually represents the best records released in a given period—whatever that even means—but this year, I found myself especially uninterested in indulging anything other than what immediately sounded meaningful to me. I tend to think of my listening process as partly cerebral (chewing over precedents, context, ingenuity, craftsmanship) and partly instinctive (a little gasp or a flutter in my belly). By June, I was operating chiefly on feeling. This meant a return to certain comforts (I listened to all four sides of Bill Withers’s “Live at Carnegie Hall” at least a million times) and a lower tolerance for anything that felt too cynical, calculated, or mercenary. Usually, I genuinely savor the process of learning how to like something, but in 2020 I wanted only to be felled instantaneously. Maybe in another year I would have bucked against that impulse. In this one, it felt wise to cling to whatever got me grinning.
Here are my ten favorite albums of 2020, with honorable mention extended to Taylor Swift’s “folklore,” Megan Thee Stallion’s “Good News,” Natalia Lafourcade’s “Un Canto por México Vol. 1,” Kehlani’s “It Was Good Until It Wasn’t,” Jay Electronica’s “A Written Testimony,” The Strokes’s “The New Abnormal,” and Waxahatchee’s “Saint Cloud,” any of which could have made it onto this list on a different day.
10. Phoebe Bridgers, “Punisher”
I was in the midst of reporting a Profile of Bridgers when the pandemic took hold in the U.S. (We started with lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar and ended with her mother giving me a gloved and masked FaceTime tour of Bridgers’s childhood bedroom, in Pasadena.) During those increasingly tense weeks, “Punisher,” Bridgers’s second solo album, came to feel like a definitive statement on her generation’s particular anxieties, and also a prescient meditation on the precariousness of the world at large. The closing verse from “I Know the End,” which finishes the record, became a perfect coda for the spring and summer:
I’ll find a new place to be from
A haunted house with a picket fence
To float around and ghost my friends
No, I’m not afraid to disappear
The billboard said the end is near
Standout track: “I Know the End”
9. Freddie Gibbs and the Alchemist, “Alfredo”
“Alfredo” isn’t the first time that Gibbs, a rapper from Gary, Indiana, has worked with the Alchemist, a producer and d.j. known for his collaborations with Mobb Deep, but both artists reach a kind of creative apex here. The Alchemist seems to instinctively understand the sort of bold musical canvas that Gibbs’s lyrics—which are potent, heavy, and uncompromising—require. “Alfredo” is the sound of two masters in uncanny lockstep.
Standout track: “Scottie Beam”
8. Fleet Foxes, “Shore”
At some point in the last decade—perhaps concurrent with the rise of the #blessed hashtag—the notion of espousing boundless gratitude became vaguely treacly. But on “Shore,” Fleet Foxes’s fourth LP, the singer and songwriter Robin Pecknold reclaims the idea of thankfulness in the face of grief, giving the practice real dignity and grace: “I could worry through each night / Find something unique to say / I could pass as erudite / But it’s a young man’s game,” he sings on “Young Man’s Game.” I can’t overstate how good it feels to hear Pecknold pay earnest homage to the songwriters he loves and has lost (Richard Swift, John Prine, Bill Withers, Judee Sill, Elliott Smith, David Berman, and Arthur Russell) on “Sunblind”; I, too, owe them—and Pecknold—so much.
Standout track: “Sunblind”
7. Bob Dylan, “Rough and Rowdy Ways”
When “Rough and Rowdy Ways” was first released, back in June, I found it startlingly germane to the national predicament. And yet, as surreal and shocking as this year has been, these songs continue to feel relevant, if not prophetic. Dylan might be six decades into an extraordinary career, but he nonetheless manages to keep surprising me; I suspect I’ll spend the next several years finding new ways to hear and understand this batch of wild and unruly songs.
Standout track: “Murder Most Foul”
6. Jyoti, “Mama, You Can Bet!”
Jyoti is the periodic sobriquet of the producer, songwriter, and musician Georgia Anne Muldrow, whose singular and entrancing work places her in a lineage that includes Alice Coltrane, Nina Simone, Erykah Badu, Gil Scott-Heron, and Pharoah Sanders. “Mama, You Can Bet!” is the third installment in the Jyoti project, and the most entrancing. Muldrow deftly incorporates elements of jazz, experimental music, hip-hop, and soul in a way that makes it easy to forget few artists can master such a dynamic palette.
Standout track: “Ra’s Noise (Thukumbado)”
5. Fiona Apple, “Fetch the Bolt Cutters”
Describing “Fetch the Bolt Cutters,” Apple’s fifth album, as achingly personal feels almost dumb—plenty of artists write songs that are reflective of their own experience, and perform them with real vulnerability. But the way in which Apple fully and completely inhabits these songs is incredible; it feels as if she’s right there in the room, telling you everything she knows about herself. “Fetch the Bolt Cutters” is bold, devastating, strange, immediate, noisy, and beautiful.
Standout track: “I Want You to Love Me”
4. Dua Lipa, “Future Nostalgia”
Lipa, who was born in London but spent much of her childhood in Kosovo, is responsible for my favorite pop release of the year—and she released it in late March, just as Americans were grappling with the fact that none of us would be sweating on a dance floor again anytime soon. For me, these songs hit like a sunbeam in the midst of a thunderstorm. “Future Nostalgia” is muscular, retro-leaning disco-pop, expertly produced and embodied. Lipa can be a coolly distant performer, but her voice—which contains just a bit of unexpected texture—is precise and intoxicating.
Standout track: “Levitating”
3. Mary Lattimore, “Silver Ladders”
Lattimore, a Los Angeles-based harpist, partnered with the producer Neil Halstead, of the English dream-pop band Slowdive, for this gorgeous, meditative collection. It’s tempting to describe Lattimore’s music as hypnotic—I find that it relaxes muscles in my body I didn’t even know existed—but I worry that the characterization discounts her boldness and ingenuity. “Silver Ladders” is dissonant and surreal, apt and welcome company for a year that felt the same.


newyorker--2020-11-27--Music Will Not Be Quarantined

Music Will Not Be Quarantined

During times of intense crisis and upheaval , music can be grounding .
Amanda Petrusich , a New Yorker music @ @ @ @ @ episode with David Remnick .
John Legend and Phoebe Bridgers perform from their respective homes @ @ @ @ @ albums , which they released even though their tours were cancelled .
Plus , Petrusich @ @ @ @ @ in mid-century folk records , and the novelist Donald Antrim extols music as a balm @ @ @ @ @ The musician , who released a new album over the summer , describes how the @ @ @ @ @ process .
Amanda Petrusich on the Joys of Folkways A New Yorker music critic on @ @ @ @ @ while stuck in quarantine .
The musician performs two songs from her newest album .
@ @ @ @ @ the power of music .

Illustration by Golden Cosmos
During times of intense crisis and upheaval, music can be grounding. Amanda Petrusich, a New Yorker music critic, co-hosts this special episode with David Remnick. John Legend and Phoebe Bridgers perform from their respective homes, playing from their latest albums, which they released even though their tours were cancelled. Plus, Petrusich explains why she finds refuge in mid-century folk records, and the novelist Donald Antrim extols music as a balm for isolation and fear.
John Legend, Live from Home
The musician, who released a new album over the summer, describes how the coronavirus pandemic changed his creative process.
Amanda Petrusich on the Joys of Folkways
A New Yorker music critic on listening to classic field recordings while stuck in quarantine.
Phoebe Bridgers Talks with Amanda Petrusich
The musician performs two songs from her newest album.
Music Will Be Important
The novelist Donald Antrim on the power of music.


newyorker--2020-11-28--Welcome to Our Writing Retreat, You’re Grounded!

We are so excited to welcome you to our revolutionary writing retreat , You ’ re Grounded !
Year after year , our alumni rave about how our services inspired incredible professional and personal growth .
Our program aims to take your head out of your ass so that you may recognize the ways in which your regular routine reflects poorly on us .
Everything you ’ ve ever done before this retreat and everything you will do after reflects on us .
Yes , even that time you drove past your neighbor Tom without waving .
He ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ things did you have going on that you couldn ’ t spare him a polite hello ?
You know we didn ’ t raise you like that .
Yes , here , we ’ re your family .
That ’ s why you need to be Grounded .
Because everybody reacts differently to the experience of being Grounded , there is not a specified duration for your stay with us .
Some people need two days , others need two weeks , and still others have been here for years .
We recommend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an open mind .
If you complain and whine about how your sister only had to go on this retreat for three days , you won ’ t be able to fully grow during your residency .
You will remain here until we dismiss you , and we won ’ t dismiss you until we know for sure that you have learned your lesson .
Please remember , we were thinking of you when we created this space .
To encourage self-reflection and to insure that everyone is fully present , we have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ power down your cell phones , laptops , and video games , and put them into our junk drawer .
You ’ ll get your items back when we feel that you have earned them .
Any breach of this policy will result in an immediate extension of your stay , as it shows us that you aren ’ t treating us with respect , which is just so typical of you .
Do you think we do this because we like it ?
Of course not .
We hate having to play @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for you !
It may seem harsh at times , but everything about being Grounded is specifically designed to bring out the best in you .
Because of that , communication with friends or other attendees is prohibited .
No late-night fast-food runs , no hallway chitchat about how “ this is so unfair.
” If you find yourself wanting to complain , just remember that we love you—but we don ’ t have to like you .
So choose your words carefully .
If you are feeling isolated and alone , you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In fact , we require it .
The primary goal of this retreat is to make sure that you think about what you ’ ve done .
Then we want you to think about it again .
Then sit down and force yourself to do better .
We ’ re not mad that you haven ’ t been living up to your potential and have been dishonoring the sacrifices of your entire lineage .
We ’ re just disappointed .
We run this retreat because we believe in you .
We see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the amazing things that you could accomplish and all of the fulfillment you could feel .
We want you to have the space to see that , too .
We want you to start to treat yourself with the self-respect that you deserve and also to create an amazing piece of work .
But , first , we want you to apologize to your sister for saying that her dog is ugly .
She can ’ t help that .
Now go to your room .

We are so excited to welcome you to our revolutionary writing retreat, You’re Grounded! Year after year, our alumni rave about how our services inspired incredible professional and personal growth. Our program aims to take your head out of your ass so that you may recognize the ways in which your regular routine reflects poorly on us. Everything you’ve ever done before this retreat and everything you will do after reflects on us. Yes, even that time you drove past your neighbor Tom without waving. He’s a nice man, and what better things did you have going on that you couldn’t spare him a polite hello? You know we didn’t raise you like that. Yes, here, we’re your family. That’s why you need to be Grounded.
Because everybody reacts differently to the experience of being Grounded, there is not a specified duration for your stay with us. Some people need two days, others need two weeks, and still others have been here for years. We recommend that you enter into this experience with an open mind. If you complain and whine about how your sister only had to go on this retreat for three days, you won’t be able to fully grow during your residency. You will remain here until we dismiss you, and we won’t dismiss you until we know for sure that you have learned your lesson.
Please remember, we were thinking of you when we created this space. To encourage self-reflection and to insure that everyone is fully present, we have a strict no-technology policy. So please power down your cell phones, laptops, and video games, and put them into our junk drawer. You’ll get your items back when we feel that you have earned them. Any breach of this policy will result in an immediate extension of your stay, as it shows us that you aren’t treating us with respect, which is just so typical of you. Do you think we do this because we like it? Of course not. We hate having to play this role. But we do it for you!
It may seem harsh at times, but everything about being Grounded is specifically designed to bring out the best in you. Because of that, communication with friends or other attendees is prohibited. No late-night fast-food runs, no hallway chitchat about how “this is so unfair.” If you find yourself wanting to complain, just remember that we love you—but we don’t have to like you. So choose your words carefully.
If you are feeling isolated and alone, you can journal about your thoughts and feelings. In fact, we require it. The primary goal of this retreat is to make sure that you think about what you’ve done. Then we want you to think about it again. Then sit down and force yourself to do better. We’re not mad that you haven’t been living up to your potential and have been dishonoring the sacrifices of your entire lineage. We’re just disappointed.
We run this retreat because we believe in you. We see your full promise. We see all of the amazing things that you could accomplish and all of the fulfillment you could feel. We want you to have the space to see that, too. We want you to start to treat yourself with the self-respect that you deserve and also to create an amazing piece of work. But, first, we want you to apologize to your sister for saying that her dog is ugly. She can’t help that.
Now go to your room.


newyorker--2020-11-28--A Quest to Discover America’s First Science-Fiction Writer

As literary landmarks go , it ’ s not quite Emerson greeting Whitman at the start of a great career .
But this humble advert may herald the first American science-fiction novel .
Although one might point to the crushingly dull “ A Flight to the Moon , ” from 1813 , that text is more of a philosophical dialogue than a story , and what little story it has proves to be just a dream .
“ Symzonia ; Voyage of Discovery ” is boldly and unambiguously sci-fi .
The book takes a deeply weird quasi-scientific theory and runs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with it , all the way to Antarctica .
“ Symzonia ” is narrated by Captain Seaborn , who outfits a steam vessel for Antarctic exploration and hires a crew for a voyage that he is worryingly unforthcoming about .
As the sealer forges ever farther south , beyond the reach of maps , and the compass spins wildly , the crew passes a shipwreck of alien construction and becomes terrified by a mammoth beast on the shore .
The rumblings of mutiny begin .
“ We shipped with you , sir , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a voyage of discovery , ” his first officer complains .
Seaborn presses onward anyway .
“ I could not tell him of my belief of open poles , ” he admits , “ affording a practicable passage to the internal world , and of my confident expectations of finding comfortable winter quarters inside ; for he would take that as evidence of my being insane.
” It is a timely sort of madness .
“ Symzonia ” pivots off the widely circulated hollow-earth theories of Captain John Cleves Symmes , Jr. , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The idea of a hollow earth was not new—the astronomer Edmond Halley , among others , argued for the earth being composed of nesting spheres—but Symmes added a compelling twist .
He claimed that there were openings at the earth ’ s still undiscovered poles , and that an ambitious expedition could actually enter the internal world .
That is exactly what the narrator of “ Symzonia ” finds , and more .
The earth proves to have a subbasement utopia of pale , wise beings who fear and marvel at their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ society , dwell in houses whitewashed with liquified pearls , travel in airships , and are governed by a council of worthies and a “ Best Man.
” Captain Seaborn , proudly recounting the outer world ’ s valiant deeds of conquest , unwittingly horrifies them .
The Symzonians suspect that “ Externals ” like Seaborn are the descendants of a depraved race exiled from Symzonia thousands of years earlier .
Inevitably , the explorers are ejected from this paradise ; and Seaborn , back home , is swindled out of what seal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reduced to selling his tale .
Hollow-earth theories were popular enough that some newspaper notices treated “ Symzonia ” as factual ; perhaps the allusive author name hadn ’ t clued them in , as there ’ s no record of an actual Captain Adam Seaborn .
Though a young Edgar Allan Poe likely read “ Symzonia ” —his first published story and his sole novel both hint at it—the book itself received little attention .
Its one prominent notice , in the North American Review , immediately spotted “ Symzonia ” as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drolly proposed trade with Symzonians .
“ There is no reason to believe that the Internals will not be glad to eat flour , and wear Waltham shirtings , and smoke tobacco , ” the reviewer propounded , adding , “ Should the Internals refuse to eat , drink , and smoke , as we direct , there then will doubtless be found ways to compel them.
” The article was unsigned , though it later proved to be by the future senator and Secretary of State Edward Everett—so we know who read @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
When “ Symzonia ” is attributed to anyone at all , it ’ s commonly credited to the hollow-earther John Cleves Symmes , Jr. , himself .
The reason is bewilderingly flimsy .
The literary scholar J. O. Bailey noted in 1942 that “ Symzonia ” used Symmes ’ s theories—well-known and ready fodder for any writer in 1820—and that the card catalogue at the University of North Carolina listed Symmes on its card as the author .
In a footnote , he concludes , “ There must have been some basis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
that ’ s it , really , as far as reasons for the Symmes attribution .
Yet Symmes was a touchingly earnest writer , and an uneducated one , neither witty nor agile .
There ’ s no trace of the novel in his journals or letters , and Symmes himself never claimed or mentioned the book ; neither did his sons , who wrote extensively about their father , and nor did protégés like James McBride .
The historian William Stanton , who was deeply familiar with the hollow-earth œuvre , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : “ I am as certain as I can be that Symmes was not Seaborn .
Symmes wrote only lectures , communiques , and letters to the editor .
Moreover , he was in dead earnest .
Seaborn ’ s banter would only have puzzled him.
” There are , thankfully , better attribution tools now than the U.N.C .
card catalogue—namely , stylometric software like JGAAP ( Java Graphical Author Attribution Program ) , famed for clinching the identification of J. K. Rowling ’ s pseudonym , and a program that I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can help identify a likely author by comparing the language of an unknown text with texts by other potential authors .
JGAAP can run multiple sets of inputs through analytical approaches like Burrows ’ s Delta and Centroid , in order to create a ranking by similarity to an unknown text .
The program ’ s creator , Patrick Juola , has told me that the usually unattainable ideal is for one author to show up as JGAAP ’ s first choice in every run .
“ You won ’ t see this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , if he comes out as the most likely or second most likely almost every time , it ’ s still highly likely that it ’ s him.
” So who are our suspects ?
“ Symzonia ” was published almost simultaneously with another American novel of 1820 , James Fenimore Cooper ’ s anonymous début , “ Precaution.
” Cooper was a naval officer turned writer , and the idea of him doubling down on mysterious débuts with the maritime adventure of “ Symzonia ” is intriguing .
Other seafaring writers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Richard Henry Dana , and Nathaniel Ames , had not yet begun publishing but were old enough to .
There are writers in the satirical and speculative vein , like George Fowler , George Tucker , and the melodiously named Jonas Clopper ; sensationalists , like the veiled authors of “ The Black Vampyre ” and “ The Female Marine ” ; and such other assorted luminaries as Lydia Maria Child , Washington Irving , John Neal , and Catherine Sedgwick .
And , naturally , there are hollow-earthers , like James McBride @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from eighteen authors , each stripped down to narrative bone and muscle—flensed of prefaces , page numbers , end matter , even punctuation—ready to be dissolved into linguistic events by JGAAP .
Then I hit the Process button , heard my computer whir , and waited .
First : spare a thought for who is likely not the author .
JGAAP seems flatly unimpressed by John Cleves Symmes .
He scores , on average , ninth out of eighteen authors—perhaps an unsurprising result , considering “ Symzonia ” misspelled Symmes ’ s middle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the famous : Cooper ranks fifth on average , and Irving tenth .
However , one author did leap to the forefront—taking first rank in nearly every run , and second or third in the remainder .
His name is Nathaniel Ames .
“ This scapegrace son of Fisher Ames deserves to be better known , ” the historian Samuel Eliot Morison once mused , describing how “ he left Harvard in his senior year ( 1815 ) , and went to sea as a common sailor .
”

On November 22, 1820, the New York Evening Post ran a perfunctory book ad that was none too particular in its typesetting:
WILEY & HALSTED, No. 3 Wall street, have just received SYMZONIA, or a voyage to the internal world, by capt. Adam Seaborn. Price $1.
As literary landmarks go, it’s not quite Emerson greeting Whitman at the start of a great career. But this humble advert may herald the first American science-fiction novel. Although one might point to the crushingly dull “A Flight to the Moon,” from 1813, that text is more of a philosophical dialogue than a story, and what little story it has proves to be just a dream. “Symzonia; A Voyage of Discovery” is boldly and unambiguously sci-fi. The book takes a deeply weird quasi-scientific theory and runs with it—or, more accurately, sails with it, all the way to Antarctica.
“Symzonia” is narrated by Captain Seaborn, who outfits a steam vessel for Antarctic exploration and hires a crew for a voyage that he is worryingly unforthcoming about. As the sealer forges ever farther south, beyond the reach of maps, and the compass spins wildly, the crew passes a shipwreck of alien construction and becomes terrified by a mammoth beast on the shore. The rumblings of mutiny begin. “We shipped with you, sir, for a sealing voyage; not for a voyage of discovery,” his first officer complains. Seaborn presses onward anyway. “I could not tell him of my belief of open poles,” he admits, “affording a practicable passage to the internal world, and of my confident expectations of finding comfortable winter quarters inside; for he would take that as evidence of my being insane.”
It is a timely sort of madness. “Symzonia” pivots off the widely circulated hollow-earth theories of Captain John Cleves Symmes, Jr., a hero of the War of 1812. The idea of a hollow earth was not new—the astronomer Edmond Halley, among others, argued for the earth being composed of nesting spheres—but Symmes added a compelling twist. He claimed that there were openings at the earth’s still undiscovered poles, and that an ambitious expedition could actually enter the internal world.
That is exactly what the narrator of “Symzonia” finds, and more. The earth proves to have a subbasement utopia of pale, wise beings who fear and marvel at their visitors. Symzonians live in a quasi-socialist society, dwell in houses whitewashed with liquified pearls, travel in airships, and are governed by a council of worthies and a “Best Man.” Captain Seaborn, proudly recounting the outer world’s valiant deeds of conquest, unwittingly horrifies them. The Symzonians suspect that “Externals” like Seaborn are the descendants of a depraved race exiled from Symzonia thousands of years earlier. Inevitably, the explorers are ejected from this paradise; and Seaborn, back home, is swindled out of what seal pelts he did procure, and is reduced to selling his tale.
Hollow-earth theories were popular enough that some newspaper notices treated “Symzonia” as factual; perhaps the allusive author name hadn’t clued them in, as there’s no record of an actual Captain Adam Seaborn. Though a young Edgar Allan Poe likely read “Symzonia”—his first published story and his sole novel both hint at it—the book itself received little attention. Its one prominent notice, in the North American Review, immediately spotted “Symzonia” as a Swiftian satire on colonialism, and drolly proposed trade with Symzonians. “There is no reason to believe that the Internals will not be glad to eat flour, and wear Waltham shirtings, and smoke tobacco,” the reviewer propounded, adding, “Should the Internals refuse to eat, drink, and smoke, as we direct, there then will doubtless be found ways to compel them.”
The article was unsigned, though it later proved to be by the future senator and Secretary of State Edward Everett—so we know who read the book. But who wrote it? When “Symzonia” is attributed to anyone at all, it’s commonly credited to the hollow-earther John Cleves Symmes, Jr., himself. The reason is bewilderingly flimsy. The literary scholar J. O. Bailey noted in 1942 that “Symzonia” used Symmes’s theories—well-known and ready fodder for any writer in 1820—and that the card catalogue at the University of North Carolina listed Symmes on its card as the author. In a footnote, he concludes, “There must have been some basis for this action.” And . . . that’s it, really, as far as reasons for the Symmes attribution. Yet Symmes was a touchingly earnest writer, and an uneducated one, neither witty nor agile. There’s no trace of the novel in his journals or letters, and Symmes himself never claimed or mentioned the book; neither did his sons, who wrote extensively about their father, and nor did protégés like James McBride. The historian William Stanton, who was deeply familiar with the hollow-earth œuvre, was unmoved by Bailey’s claim: “I am as certain as I can be that Symmes was not Seaborn. Symmes wrote only lectures, communiques, and letters to the editor. Moreover, he was in dead earnest. Seaborn’s banter would only have puzzled him.”
There are, thankfully, better attribution tools now than the U.N.C. card catalogue—namely, stylometric software like JGAAP (Java Graphical Author Attribution Program), famed for clinching the identification of J. K. Rowling’s pseudonym, and a program that I’ve dabbled in before. It can help identify a likely author by comparing the language of an unknown text with texts by other potential authors. JGAAP can run multiple sets of inputs through analytical approaches like Burrows’s Delta and Centroid, in order to create a ranking by similarity to an unknown text. The program’s creator, Patrick Juola, has told me that the usually unattainable ideal is for one author to show up as JGAAP’s first choice in every run. “You won’t see this,” he said. “But, if he comes out as the most likely or second most likely almost every time, it’s still highly likely that it’s him.”
So who are our suspects? “Symzonia” was published almost simultaneously with another American novel of 1820, James Fenimore Cooper’s anonymous début, “Precaution.” Cooper was a naval officer turned writer, and the idea of him doubling down on mysterious débuts with the maritime adventure of “Symzonia” is intriguing. Other seafaring writers, like Joseph Hart, Jeremiah Reynolds, Richard Henry Dana, and Nathaniel Ames, had not yet begun publishing but were old enough to. There are writers in the satirical and speculative vein, like George Fowler, George Tucker, and the melodiously named Jonas Clopper; sensationalists, like the veiled authors of “The Black Vampyre” and “The Female Marine”; and such other assorted luminaries as Lydia Maria Child, Washington Irving, John Neal, and Catherine Sedgwick. And, naturally, there are hollow-earthers, like James McBride and Captain Symmes. I assembled texts from eighteen authors, each stripped down to narrative bone and muscle—flensed of prefaces, page numbers, end matter, even punctuation—ready to be dissolved into linguistic events by JGAAP. Then I hit the Process button, heard my computer whir, and waited.


newyorker--2020-11-29--Sunday Reading: Whodunnits and Other Mysteries

In 1955 , A. J. Liebling published a piece in The New Yorker about a mysterious murder that had occurred at the turn of the twentieth century .
On the afternoon of June 26 , 1897 , a man ’ s dismembered body was discovered floating in the East River , a killing that became known in reporting circles as the Ghastly Find .
Some papers attributed the crime to a maniac like Jack the Ripper , while others saw parallels with additional unsolved homicides .
A young newspaper reporter with some medical training believed that there was a more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s piece follows the writer as he investigates each new clue about the murder .
As the story unfolds , it becomes a tale about how a young journalist ’ s persistence led to the discovery of a torrid love triangle and , ultimately , the identity of the murderer .
This week , we ’ re bringing you a selection of whodunnits and other mysteries .
In “ Who Killed Carol Jenkins ?
, ” Mark Singer explores the unsolved murder of a Black woman in Indiana in the late sixties @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from 1967 , Calvin Trillin follows a group of conspiracy theorists as they work to uncover new details about the J.F.K .
assassination .
In “ The Plagiarist ’ s Tale , ” Lizzie Widdicombe examines the secret behind a spy novelist ’ s prolific work .
In “ Where the Bodies Are Buried , ” Patrick Radden Keefe revisits the I.R.A.
’ s connection to the abduction of an Irish mother in 1972 .
Berton Roueché investigates a perplexing case of mass hysteria at a Florida elementary school , and Judith Thurman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ known cave paintings .
In “ We Two Made One , ” Hilton Als describes the complicated plight of identical twins who retreated into their own world before going on an arson spree .
In “ Remembering Satan , ” Lawrence Wright chronicles the hidden truths behind a landmark case involving “ recovered ” memory .
Finally , in “ Mysterious Circumstances , ” David Grann writes about the baffling death of the world ’ s foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes .
A good mystery captivates whether or not it ’ s eventually @ @ @ @ @ @ @ add some intriguing thrills to your holiday weekend .
A murder mystery from 1897—and the race among the decade ’ s star reporters to solve it .
What a thirty-three-year-old murder has done to a town .
The author of “ Assassin of Secrets ” had a secret of his own .
Gerry Adams has long denied being a member of the I.R.A .
But his former compatriots claim that he authorized murder .
The staff and students at a Florida elementary school thought that they ’ d been poisoned .
Were they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s oldest art say about us ?
Why did identical twin sisters decide to speak only to each other in a way no one else could understand ?
Claims of sexual abuse and satanic ritual unravelled the Ingram family—and escalated into a landmark case in the national obsession with cults and “ recovered ” memory .

In 1955, A. J. Liebling published a piece in The New Yorker about a mysterious murder that had occurred at the turn of the twentieth century. On the afternoon of June 26, 1897, a man’s dismembered body was discovered floating in the East River, a killing that became known in reporting circles as the Ghastly Find. Some papers attributed the crime to a maniac like Jack the Ripper, while others saw parallels with additional unsolved homicides. A young newspaper reporter with some medical training believed that there was a more prosaic explanation for the crime. Liebling’s piece follows the writer as he investigates each new clue about the murder. As the story unfolds, it becomes a tale about how a young journalist’s persistence led to the discovery of a torrid love triangle and, ultimately, the identity of the murderer.
More from the Archive Sign up for Classics, a twice-weekly newsletter featuring notable pieces from the past.
This week, we’re bringing you a selection of whodunnits and other mysteries. In “Who Killed Carol Jenkins?,” Mark Singer explores the unsolved murder of a Black woman in Indiana in the late sixties. In “The Buffs,” from 1967, Calvin Trillin follows a group of conspiracy theorists as they work to uncover new details about the J.F.K. assassination. In “The Plagiarist’s Tale,” Lizzie Widdicombe examines the secret behind a spy novelist’s prolific work. In “Where the Bodies Are Buried,” Patrick Radden Keefe revisits the I.R.A.’s connection to the abduction of an Irish mother in 1972. Berton Roueché investigates a perplexing case of mass hysteria at a Florida elementary school, and Judith Thurman explores the obscure origins of the earliest known cave paintings. In “We Two Made One,” Hilton Als describes the complicated plight of identical twins who retreated into their own world before going on an arson spree. In “Remembering Satan,” Lawrence Wright chronicles the hidden truths behind a landmark case involving “recovered” memory. Finally, in “Mysterious Circumstances,” David Grann writes about the baffling death of the world’s foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes. A good mystery captivates whether or not it’s eventually solved. We hope that these pieces add some intriguing thrills to your holiday weekend.
— Erin Overbey, archive editor
Photograph from The New-York Historical Society / Getty
A murder mystery from 1897—and the race among the decade’s star reporters to solve it.
Photograph courtesy The Reporter-Times
What a thirty-three-year-old murder has done to a town.
Photograph by Michael Brennan / Getty
Was Lee Harvey Oswald innocent?
Photograph by Molly Landreth
The author of “Assassin of Secrets” had a secret of his own.
Gerry Adams has long denied being a member of the I.R.A. But his former compatriots claim that he authorized murder.
The staff and students at a Florida elementary school thought that they’d been poisoned. Were they right?
What does the world’s oldest art say about us?
Why did identical twin sisters decide to speak only to each other in a way no one else could understand?
Claims of sexual abuse and satanic ritual unravelled the Ingram family—and escalated into a landmark case in the national obsession with cults and “recovered” memory.
Illustration by Jean-François Martin
The strange death of a Sherlock Holmes fanatic.


newyorker--2020-11-29--The Cost of Trump’s Assault on the Press and the Truth

You could hardly blame him .
How would you like to read that one of John Adams ’ s surrogates has branded you a “ mean-spirited , low-lived fellow ” ?
No President escapes scrutiny or invective .
In 1864 , Harper ’ s listed the many epithets that the Northern press had hurled at Abraham Lincoln : Filthy Story-Teller , Despot , Liar , Thief , Braggart , Buffoon , Monster , Ignoramus , Scoundrel , Perjurer , Robber , Swindler , Tyrant , Fiend , Butcher , Ape , Demon , Beast , Baboon , Gorilla , Imbecile @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that reporters , once exposed to his myriad charms , would be willing stenographers of his story .
He learned to elevate himself , his brand , and his interests largely by supplying the New York tabloids with a ready-made character , a strutting snake-oil salesman who provided an unending stream of gossip-page items about his personal and commercial exploits .
It was of little concern to anyone that these items were , in the main , preposterous .
Occasionally , investigative reporters , profile writers , and the courts would look more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ business bankruptcies , but , as long as he skirted total ruin , he seemed to think that even his bad press added to his allure .
Trump ’ s relationship with reporters inevitably changed when he shifted his occupation to the command of the federal government .
First as a candidate , and then in the early days of his Presidency , he discovered that the press was a variegated beast ; Cindy Adams and Maggie Haberman were not of the same stuff .
He could still depend on toadying support from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Rupert Murdoch and emerging properties like Breitbart and Newsmax ; however , he was now getting a more scrupulous going-over from what Sarah Palin had called “ the lamestream media.
” Trump craved the acceptance of such institutions as the Times and the Washington Post , but he knew that his base loathed them .
And so he would loathe them , too , while at the same time declaring a new , Trumpian reality , constructed of what his adviser Kellyanne Conway memorably called “ alternative facts.
” On his second @ @ @ @ @ @ @ press secretary , Sean Spicer , to the White House briefing room to con the nation the way he had conned the tabloids .
The crowds on the Mall for Trump ’ s Inauguration , Spicer insisted , were unprecedented , despite the evidence to the contrary .
A few weeks later , as news coverage further nettled Trump , he took to Twitter to declare that CNN , ABC , NBC , CBS , and the Times were “ the enemy of the American People.
” The resonance was clear .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an “ enemy of the people ” was to await a boxcar to the Gulag .
Even the U.S. Senate , whose Republican majority would prove so unfailingly loyal to Trump , seemed alarmed .
In August , 2018 , the Senate passed , by unanimous consent , a resolution attesting to “ the vital and indispensable role the free press serves.
” But Trump knew precisely what he was doing , and he never let up .
During a meeting at Trump Tower , Leslie Stahl , of CBS News , asked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ You know why I do it ?
” he said .
“ I do it to discredit you all and demean you all , so that , when you write negative stories about me , no one will believe you.
” Trump may have devoted more mental energy to his degradation of the press—through lawsuits , threats , and hundreds of tweets—than to any other issue .
He called reporters “ corrupt , ” “ scum , ” and “ some of the worst human beings you ’ ll ever meet.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , so much so that at his rallies reporters were often berated and menaced .
Last year , the F.B.I .
arrested a Coast Guard officer who had drawn up a hit list that included reporters at MSNBC and CNN , and an Army officer was arrested after allegedly conducting an online discussion in which he talked about blowing up the headquarters of a major TV network .
Trump ’ s assault on the press and his assault on the truth––he made more than sixteen thousand false or misleading claims in his first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Washington Post ’ s fact-checking operation––have taken their toll .
Where once American Presidents gave at least rhetorical support to civil liberties , he has given comfort to foreign autocrats , from El-Sisi to Erdoğan , who routinely parrot his slogan of “ fake news ” and lock up offending journalists .
Perhaps Trump ’ s most disgraceful act in this regard was his refusal to speak a critical word against the Saudi leadership after the murder of Jamal Khashoggi , a columnist for the Post .
The costs at home are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ estimated that one American dies every minute from Covid-19 .
Every two or three days there is a 9/11-scale death count .
How many of those people died because they chose to believe the President ’ s dismissive accounts of the disease rather than what public-health officials were telling the press ?
Half of Republican voters believe Trump ’ s charge that the 2020 election was “ rigged.
” What will be the lasting effects on American democracy of that disinformation campaign ?
Bit by bit , Trump is being forced to give @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But he will continue his efforts to build an alternative reality around himself .
Now that Fox News has proved insufficiently servile , he is likely to join forces with , buy , or launch an even more destructive media enterprise .
As President , Joe Biden can not battle the debasement of a reality principle in American life by executive order .
But support for press freedoms ought to be a central element of his domestic and foreign policies .
What ’ s more , the press itself needs to learn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ four years .
Just as it must go on applying investigative and analytical pressure to all forms of power , including the new Administration , it can not relax in calling out the deeply anti-factual and anti-democratic foundation of a movement like Trump ’ s .
The stakes are high .
Donald Trump may be moving to Mar-a-Lago , but he , and the alternative reality he has created , could be with us for a long time .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
Presidents have always complained about the press. At awards ceremonies and journalism-school conferences, Thomas Jefferson is often remembered for his principled support: in 1787, he wrote to the Virginia statesman Edward Carrington, “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate to prefer the latter.” Yet, by 1814, having endured the Presidency, Jefferson was not quite as high-minded, whining by post to a former congressman about “the putrid state” of newspapers and “the vulgarity, & mendacious spirit of those who write for them.”
You could hardly blame him. How would you like to read that one of John Adams’s surrogates has branded you a “mean-spirited, low-lived fellow”? No President escapes scrutiny or invective. In 1864, Harper’s listed the many epithets that the Northern press had hurled at Abraham Lincoln: Filthy Story-Teller, Despot, Liar, Thief, Braggart, Buffoon, Monster, Ignoramus, Scoundrel, Perjurer, Robber, Swindler, Tyrant, Fiend, Butcher, Ape, Demon, Beast, Baboon, Gorilla, Imbecile.
Donald Trump began his career convinced that reporters, once exposed to his myriad charms, would be willing stenographers of his story. He learned to elevate himself, his brand, and his interests largely by supplying the New York tabloids with a ready-made character, a strutting snake-oil salesman who provided an unending stream of gossip-page items about his personal and commercial exploits. It was of little concern to anyone that these items were, in the main, preposterous. Occasionally, investigative reporters, profile writers, and the courts would look more deeply into Trump’s swindles and business bankruptcies, but, as long as he skirted total ruin, he seemed to think that even his bad press added to his allure.
2020 in Review New Yorker writers reflect on the year’s highs and lows.
Trump’s relationship with reporters inevitably changed when he shifted his occupation to the command of the federal government. First as a candidate, and then in the early days of his Presidency, he discovered that the press was a variegated beast; Cindy Adams and Maggie Haberman were not of the same stuff. He could still depend on toadying support from some quarters, particularly the editorial holdings of Rupert Murdoch and emerging properties like Breitbart and Newsmax; however, he was now getting a more scrupulous going-over from what Sarah Palin had called “the lamestream media.” Trump craved the acceptance of such institutions as the Times and the Washington Post, but he knew that his base loathed them. And so he would loathe them, too, while at the same time declaring a new, Trumpian reality, constructed of what his adviser Kellyanne Conway memorably called “alternative facts.”
On his second day in office, Trump sent his press secretary, Sean Spicer, to the White House briefing room to con the nation the way he had conned the tabloids. The crowds on the Mall for Trump’s Inauguration, Spicer insisted, were unprecedented, despite the evidence to the contrary. A few weeks later, as news coverage further nettled Trump, he took to Twitter to declare that CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, and the Times were “the enemy of the American People.” The resonance was clear. In the Soviet era, to be branded an “enemy of the people” was to await a boxcar to the Gulag. Even the U.S. Senate, whose Republican majority would prove so unfailingly loyal to Trump, seemed alarmed. In August, 2018, the Senate passed, by unanimous consent, a resolution attesting to “the vital and indispensable role the free press serves.”
But Trump knew precisely what he was doing, and he never let up. During a meeting at Trump Tower, Lesley Stahl, of CBS News, asked why he kept attacking the press. “You know why I do it?” he said. “I do it to discredit you all and demean you all, so that, when you write negative stories about me, no one will believe you.”
Trump may have devoted more mental energy to his degradation of the press—through lawsuits, threats, and hundreds of tweets—than to any other issue. He called reporters “corrupt,” “scum,” and “some of the worst human beings you’ll ever meet.” And those words riled up his base, so much so that at his rallies reporters were often berated and menaced. Last year, the F.B.I. arrested a Coast Guard officer who had drawn up a hit list that included reporters at MSNBC and CNN, and an Army officer was arrested after allegedly conducting an online discussion in which he talked about blowing up the headquarters of a major TV network.
Trump’s assault on the press and his assault on the truth––he made more than sixteen thousand false or misleading claims in his first three years in office, according to the Washington Post’s fact-checking operation––have taken their toll. Where once American Presidents gave at least rhetorical support to civil liberties, he has given comfort to foreign autocrats, from El-Sisi to Erdoğan, who routinely parrot his slogan of “fake news” and lock up offending journalists. Perhaps Trump’s most disgraceful act in this regard was his refusal to speak a critical word against the Saudi leadership after the murder of Jamal Khashoggi, a columnist for the Post.
The costs at home are no less ominous. It is now estimated that one American dies every minute from Covid-19. Every two or three days there is a 9/11-scale death count. How many of those people died because they chose to believe the President’s dismissive accounts of the disease rather than what public-health officials were telling the press? Half of Republican voters believe Trump’s charge that the 2020 election was “rigged.” What will be the lasting effects on American democracy of that disinformation campaign? Bit by bit, Trump is being forced to give up his attempt to overturn the election. But he will continue his efforts to build an alternative reality around himself. Now that Fox News has proved insufficiently servile, he is likely to join forces with, buy, or launch an even more destructive media enterprise.
As President, Joe Biden cannot battle the debasement of a reality principle in American life by executive order. But support for press freedoms ought to be a central element of his domestic and foreign policies. What’s more, the press itself needs to learn from the prolonged emergency of the past four years. Just as it must go on applying investigative and analytical pressure to all forms of power, including the new Administration, it cannot relax in calling out the deeply anti-factual and anti-democratic foundation of a movement like Trump’s. The stakes are high. Donald Trump may be moving to Mar-a-Lago, but he, and the alternative reality he has created, could be with us for a long time. ♦
An earlier version of this article misspelled the name of the CBS News reporter Lesley Stahl.


newyorker--2020-11-29--The Cryptic Crossword: No. 96

The Cryptic Crossword: No. 96

Some clues have been edited for clarity .
Subscribers can find explanations of the original puzzle ’ s answers in @ @ @

Some clues have been edited for clarity. Subscribers can find explanations of the original puzzle’s answers in our archive.


newyorker--2020-11-29--A Poet Reflects on Europe’s Last Dictatorship

Growing up in Minsk , in the nineteen-eighties , the poet Valzhyna Mort spoke Russian at home and studied Belarusian in school .
Now she has written a collection of poems , “ Music for the Dead and Resurrected , ” in English .
All the same , Mort insists that she does not know any of the three languages particularly well .
“ Luckily , I very strongly hang onto the idea that poetry does not come from language , but rather from the unsayable , from the untranslatable , ” she told the Guardian last year .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I am trying to say it in a language—in any language—in which I know I would fail ultimately.
” That a bard of the unsayable would emerge from Belarus is not an accident .
Given the suppression of artists and intellectuals under Stalin , in the nineteen-thirties , and the current censorship of journalists , under President Alexander Lukashenka , Belarusians have been warned for the better part of a century not to tell anyone what happens there .
Mort recalls , as a child , listening to her grandmother tell stories about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of well-off farmers , kulaks , who were forcibly dispossessed under the Soviet regime .
After these chats , Mort ’ s mother would always remind her , “ Valzhyna , you can not tell this to anybody.
” Mort dedicated her first book of poetry published in the United States , “ Factory of Tears , ” from 2008 , to her grandmother .
Visitors to Belarus often compare entering the country to stepping into the past .
Though the nation became independent from the Soviet Union in 1991 , the economy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ controlling much of broadcasting , land ownership , banking , and manufacturing .
Lukashenka has fought efforts to take down Soviet-era monuments , and has even installed new ones—a statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky , an architect of the secret police and the Red Terror , was unveiled in Minsk in 2006 .
Meanwhile , the government continues to whitewash Stalin ’ s crimes .
And so the poetry of writers like Mort , herself an outspoken critic of Lukashenka , will have to suffice .
Mort , thirty-nine , rose to prominence in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ electrifying performances on the poetry-festival circuit in Europe .
Excitement intensified with the publication of “ Factory of Tears , ” which this magazine described as “ argumentative , ” adding , “ Mort , a young Belarusian poet living in America , strives to be an envoy for her native country , writing with almost alarming vociferousness about the struggle to establish a clear identity for Belarus and its language.
” The book included Mort ’ s poems in the original Belarusian , placed alongside the English translations , which were prepared @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Wright and the Pulitzer-winning poet Franz Wright .
Mort once compared translating her work to “ giving oneself a haircut with a kitchen knife.
” Language politics are complicated in Belarus , where Belarusian was repressed during most of the Soviet era , and where Russian remains the standard in public life .
But Mort insists that her decision to write in Belarusian was artistic , not political .
As a child , she sang in the chorus at the Minsk Opera House , and she thought Belarusian sounded more musical .
Writing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Irish Times , “ became my attempt to compose music rather than to write poetry.
” Perhaps this explains the title of “ Music for the Dead and Resurrected.
” The book offers a melodic memorial to the people Belarus has lost and the calamities it has suffered—the Stalinist purges of the thirties ; the Second World War , during which more than a quarter of the country ’ s population perished ; the Chernobyl nuclear plant explosion just across the Ukrainian border ; and the horrors of life under Lukashenka .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ study of what Belarus can teach the world about state violence , collective memory , and the role of poetry in fighting tyranny .
“ Music for the Dead and Resurrected ” begins with a poem inspired by Kurapaty .
The poem is titled “ To Antigone , a Dispatch ” after Sophocles ’ heroine , who was imprisoned for giving her brother a proper burial .
In the play , Antigone ’ s sister Ismene refuses to help her .
In the poem , Mort offers herself in Ismene ’ s place @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Antigone .
/ In this suspicious land .
/ I have a bright shovel of a face.
” In another poem , “ Little Song for a Pocketknife , ” Mort writes about the train journey of a Belarusian woman being taken north , to a labor camp : “ Outside—ever-red pines .
/ The train claps , claps , claps , claps.
” Mort is known for her performance style , which is marked by a kind of combative vitality ; when she recites the poem , its rhythm mimics the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , heavy cadences suggest the nature of the destination .
For Mort , memory must always be enshrined , and the lack of a memorial in places such as Kurapaty is a moral and an aesthetic concern .
In an interview with the Cornell Chronicle , from 2017 , she asks , “ How does one walk through this silence ?
” She goes on to suggest poetry as one remedy , a mode that uses a direct and pointed economy of speech to break through the equivocations of bureaucrats .
Poetic form @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” she says , “ but asks for words sharpened to shoot into the very core of things.
” Her poems are often barbed , eager to cut to the chase .
In “ Bus Stop : Ars Poetica , ” she writes , “ Streets introduced themselves / with the names of national / murderers.
” As for the forgotten victims , Mort makes a virtue of the transient .
Her verse , like war itself , can shift tone and direction suddenly , even within a single line .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get this : “ You can drink water from any well / or jump in and drown yourself .
/ You can hang yourself from one of the garden branches / or pick a half-rotten apple .
/ Bless this landscape of choices , clear as a clear night.
” This sort of candor is a tonic , especially as Belarus enters a new era of unrest .
Lukashenka , who has been in power since 1994 , is the first and only President the country has known .
( Previously , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most recent reëlection , in August , which he claimed to have won by a landslide , was mired in allegations of fraud .
Protests have broken out across the country , and the government has countered with brutal crackdowns on demonstrators and the press .
In a series of violent clashes , more than seventeen thousand people have been arrested , and eight have reportedly died , either in police custody or during standoffs with authorities .
( The figure might be much higher , as dozens of protesters are officially listed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ targeted the country ’ s leading intellectuals , including the Nobel Prize-winning author Svetlana Alexievich , who reported being called in for questioning this summer .
These actions make Mort ’ s poem “ Little Songs ” eerily prescient : “ Our famous skills / in tank production / have been redirected / at students and journalists.
” Writing about these events , in the Times , Mort voiced her support for the protesters : “ What is happening in Belarus is a mass improvisation in dignity , a movement against dehumanization and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that movement , and it captures , through language , the contours of dissent .
Soviet monuments remain upright in Minsk , like concrete odes to terror , repression , and silence .
And yet “ Music for the Dead and the Resurrected ” feels like its own monument , not only to Belarusians but also to victims of state violence around the world .
They will know just what Mort means when she writes , in “ Little Songs , ” that “ Justice has turned out to be / more terrifying @ @ @ @ @

Growing up in Minsk, in the nineteen-eighties, the poet Valzhyna Mort spoke Russian at home and studied Belarusian in school. Now she has written a collection of poems, “Music for the Dead and Resurrected,” in English. All the same, Mort insists that she does not know any of the three languages particularly well. “Luckily, I very strongly hang onto the idea that poetry does not come from language, but rather from the unsayable, from the untranslatable,” she told the Guardian last year. “It only makes sense for me that I am trying to say it in a language—in any language—in which I know I would fail ultimately.”
That a bard of the unsayable would emerge from Belarus is not an accident. Given the suppression of artists and intellectuals under Stalin, in the nineteen-thirties, and the current censorship of journalists, under President Alexander Lukashenka, Belarusians have been warned for the better part of a century not to tell anyone what happens there. Mort recalls, as a child, listening to her grandmother tell stories about growing up as part of a class of well-off farmers, kulaks, who were forcibly dispossessed under the Soviet regime. After these chats, Mort’s mother would always remind her, “Valzhyna, you cannot tell this to anybody.” Mort dedicated her first book of poetry published in the United States, “Factory of Tears,” from 2008, to her grandmother.
Visitors to Belarus often compare entering the country to stepping into the past. Though the nation became independent from the Soviet Union in 1991, the economy remains largely state-run, with the government controlling much of broadcasting, land ownership, banking, and manufacturing. Lukashenka has fought efforts to take down Soviet-era monuments, and has even installed new ones—a statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, an architect of the secret police and the Red Terror, was unveiled in Minsk in 2006. Meanwhile, the government continues to whitewash Stalin’s crimes.
And so the poetry of writers like Mort, herself an outspoken critic of Lukashenka, will have to suffice. Mort, thirty-nine, rose to prominence in the two-thousands, when she began giving electrifying performances on the poetry-festival circuit in Europe. Excitement intensified with the publication of “Factory of Tears,” which this magazine described as “argumentative,” adding, “Mort, a young Belarusian poet living in America, strives to be an envoy for her native country, writing with almost alarming vociferousness about the struggle to establish a clear identity for Belarus and its language.” The book included Mort’s poems in the original Belarusian, placed alongside the English translations, which were prepared by Mort in collaboration with Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright and the Pulitzer-winning poet Franz Wright. Mort once compared translating her work to “giving oneself a haircut with a kitchen knife.” Language politics are complicated in Belarus, where Belarusian was repressed during most of the Soviet era, and where Russian remains the standard in public life. But Mort insists that her decision to write in Belarusian was artistic, not political. As a child, she sang in the chorus at the Minsk Opera House, and she thought Belarusian sounded more musical. Writing in the language, she told the Irish Times, “became my attempt to compose music rather than to write poetry.”
Perhaps this explains the title of “Music for the Dead and Resurrected.” The book offers a melodic memorial to the people Belarus has lost and the calamities it has suffered—the Stalinist purges of the thirties; the Second World War, during which more than a quarter of the country’s population perished; the Chernobyl nuclear plant explosion just across the Ukrainian border; and the horrors of life under Lukashenka. In doing so, Mort presents a striking study of what Belarus can teach the world about state violence, collective memory, and the role of poetry in fighting tyranny.
In 1988, a mass-burial site was uncovered in a wooded area on the outskirts of Minsk. Those buried had been executed by officers from the N.K.V.D., which oversaw both regular law enforcement and secret-police activities, from 1937 to 1941, in Stalin’s purges. The exact number of victims is disputed—estimates range from thirty thousand to a quarter of a million—but the area, called Kurapaty, has become central to debates in Belarus about how to memorialize the casualties of Stalinist repression. In April, 2019, Belarusian officials dismantled seventy tall wooden crosses that activists had installed near the graves, and arrested protesters who had gathered there.
“Music for the Dead and Resurrected” begins with a poem inspired by Kurapaty. The poem is titled “To Antigone, a Dispatch” after Sophocles’ heroine, who was imprisoned for giving her brother a proper burial. In the play, Antigone’s sister Ismene refuses to help her. In the poem, Mort offers herself in Ismene’s place: “Pick me for a sister, Antigone. / In this suspicious land. / I have a bright shovel of a face.” In another poem, “Little Song for a Pocketknife,” Mort writes about the train journey of a Belarusian woman being taken north, to a labor camp: “Outside—ever-red pines. / The train claps, claps, claps, claps.” Mort is known for her performance style, which is marked by a kind of combative vitality; when she recites the poem, its rhythm mimics the chugging of a train and the dark, heavy cadences suggest the nature of the destination.
For Mort, memory must always be enshrined, and the lack of a memorial in places such as Kurapaty is a moral and an aesthetic concern. In an interview with the Cornell Chronicle, from 2017, she asks, “How does one walk through this silence?” She goes on to suggest poetry as one remedy, a mode that uses a direct and pointed economy of speech to break through the equivocations of bureaucrats. Poetic form “doesn’t tolerate approximated semantics,” she says, “but asks for words sharpened to shoot into the very core of things.” Her poems are often barbed, eager to cut to the chase. In “Bus Stop: Ars Poetica,” she writes, “Streets introduced themselves / with the names of national / murderers.” As for the forgotten victims, Mort makes a virtue of the transient. Her verse, like war itself, can shift tone and direction suddenly, even within a single line. In “Ode to Branca,” we get this: “You can drink water from any well / or jump in and drown yourself. / You can hang yourself from one of the garden branches / or pick a half-rotten apple. / Bless this landscape of choices, clear as a clear night.”
This sort of candor is a tonic, especially as Belarus enters a new era of unrest. Lukashenka, who has been in power since 1994, is the first and only President the country has known. (Previously, the title did not exist.) His most recent reëlection, in August, which he claimed to have won by a landslide, was mired in allegations of fraud. Protests have broken out across the country, and the government has countered with brutal crackdowns on demonstrators and the press. In a series of violent clashes, more than seventeen thousand people have been arrested, and eight have reportedly died, either in police custody or during standoffs with authorities. (The figure might be much higher, as dozens of protesters are officially listed as missing.) Lukashenka has also targeted the country’s leading intellectuals, including the Nobel Prize-winning author Svetlana Alexievich, who reported being called in for questioning this summer. These actions make Mort’s poem “Little Songs” eerily prescient: “Our famous skills / in tank production / have been redirected / at students and journalists.”
Writing about these events, in the Times, Mort voiced her support for the protesters: “What is happening in Belarus is a mass improvisation in dignity, a movement against dehumanization and invisibility.” Her book is part of that movement, and it captures, through language, the contours of dissent. Soviet monuments remain upright in Minsk, like concrete odes to terror, repression, and silence. And yet “Music for the Dead and the Resurrected” feels like its own monument, not only to Belarusians but also to victims of state violence around the world. They will know just what Mort means when she writes, in “Little Songs,” that “Justice has turned out to be / more terrifying / than injustice.”