newyorker--2020-03-23--“Futures,” by Han Ong

“Futures,” by Han Ong

Your dad , he makes his money from gambling ?
Pavel says , while staring at a limited-edition Damien Hirst print on the wall .
What ?
Toby ’ s shoulders go up .
He has casino , no ?
Oh .
Yes .
Yes .
What do you think I mean ?
I forget about the casinos sometimes , Toby says .
Shall we play ?
Pavel indicates the billiards table .
Who is your favorite player ?
he asks .
Toby turns the question back on Pavel .
Who is yours ?
Of course , Federer , Pavel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yours .
I can guess .
Djokovic .
No !
It ’ s Nadal .
Why do you say , Federer , of course ?
Are you shitting me ?
Federer is the greatest .
Of all time .
If you say Nadal is greatest , I beat you with this stick .
It ’ s not clear whether or not Pavel is joking .
He chases balls around the table until he misses .
But Nadal owns Federer !
How can you be the greatest if someone has so many wins over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is the best competitor .
Pavel ’ s tone gets nasal ; his words , though gibberish , are just clear enough for Toby to understand that his last statement is being mimicked satirically .
Federer is once-in-lifetime event , Pavel says .
Like Mozart .
Like Beethoven .
When he plays , there is music .
Well , of course , there is big silence .
Because no one wants to miss anything .
But the ball—it waits for his racket .
I wish I could play like that !
And your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ You are here on this part of the court , but is that really true , because how can you be in that other part of the court in the wink of the eye ?
All the time , anticipating , anticipating—what is going to be the next ball ?
Radar , sonar—so precise , so beautiful .
Toby won ’ t say so , but this Czech guy is paying back his free room and board in spades .
Conversation like this raises Toby ’ s temperature .
Even if Pavel is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ since Toby picked him up from the airport , he is evincing passion : Mozart , Beethoven , radar , beautiful .
Not even winning earlier in the day hastened his pace to the net to shake hands with his opponent .
The requested hamburger and milkshake did not produce a smile .
But now ?
Through talk of Federer , he ’ s revealing his heart : he loves tennis ; it ’ s the only way of life for him .
It is not enough to tire your body with play @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discipline has to be kept alive through ardent discussion .
But most of the time Pavel won ’ t cop to it .
Complaint comes easier , is more sporting .
By listing his grievances , he is participating in the general fellowship of those who toil in the Challenger levels .
If tennis were a cosmology , the regular tour would be heaven , and Futures , the lowest level , its hell , where all matches are one endless slog of energy and spiritual depletion , an exquisite torture you must @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In between , with the higher level perpetually out of reach and the lower far too close for comfort , is where the La Jolla event and hundreds of others like it sit : Challengers .
And when you play in the Challenger ranks—schlepping yourself economy , relying on local aficionados to provide housing in exchange for proximity to the tennis “ life style ” or checking into cheapo lodgings on the far outskirts of the competition locations and splitting the cost of food and cars with other players—what is challenged most is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Six months ago , men Toby did not know came to the front gate and wouldn ’ t leave the buzzer alone .
He delayed them for as long as he could , but the family lawyer ’ s phone was going to voice mail , and the nanny , a Portuguese woman who ’ d been lured Stateside by Toby ’ s father with the promise of an independent life she did not have the temperament to indulge , was even more frightened than he was .
Most of all , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that he couldn ’ t—on the tiny security screen—read .
He took a deep breath before meeting the men at the top of the driveway .
He was prepared to bar entry into the house .
It helped that he was a head taller than all but one of them .
My father isn ’ t home , he told them .
He ’ s in Macao .
He has businesses there .
We need to speak to him , they said .
To a man , none of them had eyes , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , they got their wish .
By then , his father was lawyered up , and it was the suited representative who answered all the questions , his father contributing only whispered curses in Cantonese .
Yes , he makes his living from gamblers and gambling , but he has nothing to do with any of these accusations .
No , actually , he would have more respect for them if they came right out with accusations , instead of confronting him with—what are these , hints ?
Hints and implications .
Yes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that he and the guest player would have had plenty of time to collude , seeing as his home was open to the guest .
But had they taken a look inside , and would it be so far-fetched to assume , given the size of the property , that he and the player had barely seen each other the entire time ?
And , most important , didn ’ t the guest , Mahr-teen Lemebel , of Chile , ranked three-hundred-and-fifty-eighth in the world , have a prior history ?
Why else @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on him , flagging in particular his poor performance at the Diamond Club ?
Don ’ t think that Toby ’ s father is unaware of the industry ’ s need to save face : tennis bigwigs , under pressure to confront the sport ’ s slack oversight of illegal gambling , had finally rounded up culprits—and , of course , the names named , the athletes sacrificed , would come from the lower rungs , easy scapegoats , and the disgraceful authorities would get to grandstand in front of an assembled gallery @ @ @ @ @ @ @ adequately addressed .
And where was the digital trail that linked Lemebel to his hapless La Jolla host , who even wrote checks to his guests to help them cover the costly overhead of the profession and keep a struggling dream alive for another half year or so ?
So he admits to having written Mr. Lemebel a check ?
He admits to having written each of his tennis players a check , going back ten-plus years !
Could they produce the texts from him to Lemebel asking the player to throw a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a corresponding dollar payment for each lousy eventuality ?
Of course they couldn ’ t !
Because no such communication existed !
Forced to alter his routine and to spend even more time with a son he knew to be a dud , Toby ’ s father upped his rages .
The drinking became a twenty-four-hour phenomenon .
On the plus side : the Steve McQueen line , being a little too close to home , was retired .
Instead , it was Martin-this and Martin-that .
Faggot Chilean , fucking cheat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about that third-round loss .
Martin had been in total control ( up by a set and on the verge of converting a break point in the second , pivotal set ) and Toby ’ s father was supposed to swallow the Chilean ’ s sudden inability to serve , believe that his swinging arm mistimed the hairbreadth difference between in and out , over and over again ?
Of course , it ’ s so clear now : for a privately negotiated fee , Martin had agreed to cede the match to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who ’ d placed money , hundreds upon thousands , on the greater odds that the man across the net from Martin , so inexperienced in victory , would be the one to move on to the next round .
And to think that the support check Toby ’ s father had given him was ten thousand more than usual—because Martin had moved him with his tales of growing up on the wrong side of the Chilean economic divide !
No other boy of Martin ’ s class had even thought to pick @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to private courts or coaching fees .
How many years had he persisted with a racket held together with tape ?
Days spent skulking around the public courts and even some of the exclusive ones , hoping for turned backs so that he could make away with rogue tennis balls .
Playing either in the early mornings or late at night , when everyone else was gone , hitting ceaselessly into the void .

Three weeks later, they got their wish. By then, his father was lawyered up, and it was the suited representative who answered all the questions, his father contributing only whispered curses in Cantonese.
Yes, he makes his living from gamblers and gambling, but he has nothing to do with any of these accusations. No, actually, he would have more respect for them if they came right out with accusations, instead of confronting him with—what are these, hints? Hints and implications. Yes, he understands how it could appear that he and the guest player would have had plenty of time to collude, seeing as his home was open to the guest. But had they taken a look inside, and would it be so far-fetched to assume, given the size of the property, that he and the player had barely seen each other the entire time? And, most important, didn’t the guest, Mahr-teen Lemebel, of Chile, ranked three-hundred-and-fifty-eighth in the world, have a prior history? Why else would they have been keeping an eye on him, flagging in particular his poor performance at the Diamond Club?
Don’t think that Toby’s father is unaware of the industry’s need to save face: tennis bigwigs, under pressure to confront the sport’s slack oversight of illegal gambling, had finally rounded up culprits—and, of course, the names named, the athletes sacrificed, would come from the lower rungs, easy scapegoats, and the disgraceful authorities would get to grandstand in front of an assembled gallery, pretending that the problem had been adequately addressed.
And where was the digital trail that linked Lemebel to his hapless La Jolla host, who even wrote checks to his guests to help them cover the costly overhead of the profession and keep a struggling dream alive for another half year or so?
So he admits to having written Mr. Lemebel a check?
He admits to having written each of his tennis players a check, going back ten-plus years! Could they produce the texts from him to Lemebel asking the player to throw a set, or the whole match, with a corresponding dollar payment for each lousy eventuality? Of course they couldn’t! Because no such communication existed!
Forced to alter his routine and to spend even more time with a son he knew to be a dud, Toby’s father upped his rages. The drinking became a twenty-four-hour phenomenon. On the plus side: the Steve McQueen line, being a little too close to home, was retired. Instead, it was Martin-this and Martin-that. Faggot Chilean, fucking cheat. I knew there was something fishy about that third-round loss. Martin had been in total control (up by a set and on the verge of converting a break point in the second, pivotal set) and Toby’s father was supposed to swallow the Chilean’s sudden inability to serve, believe that his swinging arm mistimed the hairbreadth difference between in and out, over and over again? Of course, it’s so clear now: for a privately negotiated fee, Martin had agreed to cede the match to his lesser-ranked opponent, thereby enriching bettors who’d placed money, hundreds upon thousands, on the greater odds that the man across the net from Martin, so inexperienced in victory, would be the one to move on to the next round. And to think that the support check Toby’s father had given him was ten thousand more than usual—because Martin had moved him with his tales of growing up on the wrong side of the Chilean economic divide! No other boy of Martin’s class had even thought to pick up the game, having no access to private courts or coaching fees. How many years had he persisted with a racket held together with tape? Days spent skulking around the public courts and even some of the exclusive ones, hoping for turned backs so that he could make away with rogue tennis balls. Playing either in the early mornings or late at night, when everyone else was gone, hitting ceaselessly into the void.
This was probably all true—a way for Martin to deflect judgment for what he was later caught doing, a way of laying the groundwork for cause, as well as affecting a soulfulness that loosened his sponsor’s check-writing hand. As they say in Chinese business circles: win-win.
Toby’s father had boasted to the Chilean of his son’s tennis glory, the private coaches, in addition to the first-rank instruction he was receiving from the taskmasters at Bollettieri. And Toby had even won a score of matches, getting to the semifinals of a far-flung juniors and to the finals of another—nothing was a fluke and now everything was wasted. Don’t think Toby’s father can’t smell the marijuana wafting from Toby’s part of the house—don’t think he doesn’t know all about marijuana!
And Toby’s reply, always: I could never be Nadal.
Who’s asking you to be Rafael Nadal! His father’s voice was booming, his manner full of threat. He’d even put his tumbler of Scotch down on the dining table.
You don’t understand! If I can’t play as beautiful, I’d rather not play at all!
Stupid high ideas! All my fault, because I raise you in this environment. Give you everything I don’t have when I was growing up. Only son, raised like a prince, don’t know how to cope with hardship. One setback and immediately want to quit. Should have sent you to the old country, live with my father and mother—see if they let you sleep all day with that marijuana-marijuana!
You don’t have to worry—I’m going to college, and you won’t have to see me for years!
What college will take you, tell me that!
With your money? Every one of them!
Hey! Where you going! Don’t turn your back on me. You think you can pay your way for everything, and everything will be all right?
Why not? Toby said. It’s the lesson you taught me.
O.K. From now on—no allowance!
Of course Toby had had to slink back, like a wet cat. Licking his paws and blinking, before finally rubbing himself against the old man. Sorry, Dad. I’ll try again with tennis, if that’s what you want.
Toby’s father tender, too. Not important what I want—what do you want?
You don’t want to hear it, but I will never be good enough. It’s not about laziness. Talk to the physio: my quick-twitch muscles, there aren’t enough of them. And my hand-eye coördination: you can’t teach stuff like that.
Toby’s father ignored the information. What’s wrong with your body? Is much better than mine. You skinny, I am fat. You still young, I am old-old. He waited a moment before repeating, with great disgust: Old.
Pavel wins the next round, and the round after that. He also claims the quarter-finals, where he reveals himself to be a nascent serve-and-volleyer. Finicky, though—having to hit more than one approach shot before he finally gets to net, as if never trusting that it’s the right time to come in. Each of these is a mere two-set fight, and, finally, Toby’s father is again the gregarious host of old. No more talk of cheating, of Martin the Sequel.
After the second-round match, Toby’s father took them to the Empire Dragon at the mall, inaugurating a custom: a hearty Chinese banquet to celebrate victory. With many courses and much talk of tennis. Tennis dreams. Luckily, Pavel loves Chinese. The grease and the salt—who cares? He’ll wake up with heavy legs, but they will burn for only the first ten minutes of his five-mile run to and along the beach and back. Then it’s drills with Toby on the family hard court, a near-exact replica of the surface at the Diamond Club. And, for the hour before the day’s match, it’s Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” over and over, then, once the match has started, nothing but his head inside a towel between games, though there is not much of a crowd to block out—Toby and Toby’s father, the other La Jolla grandees who are hosting his opponents, plus scattered club members and loitering U.C.S.D. students. If he wins the tournament, there are a hundred points on offer. Rise and rise and rise through the ranks. The dream of qualifying for one of the big-time tournaments known as a Grand Slam is never far away. Even to qualify for the pre-tournament qualifying, where a field of a hundred and twenty-eight is narrowed down to sixteen lucky entrants, who, having already made it through three rounds before the main Grand Slam began, are expected simply to be chum for the fresher, seeded players.
Pavel does win the Diamond Club. It’s a first for Toby and his father: nobody they’ve ever hosted has won; the closest they came was a semifinalist, Pratesh, who had to retire with a hobbled ankle. They have sushi in honor of the triumph. While they’re waiting for their green-tea ice cream at the end of dinner, Toby’s father slides an envelope to Pavel’s side of the table. A well-worn ritual. What is this? Pavel asks. Toby’s father just raises his chin, meaning, Go on, open it. He smiles.
Discovering the check—as always, made out to Cash—Pavel looks at Toby, then at Toby’s father. I don’t understand. This is also the prize?
This is extra, Toby’s father says.
I don’t understand.
Consider it a gift. For your travels. Your equipment. If you’re holding back from hiring a coach, now you can. Go up even higher in the rankings!
No, no. Pavel puts the check back in the envelope and hands it to Toby’s father, whose mouth is open. Who has to make a concerted effort to put his face back in place. I don’t need this, Pavel says. Between his first and second utterances, Pavel has switched tones. He’s become conciliatory, polite, taking into account Toby’s father’s hurt feelings. And then he offers this explanation: Thank you, but my father, he works in Paris in a pharmaceutical company. I would not be doing this without him. He gives me everything I need, and we have an agreement that I try my very best. I am lucky that I have this father: his dream and mine are the same.
This is the complete opposite of Martin, with his patched-together racket and that hangdog look. Pavel is someone, if not of Toby’s and Toby’s father’s class then very close to it. Toby has a cousin in the pharmaceutical industry, who lives in New York and London and owns a place in each city. The cousin’s Instagram is a wet dream of exotic locations: Abu Dhabi, Phuket, Capri—all with the same sunset, the same tedious vista of jewelled water and pristine beach. I mean, why not just save yourself the hassle and stand in front of a revolving painted backdrop, with an ever-replenishing blunt between your fingers? Toby thinks.
No wonder Pavel loves Federer. His love for Federer, in light of this revelation, is pure class allegiance. Federer, the silky Swiss spokesman for Moët & Chandon, for Rolex.
If that is true, then how does Toby account for his own Nadal mania? It’s not for the off-court Nadal, who is a millionaire many times over, but for the player who has the press writing about the tennis court as a bullring in which he’s not a minimalist matador of a few decisive moves but the lowliest of the low—the bull, with his grunts and his flexed eyebrows. For Nadal, as for no other player, victory is hard work. How does lazy Toby explain his fervent admiration for somebody who, as the press notes, “fights for every point”? But isn’t that the essence of dreaming—wanting to be somebody you’re not?
The following morning, Toby drops Pavel off at the airport, from where he is flying to Florida, for the next event. The Czech is as much of a stranger as he was on the day that Toby picked him up. Toby notices that Pavel is headed directly to the boarding gate, with a pre-screened ticket. Also, when the plane boards, he’ll have priority over other passengers, which costs extra.
Pavel didn’t need the tournament-winner check the way Martin did. He would never have conspired, as the Chilean had, to earn the equivalent—or maybe more—through extracurricular wranglings, which have cost Martin far more than he anticipated or is capable of paying. How unfair life is.
Another unfair fact of life: although he nabbed the champion’s trophy at the Diamond Club, Pavel is not even half as talented as Martin, who, if he had not hooked up with criminal colleagues, might have gone all the way in La Jolla.
One shot in particular to illustrate Martin’s skill, something he hit over and over during his two rounds of genuine play: he is in the service box by this point, having sent a shot deep, barely allowing his opponent to get the ball over the net, and the ball meets his racket not at the center, where the logo is, but on the outer rim, the racket held nearly vertically, as if he were using it to shield himself, and with the softest—the softest—grip, so soft that the handle is nearly unclasped, tapping, kissing the ball, which obliges by swooning just onto the other side, where, once it greets the court, it falls away with the slightest postcoital shiver. No opponent, regardless how speedy his legs, can do anything but gesture at a return, with a cry of futility that masks the admiration he must certainly feel for having been dispatched with such subdued poetry.
As before, Toby takes the precaution of closing the curtains, and he sits facing the door, in case his father should decide to walk in, though how could he, since Toby has locked himself in?
Martin looks terrible. Well, it’s 4 A.M. in Santiago. He has stayed up to be able to make this assignation.
How are you? Martin says. You look good. Becoming more of a man every day.
Toby asks him about Pavel. Does Martin know the Czech player?
I don’t think I ever played that guy. His ranking sounds way higher than mine.


newyorker--2020-03-23--“I Won’t Live Long,” by Jorie Graham

“I Won’t Live Long,” by Jorie Graham

enough to see any of the new dreams the hundreds of new kinds of suffering and weeds birds animals shouldering their demise without possibility of re- generation the heart in your tiny chest opening its new unimaginable ways of opening and to what might it still open .
Will there still be such opening .
Will you dare .
I will not be there to surround you w/the past w/my ways of knowing—to save you—shall you be saved—from what— home from fighting are you , remembering how he or she or they looked at you while you both fed the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where it will be necessary to plant again—will it open—will the earth open—will the seeds that remain—will you know to find them in time—will those who have their lock on you let the openings which are chance unknowing loneliness the unrelenting arms of form , which knows not yet the form it will in the end be , open and form ?
Will there be islands .
Will there be a day where you can afford to think back far enough to the way we loved you .
Words you said for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mystery your grandfather said one day , after saying shhh listen to the birds & you sat so still , all your being arcing out to hear , and the bird in its hiding place gave us this future , this moment today when you can recall— can you—his saying , there , that ’ s a mystery .
And you said the word as if it were new ground to stand on , you uttered it to stand on it— mystery .
Yes , mystery he said .
Yes mystery you said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its step out of the shadow into the clearing and there you saw it in the so-called in- visible .
Then when the wave broke the first time on what had seemed terra firma and you knew as he held your hand insisting you hold your ground that there was foreclosure , there was oldness of a kind you couldn ’ t fathom , and there was the terrifying suddenness of the now .
Your mind felt for it .
It felt the reach from an elsewhere and a dip which can not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Your feet stood fast .
Your hem was touched .
We saw you watch .
We felt your hand grip but not to move back .
Can you find that now now , wherever you are , even a candle would be a gift I know from there .
Shhh he said so you could hear it .
Pity he said not knowing to whom .
Pity you said , laughing , pity pity , and that was the day of your being carried out in spite of your cold , wrapped tight @ @ @ @ @ @ @ And he pointed .
And you looked up .
And you took a breath I hear even now as I go out—the inhalation of dark secrecy fear distance the reach into an almost-touching of silence , of the thing that has no neighbors and never will , in you , the center of which is noise , the outermost a freezing you can travel his arm to with your gaze till it ’ s there .
The real .
A star .
The earth is your home .
No matter what they tell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ via your chip or port or faster yet , no , no , in that now I am not there in , to point , to take your now large hand and say look , look through these fronds , hold your breath , the deer hiding from the hunter is right here in our field , it knows we are too , it does not fear us .
Be still .
Wait .
And we , we will be left behind .
Except just now .
If you still once .
That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now .

enough to see any of the new
dreams the hundreds of new kinds of suffering and weeds birds animals shouldering their
demise without possibility of re-
generation the heart in your tiny chest opening its new unimaginable ways of
opening and to what might it still
open. Will there still be
such opening. Will you dare. I will not be there
to surround you w/the past w/my ways of
knowing—to save
you—shall you be saved—from what—
home from fighting are you, remembering how he or she or they looked at you
while you both fed the machine or built the trough in dirt
where it will be necessary to
plant again—will it open—will the earth open—will the seeds that remain—will you know to
find them in
time—will those who have their lock on you
let the openings which are
chance unknowing loneliness the unrelenting arms of
form, which knows not yet the form
it will in the end
be, open and
form? Will there be islands. Will there be a day where you can afford to think back far
enough to the way we loved you. Words you said
for the first time
as we said them. Mystery your grandfather said one day, after saying shhh listen to the
birds & you sat so still,
all your being arcing out to hear,
and the bird in its hiding place gave us this future, this moment today when you can recall—
can you—his saying, there,
that’s a mystery.
And you said the word as if it were new ground to stand on,
you uttered it to stand on it—
mystery. Yes, mystery he said. Yes mystery you said
talking to it now as it
took its step out of the shadow into the clearing and there you
saw it in the so-called in-
visible. Then when the wave broke the first time on what had seemed
terra firma and you knew as he held your hand
insisting you hold your ground
that there was foreclosure,
there was oldness of a kind you couldn’t fathom, and there was the terrifying
suddenness of the
now. Your mind felt for it. It felt the reach from an elsewhere and a dip which cannot hold.
Splash went the wave.
Your feet stood fast.
Your hem was touched.
We saw you watch.
We felt your hand grip
but not to move back.
Can you find that now now, wherever you are, even a candle would be a gift I know
from there. Shhh he said so you could hear it. Pity he said
not knowing to whom.
Pity you said, laughing, pity pity, and that was the day of
your being carried out
in spite of your cold, wrapped tight, to see the evening star. And he pointed. And you
looked up. And you took a breath I hear even now as I go
out—the inhalation of dark secrecy fear distance the reach into an almost-touching
of silence, of the thing that has no neighbors and never will, in you,
the center of which is noise,
the outermost a freezing you can travel his arm to with your gaze
till it’s there. The real. A star. The earth is your
home. No matter what they tell you now and what program you input via your chip or port
or faster yet, no, no, in that now I am not there
in, to point, to take your now large hand and say
look, look through these fronds,
hold your breath,
the deer hiding from the hunter is right here in our field,
it knows we are too,
it does not fear us.
Be still. Wait. And we, we
will be left behind.
Except just now. If you still once.
That you might remember.
Now. Remember now.


newyorker--2020-03-23--Harry Houdini and the Art of Escape

Harry Houdini and the Art of Escape

In 1908 , Harry Houdini— “ The World ’ s Handcuff King and Prison Breaker ” —needed a new act .
He was thirty-four and had worked in show business for fifteen years .
He had toured all over the United States , playing circus sideshows , vaudeville houses , and packed theatres of the Orpheum Circuit .
As a beginner , he had performed with trained monkeys and fat ladies ; a few years later , he did his tricks in a tuxedo with a boutonnière .
In Europe , he had pulled off such stunts as escaping ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Transport Cell , ” a metal safe on wheels that was used to haul political renegades off to prison .
It was a time of intense anti-Semitism in Russia , and Houdini , who was Jewish , wanted to flummox the tsarist politsiya .
Indeed , he was an affront to authorities everywhere .
He had conquered inspectors from Berlin and Scotland Yard , who chained him up and then watched , bewildered , as he broke free .
But now , having spent most of the previous five years in Europe , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ again .
Never a great illusionist , he lacked mystery and atmosphere ; his stagecraft was ordinary .
As a mentalist , he would have been shamed by today ’ s master , Derren Brown .
With a pack of cards in his hands , Houdini couldn ’ t kiss the hem of the late Ricky Jay ’ s rolled-up sleeve .
In St. Louis , Houdini and his assistants dragged onto the stage a sixty-gallon milk can , a larger version of the ones delivered to grocery stores .
They filled it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sides as Houdini climbed in .
There is a photograph of the act in which Houdini ’ s unsmiling face sticks out above the can ( his knees were pulled up to his chest ) .
Members of the local police—with helmets reaching down around their ears and impressively ugly mustaches—stand to the side , looking like nothing so much as the baffled cops who harassed Charlie Chaplin a few years later .
The top of the can was padlocked , with Houdini submerged in the water—in later versions , done as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beer .
The curtain was drawn , and , after a minute or two , the crowd would become fretful .
He was holding his breath as he tried to get out .
What if he didn ’ t ?
“ Failure means a drowning death , ” as posters advertising the event warned .
Magic challenges our sense of what ’ s real ; Houdini wanted to challenge the ultimate reality of death , by risking it over and over .
That risk , he later wrote , is what “ attracts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flagstaff on the tall building , or to the ‘ human fly , ’ who scales the walls of the same building .
If we knew that there was no possibility of either one of them falling or , if they did fall , that they wouldn ’ t injure themselves in any way , we wouldn ’ t pay any more attention to them than we do a nursemaid wheeling a baby carriage .
Therefore , I said to myself , why not give the public a real thrill ?
” He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of an accident or a miscalculation or a clumsy assistant was tangible enough .
Even before the milk-can stunt , Houdini had gone further than other magicians .
Starting in San Francisco , in 1899 , he often stripped naked in his handcuff routines .
He was short but handsome , beautiful , even , with a wide brow , glittering dark eyes , and muscular arms , shoulders , and thighs .
He would appear at some grim local jail or state prison , take off his clothes , and , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ something on his person , undergo an intrusive inspection by a local medical examiner or police surgeon .
He would then have himself locked in a cell , encumbered with shackles , and would emerge a short time later , holding them in his hand .
Yet these simple escapes weren ’ t enough ; he needed to outdo himself and astound his audience .
In a later version of the milk-can act , called “ The Chinese Water Torture Cell , ” he was lowered , head first , into a large @ @ @ @ @ @ @ knowingly , sometimes not , Houdini evoked actual cruelties—slavery and imprisonment , people cast into filthy cells and tormented for years .
Of the glass box , he said , “ It smacks of the Dark Ages.
” He burrowed into the unconscious of the human race , evoking types of public sadism that had been suppressed , only to reëmerge in later eras : his stunts looked backward to the ducking stools of the witch trials and forward to such practices as waterboarding and “ enhanced interrogation ” under the George W. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scale the Eiffel Tower , or leap across the Great Wall of China on a skateboard , or plunge over Niagara Falls in a barrel , but they don ’ t provoke endless interpretation years after their exploits ; most movie stuntmen retire into knobby oblivion .
Houdini ’ s strangeness and ambition—the nakedness , the liberationist triumphs—still fascinate us .
A little guy who always escaped , he flourished in a century that saw mass incarceration , mass murder , the humiliation and destruction of entire populations .
A few people , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , have been convinced that his escapes were literal miracles .
Edmund Wilson , more soberly , praised him in 1928 as a disciplined professional , “ an audacious and independent being.
” At the height of his career , he was almost as famous as Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino , both of them immigrants who re-created themselves in a new country eager for fantasy .
Of the three , only Houdini risked killing himself on the job .
Two recent books have explored and enlarged the spell of his dominion .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Houdini ” ( Avid Reader ) , the sportswriter Joe Posnanski recounts his time delving into today ’ s “ Houdini World , ” the peculiar existence of Houdini obsessives—some professional magicians , many just cultists—who gather in clubs and at conventions , rendering homage , repeating stunts , exchanging the tiniest details of Houdini ’ s life .
In “ Houdini : The Elusive American ” ( Yale ) , the biographer Adam Begley tries to say , with good-humored seriousness , what kind of man Houdini was , and what he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ task .
In the familiar style of American popular artists , Houdini refused all interpretation .
( John Ford : “ I make Westerns.
” Mel Brooks : “ I ’ m just an entertainer.
” ) It is impossible , however , not to make a symbol out of a man hanging upside down in a straitjacket , sixty feet above Times Square .
Almost from the beginning , Harry Houdini suggested some larger principle of being .
He was born Erik Weisz ( later Americanized , sort of , to Ehrich @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , 1874 .
When he was four , he immigrated to this country with his mother and his brothers .
His father had left Hungary two years earlier and settled in Appleton , Wisconsin , a mill town near Lake Winnebago , where he found a job as a rabbi .
He was no longer young , though , and he didn ’ t speak much English .
The fifteen German Jewish families of Appleton fired him after a few years , and the family moved to Milwaukee , where they were often @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cold-water flat on East Seventy-fifth Street ( at the time a slum ) and to jobs in the garment industry , cutting the lining of neckties .
In New York , Ehrich , watching his father slide into despair and ill health , vowed , like many immigrant children , never to be poor—and , even more important to him , never to allow his mother , Cecilia , whom he adored , to want for anything .
Like Al Jolson and Irving Berlin , who were also children of Jewish clergymen , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way out of ghetto jobs like stitching garments and rolling cigars .
It was the first of his escapes .

In 1908, Harry Houdini—“The World’s Handcuff King and Prison Breaker”—needed a new act. He was thirty-four and had worked in show business for fifteen years. He had toured all over the United States, playing circus sideshows, vaudeville houses, and packed theatres of the Orpheum Circuit. As a beginner, he had performed with trained monkeys and fat ladies; a few years later, he did his tricks in a tuxedo with a boutonnière. In Europe, he had pulled off such stunts as escaping (in 1903) from the “Siberian Transport Cell,” a metal safe on wheels that was used to haul political renegades off to prison. It was a time of intense anti-Semitism in Russia, and Houdini, who was Jewish, wanted to flummox the tsarist politsiya. Indeed, he was an affront to authorities everywhere. He had conquered inspectors from Berlin and Scotland Yard, who chained him up and then watched, bewildered, as he broke free. But now, having spent most of the previous five years in Europe, he had to conquer America all over again. Never a great illusionist, he lacked mystery and atmosphere; his stagecraft was ordinary. As a mentalist, he would have been shamed by today’s master, Derren Brown. With a pack of cards in his hands, Houdini couldn’t kiss the hem of the late Ricky Jay’s rolled-up sleeve.
In St. Louis, Houdini and his assistants dragged onto the stage a sixty-gallon milk can, a larger version of the ones delivered to grocery stores. They filled it with water, the excess slopping over the sides as Houdini climbed in. There is a photograph of the act in which Houdini’s unsmiling face sticks out above the can (his knees were pulled up to his chest). Members of the local police—with helmets reaching down around their ears and impressively ugly mustaches—stand to the side, looking like nothing so much as the baffled cops who harassed Charlie Chaplin a few years later. The top of the can was padlocked, with Houdini submerged in the water—in later versions, done as promotional stunts, it was milk or beer. The curtain was drawn, and, after a minute or two, the crowd would become fretful. He was holding his breath as he tried to get out. What if he didn’t? “Failure means a drowning death,” as posters advertising the event warned.
Magic challenges our sense of what’s real; Houdini wanted to challenge the ultimate reality of death, by risking it over and over. That risk, he later wrote, is what “attracts us to the man who paints the flagstaff on the tall building, or to the ‘human fly,’ who scales the walls of the same building. If we knew that there was no possibility of either one of them falling or, if they did fall, that they wouldn’t injure themselves in any way, we wouldn’t pay any more attention to them than we do a nursemaid wheeling a baby carriage. Therefore, I said to myself, why not give the public a real thrill?” He depended on tricks, but the possibility of an accident or a miscalculation or a clumsy assistant was tangible enough.
Even before the milk-can stunt, Houdini had gone further than other magicians. Starting in San Francisco, in 1899, he often stripped naked in his handcuff routines. He was short but handsome, beautiful, even, with a wide brow, glittering dark eyes, and muscular arms, shoulders, and thighs. He would appear at some grim local jail or state prison, take off his clothes, and, to establish that he wasn’t hiding something on his person, undergo an intrusive inspection by a local medical examiner or police surgeon. He would then have himself locked in a cell, encumbered with shackles, and would emerge a short time later, holding them in his hand. Yet these simple escapes weren’t enough; he needed to outdo himself and astound his audience. In a later version of the milk-can act, called “The Chinese Water Torture Cell,” he was lowered, head first, into a large glass-fronted box filled with water. Sometimes knowingly, sometimes not, Houdini evoked actual cruelties—slavery and imprisonment, people cast into filthy cells and tormented for years. Of the glass box, he said, “It smacks of the Dark Ages.” He burrowed into the unconscious of the human race, evoking types of public sadism that had been suppressed, only to reëmerge in later eras: his stunts looked backward to the ducking stools of the witch trials and forward to such practices as waterboarding and “enhanced interrogation” under the George W. Bush Administration.
There are daredevils who scale the Eiffel Tower, or leap across the Great Wall of China on a skateboard, or plunge over Niagara Falls in a barrel, but they don’t provoke endless interpretation years after their exploits; most movie stuntmen retire into knobby oblivion. Houdini’s strangeness and ambition—the nakedness, the liberationist triumphs—still fascinate us. A little guy who always escaped, he flourished in a century that saw mass incarceration, mass murder, the humiliation and destruction of entire populations. A few people, in his own time and in ours, have been convinced that his escapes were literal miracles. Edmund Wilson, more soberly, praised him in 1928 as a disciplined professional, “an audacious and independent being.” At the height of his career, he was almost as famous as Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino, both of them immigrants who re-created themselves in a new country eager for fantasy. Of the three, only Houdini risked killing himself on the job.
Two recent books have explored and enlarged the spell of his dominion. In “The Life and Afterlife of Harry Houdini” (Avid Reader), the sportswriter Joe Posnanski recounts his time delving into today’s “Houdini World,” the peculiar existence of Houdini obsessives—some professional magicians, many just cultists—who gather in clubs and at conventions, rendering homage, repeating stunts, exchanging the tiniest details of Houdini’s life. In “Houdini: The Elusive American” (Yale), the biographer Adam Begley tries to say, with good-humored seriousness, what kind of man Houdini was, and what he represented. It is not an easy task. In the familiar style of American popular artists, Houdini refused all interpretation. (John Ford: “I make Westerns.” Mel Brooks: “I’m just an entertainer.”) It is impossible, however, not to make a symbol out of a man hanging upside down in a straitjacket, sixty feet above Times Square. Almost from the beginning, Harry Houdini suggested some larger principle of being.
He was born Erik Weisz (later Americanized, sort of, to Ehrich Weiss) in Budapest on March 24, 1874. When he was four, he immigrated to this country with his mother and his brothers. His father had left Hungary two years earlier and settled in Appleton, Wisconsin, a mill town near Lake Winnebago, where he found a job as a rabbi. He was no longer young, though, and he didn’t speak much English. The fifteen German Jewish families of Appleton fired him after a few years, and the family moved to Milwaukee, where they were often hungry, and then to Manhattan—to a cold-water flat on East Seventy-fifth Street (at the time a slum) and to jobs in the garment industry, cutting the lining of neckties. In New York, Ehrich, watching his father slide into despair and ill health, vowed, like many immigrant children, never to be poor—and, even more important to him, never to allow his mother, Cecilia, whom he adored, to want for anything. Like Al Jolson and Irving Berlin, who were also children of Jewish clergymen, he launched into show business as the way out of ghetto jobs like stitching garments and rolling cigars. It was the first of his escapes.
There is a photo of him as a skinny, angry-looking teen-ager. Like Theodore Roosevelt, the contemporary avatar of self-transformation, he built himself up; he ran, boxed, swam (in the East River), lifted weights, and became both strong and astoundingly flexible. There’s no record that he was aware of the Zionist agitation in Europe at the time, but he came to represent Max Nordau’s ideal of Muskeljudentum, or muscular Judaism, with its rejection of male bodies enfeebled by endless study. He spent little time in school and worked at odd jobs; he may have learned the secrets of locks while employed at a locksmith shop. As a child, he had played at conjuring and had dreamed of becoming a trapeze artist. When he was in his late teens, he acquired a used copy of the memoirs of Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, the French watchmaker who became the great magician of the nineteenth century. Ehrich was so excited about Houdin that he changed his name to Houdini. He thought, Begley says, that the final “i” signified that he was “Houdin-like.”
In the eighteen-nineties, small cities and towns had little in the way of live entertainment (burlesque and vaudeville were mostly confined to the big cities), so the arrival of a travelling circus, with its animals, its high-wire acts, its “attractions,” was a major event. By 1893, Houdini and his brother Dash, two years younger, were touring as the Brothers Houdini, performing with “freaks,” snake charmers, and belly dancers; they shuffled cards, did sleight-of-hand tricks, read the minds of people in the audience. That year, at the World’s Columbian Exposition, in Chicago, they first performed an act known as “Metamorphosis.” Harry was trussed and tied in a sack, then locked in a trunk, which Dash bound with rope. A curtain concealed them briefly; when it was withdrawn, Dash was the one tied up in the trunk, and Harry was at liberty. The speed of the transfer—mere seconds—was what people marvelled at.
In 1894, Dash was replaced in the trunk by Wilhelmina Beatrice Rahner, or Bess, a pretty, diminutive eighteen-year-old from Brooklyn. Within three weeks of meeting, Harry and she had married, over the objections of her German Catholic mother. The two worked together onstage, on and off, for three decades. Their romantic life, however, remains a mystery: they never had children, and Houdini, in truth, seemed more devoted to his mother. He wrote Bess cloying billets-doux, but he wrote Cecilia passionate letters; he also sent his mother a part of his earnings from Europe, indulged her whims and fantasies, and eventually bundled her, along with Bess, into a Harlem town house just north of Central Park. It’s as if he wanted to be a better husband to his mother than his father had been. As Kenneth Silverman detailed, in his 1996 biography, Houdini did have one secret affair, with Jack London’s widow, Charmian, but he appears to have run away from it. He was a driven, restless man in his career but not in his romantic life. Indeed, it’s not clear whether he was sexual at all—his imprisonments and escapes, his purposeful exhibitionism, may have been all he needed, the ultimate act of sublimation.
During a burlesque tour of New England with Bess, in 1895, he wore handcuffs under the eyes of the police for the first time. For thirty years, he was cuffed and chained in shows, in police stations, in penitentiaries. The police evidently pulled out their strongest equipment for him; locksmiths designed special restraints with multiple locks. By 1906, he was throwing himself, chained, into inhospitable bodies of water, dropping twenty-five feet off the Belle Isle Bridge, for instance, into the freezing Detroit River. In 1915 and after, thousands of onlookers saw him straitjacketed and hanging upside down from a scaffold above the streets of Kansas City, Minneapolis, and many other cities. He’d pull himself up, wriggle free, drop the straitjacket, and spread his arms. The reference to Jesus did not go unnoticed.
“Look, I’m sorry to cut you off—it’s just that I really can’t stand listening to other people’s dreams.” Cartoon by Luke Kruger-Howard Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
The aerial escapades were often staged near a newspaper office. From the beginning, the excitement about magic shows and outlandish feats was amplified by newspapers that, in this matter, barely observed the distinction between reporting and press-agent copy. In the novel “Ragtime” (1974), in which Houdini appears as a character, E. L. Doctorow re-created the lurid public life of the period just before the First World War. For Doctorow, Houdini was a key player in the history of sensation. Sex scandals, advertising, radio, moving pictures, flying machines, convulsive newspapers, exploding toys—America was going electric, approaching the goal of full-time, full-circuit excitement. Mass culture defined the aspirations of democratic man. The public was avid; Houdini was avid. As Begley says, he was more interested in acclaim than in money.
He taught himself to speak in advanced elocutionary English, and to write in the ornate tones of period ballyhoo; sometimes he used a ghostwriter, but he also composed or dictated stories about himself, proclaiming his greatness in leaflets, flyers, books, and pamphlets. He appeared in a few silent movies in the nineteen-tens and twenties, although he was a terrible actor. In “Houdini,” a large-scale Hollywood version of his life from 1953, the angel-faced Tony Curtis—who was also of Hungarian Jewish parentage—gave him a quick-moving grace and an ingenuous charm. But the movie is square, dishonest, and distinctly unmagical. For all his self-promotion, Houdini managed to elude the projections of others.
In 1920, he became friends with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The creator of the most logical man in popular literature was, paradoxically, devoted to Spiritualism. Doyle was convinced that he had communicated, in séances, with his son Kingsley, who was wounded in the Great War and died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. In between writing stories about Sherlock Holmes, Doyle wrote books announcing that humanity had entered into “new relations with the Unseen”; he believed that Harry Houdini, for one, possessed supernatural powers. Houdini was flattered but disavowed any special help. The friendship proceeded in an amiable manner until June of 1922, when Doyle and Lady Doyle, who was a practicing medium, invited Houdini to their suite at the Ambassador Hotel in Atlantic City. Lady Doyle seated the party around a table, rapped three times, and began communicating with Houdini’s adored mother, who had been dead for nine years. (Hearing of the death while in Europe, Houdini had fainted.) She wrote out fifteen pages of messages in English, a language that Cecilia never spoke. Houdini sat there quietly, thanked his hosts, and departed.


newyorker--2020-03-23--“Aubade,” by W. S. Di Piero

“Aubade,” by W. S. Di Piero

Good morning to what ’ s left and what has gone .
No more of my dense cries and heavy songs about time ’ s hardships , my mood , gunfights in schools , our murderous American sunshine .
I want a looser grip , a sweeter lightness and grace and mercy around us , plainer talk while my neighborhood ’ s wild parrots squawk and flash their smart immigrant finery and acute green wings over treetops and roofs , and Jimmy starts his Tuesday picking through trash bins , fifteen years now , set your watch .
Buongiorno , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ignorant of tech genius and real estate .
It ’ s a happy day to begin happy days to come .
My friends won ’ t have to remind me to say thank you , excuse me , please , how nice .
The glory of the casual and destined , last month ’ s blue moon , the orbed orange shade of last week ’ s eclipse .
Good morning in the afternoon to the cranked-up cockatoo outside my café , on my neighbor ’ s shoulder , my constant strangers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I love morning ’ s unmenacing purpled beauty , its silvered extremities , how it tamps beginnings but cheers us through sunrise ’ s slow ascending flannel blue .
Say this , say that , this fair hour we want to feel as hope , as I write now past midnight : I ’ m not waiting for day but know it ’ s here , a California sun rising on our Americas , on schoolkids , gun nuts , nomads , and megachurch and gospel choirs that sing to heal the hearts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ snowplow drivers , unionists .
I shout morning blessings on them , O world of chronic pain and tenderness .
Dear day , protect me and our common .
Sponsor us .

Audio: Read by the author.
Good morning to what’s left and what has gone.
No more of my dense cries and heavy songs
about time’s hardships, my mood, gunfights in schools,
our murderous American sunshine.
I want a looser grip, a sweeter lightness
and grace and mercy around us, plainer talk
while my neighborhood’s wild parrots squawk
and flash their smart immigrant finery
and acute green wings over treetops and roofs,
and Jimmy starts his Tuesday picking through
trash bins, fifteen years now, set your watch.
Buongiorno, too, you kestrel in the blue,
ignorant of tech genius and real estate.
It’s a happy day to begin happy days
to come. My friends won’t have to remind me
to say thank you, excuse me, please, how nice.
The glory of the casual and destined,
last month’s blue moon, the orbed orange shade
of last week’s eclipse. Good morning in
the afternoon to the cranked-up cockatoo
outside my café, on my neighbor’s shoulder,
my constant strangers, each day at 4 P.M.
I love morning’s unmenacing purpled beauty,
its silvered extremities, how it tamps beginnings
but cheers us through sunrise’s slow ascending
flannel blue. Say this, say that, this fair hour
we want to feel as hope, as I write now
past midnight: I’m not waiting for day but know
it’s here, a California sun rising on
our Americas, on schoolkids, gun nuts, nomads,
and megachurch and gospel choirs that sing
to heal the hearts of shopkeepers and cops,
poets, snowplow drivers, unionists.
I shout morning blessings on them, O world
of chronic pain and tenderness. Dear day,
protect me and our common. Sponsor us.


newyorker--2020-03-23--What We’re Watching Under Coronavirus Quarantine

On the evening of March 6th , I went out to eat with friends in Brooklyn .
The restaurant was a no-nonsense family-run spot .
There was a flat-screen television mounted on the wall , considerately out of the sight lines of most diners .
As we got up to leave after finishing , a flash of red colonized my peripheral vision .
I turned to get a better look .
David Muir was hosting a special edition of “ 20/20.
” Analysts were seated around a curved desk , typing on tablets .
ABC had transformed the show ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ panoptic lair for the election—which was , just days after Super Tuesday , the story of the year .
Walls doubled as screens , but the images were of empty town squares in Italy , and the Grand Princess cruise ship , still stranded somewhere in the Pacific , miles from the Port of Oakland .
On the floor of the studio was what looked like an illuminated election map that had been repurposed to highlight the states with confirmed cases of the coronavirus , which were shaded blood red .
Outside the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ breaking news , the almost-camp spectacle apparently required for the circulation of information in dire times .
The entire country is now red .
The pandemic has jammed the churn of social life , pausing human interaction in medias res .
Theatres , concert venues , and cinemas have closed .
Restaurants in New York are open only for takeout and delivery .
What else is there to do but watch TV ?
Friends ask for recommendations .
( “ High Maintenance ” if you ’ re missing your neighbors ; “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masochist . )
I quite liked “ Devs , ” a brutally elegant work of science fiction , set in a jaundiced San Francisco in the near future , and would have reviewed it , had the world not changed .
It has been a long time since “ television ” conjured the box around which families once gathered to watch “ The Ed Sullivan Show ” or to first glimpse the surface of the moon ; in this century , it encompasses whatever can be streamed via a Roku , a PlayStation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crisis has already created a culture .
As we self-isolate , the Internet has become host to an ambient , crowdsourced documentary of the time , and video is the anxious medium of social life .
On Instagram , a friend has shared communiqués from a young doctor telling New Yorkers what to do if they experience shortness of breath .
The illustrator Wendy MacNaughton begins her daily drawing classes on Instagram Live by stretching to Madness ’ s “ Our House ” ; John Legend streamed a live concert from his living @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , perched on the piano .
The migration of social activities to the Internet predates our current emergency by decades , but live streaming , which once seemed to presage the dissolution of human intimacy , now looks like its preservation .
I ’ ve also watched many hours of actual TV .
Days before the general public seemed to understand how social distancing could help “ flatten the curve , ” shows made a display of responsible citizenship .
The sudden absence of live in-studio audiences was pleasingly absurd .
“ Welcome @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Whoopi Goldberg shouted , eight times , to no one , during a live taping .
Subbing for Jimmy Kimmel , Pete Buttigieg was a shy but game entertainer-politician , delivering an opening monologue to his husband , Chasten , and a handful of “ Kimmel ” team members .
He roasted the Trumps , implored vigilance in the face of the pandemic , and interviewed Patrick Stewart , sharing a photo of himself as a child in a Starfleet uniform .
But , as the week went on , resilience seemed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seventy-seven , announced that she would stop coming to tapings of “ The View.
” I am not the first person to find that the most innocuous aspects of TV watching now induce a reflexive unease .
On “ American Idol , ” the hosts ’ displays of consolation toward eliminated contestants , conveyed through the rubbing of the singers ’ shoulders , made me nervous .
Earlier this month , watching “ The Bachelor , ” I had been annoyed by Peter ’ s disrespect of Hannah Ann ; two weeks ago @ @ @ @ @ @ @ incessant stroking of faces .
Commercials advertising fast food are orgiastic displays of careless skin contact .
In the U.K. , KFC ’ s “ finger-lickin ’ good ” ads have been pulled .
On Sunday , after the Diocese of Brooklyn announced the suspension of Mass , I watched a service streamed from the St. James Cathedral Basilica , on the New Evangelization Television channel .
At any other time , the empty pews would have offered further proof of the institution ’ s decline .
Later that day , driving up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watched a woman run across the street to a storefront black church , where members of the congregation were dancing and sweating in close quarters .
In the evening , the Democratic Presidential debate felt like a consummation of the inevitable .
The podiums were six feet apart ; Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders greeted each other with an elbow bump .
After Sanders challenged Biden on his health-care policy , Biden said that he didn ’ t want to get into a “ back-and-forth , in terms of our politics , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ We are at war with a virus , ” he said .
On March 12th , “ The Late Show with Stephen Colbert ” announced that it would stop production altogether .
Four days later , when New York State banned gatherings of more than fifty people , Colbert surprised viewers with a monologue recorded in his bathtub .
Immersed in bubbles , fully suited , he provided his signature mix of acid critique and avuncular reassurance .
The segment—which was followed by a rerun—looked like it was filmed with an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Hi !
” Colbert said .
“ Welcome to my bathroom.
” These days , theatrics make public figures seem untrustworthy ; the real heroes have no need for laurels .
At press conferences , governors and mayors have mostly abandoned speechifying in favor of flat statements .
Andrew Cuomo , the governor of New York , in a brown leather jacket and a white baseball cap , is a steadying figure .
But even President Trump has dialled down the bombast .
Sweating and breathing heavily as he pronounced from the Oval @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he appeared to represent the ailing global gerontocracy .
“ I will always put the well-being of America first , ” he said earlier this month .
Last week , he seemed to have ceded the role of steward to Anthony Fauci , the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases .
Fauci has appeared on Sunday talk shows and CNN panels , and is now a comforting presence at Trump pressers , standing to the side , taking questions from reporters after Trump and Mike Pence rattle off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that the pandemic was under “ tremendous control ” ; on CNN ’ s “ State of the Union , ” Fauci straightforwardly contradicted him .
“ People sometimes think that you ’ re overreacting , ” Fauci said .
“ I like it when people are thinking I ’ m overreacting , because that means we ’ re doing it just right.
” A small , seventy-nine-year-old public servant who barely clears the lectern , Fauci has a distaste for drama , and emanates authority .
The President , who initially told @ @ @ @ @ @ @ away , “ like a miracle , ” seemed , last Tuesday , temporarily cowed by Fauci ’ s presence .
The next day , Trump told the reporter Yamiche Alcindor that it was correct to call the coronavirus “ kung flu ” and the “ Chinese virus.
” The racism is tactical , a diversion from the Administration ’ s failures .
More embarrassingly , it is also a way of shifting attention from Fauci , who , Trump was forced to concede , had become “ a major television star.
” @

On the evening of March 6th, I went out to eat with friends in Brooklyn. The restaurant was a no-nonsense family-run spot. There was a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, considerately out of the sight lines of most diners. As we got up to leave after finishing, a flash of red colonized my peripheral vision. I turned to get a better look. David Muir was hosting a special edition of “20/20.” Analysts were seated around a curved desk, typing on tablets. ABC had transformed the show’s studio into a sloping, L.E.D.-striped panoptic lair for the election—which was, just days after Super Tuesday, the story of the year. Walls doubled as screens, but the images were of empty town squares in Italy, and the Grand Princess cruise ship, still stranded somewhere in the Pacific, miles from the Port of Oakland. On the floor of the studio was what looked like an illuminated election map that had been repurposed to highlight the states with confirmed cases of the coronavirus, which were shaded blood red. Outside the restaurant, we discussed the aesthetics of breaking news, the almost-camp spectacle apparently required for the circulation of information in dire times.
The entire country is now red. The pandemic has jammed the churn of social life, pausing human interaction in medias res. Theatres, concert venues, and cinemas have closed. Restaurants in New York are open only for takeout and delivery. What else is there to do but watch TV? Friends ask for recommendations. (“High Maintenance” if you’re missing your neighbors; “The Leftovers” if you’re a masochist.) I quite liked “Devs,” a brutally elegant work of science fiction, set in a jaundiced San Francisco in the near future, and would have reviewed it, had the world not changed.
It has been a long time since “television” conjured the box around which families once gathered to watch “The Ed Sullivan Show” or to first glimpse the surface of the moon; in this century, it encompasses whatever can be streamed via a Roku, a PlayStation, or an iPhone. But this crisis has already created a culture. As we self-isolate, the Internet has become host to an ambient, crowdsourced documentary of the time, and video is the anxious medium of social life. On Instagram, a friend has shared communiqués from a young doctor telling New Yorkers what to do if they experience shortness of breath. The illustrator Wendy MacNaughton begins her daily drawing classes on Instagram Live by stretching to Madness’s “Our House”; John Legend streamed a live concert from his living room with his wife, Chrissy Teigen, perched on the piano. The migration of social activities to the Internet predates our current emergency by decades, but live streaming, which once seemed to presage the dissolution of human intimacy, now looks like its preservation.
I’ve also watched many hours of actual TV. Days before the general public seemed to understand how social distancing could help “flatten the curve,” shows made a display of responsible citizenship. The sudden absence of live in-studio audiences was pleasingly absurd. “Welcome to ‘The View’!” Whoopi Goldberg shouted, eight times, to no one, during a live taping. Subbing for Jimmy Kimmel, Pete Buttigieg was a shy but game entertainer-politician, delivering an opening monologue to his husband, Chasten, and a handful of “Kimmel” team members. He roasted the Trumps, implored vigilance in the face of the pandemic, and interviewed Patrick Stewart, sharing a photo of himself as a child in a Starfleet uniform. But, as the week went on, resilience seemed to waver. Joy Behar, who is seventy-seven, announced that she would stop coming to tapings of “The View.”
I am not the first person to find that the most innocuous aspects of TV watching now induce a reflexive unease. On “American Idol,” the hosts’ displays of consolation toward eliminated contestants, conveyed through the rubbing of the singers’ shoulders, made me nervous. Earlier this month, watching “The Bachelor,” I had been annoyed by Peter’s disrespect of Hannah Ann; two weeks ago, I couldn’t stand the incessant stroking of faces. Commercials advertising fast food are orgiastic displays of careless skin contact. In the U.K., KFC’s “finger-lickin’ good” ads have been pulled.
On Sunday, after the Diocese of Brooklyn announced the suspension of Mass, I watched a service streamed from the St. James Cathedral Basilica, on the New Evangelization Television channel. At any other time, the empty pews would have offered further proof of the institution’s decline. Later that day, driving up Flatbush Avenue for last-minute provisions, I watched a woman run across the street to a storefront black church, where members of the congregation were dancing and sweating in close quarters. In the evening, the Democratic Presidential debate felt like a consummation of the inevitable. The podiums were six feet apart; Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders greeted each other with an elbow bump. After Sanders challenged Biden on his health-care policy, Biden said that he didn’t want to get into a “back-and-forth, in terms of our politics,” and exploited a hunger for stirring rhetoric. “We are at war with a virus,” he said.
On March 12th, “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert” announced that it would stop production altogether. Four days later, when New York State banned gatherings of more than fifty people, Colbert surprised viewers with a monologue recorded in his bathtub. Immersed in bubbles, fully suited, he provided his signature mix of acid critique and avuncular reassurance. The segment—which was followed by a rerun—looked like it was filmed with an iPhone. “Hey, everybody! Hi!” Colbert said. “Welcome to my bathroom.”
These days, theatrics make public figures seem untrustworthy; the real heroes have no need for laurels. At press conferences, governors and mayors have mostly abandoned speechifying in favor of flat statements. Andrew Cuomo, the governor of New York, in a brown leather jacket and a white baseball cap, is a steadying figure. But even President Trump has dialled down the bombast. Sweating and breathing heavily as he pronounced from the Oval Office that America would beat the coronavirus, he appeared to represent the ailing global gerontocracy. “I will always put the well-being of America first,” he said earlier this month. Last week, he seemed to have ceded the role of steward to Anthony Fauci, the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases. Fauci has appeared on Sunday talk shows and CNN panels, and is now a comforting presence at Trump pressers, standing to the side, taking questions from reporters after Trump and Mike Pence rattle off their false promises. The President claimed that the pandemic was under “tremendous control”; on CNN’s “State of the Union,” Fauci straightforwardly contradicted him. “People sometimes think that you’re overreacting,” Fauci said. “I like it when people are thinking I’m overreacting, because that means we’re doing it just right.”
A small, seventy-nine-year-old public servant who barely clears the lectern, Fauci has a distaste for drama, and emanates authority. The President, who initially told the public that the coronavirus would go away, “like a miracle,” seemed, last Tuesday, temporarily cowed by Fauci’s presence. The next day, Trump told the reporter Yamiche Alcindor that it was correct to call the coronavirus “kung flu” and the “Chinese virus.” The racism is tactical, a diversion from the Administration’s failures. More embarrassingly, it is also a way of shifting attention from Fauci, who, Trump was forced to concede, had become “a major television star.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-23--The Curious Creation of Anna Kavan

The Curious Creation of Anna Kavan

Not long after being discharged from a Swiss sanitarium , in 1938 , the English writer Helen Edmonds , who was born Helen Woods and had published six novels as Helen Ferguson , replaced her long brown locks with a neat blond bob and started calling herself Anna Kavan .
The name was borrowed from the protagonist of her most autobiographical novels , “ Let Me Alone ” ( 1930 ) and “ A Stranger Still ” ( 1935 ) , and chosen , at least in part , because it echoed the name of the writer who inspired the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ change of identity : Franz Kafka .
It was in this new guise—born-again avant-gardist—and under this new name that she became known to the Home Office ( as a registered heroin addict ) ; to her most important publisher , Peter Owen ; and to a small but avid readership .
In life , Kavan came across as distant and ethereal—a temperamental leaning intensified by daily drug use—but she was surprisingly attuned to the dynamics of literary reputation .
In 1943 , writing to a lover , she appeared to accept that during @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fiction was expected to be straight-talking , outward-looking , and even propagandistic , her sort of “ experimental writing ” —the portraits of mania and despair collected in “ Asylum Piece ” ( 1940 ) and “ I Am Lazarus ” ( 1945 ) —was “ completely out.
” More than two decades later , in an exchange with Peter Owen , she defended the generic framework of her novel in progress , an opaque yet rollicking tale of dystopian quest , on the ground that “ this kind of adventure story seems @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” That manuscript became “ Ice ” ( 1967 ) , the last book to appear during Kavan ’ s lifetime .
It was , as she seems to have anticipated , a notable hit and remains her best-known work ; its admirers include the singer Patti Smith and a range of novelists associated with science fiction , including J. G. Ballard , Brian Aldiss , Doris Lessing , Christopher Priest , and Jonathan Lethem , who contributed a foreword when it was republished as a Penguin Classic , three years ago .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kavan has attracted only sporadic attention since her death , in 1968 , usually when her books have been reissued , or a lost manuscript has resurfaced .
But , in recent years , conditions have begun to shift in her favor .
Her preoccupations—opioid addiction , extreme weather , female oppression , psychopathology—have become topics of burning interest .
And a growing appetite for expressionist techniques and hybrid forms—and for a submerged tradition of postwar English modernism—suggests that literary culture is on her side .
Her work dominates Francis Booth ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The British Experimental Novel 1940-1980 ” ( Dalkey Archive ) , while the most Kavanesque of current British writers , Deborah Levy , is also among the most celebrated .
Now the London-based academic Victoria Walker , one of an expanding group of Kavan specialists , has gathered twenty-four of her stories under the title “ Machines in the Head ” ( New York Review Books ) .
Kavan was born in Cannes in 1901 .
Her childhood was a picture of misery .
At an early age , she was sent to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ schools that suited her poorly .
“ All the old Victorian methods of bullying seem to have been revived for my benefit , ” she wrote , in a diary entry from her twenties .
In 1911 , her father killed himself by jumping from a ship .
Several years later , when she had just left school , her mother encouraged her to marry Donald Ferguson , a railway engineer based in Burma .
The marriage lasted barely two years , and , at twenty-one , Kavan returned , with their young @ @ @ @ @ @ @ During a stay in the South of France , she met a wealthy layabout named Stuart Edmonds .
She also started using heroin .
In another diary entry , she noted , “ H makes one ’ s eyes beautiful .
.
.
.
I watched myself in the glass for a long time , which gave me real pleasure.
” The addiction , she thought , allowed her to cope and even thrive—a view later supported by the German psychiatrist Karl Bluth , her friend and enabler .
During her marriage to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ house in the Chilterns , enjoyed moderate success as a painter , and published all her Helen Ferguson novels—a handful of bleakly astute realist character studies , plus an eccentric mystery , “ Goose Cross ” ( 1936 ) .
Kavan described her own nature as “ hopeless , ” and , from the start , her writing was concerned with the formation and hardening of a female personality type—the unloved girl bound to become an unhappy woman .
This figure appears in various forms , but she is almost always pale , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” “ Let me alone ” is her motto , and the mirror her best friend .
Here is Karen , who dreads personal interaction and envies the sea , in Ferguson ’ s trenchant—and forgotten—second novel , “ The Dark Sisters ” ( 1930 ) : In the nineteen-thirties , Kavan and Edmonds had a daughter , who died in infancy ; the marriage then foundered , and Kavan made a number of suicide attempts .
Eventually , her mother intervened and paid for her to go to an asylum in Switzerland @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of her troubles , but it symbolized a moment of transition , both on and off the page .
During the early years of the war , Kavan travelled to Norway , New Zealand , and Bali , among other places .
While visiting a snowbound New York—the setting for her wonderfully edgy story “ Ice Storm ” —she sold three stories from “ Asylum Piece ” to Harper ’ s Bazaar and was photographed by Walker Evans .
When she eventually returned to London , she worked with traumatized soldiers—an experience depicted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Blackout , ” which ran in this magazine in 1945—and then took a job as an assistant at the literary journal Horizon , where she soon became a regular contributor .
The brief outpouring of essays and reviews from this period , which are included in the U.K. edition of “ Machines in the Head , ” provides a glimpse of her thinking at the time .
In one essay , she wrote , “ I do not like at all the idea that a new life can be built up on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of her purgative acts , on becoming Anna Kavan , was to destroy most of her letters and diaries .
From this point , there were to be no bulldogs or country houses or husbands or children .
( Her son was killed in action during the war . )
For the next thirty years , she lived alone , mostly in Notting Hill , in West London , and supplemented her meagre writing income with an allowance from her stepfather and a sideline as a property developer .

Not long after being discharged from a Swiss sanitarium, in 1938, the English writer Helen Edmonds, who was born Helen Woods and had published six novels as Helen Ferguson, replaced her long brown locks with a neat blond bob and started calling herself Anna Kavan. The name was borrowed from the protagonist of her most autobiographical novels, “Let Me Alone” (1930) and “A Stranger Still” (1935), and chosen, at least in part, because it echoed the name of the writer who inspired the shifts in literary approach that accompanied her change of identity: Franz Kafka. It was in this new guise—born-again avant-gardist—and under this new name that she became known to the Home Office (as a registered heroin addict); to her most important publisher, Peter Owen; and to a small but avid readership.
In life, Kavan came across as distant and ethereal—a temperamental leaning intensified by daily drug use—but she was surprisingly attuned to the dynamics of literary reputation. In 1943, writing to a lover, she appeared to accept that during the Second World War, when English fiction was expected to be straight-talking, outward-looking, and even propagandistic, her sort of “experimental writing”—the portraits of mania and despair collected in “Asylum Piece” (1940) and “I Am Lazarus” (1945)—was “completely out.” More than two decades later, in an exchange with Peter Owen, she defended the generic framework of her novel in progress, an opaque yet rollicking tale of dystopian quest, on the ground that “this kind of adventure story seems to be in the air just now.”
That manuscript became “Ice” (1967), the last book to appear during Kavan’s lifetime. It was, as she seems to have anticipated, a notable hit and remains her best-known work; its admirers include the singer Patti Smith and a range of novelists associated with science fiction, including J. G. Ballard, Brian Aldiss, Doris Lessing, Christopher Priest, and Jonathan Lethem, who contributed a foreword when it was republished as a Penguin Classic, three years ago. Beyond the “Ice” cult, Kavan has attracted only sporadic attention since her death, in 1968, usually when her books have been reissued, or a lost manuscript has resurfaced. But, in recent years, conditions have begun to shift in her favor. Her preoccupations—opioid addiction, extreme weather, female oppression, psychopathology—have become topics of burning interest. And a growing appetite for expressionist techniques and hybrid forms—and for a submerged tradition of postwar English modernism—suggests that literary culture is on her side. Her work dominates Francis Booth’s newly reissued “Amongst Those Left: The British Experimental Novel 1940-1980” (Dalkey Archive), while the most Kavanesque of current British writers, Deborah Levy, is also among the most celebrated. Now the London-based academic Victoria Walker, one of an expanding group of Kavan specialists, has gathered twenty-four of her stories under the title “Machines in the Head” (New York Review Books).
Kavan was born in Cannes in 1901. Her childhood was a picture of misery. At an early age, she was sent to the first of a series of boarding schools that suited her poorly. “All the old Victorian methods of bullying seem to have been revived for my benefit,” she wrote, in a diary entry from her twenties. In 1911, her father killed himself by jumping from a ship. Several years later, when she had just left school, her mother encouraged her to marry Donald Ferguson, a railway engineer based in Burma. The marriage lasted barely two years, and, at twenty-one, Kavan returned, with their young son, to live in England. During a stay in the South of France, she met a wealthy layabout named Stuart Edmonds. She also started using heroin. In another diary entry, she noted, “H makes one’s eyes beautiful. . . . I watched myself in the glass for a long time, which gave me real pleasure.”
The addiction, she thought, allowed her to cope and even thrive—a view later supported by the German psychiatrist Karl Bluth, her friend and enabler. During her marriage to Edmonds, she bred bulldogs at their house in the Chilterns, enjoyed moderate success as a painter, and published all her Helen Ferguson novels—a handful of bleakly astute realist character studies, plus an eccentric mystery, “Goose Cross” (1936). Kavan described her own nature as “hopeless,” and, from the start, her writing was concerned with the formation and hardening of a female personality type—the unloved girl bound to become an unhappy woman. This figure appears in various forms, but she is almost always pale, cold, suspicious, “shyly arrogant.” “Let me alone” is her motto, and the mirror her best friend. Here is Karen, who dreads personal interaction and envies the sea, in Ferguson’s trenchant—and forgotten—second novel, “The Dark Sisters” (1930):
Her face had taken on its mildly inattentive look, which was like a curtain drawn in front of her true self, hiding it. She looked pensive and remote, an abstract creature of fantasy, scarcely human. There could be no warmth or passion in her blood.
In the nineteen-thirties, Kavan and Edmonds had a daughter, who died in infancy; the marriage then foundered, and Kavan made a number of suicide attempts. Eventually, her mother intervened and paid for her to go to an asylum in Switzerland. This did not mark the end of her troubles, but it symbolized a moment of transition, both on and off the page.
During the early years of the war, Kavan travelled to Norway, New Zealand, and Bali, among other places. While visiting a snowbound New York—the setting for her wonderfully edgy story “Ice Storm”—she sold three stories from “Asylum Piece” to Harper’s Bazaar and was photographed by Walker Evans. When she eventually returned to London, she worked with traumatized soldiers—an experience depicted in several stories, including “The Blackout,” which ran in this magazine in 1945—and then took a job as an assistant at the literary journal Horizon, where she soon became a regular contributor.
The brief outpouring of essays and reviews from this period, which are included in the U.K. edition of “Machines in the Head,” provides a glimpse of her thinking at the time. In one essay, she wrote, “I do not like at all the idea that a new life can be built up on the old foundations.” It is believed that one of her purgative acts, on becoming Anna Kavan, was to destroy most of her letters and diaries. From this point, there were to be no bulldogs or country houses or husbands or children. (Her son was killed in action during the war.) For the next thirty years, she lived alone, mostly in Notting Hill, in West London, and supplemented her meagre writing income with an allowance from her stepfather and a sideline as a property developer.
Kavan’s biographers, D. A. Callard and Jeremy Reed, and the novelist Rhys Davies, one of her executors, have followed Kavan’s lead, promoting the idea of an abrupt and total break in her life and work. Just as her hair was shorn and bleached, and her contact with others minimized, so was her literary aesthetic supplanted by something harder-edged. As Helen Ferguson, she wrote barely transmuted memoir, turning her narcissistic mother into a narcissistic aunt, and her father’s suicide by drowning into a bullet to the head. In the Kavan work, memory provided a route to elliptical fantasy and dark parable. An uneventful dinner she had with Davies at a London restaurant became the seed for the intensely, and typically, unconsoling story “The Summons,” in which the narrator takes the advice of a trusted friend, R, and turns herself over to a figure lingering nearby, who leads her off to be charged with an as yet unnamed crime. The story ends with the narrator speaking from some hopeless future point:
Cartoon by Kim Warp Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop


newyorker--2020-03-23--“Shit’s Really Going to Hit the Fan”: Inside New York’s Overburdened Hospitals

Matthew Morrison is a thirty-six-year-old E.R .
doctor at BronxCare , a hospital in the South Bronx , which has a large Dominican population .
He speaks “ medical Spanish , ” he told me .
“ Fiebre .
Dolor .
Náusea .
Vómito.
” On Wednesday , he treated a woman in her mid-sixties with telltale signs of COVID-19 : fever , shortness of breath , coughing up blood .
She was terrified .
She told Morrison , with tears in her eyes , “ Doctor , no me siento bien.
” Before admitting her , Morrison gave her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ giving all his patients : “ You ’ ve come to the right place .
We ’ re here for you .
Unfortunately , we don ’ t have a specific treatment for COVID , but we ’ re able to offer all sorts of supportive care.
” People were anxious .
Another likely COVID-19 patient , an older African-American man , had taken a cocktail of medication—Percocet , Benadryl , an antibiotic—to treat his aches and fever , before arriving , disoriented , at the E.R .
New York City has become @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more than nine thousand six hundred confirmed cases as of Sunday , and hospitals are struggling to keep pace .
BronxCare workers were in the process of setting up a separate triage tent , to manage COVID-19 patients .
Until then , the E.R.
’ s waiting room would be crowded with the “ worried well , ” or , in this case , the worried sick—people with coughs and flulike symptoms that might or might not be signs of COVID-19 , who ’ d come because they wanted to get tested .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ orders to self-quarantine .
Tests were being reserved for people sick enough to be hospitalized .
“ It ’ s challenging , ” Morrison said .
“ Nobody has any experience with this at all , because there ’ s been nothing like this since 1918 .
We can all read the Wikipedia page on the Spanish flu , but that doesn ’ t show what it was like or describe the experience of people who had actual responsibility.
” He was avoiding news stories about health-care workers who ’ d died of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the one in Seattle .
But it was hard not to think about them as he donned and doffed his personal protective equipment and pictured all the things that could go wrong , the ways he could inadvertently touch a mask or a glove and become exposed .
“ The biggest fear is realizing that you ’ re probably going to get coronavirus no matter what you do.
” Jessica van Voorhees , a forty-three-year-old E.R .
doctor at Methodist Hospital , in Park Slope , Brooklyn , found herself watching the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is something that ’ s sort of fascinating about watching a pandemic unfold in real time , and seeing the exponential curve , ” she said .
She was working night shifts on March 8th , 9th , and 10th , when the first patients started trickling in .
“ At first , it was a big deal .
Like , ‘ I think we just had a COVID patient !
’ Then we had three .
And every day it more than doubled.
” When I spoke to her on Thursday , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patients with coughs , fevers , and sore throats—most of whom just wanted to be tested for the virus .
As in the Bronx , they were being sent home , with orders to self-quarantine .
Testing had to be reserved for the very sick .
For that reason , van Voorhees had concluded that the official numbers are “ totally off .
Way off !
” She went on , “ I think we ’ re probably testing a small percentage of people who come in here and are clearly positive.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” : people who came to the E.R .
with a mild illness and returned days later , having swiftly deteriorated .
A forty-two-year-old schoolteacher came in , with the usual symptoms : fever , body aches , sore throat , cough .
“ He was super fit , healthy , and worked out all the time .
Never smoked , ” van Voorhees said .
“ We said , ‘ Look , we think you have the virus .
Go home and self-quarantine.
’ ” The man returned three days later , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into triage and then fell out of his chair , ” van Voorhees said .
X-rays revealed a severe viral infection in both lungs .
He was hospitalized and put on oxygen .
“ It ’ s so weird to see these people who are basically healthy struck down by it , ” van Voorhees said .
And it was troubling to see sick patients getting worse .
“ Normally , when a patient has pneumonia , you hospitalize them and give them antibiotics .
As the antibiotics start to work , they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , there ’ s no direct therapy , just supportive care , so they get worse.
” Patients were often admitted to the hospital needing oxygen .
“ I check on them the next day , and they ’ re a lot worse .
The day after that , they ’ ve been intubated and moved to the I.C.U.
” E.R .
doctors pride themselves on being able to “ flex and surge , ” she said—to adapt to the rush of patients on holiday weekends , or during a normal flu and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ emergency room had managed to adapt : the hospital had transformed an outpatient surgical clinic into a COVID unit , and built temporary walls in an exam area to create more private rooms .
But the makeshift facilities were starting to fill up .
And anxiety was building around the supply of personal protective equipment—masks , gowns , goggles .
Van Voorhees had started to think about the prospect of being overwhelmed .
“ What ’ s it going to feel like ?
” she wondered , as she contemplated running out of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to intubate and which to let die .
She went on , “ The vibe at work is this feeling of impending doom.
” Health-care workers faced an additional threat : a looming shortage of personal protective equipment .
Last Thursday , the New York State Nurses Association wrote in a letter to Governor Andrew Cuomo that it was “ painfully obvious ” that their forty-two thousand nurses did not have the equipment necessary to protect themselves from the virus .
“ It goes without saying that if our nurses , physicians and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of commission ( because they are on quarantine or themselves sickened ) that the hospitals will cease to function , ” the letter reads .
At Montefiore Medical Center , in the Bronx , Michelle Gonzalez , a thirty-year-old intensive-care nurse , was monitoring several COVID-19 patients , who were critically ill and on ventilators .
The hospital has multiple I.C.U.s , and hers specializes in respiratory issues , making her unit a hot spot .
She was already feeling burned out .
“ When you sign up for nursing , you sign @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to certain things—H.I.V.
, AIDS , a handful of bacterias and viruses .
But I never thought I ’ d signed up for a pandemic that we ’ re not prepared for , ” she said .
Hospital authorities hadn ’ t provided information about the supply of items like protective masks and gloves , but the gear was clearly being rationed .
“ If we don ’ t get the proper equipment soon , we ’ re going to get sick , ” she said .
Since the first week of March @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city , there had been “ confusion and chaos ” around safety protocols , she said .
At first , the hospital mandated that COVID-19 patients be put in “ negative-pressure ” rooms , which keep contaminated air from circulating .
Then word came down that regular rooms were O.K .
Nurses were told to use only N95 masks , which more efficiently filter out airborne particles .
“ Then they said on Sunday we no longer need N95 masks , ” Gonzalez said .
“ We ’ re going to switch to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It didn ’ t seem likely that the surgical masks had become safer overnight ; it was the hospital ’ s way of managing the equipment shortage .

Matthew Morrison is a thirty-six-year-old E.R. doctor at BronxCare, a hospital in the South Bronx, which has a large Dominican population. He speaks “medical Spanish,” he told me. “Fiebre. Dolor. Náusea. Vómito.” On Wednesday, he treated a woman in her mid-sixties with telltale signs of COVID-19: fever, shortness of breath, coughing up blood. She was terrified. She told Morrison, with tears in her eyes, “Doctor, no me siento bien.” Before admitting her, Morrison gave her the same speech he’d been giving all his patients: “You’ve come to the right place. We’re here for you. Unfortunately, we don’t have a specific treatment for COVID, but we’re able to offer all sorts of supportive care.” People were anxious. Another likely COVID-19 patient, an older African-American man, had taken a cocktail of medication—Percocet, Benadryl, an antibiotic—to treat his aches and fever, before arriving, disoriented, at the E.R.
New York City has become an epicenter of the crisis, with more than ninety-six hundred confirmed cases as of Sunday, and hospitals are struggling to keep pace. BronxCare workers were in the process of setting up a separate triage tent, to manage COVID-19 patients. Until then, the E.R.’s waiting room would be crowded with the “worried well,” or, in this case, the worried sick—people with coughs and flulike symptoms that might or might not be signs of COVID-19, who’d come because they wanted to get tested. Most were sent back home, with orders to self-quarantine. Tests were being reserved for people sick enough to be hospitalized.
“It’s challenging,” Morrison said. “Nobody has any experience with this at all, because there’s been nothing like this since 1918. We can all read the Wikipedia page on the Spanish flu, but that doesn’t show what it was like or describe the experience of people who had actual responsibility.” He was avoiding news stories about health-care workers who’d died of the virus: the doctor in Wuhan, the one in Seattle. But it was hard not to think about them as he donned and doffed his personal protective equipment and pictured all the things that could go wrong, the ways he could inadvertently touch a mask or a glove and become exposed. “The biggest fear is realizing that you’re probably going to get coronavirus no matter what you do.”
Jessica van Voorhees, a forty-three-year-old E.R. doctor at Methodist Hospital, in Park Slope, Brooklyn, found herself watching the disaster with morbid curiosity. “There is something that’s sort of fascinating about watching a pandemic unfold in real time, and seeing the exponential curve,” she said. She was working night shifts on March 8th, 9th, and 10th, when the first patients started trickling in. “At first, it was a big deal. Like, ‘I think we just had a COVID patient!’ Then we had three. And every day it more than doubled.” When I spoke to her on Thursday, the E.R. was getting hundreds of patients with coughs, fevers, and sore throats—most of whom just wanted to be tested for the virus. As in the Bronx, they were being sent home, with orders to self-quarantine. Testing had to be reserved for the very sick. For that reason, van Voorhees had concluded that the official numbers are “totally off. Way off!” She went on, “I think we’re probably testing a small percentage of people who come in here and are clearly positive.”
They were starting to see “bounce-backs”: people who came to the E.R. with a mild illness and returned days later, having swiftly deteriorated. A forty-two-year-old schoolteacher came in, with the usual symptoms: fever, body aches, sore throat, cough. “He was super fit, healthy, and worked out all the time. Never smoked,” van Voorhees said. “We said, ‘Look, we think you have the virus. Go home and self-quarantine.’ ” The man returned three days later, weak and disoriented. “He walked into triage and then fell out of his chair,” van Voorhees said. X-rays revealed a severe viral infection in both lungs. He was hospitalized and put on oxygen. “It’s so weird to see these people who are basically healthy struck down by it,” van Voorhees said.
And it was troubling to see sick patients getting worse. “Normally, when a patient has pneumonia, you hospitalize them and give them antibiotics. As the antibiotics start to work, they get better. But, with COVID-19, there’s no direct therapy, just supportive care, so they get worse.” Patients were often admitted to the hospital needing oxygen. “I check on them the next day, and they’re a lot worse. The day after that, they’ve been intubated and moved to the I.C.U.”
E.R. doctors pride themselves on being able to “flex and surge,” she said—to adapt to the rush of patients on holiday weekends, or during a normal flu and cold season. So far, the emergency room had managed to adapt: the hospital had transformed an outpatient surgical clinic into a COVID unit, and built temporary walls in an exam area to create more private rooms. But the makeshift facilities were starting to fill up. And anxiety was building around the supply of personal protective equipment—masks, gowns, goggles. Van Voorhees had started to think about the prospect of being overwhelmed. “What’s it going to feel like?” she wondered, as she contemplated running out of I.C.U. beds, choosing which patient to intubate and which to let die. She went on, “The vibe at work is this feeling of impending doom.”
Health-care workers faced an additional threat: a looming shortage of personal protective equipment. Last Thursday, the New York State Nurses Association wrote in a letter to Governor Andrew Cuomo that it was “painfully obvious” that their forty-two thousand nurses did not have the equipment necessary to protect themselves from the virus. “It goes without saying that if our nurses, physicians and other workers are exposed and taken out of commission (because they are on quarantine or themselves sickened) that the hospitals will cease to function,” the letter reads. At Montefiore Medical Center, in the Bronx, Michelle Gonzalez, a thirty-year-old intensive-care nurse, was monitoring several COVID-19 patients, who were critically ill and on ventilators. The hospital has multiple I.C.U.s, and hers specializes in respiratory issues, making her unit a hot spot. She was already feeling burned out. “When you sign up for nursing, you sign up for the possibility of being exposed to certain things—H.I.V., AIDS, a handful of bacterias and viruses. But I never thought I’d signed up for a pandemic that we’re not prepared for,” she said. Hospital authorities hadn’t provided information about the supply of items like protective masks and gloves, but the gear was clearly being rationed. “If we don’t get the proper equipment soon, we’re going to get sick,” she said.
Since the first week of March, when the virus arrived in the city, there had been “confusion and chaos” around safety protocols, she said. At first, the hospital mandated that COVID-19 patients be put in “negative-pressure” rooms, which keep contaminated air from circulating. Then word came down that regular rooms were O.K. Nurses were told to use only N95 masks, which more efficiently filter out airborne particles. “Then they said on Sunday we no longer need N95 masks,” Gonzalez said. “We’re going to switch to surgical masks and a face shield.” It didn’t seem likely that the surgical masks had become safer overnight; it was the hospital’s way of managing the equipment shortage.
In a “donning and doffing” class, in which nurses were shown how to put on personal protective equipment, an instructor introduced a new rule: store your used mask in a plastic bag, so you can reuse it later. Gonzalez pushed back. “I said, ‘What kind of infection control is this? Isn’t that just incubating germs?’ ” The instructor seemed embarrassed. “He said, ‘Listen, I’m only telling you what the hospital is recommending.’ And he added, kind of under his breath, ‘Doesn’t mean I agree with it.’ ”
Gonzalez was scared. “My manager told me, ‘Michelle, you’re fine—you’re thirty. You don’t have anything to worry about.’ But I live with my ninety-year-old grandmother, and my dad, who is sixty-two, diabetic, and immunocompromised. I want to be able to go home and sleep at night, knowing I didn’t give it to them.” She decided to take matters into her own hands, along with her fellow I.C.U. nurses. “I started organizing us early,” she said. They obtained a stash of N95 masks and devised a system of working in pairs, so that they could better conserve them. She began to acquire a reputation. “Medical doctors from different specialties, and my own doctors, keep coming by and asking me for protective gear, because they have nowhere else to get it.”