newyorker--2020-04-13--Reading Derek Jarman Is Strangely Consoling

Earlier this month , a bit of good news from the U.K. : Prospect Cottage , once the seaside retreat of the late Derek Jarman , has been acquired by the Art Fund , an arts charity .
Jarman , the filmmaker and artist , bought the cottage , in Dungeness , Kent , in 1986 , the same year in which he tested H.I.V.-positive .
He lived there until his death , in 1994 , at the age of fifty-two , and the cottage passed to his longtime companion , Keith Collins .
When Collins died , of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was feared that the cottage and its accompanying garden , which had been designed and tended by Jarman , would be sold to a private owner .
Friends of Jarman rallied to raise the money to buy it .
They include Tilda Swinton , who got her start as an actor in Jarman ’ s films ; David Hockney , whom Jarman got to know in the nineteen-sixties ; and Sandy Powell , the costume designer , who auctioned off a calico suit that she wore during awards season , which was adorned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hundred celebrities , among them Elton John and Joaquin Phoenix .
In addition to those high-profile contributors , over eight thousand individuals donated to the effort , which raised more than four million dollars .
Prospect Cottage , which Jarman would reach by train and then taxi from his flat in London , looks like a child ’ s drawing of a cottage .
Made from pitch-stained shingles , it has two big yellow-painted windows on either side of a yellow front door , its steep roof topped by a chimney pot .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ edge , the cottage is now fronted by a lonely road and a wide , shingled shore declining to the sea .
Only a child as unusual as Jarman would draw in the background , behind the cottage , a nuclear power station , which has occupied the flat , windswept Dungeness headland since 1965 .
Jarman described it as “ a great ocean liner moored in the firmament , ablaze with light : white , yellow , ruby.
” And only a child as imaginative as Jarman would depict , in front @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which featured not just roses and crocuses and holly bushes but rock arrangements and cacti .
( Dungeness is one of the driest , sunniest parts of Britain , with an almost desert-like terrain . )
Jarman—whose films include the Latin-language “ Sebastiane , ” about the martyrdom of the saint ; “ Caravaggio , ” in which Swinton made her début ; and “ Blue , ” which he made after losing his sight—cultivated the garden in what would turn out to be one of the final creative projects of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a gloomy garden , ” Jarman wrote in “ Modern Nature , ” a journal about his life at the cottage , which was published in 1991 .
“ Its circles and squares have humor—a fairy ring for troglodyte pixies—the stones a notation for long-forgotten music , an ancestral round to which I add a few new notes each morning.
” The Art Fund intends to make the cottage available for a residency program .
For those of us unlikely ever to have the opportunity to work within Jarman ’ s own walls—and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ within our own homes , unable to enjoy much of the outside world , except through our own windows— “ Modern Nature , ” which was republished by Vintage in 2018 , offers a tonic , and intensely moving , journey into Jarman ’ s consciousness and habits of observation .
The book is a beguilingly hybrid work , weaving together a gardener ’ s diary— “ the first wild rose came out this morning ; the sage is in bloom , and wild poppies blow and scatter their petals by lunch ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , spent in fear of his reproving father , an officer in the Royal Air Force .
“ My father flew his Wellington bomber straight as a die through the war , never avoiding the flak , ” Jarman recalls at one point .
“ At four he threw me through a window and the arguments grew terrible .
They remained like that throughout my childhood.
” Jarman went to King ’ s College , in London , in 1960 , before later enrolling at the Slade art school .
“ London could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ” he wrote .
The only sign of the avant-garde was one student whose trousers without turn-ups “ rocked the college refectory.
” “ Modern Nature ” provides vignettes of Jarman ’ s London , which , in the course of his youth , became less sexually repressed , as did he .
Jarman , who made his H.I.V .
diagnosis public early on—he declared himself incapable of keeping a secret—catalogued his growing ill health , the night sweats and the day chills .
“ As I sweat it out in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ of the scourge , I want to bear witness how happy I am , and will be until the day I die , that I was part of the hated sexual revolution ; and that I don ’ t regret a single step or encounter I made at that time , ” he wrote in September of 1989 .
Jarman was diagnosed with H.I.V .
before effective antiretroviral treatments had been developed .
So were many of his friends , whose illnesses and deaths he charts in the book with bleak helplessness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ phone to Howard Brookner , the film director , in New York , in April , 1989 , when Brookner was only two weeks from death .
“ I don ’ t know if he understood a word—long silences , and the low wounded moaning , ” Jarman wrote .
“ The echoing emptiness of those groans encircling the world by satellite.
” Facing his friends ’ deaths , he reckons with the prospect of his own .
“ I refuse to believe in my mortality , or the statistics which hedge the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that walled in the sleeping princess , ” he writes .
“ I have conducted my whole life without fitting in , so why should I panic now and fit into statistics ?
” Elsewhere , though , there are tears .
Reading Jarman ’ s dispatches from amid the AIDS epidemic while in isolation during our current pandemic is a resonant experience .
More than a quarter century after Jarman ’ s death , the world currently lies as quiet as the princess under enchantment , while , in our hospitals , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Prospect Cottage ’ s poppies .
But reading Jarman at this moment is also strangely consoling .
He gives expression to the experience of the fearful and the unknown .
Jarman ’ s descriptions of succumbing to his condition fill the gaps in what we can only guess at from reading the Twitter feeds of emergency-room doctors , or from watching the rare televised report from within the COVID-19 wards .
Jarman , who was hospitalized for weeks with a fever that wouldn ’ t subside , undergoing chest X-rays and arterial blood @ @ @ @ @ @ @ living in the land of illness and emergency .
After months of being terrified by night sweats , he recounts , “ The bed is awash but I have decided to enjoy them rather than fear them .
It ’ s like deciding to enjoy the rain rather than scurrying into a shelter.
” He was discharged from the hospital , only to return , engulfed by pneumonia .
“ The shadowy black bats of breathlessness swarm through the evening , roost in my lungs , ” he wrote .
“ There is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ breath in an attack of coughing .
Clasped by the velvet wings of the bats , I throw the sheets back.
” In that crisis , Jarman ’ s thoughts turned to what type of burial stone he ’ d be given—tacky white marble or black Purbeck ?
“ Nurses rush by , ” he went on .
“ They are short staffed .
The oxygen bubbles away .
In the night it roars like a river in full flood .
The doctor worries that the sun will disappear before the weekend .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ his time ’ s up he might wish he could switch it off.
” Jarman ’ s grave is marked by a simple slate stone incised with his signature , at St. Clements Church , in the village of Old Romney , Kent , a few miles from Prospect Cottage .

Earlier this month, a bit of good news from the U.K.: Prospect Cottage, once the seaside retreat of the late Derek Jarman, has been acquired by the Art Fund, an arts charity. Jarman, the filmmaker and artist, bought the cottage, in Dungeness, Kent, in 1986, the same year in which he tested H.I.V.-positive. He lived there until his death, in 1994, at the age of fifty-two, and the cottage passed to his longtime companion, Keith Collins. When Collins died, of a brain tumor, in 2018, it was feared that the cottage and its accompanying garden, which had been designed and tended by Jarman, would be sold to a private owner. Friends of Jarman rallied to raise the money to buy it. They include Tilda Swinton, who got her start as an actor in Jarman’s films; David Hockney, whom Jarman got to know in the nineteen-sixties; and Sandy Powell, the costume designer, who auctioned off a calico suit that she wore during awards season, which was adorned with the signatures of more than two hundred celebrities, among them Elton John and Joaquin Phoenix. In addition to those high-profile contributors, over eight thousand individuals donated to the effort, which raised more than four million dollars.
Jarman bought Prospect Cottage, in Dungeness, Kent, in 1986, and lived there until his death, in 1994. The cottage was recently acquired by the Art Fund, an arts charity. Photograph by David Mansell / Eyevine / Redux
Prospect Cottage, which Jarman would reach by train and then taxi from his flat in London, looks like a child’s drawing of a cottage. Made from pitch-stained shingles, it has two big yellow-painted windows on either side of a yellow front door, its steep roof topped by a chimney pot. Once positioned on the water’s edge, the cottage is now fronted by a lonely road and a wide, shingled shore declining to the sea. Only a child as unusual as Jarman would draw in the background, behind the cottage, a nuclear power station, which has occupied the flat, windswept Dungeness headland since 1965. Jarman described it as “a great ocean liner moored in the firmament, ablaze with light: white, yellow, ruby.” And only a child as imaginative as Jarman would depict, in front of the house, his peculiar garden, which featured not just roses and crocuses and holly bushes but rock arrangements and cacti. (Dungeness is one of the driest, sunniest parts of Britain, with an almost desert-like terrain.) Jarman—whose films include the Latin-language “Sebastiane,” about the martyrdom of the saint; “Caravaggio,” in which Swinton made her début; and “Blue,” which he made after losing his sight—cultivated the garden in what would turn out to be one of the final creative projects of his life. “It isn’t a gloomy garden,” Jarman wrote in “Modern Nature,” a journal about his life at the cottage, which was published in 1991. “Its circles and squares have humor—a fairy ring for troglodyte pixies—the stones a notation for long-forgotten music, an ancestral round to which I add a few new notes each morning.”
The Art Fund intends to make the cottage available for a residency program. For those of us unlikely ever to have the opportunity to work within Jarman’s own walls—and for all of us, currently shuttered within our own homes, unable to enjoy much of the outside world, except through our own windows—“Modern Nature,” which was republished by Vintage in 2018, offers a tonic, and intensely moving, journey into Jarman’s consciousness and habits of observation. The book is a beguilingly hybrid work, weaving together a gardener’s diary—“the first wild rose came out this morning; the sage is in bloom, and wild poppies blow and scatter their petals by lunch”—with recollections of Jarman’s childhood, spent in fear of his reproving father, an officer in the Royal Air Force. “My father flew his Wellington bomber straight as a die through the war, never avoiding the flak,” Jarman recalls at one point. “At four he threw me through a window and the arguments grew terrible. They remained like that throughout my childhood.”
Jarman went to King’s College, in London, in 1960, before later enrolling at the Slade art school. “London could hardly be said to ‘swing,’ ” he wrote. The only sign of the avant-garde was one student whose trousers without turn-ups “rocked the college refectory.” “Modern Nature” provides vignettes of Jarman’s London, which, in the course of his youth, became less sexually repressed, as did he. Jarman, who made his H.I.V. diagnosis public early on—he declared himself incapable of keeping a secret—catalogued his growing ill health, the night sweats and the day chills. “As I sweat it out in the early hours, a ‘guilty victim’ of the scourge, I want to bear witness how happy I am, and will be until the day I die, that I was part of the hated sexual revolution; and that I don’t regret a single step or encounter I made at that time,” he wrote in September of 1989.
Jarman was diagnosed with H.I.V. before effective antiretroviral treatments had been developed. So were many of his friends, whose illnesses and deaths he charts in the book with bleak helplessness. He writes of speaking on the phone to Howard Brookner, the film director, in New York, in April, 1989, when Brookner was only two weeks from death. “I don’t know if he understood a word—long silences, and the low wounded moaning,” Jarman wrote. “The echoing emptiness of those groans encircling the world by satellite.” Facing his friends’ deaths, he reckons with the prospect of his own. “I refuse to believe in my mortality, or the statistics which hedge the modern world about, like the briar that walled in the sleeping princess,” he writes. “I have conducted my whole life without fitting in, so why should I panic now and fit into statistics?” Elsewhere, though, there are tears.
Reading Jarman’s dispatches from amid the AIDS epidemic while in isolation during our current pandemic is a resonant experience. More than a quarter century after Jarman’s death, the world currently lies as quiet as the princess under enchantment, while, in our hospitals, struggles multiply like the blown petals of Prospect Cottage’s poppies. But reading Jarman at this moment is also strangely consoling. He gives expression to the experience of the fearful and the unknown. Jarman’s descriptions of succumbing to his condition fill the gaps in what we can only guess at from reading the Twitter feeds of emergency-room doctors, or from watching the rare televised report from within the COVID-19 wards. Jarman, who was hospitalized for weeks with a fever that wouldn’t subside, undergoing chest X-rays and arterial blood taps, writes with vivid precision about living in the land of illness and emergency. After months of being terrified by night sweats, he recounts, “The bed is awash but I have decided to enjoy them rather than fear them. It’s like deciding to enjoy the rain rather than scurrying into a shelter.” He was discharged from the hospital, only to return, engulfed by pneumonia.
“The shadowy black bats of breathlessness swarm through the evening, roost in my lungs,” he wrote. “There is nothing quite as frightening as losing your breath in an attack of coughing. Clasped by the velvet wings of the bats, I throw the sheets back.” In that crisis, Jarman’s thoughts turned to what type of burial stone he’d be given—tacky white marble or black Purbeck? “Nurses rush by,” he went on. “They are short staffed. The oxygen bubbles away. In the night it roars like a river in full flood. The doctor worries that the sun will disappear before the weekend. I say not to worry: before his time’s up he might wish he could switch it off.” Jarman’s grave is marked by a simple slate stone incised with his signature, at St. Clements Church, in the village of Old Romney, Kent, a few miles from Prospect Cottage.


newyorker--2020-04-13--Joyce Carol Oates’s “Blonde” Is the Definitive Study of American Celebrity

Published in 2000 , Joyce Carol Oates ’ s “ Blonde ” was conceived on a grand scale , using the legendary Marilyn Monroe as an emblem of twentieth-century America .
The novel opens with a breathless prologue , dated August 3 , 1962 , the day before Monroe ’ s death , as a teen-age bike messenger speeds at dusk through the L.A. traffic with a special delivery for He is “ Death-in-a-hurry .
Death furiously pedaling , ” and also Death , the messenger from the Emily Dickinson poem , who kindly stops for the restless person who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this hallucinatory passage , Oates pulls us into a book about the fate of a female star in the Hollywood world of mirrors , smog , and shadows , a world where women ’ s bodies are commodities traded for titillation and profit .
In her most ambitious novel , Oates uncannily channels Monroe ’ s inner voice and demands that the star be given recognition , compassion , and respect .
Oates first had the idea for this book when she saw a photograph of a radiant fifteen-year-old Norma Jeane Baker , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , winning a beauty contest in California , in 1941 , with a crown of artificial flowers on her curly brown hair and a girlish locket around her neck .
Oates identified with Norma Jeane ’ s innocence , as she recalled in an interview with her own biographer , Greg Johnson : “ I felt an immediate sense of something like recognition ; this young , hopefully smiling girl , so very American , reminded me powerfully of girls of my childhood , some of them from broken homes.
” Such girls @ @ @ @ @ @ @ growing up in rural upstate New York , had become characters in her short stories and novels , where their dreams usually ended in defeat .
Initially , Oates planned to write a novella about the metamorphosis of an ordinary high-school girl into a star , who loses her real name and is given a studio name that will obliterate her history and identity .
The book was to have ended with the words “ Marilyn Monroe.
” But as Oates watched all of Monroe ’ s movies , learned more about her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be seen as a serious actress , and the intersection of her career with multiple strands of mid-twentieth-century American culture—sports , religion , crime , theatre , politics—she realized that she needed a larger fictional form to explore a woman who was much more than a victim .
In 2015 , Oates told Nikolas Charles , a journalist from Time magazine , that , as the book evolved and grew over two years of research and writing , she began “ half seriously ” to think of Monroe “ as my Moby Dick @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an epic might be constructed , with myriad levels of meaning and significance.
” Building an epic novel around a woman , let alone a celebrity out of popular culture , gossip , and fan magazines , was a bold undertaking , but Oates saw profound aspects to Monroe ’ s story that made it possible to think of her seriously as a tragic and representative American figure .
And , in the words of one reviewer , who did not know Melville had been one of Oates ’ s models , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ true mythic blowout , in which Marilyn is everything and nothing—a Great White Whale of significance , standing not for the blind power of nature but for the blind power of artifice.
” The myth of Marilyn Monroe is special because it combines three feminine personae .
First , there is Norma Jeane Baker , the wholesome , normal girl with a naïve , vulnerable heart .
An illegitimate child growing up in an orphanage and foster homes , she longs for Daddy , family , education , romance , money , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of sitting rapt in a dark theatre , the Church of Hollywood , where she goes to worship stars instead of saints .
The second persona is Marilyn Monroe , the pinup , bombshell , sex symbol , and movie goddess .
She is the artificial creation of the Hollywood studio system , with a “ sexy murmurous ” name and a whispery , babyish voice .
Voluptuous and seductive , her natural beauty transformed with braces , peroxide , false eyelashes , bright-red lipstick , tight clothes , and wobbly stiletto heels @ @ @ @ @ @ @ run away , Marilyn is all body .
Yet , paradoxically , behind that glittering , glamorous image , Marilyn bears the shame and self-hatred of living in a female body in a misogynist culture : fear of being unclean ; disgust with her sexuality ; a lifetime of menstrual cramps , gynecological problems , miscarriages , and abortions .
The third persona , the Blonde , is a symbol , the pure and virginal creature of fairy tales and religious parables .
In popular culture and advertising , she stands for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that Oates calls a “ blond life.
” You don ’ t have to be born blond .
Blondness is attainable , but it can ’ t guarantee a flawless life .
Desired and worshipped as an ideal image of white beauty and class , the Blonde is nonetheless despised and defiled as a whore in pornography and fantasy .
Oates found herself obsessed by the intricate riddle of Marilyn Monroe .
“ Blonde ” expanded to be her longest novel , and , indeed , the original manuscript is almost twice as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Oates writes on the copyright page , “ Blonde ” is not a biography of Monroe , or even a biographical novel that follows the historical facts of the subject ’ s life .
Indeed , Monroe ’ s dozens of biographers have disagreed about many of the basic facts of her life .
“ Blonde ” is a work of fiction and imagination , and Oates plays with , rearranges , and invents the details of Monroe ’ s life in order to achieve a deeper poetic and spiritual truth .
She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she calls “ distillation , ” so that , in place of numerous foster homes , lovers , medical crises , and screen performances , she “ explores only a selected , symbolic few.
” At the same time , Oates develops and deepens background themes inherent in Monroe ’ s story , including the growth of Los Angeles , the history of film , the House Un-American Activities Committee ’ s witch hunt for Communists in the film industry , and the blacklist .
Each of these story lines could be a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the chapters on cetology and whaling in “ Moby-Dick , ” they heighten the epic quality of the novel .
Of the hundreds of characters who appear in the book , some are identified by their real names , including Whitey , the makeup artist who created and maintained Monroe ’ s iconic look , although the name also ironically suggests the white-skinned , platinum-haired doll he crafted .
Others , including two gay sons of Hollywood , Cass Chaplin and Edward G. Robinson , Jr. , are invented .
Monroe ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and The Playwright—and are fictional characters rather than portraits of Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller .
Similarly , fragments of poems by Emily Dickinson , W. B. Yeats , and George Herbert appear along with bits of poetry attributed to Norma Jeane , which Oates composed herself .
Two major themes help to structure the vast sweep of narrative detail .
The first is acting , as a metaphor , profession , and vocation .
Oates quotes from classic handbooks of acting by Konstantin Stanislavsky and his disciple Michael Chekhov , who was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Monroe was photographed studying Chekhov ’ s book “ To the Actor.
” ) Among the epigraphs is a passage from “ The Actor ’ s Freedom , ” by Michael Goldman : “ The acting area is a sacred space .
.
.
where the actor can not die.
” ( Goldman is a drama theorist and scholar , and Oates dedicated “ Blonde ” to him and his wife , the novelist and screenwriter Eleanor Bergstein . )
Oates also quotes works on acting that she has invented , allowing her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dedication demanded by theatre , an art to which Monroe aspired , and the collective process of film , where the director , editor , costume designer , and cameraman are co-creators .
Monroe tries to bring the intensity of stage performance to the more technical medium of the screen .

Published in 2000, Joyce Carol Oates’s “Blonde” was conceived on a grand scale, using the legendary Marilyn Monroe as an emblem of twentieth-century America. The novel opens with a breathless prologue, dated August 3, 1962, the day before Monroe’s death, as a teen-age bike messenger speeds at dusk through the L.A. traffic with a special delivery for
“MM” OCCUPANT
12305 FIFTH HELENA DRIVE
BRENTWOOD CALIFORNIA USA
“EARTH.”
He is “Death-in-a-hurry. Death furiously pedaling,” and also Death, the messenger from the Emily Dickinson poem, who kindly stops for the restless person who cannot wait for him. With this hallucinatory passage, Oates pulls us into a book about the fate of a female star in the Hollywood world of mirrors, smog, and shadows, a world where women’s bodies are commodities traded for titillation and profit. In her most ambitious novel, Oates uncannily channels Monroe’s inner voice and demands that the star be given recognition, compassion, and respect.
Oates first had the idea for this book when she saw a photograph of a radiant fifteen-year-old Norma Jeane Baker, not yet looking anything like Marilyn Monroe, winning a beauty contest in California, in 1941, with a crown of artificial flowers on her curly brown hair and a girlish locket around her neck. Oates identified with Norma Jeane’s innocence, as she recalled in an interview with her own biographer, Greg Johnson: “I felt an immediate sense of something like recognition; this young, hopefully smiling girl, so very American, reminded me powerfully of girls of my childhood, some of them from broken homes.” Such girls, many of whom she had known growing up in rural upstate New York, had become characters in her short stories and novels, where their dreams usually ended in defeat. Initially, Oates planned to write a novella about the metamorphosis of an ordinary high-school girl into a star, who loses her real name and is given a studio name that will obliterate her history and identity. The book was to have ended with the words “Marilyn Monroe.” But as Oates watched all of Monroe’s movies, learned more about her intelligence and humor, her determination to be seen as a serious actress, and the intersection of her career with multiple strands of mid-twentieth-century American culture—sports, religion, crime, theatre, politics—she realized that she needed a larger fictional form to explore a woman who was much more than a victim.
In 2015, Oates told Nikolas Charles, a journalist from Time magazine, that, as the book evolved and grew over two years of research and writing, she began “half seriously” to think of Monroe “as my Moby Dick, the powerful galvanizing image about which an epic might be constructed, with myriad levels of meaning and significance.” Building an epic novel around a woman, let alone a celebrity out of popular culture, gossip, and fan magazines, was a bold undertaking, but Oates saw profound aspects to Monroe’s story that made it possible to think of her seriously as a tragic and representative American figure. And, in the words of one reviewer, who did not know Melville had been one of Oates’s models, she succeeded completely: “Blonde is a true mythic blowout, in which Marilyn is everything and nothing—a Great White Whale of significance, standing not for the blind power of nature but for the blind power of artifice.”
The myth of Marilyn Monroe is special because it combines three feminine personae. First, there is Norma Jeane Baker, the wholesome, normal girl with a naïve, vulnerable heart. An illegitimate child growing up in an orphanage and foster homes, she longs for Daddy, family, education, romance, money, and security, and her first memories are of sitting rapt in a dark theatre, the Church of Hollywood, where she goes to worship stars instead of saints.
The second persona is Marilyn Monroe, the pinup, bombshell, sex symbol, and movie goddess. She is the artificial creation of the Hollywood studio system, with a “sexy murmurous” name and a whispery, babyish voice. Voluptuous and seductive, her natural beauty transformed with braces, peroxide, false eyelashes, bright-red lipstick, tight clothes, and wobbly stiletto heels that make it hard for her to run away, Marilyn is all body. Yet, paradoxically, behind that glittering, glamorous image, Marilyn bears the shame and self-hatred of living in a female body in a misogynist culture: fear of being unclean; disgust with her sexuality; a lifetime of menstrual cramps, gynecological problems, miscarriages, and abortions.
The third persona, the Blonde, is a symbol, the pure and virginal creature of fairy tales and religious parables. In popular culture and advertising, she stands for the upper-class, tidy, and stainless existence that Oates calls a “blond life.” You don’t have to be born blond. Blondness is attainable, but it can’t guarantee a flawless life. Desired and worshipped as an ideal image of white beauty and class, the Blonde is nonetheless despised and defiled as a whore in pornography and fantasy.
Oates found herself obsessed by the intricate riddle of Marilyn Monroe. “Blonde” expanded to be her longest novel, and, indeed, the original manuscript is almost twice as long as the published book. As Oates writes on the copyright page, “Blonde” is not a biography of Monroe, or even a biographical novel that follows the historical facts of the subject’s life. Indeed, Monroe’s dozens of biographers have disagreed about many of the basic facts of her life. “Blonde” is a work of fiction and imagination, and Oates plays with, rearranges, and invents the details of Monroe’s life in order to achieve a deeper poetic and spiritual truth. She condenses and conflates events in a process she calls “distillation,” so that, in place of numerous foster homes, lovers, medical crises, and screen performances, she “explores only a selected, symbolic few.” At the same time, Oates develops and deepens background themes inherent in Monroe’s story, including the growth of Los Angeles, the history of film, the House Un-American Activities Committee’s witch hunt for Communists in the film industry, and the blacklist. Each of these story lines could be a novel in itself, but, like the chapters on cetology and whaling in “Moby-Dick,” they heighten the epic quality of the novel.
Of the hundreds of characters who appear in the book, some are identified by their real names, including Whitey, the makeup artist who created and maintained Monroe’s iconic look, although the name also ironically suggests the white-skinned, platinum-haired doll he crafted. Others, including two gay sons of Hollywood, Cass Chaplin and Edward G. Robinson, Jr., are invented. Monroe’s famous husbands are given allegorical names—The Ex-Athlete and The Playwright—and are fictional characters rather than portraits of Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller. Similarly, fragments of poems by Emily Dickinson, W. B. Yeats, and George Herbert appear along with bits of poetry attributed to Norma Jeane, which Oates composed herself.
Two major themes help to structure the vast sweep of narrative detail. The first is acting, as a metaphor, profession, and vocation. Oates quotes from classic handbooks of acting by Konstantin Stanislavsky and his disciple Michael Chekhov, who was a nephew of the playwright. (Monroe was photographed studying Chekhov’s book “To the Actor.”) Among the epigraphs is a passage from “The Actor’s Freedom,” by Michael Goldman: “The acting area is a sacred space . . . where the actor cannot die.” (Goldman is a drama theorist and scholar, and Oates dedicated “Blonde” to him and his wife, the novelist and screenwriter Eleanor Bergstein.) Oates also quotes works on acting that she has invented, allowing her to emphasize the differences between the individual dedication demanded by theatre, an art to which Monroe aspired, and the collective process of film, where the director, editor, costume designer, and cameraman are co-creators. Monroe tries to bring the intensity of stage performance to the more technical medium of the screen.


newyorker--2020-04-13--Helen, Help Me: How Will I Know It’s Time to Eat the Emergency Beans?

If you have quarantine-cooking questions for Helen , send them to themail @ newyorker.com with the subject line “ Helen , Help Me.
” I don ’ t think I ’ ve ever met a person who actually eats canned sardines or anchovies .
But I guess it turns out people actually like them ?
Now I ’ m self-isolating at home , and there ’ s a can of sardines and a can of anchovies in my pantry , because for some reason I felt bold while doing some pre-panic shopping .
How do I eat them and not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Utah Think of sardines as an analogue to smoked salmon—oily , sweet , and substantial .
They ’ re great on toast , terrific torn up in a pasta dish , delectable eaten directly out of the tin , standing in front of the open fridge .
Anchovies , which are small and pungent and have a thrilling ability to dissolve into whatever they ’ re stirred into , are more comparable to capers or olives , or Southeast Asian fish sauce in solid form .
They ’ re wonderful added one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sauces and long-braised savory stews , or try blitzing half an anchovy into your next homemade salad dressing , for a funky , Caesar-y kick .
( White anchovies , sometimes labelled as boquerones , are a different beast entirely—they ’ re meaty and pickly , like Eastern European herring in wine sauce . )
If you try sardines or anchovies and you don ’ t like them , don ’ t eat them !
It ’ s fine !
You don ’ t need food to make you stressed out or uncomfortable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other opportunities for that .
I ’ m a white Midwesterner , raised in the land of Spam casserole , well-done steaks served with Heinz 57 , and cheesy potatoes .
In adult life , I ’ ve managed to correct some of the errors I was taught as a kid ( chicken , for example , should be juicy , and not dry as a bone ) , but I ’ m still very frightened of spices .
I worry that if I try new ones and discover I don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ five bucks on something I ’ m never going to use .
I ’ ve got basic things , such as onion and garlic , on hand most of the time , and paprika and Indian spices ( because I like curry a lot ) .
How do I learn to use spices more ?
—Dianna A. , Minneapolis , Minnesota Hail , fellow white Midwesterner !
Trying to learn which spices you like is a little bit like learning how to speak a language by reading the dictionary .
Spices and seasonings @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; by definition , they ’ re enhancers , deepeners , intensifiers .
They ’ re also dazzlingly adaptable—what one spice does on its own can be entirely different from what it contributes in combination with other flavors .
My advice is to work backward : Which restaurant dishes do you tend to order ?
Which sauces and condiments get you coming back for more ?
Look up recipes for your favorite foods and read their ingredient lists , and you might be surprised to realize how much you already know about which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seasonings can be broken down into four broad , imperfect categories : salts ( pretty self-explanatory ) , aromatics ( spices and other powdery , woodsy herbs ) , brighteners ( fresh or dried herbs ) , and heat ( chilies , black pepper , and other fiery condiments ) .
Once you have a handle on how to use a spice or herb in one category , you ’ ll learn to begin experimenting with others .
If you know you love a pinch of sweet paprika on your devilled eggs , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of smoky Spanish pimentón .
If you figure out you love fresh oregano , try swapping in thyme and see how you like it .
I also give you my blessing to try cooking with spice blends , and not just Lawry ’ s ( unreservedly terrific ) Seasoned Salt .
Penzey ’ s has a great collection , most of them fairly easygoing ; for more adventurous options , try La Boîte , a spice company run by Lior Lev Sercarz , whose book “ Mastering Spice ” is terrific fodder for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
As for wastefulness , I ’ m afraid there ’ s no way to avoid it entirely .
For years , I ’ ve tried to talk myself into appreciating the green , floral flavor that fresh curry leaves add to stews and pickles , but my nose and brain refuse to play along .
If you buy a spice and can ’ t figure out how to love it , trade it with a friend .
Or toss it in the back of a cabinet , like the good Lord intended @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I just flew back from overseas last week , and jet lag and anxiety have completely turned my internal clock upside down .
Should I still eat breakfast , lunch , and dinner according to the usual times of the day , or can I just eat whatever whenever ?
—Jennifer W. , Hong Kong Throw off the shackles of the circadian rhythm : beef Wellington for breakfast !
Cheetos for dinner !
Pad thai for second dinner !
We ’ re all wild creatures , in our strange new confined lives .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I ’ ve been having a sort of philosophical problem with my freezer .
I keep setting aside things and freezing them ( especially fresh produce ) with the vague idea that I ’ ll be especially thankful for them at some later date , “ when things get bad.
” I would love to eat some of these things , but I keep being bothered by the idea that my future self will need or enjoy them more .
How will I know when things are bad enough that I need @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bad ” food ?
—Marella G. , Brooklyn , New York In 2012 , the Royal Society , in the U.K. , declared that the single most important discovery in the history of food was refrigeration , closely followed by pasteurization and canning .
All three are methods of preservation , allowing us to postpone nature ’ s frustratingly rapid cycle of decay .
Together they represent a profound liberation for humanity , granting us time and energy to worry about matters beyond the basic facts of survival .
Of course , here @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time to worry about all the food we ’ ve preserved .
Like you , I have packages of produce in my freezer that I ’ m holding on to for some uncertain future moment .
I also have a pile of vacuum-sealed steaks coming on their third anniversary , sealed bags of shelled pistachios and whole-wheat flour , frozen cubes of soup and pasta sauce , and little pop-out nuggets of ginger and cilantro .
They ’ re not specifically earmarked for emergencies , but they might as well be .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tetra Pak of ultra-pasteurized milk , or a heat-sealed can of chickpeas or salmon ) is a suspended-animation chamber , a place where time doesn ’ t exist .
There ’ s something comforting in that , something that soothes a primal fear of not having enough .
There ’ s something comforting , too , I think , in the idea that in a disaster there will be an unambiguous distinction between “ things are getting bad ” and “ things are absolutely bad now , and so it ’ s time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ —a clear Before and After .
Some sort of global klaxon will blare , the billionaires will shimmer away via hovercraft to their bug-out compounds in New Zealand while the bunker-builders take to their fortified holes in the ground , and the rest of us will burn our now worthless cash to stay warm while we barter for guns and pigeon eggs with blister packs of NyQuil .
The reality , of course , is much less cinematic .
We are so lucky that our current global health crisis isn ’ t likely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fresh water , or Internet access .
It ’ s unlikely that we ’ ll lose access to groceries or drugstore goods .
Things are horribly bad , so much worse than anyone expected or hoped things could ever be .
And yet somehow—blessedly—they aren ’ t so bad that we can ’ t still get potato chips when we need potato chips .
I don ’ t mean to be pointing out any sort of silver lining ; of course , it could always be worse , and there ’ s no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at least there ’ s plenty to eat .
So when will you know it ’ s time to dig into the foods that you ’ re keeping in cryogenic suspension ?
I want to say that the answer is never—because things will probably , almost certainly , be fine in the end .
If you stumble upon your untouched baggies of broccoli florets eighteen months from now , I hope it ’ s because you need to make room for uneaten slices of birthday cake .
I hope the cans of tuna @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into action for school lunches .
I hope that , soon enough , we ’ ll get to throw our emergency beans in the air and let them rain down like confetti around us .

If you have quarantine-cooking questions for Helen, send them to themail@newyorker.com with the subject line “Helen, Help Me.”
I don’t think I’ve ever met a person who actually eats canned sardines or anchovies. But I guess it turns out people actually like them? Now I’m self-isolating at home, and there’s a can of sardines and a can of anchovies in my pantry, because for some reason I felt bold while doing some pre-panic shopping. How do I eat them and not hate them? —Lauren R., Midvale, Utah
Think of sardines as an analogue to smoked salmon—oily, sweet, and substantial. They’re great on toast, terrific torn up in a pasta dish, delectable eaten directly out of the tin, standing in front of the open fridge. Anchovies, which are small and pungent and have a thrilling ability to dissolve into whatever they’re stirred into, are more comparable to capers or olives, or Southeast Asian fish sauce in solid form. They’re wonderful added one or two at a time to tomato-based sauces and long-braised savory stews, or try blitzing half an anchovy into your next homemade salad dressing, for a funky, Caesar-y kick. (White anchovies, sometimes labelled as boquerones, are a different beast entirely—they’re meaty and pickly, like Eastern European herring in wine sauce.)
If you try sardines or anchovies and you don’t like them, don’t eat them! It’s fine! You don’t need food to make you stressed out or uncomfortable; the world will provide plenty of other opportunities for that.
I’m a white Midwesterner, raised in the land of Spam casserole, well-done steaks served with Heinz 57, and cheesy potatoes. In adult life, I’ve managed to correct some of the errors I was taught as a kid (chicken, for example, should be juicy, and not dry as a bone), but I’m still very frightened of spices. I worry that if I try new ones and discover I don’t like them I’ll have spent five bucks on something I’m never going to use. I’ve got basic things, such as onion and garlic, on hand most of the time, and paprika and Indian spices (because I like curry a lot). How do I learn to use spices more? —Dianna A., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Hail, fellow white Midwesterner! Trying to learn which spices you like is a little bit like learning how to speak a language by reading the dictionary. Spices and seasonings don’t operate in a vacuum; by definition, they’re enhancers, deepeners, intensifiers. They’re also dazzlingly adaptable—what one spice does on its own can be entirely different from what it contributes in combination with other flavors. My advice is to work backward: Which restaurant dishes do you tend to order? Which sauces and condiments get you coming back for more? Look up recipes for your favorite foods and read their ingredient lists, and you might be surprised to realize how much you already know about which spices you like.
Generally speaking, seasonings can be broken down into four broad, imperfect categories: salts (pretty self-explanatory), aromatics (spices and other powdery, woodsy herbs), brighteners (fresh or dried herbs), and heat (chilies, black pepper, and other fiery condiments). Once you have a handle on how to use a spice or herb in one category, you’ll learn to begin experimenting with others. If you know you love a pinch of sweet paprika on your devilled eggs, try the more intense, earthy kick of smoky Spanish pimentón. If you figure out you love fresh oregano, try swapping in thyme and see how you like it. I also give you my blessing to try cooking with spice blends, and not just Lawry’s (unreservedly terrific) Seasoned Salt. Penzey’s has a great collection, most of them fairly easygoing; for more adventurous options, try La Boîte, a spice company run by Lior Lev Sercarz, whose book “Mastering Spice” is terrific fodder for anyone looking to get serious about seasoning.
As for wastefulness, I’m afraid there’s no way to avoid it entirely. For years, I’ve tried to talk myself into appreciating the green, floral flavor that fresh curry leaves add to stews and pickles, but my nose and brain refuse to play along. If you buy a spice and can’t figure out how to love it, trade it with a friend. Or toss it in the back of a cabinet, like the good Lord intended, and forget about it forever.
I just flew back from overseas last week, and jet lag and anxiety have completely turned my internal clock upside down. Should I still eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner according to the usual times of the day, or can I just eat whatever whenever? —Jennifer W., Hong Kong
Throw off the shackles of the circadian rhythm: beef Wellington for breakfast! Cheetos for dinner! Pad thai for second dinner! We’re all wild creatures, in our strange new confined lives. No arbitrary mealtime diktats can hold us.
I’ve been having a sort of philosophical problem with my freezer. I keep setting aside things and freezing them (especially fresh produce) with the vague idea that I’ll be especially thankful for them at some later date, “when things get bad.” I would love to eat some of these things, but I keep being bothered by the idea that my future self will need or enjoy them more. How will I know when things are bad enough that I need to eat my “when things get bad” food? —Marella G., Brooklyn, New York


newyorker--2020-04-13--A Memory of Recklessness in the Face of Disaster

If you haven ’ t yet seen those videos of college students on spring break , revelling in bars and on beaches , doing the opposite of social distancing , I don ’ t recommend you watch them anytime soon .
The closest equivalent of such a bacchanalian response to a humanitarian crisis that I can think of were reports of Muslims in New Jersey celebrating on September 11th .
Those accounts , of course , have long since been discredited by everyone—Donald Trump excepted—but the videos of self-absorbed twentysomethings spreading the coronavirus without remorse , while the rest of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to exist online years after the pandemic has passed , the shame outliving the crime .
( Perhaps the most damning artifact will be the interview with the lunkhead in Miami who sagely told a reporter , “ If I get corona , I get corona .
At the end of the day , I ’ m not going to let it stop me from partying.
” ) Still , there ’ s nothing particularly unusual about young people of any era being indifferent to seeming abstractions like illness , aging , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ must include myself as having once been a self-absorbed twentysomething in denial of an approaching natural disaster .
In my case , it was a snowstorm that was making its way up from the Gulf of Mexico in March , 1993 .
I was in my early twenties , a college dropout , working in , of all places , a college cafeteria , and , despite knowing full well that a blizzard was expected , I had chosen to ride my bicycle anyway .
Here is as clear an indication as any @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reckless disregard for the immediate concerns of the world , unable to fully apprehend anything that I could not perceive with my own senses .
Or perhaps I was only apprehending what I wished .
Either way , my ability to extrapolate beyond my own reality had not yet been developed .
All I could perceive as I rode my bicycle through empty streets—the same streets that I would eventually need to return home through—were the first few flakes that had begun to fall .
I marvelled at the beauty of those flakes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mild and gentle could soon become something so ferocious and deadly .
Indeed , the approaching blizzard , a Category 5 , later to be named the “ Storm of the Century , ” would last three days , kill nearly three hundred people , and dump snow on twenty-six states , including twenty-five inches on my home town of Pittsburgh .
That morning , weather reports came in over the radio , informing me of what I could not see in the windowless back kitchens of the cafeteria .
The snow was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up , the visibility was dropping toward zero .
Even so , we continued working , we service employees , who were mostly nonwhite , feeding breakfast , lunch , and snacks to the affluent students of the private university , who were mostly white , and who were likely disinclined to consider how their meals arrived in the middle of a blizzard .
Bus service was severely curtailed , and by the early afternoon many of the cafeteria workers abruptly ended their shifts , leaving those of us who remained to fill @ @ @ @ @ @ @ employees who were scheduled to work the second shift , they would not come in at all .
I was not in need of a public bus , of course , because I had my bicycle , and yet it had not occurred to me that riding a bicycle in a blizzard would be impossible , not to mention hazardous .
In fact , the opposite seemed to be true : relying solely upon myself , I would be able to overcome all forces , including , or especially , the forces of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , it became clear that the entire workload of the cafeteria would be falling on the shoulders of the manager , a kindly Indian man who had once asked me to refer to him as a friend , despite his being my boss .
He would have to stay , doing everyone ’ s tasks , feeding the students as best he could , until it was time for them to go to their dorms to study , after which he ’ d have to figure out how to get home .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one-man band tonight , ” one of the cafeteria cooks said about my “ friend , ” and I laughed in a mocking way .
It ’ s only occurred to me years later that this manager was barely one rung above us on the ladder to which we all clung .
When my shift was finally over , it was late afternoon , and I exited the confines of the cafeteria into a world that had been completely transformed while I was inside .
White blanketed everything , inches deep , sometimes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ blowing , and the snow was falling , and I could barely see in front of me .
No one was walking , and no one was driving , but what unnerved me most was the eerie silence .
When I unlocked my bicycle from beneath the overhang by the college football stadium , I was overcome with the delusion that the very fact that my bicycle had been completely protected from snow was an indication of my ingenuity , my intelligence , how forward-thinking I had been .
Then I got on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Immediately , I knew that something was very wrong .
It wasn ’ t the snow on the ground , or the snow in my face—it was something about the wind , the way it blew , that made me realize , without any doubt , that I was putting myself in great jeopardy .
Unable to ride , I began to walk .
On a clear and sunny day , it would have taken me an hour to walk the three miles home .
Now I was just a few minutes into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and my bicycle up a snow-covered hill , making incremental , if any , progress , the cafeteria still only a few blocks behind me .
This is when a car appeared out of nowhere , and the young man inside , only slightly older than me , offered to give me a ride .
Here was someone prepared , with snow chains on his tires and a trunk big enough to hold my bicycle .
We rode through the city , slowly and carefully , the sound of the snow crunching beneath @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of his way toward my home .
He didn ’ t seem to mind .
He was curious as to how I had ended up in this predicament .
I was curious as to how someone my age could be so sensible .
I didn ’ t ask him this , of course .
Nor could I quite explain why I had tried to ride my bicycle through a blizzard .
All I knew was that I was an impervious twentysomething who , early that morning , had seen just a few @ @ @ @

If you haven’t yet seen those videos of college students on spring break, revelling in bars and on beaches, doing the opposite of social distancing, I don’t recommend you watch them anytime soon. The closest equivalent of such a bacchanalian response to a humanitarian crisis that I can think of were reports of Muslims in New Jersey celebrating on September 11th. Those accounts, of course, have long since been discredited by everyone—Donald Trump excepted—but the videos of self-absorbed twentysomethings spreading the coronavirus without remorse, while the rest of humanity trembles in isolation, will continue to exist online years after the pandemic has passed, the shame outliving the crime. (Perhaps the most damning artifact will be the interview with the lunkhead in Miami who sagely told a reporter, “If I get corona, I get corona. At the end of the day, I’m not going to let it stop me from partying.”) Still, there’s nothing particularly unusual about young people of any era being indifferent to seeming abstractions like illness, aging, and death. And, sadly, I must include myself as having once been a self-absorbed twentysomething in denial of an approaching natural disaster.
In my case, it was a snowstorm that was making its way up from the Gulf of Mexico in March, 1993. I was in my early twenties, a college dropout, working in, of all places, a college cafeteria, and, despite knowing full well that a blizzard was expected, I had chosen to ride my bicycle anyway. Here is as clear an indication as any that I was suffering from my own reckless disregard for the immediate concerns of the world, unable to fully apprehend anything that I could not perceive with my own senses. Or perhaps I was only apprehending what I wished. Either way, my ability to extrapolate beyond my own reality had not yet been developed. All I could perceive as I rode my bicycle through empty streets—the same streets that I would eventually need to return home through—were the first few flakes that had begun to fall. I marvelled at the beauty of those flakes. I was unconcerned that something so mild and gentle could soon become something so ferocious and deadly. Indeed, the approaching blizzard, a Category 5, later to be named the “Storm of the Century,” would last three days, kill nearly three hundred people, and dump snow on twenty-six states, including twenty-five inches on my home town of Pittsburgh.
That morning, weather reports came in over the radio, informing me of what I could not see in the windowless back kitchens of the cafeteria. The snow was falling harder, the wind was picking up, the visibility was dropping toward zero. Even so, we continued working, we service employees, who were mostly nonwhite, feeding breakfast, lunch, and snacks to the affluent students of the private university, who were mostly white, and who were likely disinclined to consider how their meals arrived in the middle of a blizzard. Bus service was severely curtailed, and by the early afternoon many of the cafeteria workers abruptly ended their shifts, leaving those of us who remained to fill in for them. As for those employees who were scheduled to work the second shift, they would not come in at all. I was not in need of a public bus, of course, because I had my bicycle, and yet it had not occurred to me that riding a bicycle in a blizzard would be impossible, not to mention hazardous. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true: relying solely upon myself, I would be able to overcome all forces, including, or especially, the forces of nature.
At some point that day, it became clear that the entire workload of the cafeteria would be falling on the shoulders of the manager, a kindly Indian man who had once asked me to refer to him as a friend, despite his being my boss. He would have to stay, doing everyone’s tasks, feeding the students as best he could, until it was time for them to go to their dorms to study, after which he’d have to figure out how to get home. “He’s going to be a one-man band tonight,” one of the cafeteria cooks said about my “friend,” and I laughed in a mocking way. It’s only occurred to me years later that this manager was barely one rung above us on the ladder to which we all clung.
When my shift was finally over, it was late afternoon, and I exited the confines of the cafeteria into a world that had been completely transformed while I was inside. White blanketed everything, inches deep, sometimes feet deep, and the wind was blowing, and the snow was falling, and I could barely see in front of me. No one was walking, and no one was driving, but what unnerved me most was the eerie silence. When I unlocked my bicycle from beneath the overhang by the college football stadium, I was overcome with the delusion that the very fact that my bicycle had been completely protected from snow was an indication of my ingenuity, my intelligence, how forward-thinking I had been. Then I got on my bicycle and began to ride. Immediately, I knew that something was very wrong. It wasn’t the snow on the ground, or the snow in my face—it was something about the wind, the way it blew, that made me realize, without any doubt, that I was putting myself in great jeopardy.
Unable to ride, I began to walk. On a clear and sunny day, it would have taken me an hour to walk the three miles home. Now I was just a few minutes into my journey, trying to pull myself and my bicycle up a snow-covered hill, making incremental, if any, progress, the cafeteria still only a few blocks behind me. This is when a car appeared out of nowhere, and the young man inside, only slightly older than me, offered to give me a ride. Here was someone prepared, with snow chains on his tires and a trunk big enough to hold my bicycle. We rode through the city, slowly and carefully, the sound of the snow crunching beneath us, as I took him well out of his way toward my home. He didn’t seem to mind. He was curious as to how I had ended up in this predicament. I was curious as to how someone my age could be so sensible. I didn’t ask him this, of course. Nor could I quite explain why I had tried to ride my bicycle through a blizzard. All I knew was that I was an impervious twentysomething who, early that morning, had seen just a few gentle flakes falling.


newyorker--2020-04-13--Nation’s Governors Consider Forming Country

AMERICA ( The Borowitz Report ) —In order to better coördinate their efforts to combat the coronavirus , the nation ’ s governors are considering the extraordinary step of forming a country .
The radical proposal is an unusual bipartisan effort , spearheaded by the Democratic governor of Michigan , Gretchen Whitmer , and the Republican governor of Ohio , Mike DeWine .
“ Mike and I were bidding against each other for masks and ventilators , and I was , like , ‘ Mike , this is crazy , ’ ” Whitmer said .
“ ‘ It would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ together and formed a country.
’ ” DeWine said that Whitmer ’ s proposal of creating a country out of the fifty states “ made a lot of sense.
” “ It was one of those moments where someone throws out a nutty idea and you think , ‘ Hold on , let ’ s think on that for a second , ’ ” he said .
While the idea of the fifty states coming together to form a country is still in the embryonic stage , DeWine said that the states would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ led by a “ President.
” “ We ’ re all in agreement that it would be amazing to have a President right now , ” DeWine said .
A straw poll of the governors indicates that the front-runner for President of this yet-to-be-named country is one of their own : Governor Andrew Cuomo , of New York .
“ Andrew keeps saying that he doesn ’ t want to be President , ” Whitmer said .
“ And I ’ m , like , ‘ Dude , you already are .
’ @

AMERICA (The Borowitz Report)—In order to better coördinate their efforts to combat the coronavirus, the nation’s governors are considering the extraordinary step of forming a country.
The radical proposal is an unusual bipartisan effort, spearheaded by the Democratic governor of Michigan, Gretchen Whitmer, and the Republican governor of Ohio, Mike DeWine.
“Mike and I were bidding against each other for masks and ventilators, and I was, like, ‘Mike, this is crazy,’ ” Whitmer said. “ ‘It would be so much better if we just worked together and formed a country.’ ”
DeWine said that Whitmer’s proposal of creating a country out of the fifty states “made a lot of sense.”
“It was one of those moments where someone throws out a nutty idea and you think, ‘Hold on, let’s think on that for a second,’ ” he said.
While the idea of the fifty states coming together to form a country is still in the embryonic stage, DeWine said that the states would ideally create a “federal government” led by a “President.”
“We’re all in agreement that it would be amazing to have a President right now,” DeWine said.
A straw poll of the governors indicates that the front-runner for President of this yet-to-be-named country is one of their own: Governor Andrew Cuomo, of New York.
“Andrew keeps saying that he doesn’t want to be President,” Whitmer said. “And I’m, like, ‘Dude, you already are.’ ”


newyorker--2020-04-13--The Risks Undocumented Workers Are Facing During the Coronavirus Pandemic

Sheltering in place , a public-health necessity during the COVID-19 pandemic , is a luxury rarely afforded to the working classes .
For millions of Americans , staying at home has meant losing their job—or jobs—and struggling to feed their children , pay their rent , and cover the bills .
For E.C.
, an undocumented maintenance worker from Guatemala , it has also meant being unable to rely on the government ’ s relief aid , despite having paid taxes and living in the United States for more than two decades .
If he is stricken with the disease @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t be when to seek medical attention but whether to seek it at all—he ’ ll have to carefully weigh the risks of going bankrupt , facing deportation , or being detained and separated from his family .
As he says in a video interview with The New Yorker , “ If we get sick or something , how will we go to the hospital ?
” This is a predicament facing the ten million undocumented people living in the United States—many of whom work as cooks , cleaners , janitors , or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ industries hardest hit by the pandemic , and half of whom have no health insurance .
The majority of them have lived in this country for more than a decade , yet their fear of running into immigration enforcement is ever present .
During the coronavirus crisis , Immigration and Customs Enforcement ( ICE ) has said that it will refrain from carrying out operations near or at medical facilities , except for “ in the most extraordinary of circumstances.
” Coming from an agency that has wielded its power to tear families @ @ @ @ @ @ @ statement hardly offers undocumented people comfort .
The coronavirus has at once laid bare the flaws of the immigration and the health-care systems in the United States .
Last year , the Association of American Medical Colleges submitted a legal paper warning about “ the risk of a pandemic ” and the importance of allowing twenty-seven thousand DACA recipients to keep their jobs in the health-care sector .
The experts estimated that , over the course of their careers , these workers would “ touch the lives of 1.7 to 5.1 million U.S. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drawn from the contributions of farm workers harvesting the nation ’ s fruits and vegetables , or the caretakers looking after the elderly .
Yet the current Administration has time and again sought to debase these workers and to emphasize their otherness through policies such as the public-charge rule , which went into effect in late February and discourages immigrants from using Medicaid or other government benefits .
The bottom line is that this virus does not regard people as first- or second-class citizens .
Its reach is indiscriminate .
Anyone can spread @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from it .
And those who would deny rights , or benefits , to the undocumented may come to find that their well-being is inextricable from everyone else ’ s .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How the coronavirus behaves inside of a patient .
• Can survivors help cure the disease and rescue the economy ?
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• The success of Hong Kong @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lessons for how to contain it in the United States .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine is widely available .
• With each new virus , we 've scrambled for a new treatment .
Can we prepare antivirals to combat the next global crisis ?
• How pandemics have propelled public-health innovations , prefigured revolutions , and redrawn maps .
• What to read , watch , cook , and listen to under coronavirus quarantine .

Sheltering in place, a public-health necessity during the COVID-19 pandemic, is a luxury rarely afforded to the working classes. For millions of Americans, staying at home has meant losing their job—or jobs—and struggling to feed their children, pay their rent, and cover the bills. For E.C., an undocumented maintenance worker from Guatemala, it has also meant being unable to rely on the government’s relief aid, despite having paid taxes and living in the United States for more than two decades. If he is stricken with the disease, the question for him won’t be when to seek medical attention but whether to seek it at all—he’ll have to carefully weigh the risks of going bankrupt, facing deportation, or being detained and separated from his family. As he says in a video interview with The New Yorker, “If we get sick or something, how will we go to the hospital?”
This is a predicament facing the ten million undocumented people living in the United States—many of whom work as cooks, cleaners, janitors, or farm workers, in some of the industries hardest hit by the pandemic, and half of whom have no health insurance. The majority of them have lived in this country for more than a decade, yet their fear of running into immigration enforcement is ever present. During the coronavirus crisis, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has said that it will refrain from carrying out operations near or at medical facilities, except for “in the most extraordinary of circumstances.” Coming from an agency that has wielded its power to tear families apart at its own discretion, the statement hardly offers undocumented people comfort.
The coronavirus has at once laid bare the flaws of the immigration and the health-care systems in the United States. Last year, the Association of American Medical Colleges submitted a legal paper warning about “the risk of a pandemic” and the importance of allowing twenty-seven thousand DACA recipients to keep their jobs in the health-care sector. The experts estimated that, over the course of their careers, these workers would “touch the lives of 1.7 to 5.1 million U.S. patients.” Similar estimates could surely be drawn from the contributions of farm workers harvesting the nation’s fruits and vegetables, or the caretakers looking after the elderly. Yet the current Administration has time and again sought to debase these workers and to emphasize their otherness through policies such as the public-charge rule, which went into effect in late February and discourages immigrants from using Medicaid or other government benefits.
The bottom line is that this virus does not regard people as first- or second-class citizens. Its reach is indiscriminate. Anyone can spread the virus, and anyone can die from it. And those who would deny rights, or benefits, to the undocumented may come to find that their well-being is inextricable from everyone else’s.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-13--The Coronavirus Pandemic Is Not a Natural Disaster

In the old days—that is , a few weeks ago—I would often share my mornings with my neighbor Wesley .
We ’ d greet each other with a hug , then head across the street to the garden plot we share , in a leafy neighborhood of Washington , D.C .
The garden used to be a landfill , left behind when a row of houses was bulldozed a few decades ago .
Over many months , we have improved the soil with kitchen compost and leaf mulch inhabited by a mob of microbes , insects , and worms .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ spring , we planted some seedlings and harvested kale and mustard , then prepared a fresh salad for lunch .
Wes and I have grown close through these routines , even though I ’ m in my mid-fifties and he ’ s in his late twenties and we share little in common other than a small tuft of urban territory .
Most of the metaphors we have for talking about our biological world do not match this model of coöperation .
Darwinian thought—or the popular cartoon version of it—teaches us the concept of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the “ unfit.
” Abrahamic religions tell us that human beings were given the earth and its creatures to rule .
American mythology encourages entrepreneurial individualism .
But Wesley and I do not compete for space in our small raised garden bed ; instead , we share microbes from the air and the soil , expelling them on our breaths and wiping them onto our hands and , later , ingesting them .
With our actions , we form a community , in both a social and microbial sense .
Microbial webs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and other species for all of our history .
Long before anyone knew what a single-cell organism was , cultural practices maximized the exchange of microbes : as people farmed , foraged , tended livestock , fermented their food , dipped their hands in common bowls , and greeted one other with a touch , they engaged in rituals that bound them together with their neighbors and other organisms .
This was probably not accidental .
A wealth of evidence shows that , when we share microbes with other people and organisms , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our environments , and more in synch as a social unit. The interconnectedness of our biological lives , which has become even clearer in recent decades , is pushing us to reconsider our understanding of the natural world .
It turns out that the familiar Linnaean taxonomy , with each species on its own distinct branch of the tree , is too unsubtle : lichens , for example , are made up of a fungus and an alga so tightly bound that the two species create a new organism that is difficult to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ idea that each tree is an “ individual ” —it might be more accurately understood as a node in a network of underworld exchanges between fungi , roots , bacteria , lichen , insects , and other plants .
The network is so intricate that it ’ s difficult to say where one organism ends and the other begins .
Our picture of the human body is shifting , too .
It seems less like a self-contained vessel , defined by one ’ s genetic code and ruled by a brain , than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in atmospheric currents , harvesting gases , bacteria , phages , fungal spores , and airborne toxins in its nets .
In the midst of the coronavirus outbreak , this idea of a body as an assembly of species—a community—seems newly relevant and unsettling .
How are we supposed to protect ourselves , if we are so porous ?
Are pandemics inevitable , when living things are bound so tightly together in a dense , planetary sphere ?
The history of civilization has hinged on the building and demolition of boundaries between species @ @ @ @ @ @ @ natural world in order to cultivate only the most productive plants and animals ; this allowed populations to grow and cities to flourish .
But crops and livestock , once they were concentrated in one place and cultivated in monocultures , became vulnerable to disease .
As cities and farm operations grew , people and animals crowded closer together .
The result was a new epidemiological order , in which zoonotic diseases—ones that could jump from animal to human—thrived .
At first , these diseases remained confined to the places where they originated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , an environmental historian at Georgetown University , speculates that the first wave of the cholera outbreak of 1832-33 was the first true pandemic ; it reached every inhabited continent by hitching rides on caravans and ships .
More infections followed , often affecting the crops on which people depended for food .
In the early nineteenth century , potato plants in South America suffered from a blight ; the culprit , a mold called Phytophthora infestans , sailed to Ireland in 1845 , where it led to a million deaths .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called phylloxera migrated from the United States to Europe , nearly pulping the French wine industry ; in the nineteen-sixties , Panama disease eradicated the world ’ s favorite commercial banana , the Gros Michel .
In 1970 , the fungus Bipolaris maydis decimated the American Corn Belt before spreading worldwide ; another fungal infection , wheat rust , has caused countless famines worldwide .
And yet the upsides of industrial agriculture were hard to resist .
In the nineteen-fifties , the Green Revolution churned out so many cereal crops that the United @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its techniques were exported to the rest of the world , they defused the “ population bomb.
” In the sixties , the American-led Livestock Revolution vertically integrated the production of animal products , creating a parallel increase in the consumption of meat .
By the seventies , big poultry companies were churning out so many chickens that they had to invent new products—chicken nuggets , chicken salad , chicken-based pet food .
Large corporations bought up local producers of poultry , pork , and beef ; feedlots grew to the size of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ malls .
Farms went from being small operations with an average of seventy chickens to factories housing thirty thousand birds .
In the eighties , with the Blue Revolution , the industrial farming of fish expanded , too .
From 1980 to 2018 , the global production of animals for consumption grew about one and a half times faster than the world population .
Barns packed with animals are good places to breed pathogens .
Monocultures , in which all animals are genetically similar , offer few speed bumps to transmission .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ barn , ” Rob Wallace , the author of “ Big Farms Make Big Flu , ” told me .
“ They are all genetically the same and you are growing them for a turn-around time of six weeks .
That is all food for flu.
” Normally , pathogens evolve to be harmful but not deadly : they want to co-opt hosts without killing them , so that they can continue their spread .
But , in the fast-paced world of an industrial hen house , where birds come and go quickly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strains , no matter how deadly .
Within the uniform predictability of modern agriculture , the unpredictable emerges .
Zoonotic diseases can seem like earthquakes ; they appear to be random acts of nature .
In fact , they are more like hurricanes—they can occur more frequently , and become more powerful , if human beings alter the environment in the wrong ways .
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that three-quarters of the “ new or emerging ” diseases that infect human beings have originated in wild or domesticated animals. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Zika , avian flu , swine flu—researchers have counted around two hundred other infectious diseases that have broken out more than twelve thousand times over the past three decades. It ’ s no small feat to cross the species barrier ; these numbers speak to the scale of our agricultural system .

In the old days—that is, a few weeks ago—I would often share my mornings with my neighbor Wesley. We’d greet each other with a hug, then head across the street to the garden plot we share, in a leafy neighborhood of Washington, D.C. The garden used to be a landfill, left behind when a row of houses was bulldozed a few decades ago. Over many months, we have improved the soil with kitchen compost and leaf mulch inhabited by a mob of microbes, insects, and worms. During this year’s unseasonably warm spring, we planted some seedlings and harvested kale and mustard, then prepared a fresh salad for lunch. Wes and I have grown close through these routines, even though I’m in my mid-fifties and he’s in his late twenties and we share little in common other than a small tuft of urban territory.
Most of the metaphors we have for talking about our biological world do not match this model of coöperation. Darwinian thought—or the popular cartoon version of it—teaches us the concept of never-ending competition between the “fit” and the “unfit.” Abrahamic religions tell us that human beings were given the earth and its creatures to rule. American mythology encourages entrepreneurial individualism. But Wesley and I do not compete for space in our small raised garden bed; instead, we share microbes from the air and the soil, expelling them on our breaths and wiping them onto our hands and, later, ingesting them. With our actions, we form a community, in both a social and microbial sense.
Microbial webs have bridged the spaces between human beings and other species for all of our history. Long before anyone knew what a single-cell organism was, cultural practices maximized the exchange of microbes: as people farmed, foraged, tended livestock, fermented their food, dipped their hands in common bowls, and greeted one other with a touch, they engaged in rituals that bound them together with their neighbors and other organisms. This was probably not accidental. A wealth of evidence shows that, when we share microbes with other people and organisms, we become healthier, better adapted to our environments, and more in synch as a social unit.
The interconnectedness of our biological lives, which has become even clearer in recent decades, is pushing us to reconsider our understanding of the natural world. It turns out that the familiar Linnaean taxonomy, with each species on its own distinct branch of the tree, is too unsubtle: lichens, for example, are made up of a fungus and an alga so tightly bound that the two species create a new organism that is difficult to classify. Biologists have begun questioning the idea that each tree is an “individual”—it might be more accurately understood as a node in a network of underworld exchanges between fungi, roots, bacteria, lichen, insects, and other plants. The network is so intricate that it’s difficult to say where one organism ends and the other begins. Our picture of the human body is shifting, too. It seems less like a self-contained vessel, defined by one’s genetic code and ruled by a brain, than like a microbial ecosystem that sweeps along in atmospheric currents, harvesting gases, bacteria, phages, fungal spores, and airborne toxins in its nets.
In the midst of the coronavirus outbreak, this idea of a body as an assembly of species—a community—seems newly relevant and unsettling. How are we supposed to protect ourselves, if we are so porous? Are pandemics inevitable, when living things are bound so tightly together in a dense, planetary sphere?
The history of civilization has hinged on the building and demolition of boundaries between species. Early agriculture disregarded most of the natural world in order to cultivate only the most productive plants and animals; this allowed populations to grow and cities to flourish. But crops and livestock, once they were concentrated in one place and cultivated in monocultures, became vulnerable to disease. As cities and farm operations grew, people and animals crowded closer together. The result was a new epidemiological order, in which zoonotic diseases—ones that could jump from animal to human—thrived.
At first, these diseases remained confined to the places where they originated. Then globalization arrived. John McNeill, an environmental historian at Georgetown University, speculates that the first wave of the cholera outbreak of 1832-33 was the first true pandemic; it reached every inhabited continent by hitching rides on caravans and ships. More infections followed, often affecting the crops on which people depended for food. In the early nineteenth century, potato plants in South America suffered from a blight; the culprit, a mold called Phytophthora infestans, sailed to Ireland in 1845, where it led to a million deaths. In the eighteen-sixties, a tiny aphid-like bug called phylloxera migrated from the United States to Europe, nearly pulping the French wine industry; in the nineteen-sixties, Panama disease eradicated the world’s favorite commercial banana, the Gros Michel. In 1970, the fungus Bipolaris maydis decimated the American Corn Belt before spreading worldwide; another fungal infection, wheat rust, has caused countless famines worldwide.
And yet the upsides of industrial agriculture were hard to resist. In the nineteen-fifties, the Green Revolution churned out so many cereal crops that the United States began giving food away; when its techniques were exported to the rest of the world, they defused the “population bomb.” In the sixties, the American-led Livestock Revolution vertically integrated the production of animal products, creating a parallel increase in the consumption of meat. By the seventies, big poultry companies were churning out so many chickens that they had to invent new products—chicken nuggets, chicken salad, chicken-based pet food. Large corporations bought up local producers of poultry, pork, and beef; feedlots grew to the size of fairgrounds; hen houses dwarfed neighborhood strip malls. Farms went from being small operations with an average of seventy chickens to factories housing thirty thousand birds. In the eighties, with the Blue Revolution, the industrial farming of fish expanded, too. From 1980 to 2018, the global production of animals for consumption grew about one and a half times faster than the world population.
Barns packed with animals are good places to breed pathogens. Monocultures, in which all animals are genetically similar, offer few speed bumps to transmission. “You got fifty thousand chickens in a barn,” Rob Wallace, the author of “Big Farms Make Big Flu,” told me. “They are all genetically the same and you are growing them for a turn-around time of six weeks. That is all food for flu.” Normally, pathogens evolve to be harmful but not deadly: they want to co-opt hosts without killing them, so that they can continue their spread. But, in the fast-paced world of an industrial hen house, where birds come and go quickly, pathogens select for the most virulent strains, no matter how deadly. Within the uniform predictability of modern agriculture, the unpredictable emerges.
Zoonotic diseases can seem like earthquakes; they appear to be random acts of nature. In fact, they are more like hurricanes—they can occur more frequently, and become more powerful, if human beings alter the environment in the wrong ways. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that three-quarters of the “new or emerging” diseases that infect human beings have originated in wild or domesticated animals. In addition to the familiar pathogens—Ebola, Zika, avian flu, swine flu—researchers have counted around two hundred other infectious diseases that have broken out more than twelve thousand times over the past three decades. It’s no small feat to cross the species barrier; these numbers speak to the scale of our agricultural system.
In piecing together the origin story of the coronavirus pandemic, many narratives have pointed to Chinese “wet markets,” at which live animals are sold. But no matter where the viral “spillover” occurred, it was made more likely by widespread trends. The single best predictor of where new diseases will spring up is population density. The misnamed Spanish flu of 1918 most likely emerged on Kansas farms, where people, animals, and birds lived in close quarters. One study found that, from 1940 to 2004, infectious diseases materialized most in densely packed areas, such as the northeastern United States, Western Europe, Japan, and southeastern Australia. In recent decades, as most manufacturing work has shifted to Asia, people and animals there have begun living more closely. Early cases of avian flu, in 1996, and SARS, in 2002, were found in animals in Guangdong Province, among the most densely settled place in history, in terms of people and livestock.
Hubei Province, north of Guangdong, where the city of Wuhan is situated, has become a major manufacturing center in the past decades. As Wuhan grew, it sprawled into the surrounding countryside and forests; people were pushed off their small farms and moved into the city’s vast slums. The slums served as a bridge between wild and urban spaces. To get by, residents ventured into the neighboring forests; they hunted and raised wild game, trapping, caging, and breeding pangolins, alligators, bats, civets, and other roaming animals on a scale that blurred the line between domestic and industrial animal husbandry. By harvesting animals from the forests, they flushed out pathogens, drawing them into a thriving city that was just a flight away from Singapore or Sydney.
In 1975, the dean of Yale’s School of Medicine told his students that there were “no new diseases to be discovered.” They were thinking about sanitation, vaccines, and antibiotics; they couldn’t see the new threats posed by urbanization, industrialization, and industrial agriculture. The images that emerged from Wuhan in February—people donning P.P.E. to leave their apartments, dogs in protective gear—speak to our new, paradoxical reality: technologies that have made it possible for more and more of us to inhabit the earth have also made it less hospitable to human life. The citizens of Wuhan looked like earthbound astronauts, launching not into space but onto the streets of their home city. Soon, we may all look that way.
Infectious diseases are only one aspect of a larger, ongoing health emergency. Two-thirds of cancers have their origins in environmental toxins, accounting for millions of annual fatalities; each year, 4.2 million people die from complications of respiratory illnesses caused by airborne toxins—forty-five thousand in the U.S. alone. Marshall Burke, an assistant professor of earth systems at Stanford, has estimated that the reduction in pollution from the shutdown of factories in Wuhan has saved between fifty-one and seventy-three thousand lives in China–twenty times more people than the virus has killed in Hubei Province as of March 8th. “We have created a set of dangerous environments, and we can’t just keep imagining that we can exclude them or put them elsewhere,” Anna Tsing, an anthropologist at the University of California, Santa Cruz, told me. The big lesson of the virus, she said, is that “there is no place to run.” In an effort to expand our reach across the planet, we have cornered ourselves.
The SARS-CoV-2 pandemic is an unfolding, global tragedy. It’s also an occasion for thinking, in broad terms, about the currents in which we swim. The philosopher Emanuele Coccia argues that we inhabit not Earth but the atmosphere, which he describes as a sea of life; as swimmers in this sea, we cannot be biologically isolated. Neither can our ecological practices. Researchers have found that antibiotic-resistant microbes from animal feces float downwind from Texas feedlots. Pesticides from tropical banana plantations end up in chilly Lake Superior. The spores that caused the 2001 outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in Britain may have been stirred up by dust storms in the Sahara. And yet those same storms help deliver nourishing phosphorus to the Amazon rainforest. The air helps pollinate our plants; it also transports radioactive particles, fungal spores, bacteria, and viruses. The quality of our air matters, too. New research suggests that dirty air increases the risk of serious complications from the coronavirus: reducing pollution in Manhattan by just one unit of particulate matter could have saved hundreds of lives.
Self-isolation is key if we are to stop the pandemic—and yet the need for isolation is, in itself, an acknowledgement of our deep integration with our surroundings. To fully respond to what’s happened, we need to reflect on the worldwide ecological networks that bind all us together. Wesley and I will resume our work of growing and harvesting when this pandemic ends. I hope that we’ll be joined by others, all over the globe, who are eager to tend the community garden that is our world.