newyorker--2020-05-04--Discovering Katherine Dunn’s Unpublished Work

The story in this week ’ s issue , “ The Resident Poet , ” is a previously unpublished piece by Katherine Dunn , who died in 2016 and was the author of , among other things , the best-selling 1989 novel “ Geek Love , ” which follows a family of self-described “ freaks ” who operate and perform for a travelling circus .
Can you explain how you came across the story and what role you ’ ve played in bringing Dunn ’ s unpublished work to readers ?
I ’ d read “ Geek Love ” three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exhausted Dunn ’ s body of work , when I realized that she ’ d written two other novels I knew nothing about— “ Attic , ” from 1970 , published when she was just twenty-five , and “ Truck , ” from 1971 .
I ’ d been unable to find them in used bookstores .
“ Katherine Dunn wrote other books ?
” a cashier at the information desk in the basement of the Strand asked when I inquired .
“ She did , and I can ’ t find anyone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I replied .
( This was before “ Attic ” was reissued , by Vintage/Anchor , in 2017 . )
I was particularly curious about “ Attic , ” the story of a young woman , also named Katherine Dunn , who ’ s incarcerated after being arrested for attempting to cash a blank check , because I ’ d read Elizabeth Dalton ’ s dismissive review of the novel for the New York Times .
Dalton described the novel as “ contrived , ” “ silly , ” and “ embarrassing ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some resemblance , if not scrutinized too closely , to formal innovation.
” An agitated critic for Kirkus Reviews attempted to describe the book for a few sentences before giving up , with “ It seems unnecessary to pursue it any further , ” and then served an unintentionally enigmatic single-sentence sum-up , the literary critic ’ s equivalent of a sick burn : “ Freeform fingerpainting and masturbatory cuddletoys in the attic.
” It also seems worth pointing out the considerable number of precious words both reviewers spent questioning the amount of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the toilet : “ Suggest [ s ] an arrest at the genito-urinary level , ” the Kirkus critic intoned , nostrils pinched .
When I finally found a copy on eBay , I bid high .
“ Attic ” and “ Truck ” are markedly different from “ Geek Love.
” Unlike those critics , I was deeply entertained and impressed by Dunn ’ s early prose .
The sentences in “ Attic ” are like a series of chaotic high kicks , or the deliberately unpracticed routine of a middle-school dance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a compliment .
Reading the book is an aerobic experience but worth it for lines like , “ Lots of lovers fucka-trucking down the street just like us.
” It ’ s impossible not to marvel at the verve it must have taken to write that way .
“ Truck , ” too , is a feat of syntax , bravado , and experimental word arrangements .
Its first sentences form one of my favorite novel openers : “ Going to go up on the mountain and be king .
If I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I ’ m the king.
” You ’ d never guess that the narrator is a teen-age girl .
The prose is frenetic , addled , guileless ; Dunn was having so much fun .
Together , “ Attic ” and “ Truck ” read like the first novels of a young , burgeoning talent—because they are .
Knowing that a not insignificant amount of time , nearly two decades , had passed between their publication and that of “ Geek Love , ” I wondered , What had Dunn written in between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dunn ’ s archive , which is housed at Lewis & Clark College , in Portland , Oregon , and in April , 2019 , was granted remote digital access .
I was thrilled to learn that it contained a large amount of unpublished material : drafts of short stories , poems , and essays ; Dunn ’ s daily notebooks ; a handful of sketches , rendered in pen and colored pencil ; some correspondence .
I spent much of last summer reviewing the material .
I read drafts , separated the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a hundred pages of typed or handwritten manuscripts .
The more time I spent with the material , the more convinced I was that it might one day form a book .
Or multiple books .
“ The Resident Poet ” was one of the first stories I read .
I was immediately taken with Sally ’ s voice—colorful , slightly crass , tinged with self-hatred and unrestrained scorn for Mr. Lucas .
I feel such affection for her , a young woman testing her agency with men who desire her , even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The story will be included in a collection of short fiction that MCD , an imprint of Farrar , Straus and Giroux , will publish in 2022 , following the publication of her lost novel , “ Toad , ” in the fall of 2021 .
What was it about “ Geek Love ” and Katherine Dunn ’ s work that motivated you to do this ?
To read “ Geek Love , ” as I did again most recently last summer , is to be temporarily immersed in a world of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I haven ’ t encountered anywhere else in literature .
There ’ s the warmth of the Binewski parents , who teach their children to prize their individuality above all else ; the summer nights in the throng of the crowded midway , with the lights , the aroma of fried food , the air crackling with possibility ; and Oly , the hyper-observant hunchbacked protagonist , whose love for her family practically glows from the page .
There are also the “ attractions ” : jars of formaldehyde , preserving genetically altered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chick , a child who is forced to use his telekinetic talents to further his oldest brother Arty ’ s tyrannical agenda ; a set of conjoined twins , Iphy and Elly , who are raped and impregnated by a man with half a face .
The absurdities of the Binewskis ’ world—the infernal abuses of power , the horrors that women face for possessing a body , the possibilities and the failures of family—are uncomfortably familiar .
Equally provocative is “ Geek Love ” ’ s celebration of the weird , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The book insists that the best parts of a person are those that distinguish him or her from everyone else—and , more importantly , that no one has the right to determine how another person lives .
One of the deepest pleasures of reading Dunn ’ s archive has been discovering that this idea permeates much of her work , even stories she wrote decades before “ Geek Love.
” I ’ m excited that more of it will soon be out in the world .
You mentioned to me that “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dunn ’ s time as a student at Reed College in the mid-sixties .
What do you know about when and where it was written ?
Was it based directly on her own experiences ?
Did she leave any notes on the story ?
From what I can tell , the story was written in the early seventies , after Dunn had graduated from Reed College .
Because I am in touch with her son , Eli Dapolonia , I do know that the story draws from personal experience , although I can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a character in “ Toad ” who is very similar to Mr. Lucas : a middle-aged poet , a visiting professor at the local college , crashes a party thrown by his students .
Like Mr. Lucas , he ’ s defined by his desperation to be perceived as a more ideal version of himself—the contemplative intellectual slumming with his subordinates , exploiting the admiration of his female students to stroke his own ego , or worse .
That Dunn drew this kind of man more than once , and with such @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be someone she has experience with .

Photograph by Elisabetta Villa / Getty
The story in this week’s issue, “The Resident Poet,” is a previously unpublished piece by Katherine Dunn, who died in 2016 and was the author of, among other things, the best-selling 1989 novel “Geek Love,” which follows a family of self-described “freaks” who operate and perform for a travelling circus. Can you explain how you came across the story and what role you’ve played in bringing Dunn’s unpublished work to readers?
I’d read “Geek Love” three times, and thought I’d exhausted Dunn’s body of work, when I realized that she’d written two other novels I knew nothing about—“Attic,” from 1970, published when she was just twenty-five, and “Truck,” from 1971. I’d been unable to find them in used bookstores. “Katherine Dunn wrote other books?” a cashier at the information desk in the basement of the Strand asked when I inquired. “She did, and I can’t find anyone who knows anything about them,” I replied. (This was before “Attic” was reissued, by Vintage/Anchor, in 2017.)
I was particularly curious about “Attic,” the story of a young woman, also named Katherine Dunn, who’s incarcerated after being arrested for attempting to cash a blank check, because I’d read Elizabeth Dalton’s dismissive review of the novel for the New York Times. Dalton described the novel as “contrived,” “silly,” and “embarrassing” and conceded only that it “bears some resemblance, if not scrutinized too closely, to formal innovation.” An agitated critic for Kirkus Reviews attempted to describe the book for a few sentences before giving up, with “It seems unnecessary to pursue it any further,” and then served an unintentionally enigmatic single-sentence sum-up, the literary critic’s equivalent of a sick burn: “Freeform fingerpainting and masturbatory cuddletoys in the attic.” It also seems worth pointing out the considerable number of precious words both reviewers spent questioning the amount of time Katherine—the protagonist, that is—spends on the toilet: “Suggest[s] an arrest at the genito-urinary level,” the Kirkus critic intoned, nostrils pinched. When I finally found a copy on eBay, I bid high.
“Attic” and “Truck” are markedly different from “Geek Love.” Unlike those critics, I was deeply entertained and impressed by Dunn’s early prose. The sentences in “Attic” are like a series of chaotic high kicks, or the deliberately unpracticed routine of a middle-school dance team, and I mean that as a compliment. Reading the book is an aerobic experience but worth it for lines like, “Lots of lovers fucka-trucking down the street just like us.” It’s impossible not to marvel at the verve it must have taken to write that way. “Truck,” too, is a feat of syntax, bravado, and experimental word arrangements. Its first sentences form one of my favorite novel openers: “Going to go up on the mountain and be king. If I’m the only one up there, I’m the king.” You’d never guess that the narrator is a teen-age girl. The prose is frenetic, addled, guileless; Dunn was having so much fun. Together, “Attic” and “Truck” read like the first novels of a young, burgeoning talent—because they are. Knowing that a not insignificant amount of time, nearly two decades, had passed between their publication and that of “Geek Love,” I wondered, What had Dunn written in between?
With little effort, I located Dunn’s archive, which is housed at Lewis & Clark College, in Portland, Oregon, and in April, 2019, was granted remote digital access. I was thrilled to learn that it contained a large amount of unpublished material: drafts of short stories, poems, and essays; Dunn’s daily notebooks; a handful of sketches, rendered in pen and colored pencil; some correspondence. I spent much of last summer reviewing the material. I read drafts, separated the finished pieces, and transcribed more than a hundred pages of typed or handwritten manuscripts. The more time I spent with the material, the more convinced I was that it might one day form a book. Or multiple books.
“The Resident Poet” was one of the first stories I read. I was immediately taken with Sally’s voice—colorful, slightly crass, tinged with self-hatred and unrestrained scorn for Mr. Lucas. I feel such affection for her, a young woman testing her agency with men who desire her, even as she recognizes their desires as contrived. The story will be included in a collection of short fiction that MCD, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, will publish in 2022, following the publication of her lost novel, “Toad,” in the fall of 2021.
What was it about “Geek Love” and Katherine Dunn’s work that motivated you to do this?
To read “Geek Love,” as I did again most recently last summer, is to be temporarily immersed in a world of delightful oddities—and fantastic terrors—the likes of which I haven’t encountered anywhere else in literature. There’s the warmth of the Binewski parents, who teach their children to prize their individuality above all else; the summer nights in the throng of the crowded midway, with the lights, the aroma of fried food, the air crackling with possibility; and Oly, the hyper-observant hunchbacked protagonist, whose love for her family practically glows from the page. There are also the “attractions”: jars of formaldehyde, preserving genetically altered infants—the Binewski parents’ expired experiments; Chick, a child who is forced to use his telekinetic talents to further his oldest brother Arty’s tyrannical agenda; a set of conjoined twins, Iphy and Elly, who are raped and impregnated by a man with half a face. The absurdities of the Binewskis’ world—the infernal abuses of power, the horrors that women face for possessing a body, the possibilities and the failures of family—are uncomfortably familiar.
Equally provocative is “Geek Love” ’s celebration of the weird, the “freak,” the irreducible misfit. The book insists that the best parts of a person are those that distinguish him or her from everyone else—and, more importantly, that no one has the right to determine how another person lives. One of the deepest pleasures of reading Dunn’s archive has been discovering that this idea permeates much of her work, even stories she wrote decades before “Geek Love.” I’m excited that more of it will soon be out in the world.
You mentioned to me that “The Resident Poet” was inspired by Dunn’s time as a student at Reed College in the mid-sixties. What do you know about when and where it was written? Was it based directly on her own experiences? Did she leave any notes on the story?
From what I can tell, the story was written in the early seventies, after Dunn had graduated from Reed College. Because I am in touch with her son, Eli Dapolonia, I do know that the story draws from personal experience, although I can only guess to what extent.


Quarantine Stew

There ’ s nothing quite as meditative as cooking—it might be the only thing keeping me sane right now !
This hearty stew serves five , which is perfect for my current household : me , my cat , my two porcelain dolls that have begun speaking to me , and my porcelain doll that is currently not speaking to me owing to a misunderstanding .
30 min , or a few days—what ’ s the difference ?
• Some carrots and onions or whatever .
It doesn ’ t matter .
• Wash the onions to make sure they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clean !
Scrub them vigorously under scalding hot water with Lysol or bleach .
• Place the beef ( or ice cream ) in a large pot .
Turn the news on , see a headline , then immediately turn the news off .
You don ’ t need that right now !
• Cook the beef until it is browned on all sides .
While doing this , sing Stephen Sondheim ’ s “ Send in the Clowns ” to yourself , loudly .
Puzzle over why you ’ re only realizing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quarantine , that you could have pursued singing professionally .
Isn ’ t that rich ?
• Slice the onions and add them to the pot .
Wait , these aren ’ t onions , they ’ re apples .
Have they been apples this whole time ?
Is there that big of a difference between an apple and an onion , anyway ?
• Slice the apples and add them to the pot .
• Call your parents and tell them that you are a chef now .
Let them know that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that is your new name .
Learn that your parents left the house today to deposit a check at the bank , even though they are both over sixty .
Yell at them until you are all sobbing , then hang up the phone .
• Add cilantro to the pot .
To you , cilantro tastes like soap .
But who cares ?
It ’ s the end of the world .
Hey , add some real soap , too !
• Take everything else that is still in your produce drawer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Whatever lands in your stew is now part of your stew !
Life is random and cruel ; so , too , your stew shall be !
• Feel offended that your cat is mocking your cooking abilities .
Tell your cat that you ’ re under a lot of pressure right now , and she ’ s not going to get any stew if she calls you a philistine again .
It ’ s hurtful .
• Almost forgot the bay leaves .
Add them—to your mouth !
They taste very weird @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leaves in your pantry , and also the paprika .
• Receive text message from your parents about your fight from three days ago .
Hold on , how long have you been cooking this stew for ?
• Almost done !
Cover pot for ten minutes , or until you feel like taking the lid off and wearing it as a hat .
Ouch , your new hat feels extremely hot on your head !
• Ladle stew among five bowls while calling your parents back and telling them that you love @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
Your stew is all done .
Put some clothes on and enjoy !
♦

There’s nothing quite as meditative as cooking—it might be the only thing keeping me sane right now! This hearty stew serves five, which is perfect for my current household: me, my cat, my two porcelain dolls that have begun speaking to me, and my porcelain doll that is currently not speaking to me owing to a misunderstanding.
PREP TIME:
30 min, or a few days—what’s the difference?
INGREDIENTS:
• 3 bottles red wine
• 1 pound beef (you may substitute ice cream)
• 6 teaspoons vegetable oil
• 7 teaspoons vegetable oil if you’re feeling naughty
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 Lexapro tablets (crushed)
• 3 1/ 2 cups beef broth (you may substitute ice cream)
• Some carrots and onions or whatever. It doesn’t matter.
PREPARATION:
• Wash the onions to make sure they’re clean. Everything must be clean! Scrub them vigorously under scalding hot water with Lysol or bleach.
• Drink first bottle of red wine.
• Place the beef (or ice cream) in a large pot. Turn the news on, see a headline, then immediately turn the news off. You don’t need that right now!
• Cook the beef until it is browned on all sides. While doing this, sing Stephen Sondheim’s “Send in the Clowns” to yourself, loudly. Puzzle over why you’re only realizing now, once you’re in quarantine, that you could have pursued singing professionally. Isn’t that rich?
• Slice the onions and add them to the pot. Wait, these aren’t onions, they’re apples. Have they been apples this whole time? Is there that big of a difference between an apple and an onion, anyway?
• Slice the apples and add them to the pot.
• Call your parents and tell them that you are a chef now. Let them know that they should call you Chef, because that is your new name. Learn that your parents left the house today to deposit a check at the bank, even though they are both over sixty. Yell at them until you are all sobbing, then hang up the phone.
• Simmer.
• Add cilantro to the pot. To you, cilantro tastes like soap. But who cares? It’s the end of the world. Hey, add some real soap, too!
• Take everything else that is still in your produce drawer and throw it into the air. Whatever lands in your stew is now part of your stew! Life is random and cruel; so, too, your stew shall be!
• Reduce heat and drink fourth bottle of red wine.
• Feel offended that your cat is mocking your cooking abilities. Tell your cat that you’re under a lot of pressure right now, and she’s not going to get any stew if she calls you a philistine again. It’s hurtful.
• Almost forgot the bay leaves. Add them—to your mouth! They taste very weird. Eat the rest of the bay leaves in your pantry, and also the paprika.
• Receive text message from your parents about your fight from three days ago. Hold on, how long have you been cooking this stew for?
• Almost done! Cover pot for ten minutes, or until you feel like taking the lid off and wearing it as a hat. Ouch, your new hat feels extremely hot on your head!
• Ladle stew among five bowls while calling your parents back and telling them that you love them, to taste.
Buon appetito! Your stew is all done. Put some clothes on and enjoy! ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-04--Teen Crisis Counsellors Are Still On Call

On a recent Thursday , in Portland , Oregon , McCaleb Nesseler-Cass got out of bed five minutes before his ten o ’ clock check-in at Central Catholic High School .
“ It doesn ’ t compare to real school , ” he said of the online version .
He went back to sleep .
After lunch , he headed to the basement to lift weights .
“ Self-care , ” he said .
“ I ’ ve got my weights .
I ’ ve got my video games .
And sanitizing carts at Trader Joe ’ s , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( “ Makes people feel better.
” ) After an hour of reading about “ the five pillars of Islam , ” and a couple playing Super Smash Bros. , he got into his Toyota Sienna , cranked up “ Althea ” —Grateful Dead , 1980—and drove to an office where he volunteers at YouthLine , a crisis line for teens .
“ It ’ s not for school or anything , ” McCaleb , who is eighteen , said .
“ Men , especially , hide their feelings .
I just try @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tie-dyed Dead T-shirt , jeans , and skater shoes , on which he ’ d scrawled , “ People who do this suck.
” Irony .
He arrived at the office , where seven other teen-age volunteers—all girls—were seated and masked at their spaced-out desks .
A supervisor pointed a thermometer gun at McCaleb ’ s forehead .
“ You ’ re good , ” she said .
McCaleb masked up and said hi to a schoolmate named Maddi , who was wearing knee-high boots and had pasted rhinestones around her eyes .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ hundred messages and calls , compared with around fourteen hundred twelve months earlier .
The virus has necessitated a larger room .
“ More space is dope , ” McCaleb said .
The air was thick with the scent of hand sanitizer and the sound of typing .
Also , Beyoncé .
After wiping down his desk , McCaleb checked the messages on his computer .
“ This person is a preteen , ” he said , examining the first one .
“ They ’ re having trouble with their gender identity.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really scared to tell their parents while quarantined.
” McCaleb typed a response .
“ They asked me how old I am , ” he said—a question that the volunteers frequently get from callers .
“ I said I ’ m in high school .
I didn ’ t want to say I ’ m eighteen—that could be kind of imposing.
” ( Later , he gently told another caller , “ I ’ m not an adult , ” but the caller didn ’ t believe him , and hung up .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ waited for another message to ping .
“ I have this A.P .
Bio video lecture on DNA , ” he said .
“ Which is annoying.
” Maddi said , “ When I was here last week , I had two contacts talk about the virus pretty much the whole time.
” They felt trapped .
Maddi , who lives in an apartment with her mother , related—to a point .
“ One was talking about how it was making them feel even more suicidal , ” she said .
“ They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it would be really fun to write letters to friends or family.
” The idea seemed to take .
To Maddi ’ s left , Sophie , seventeen , who wore a baggy sweatshirt , played Animal Crossing on her Nintendo Switch between calls .
“ You live on a little island with all these animals , ” she said of the game .
“ You , like , fish and catch bugs .
It ’ s really cute and stress-relieving.
” She talked about recent chats .
“ I ’ ve gotten @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Now they can ’ t get out and go to school and escape that .
They ask , ‘ How long is this gon na be ?
’ ” Nearby , Beth , another seventeen-year-old , wearing an olive crop top , responded to a new message .
“ Are you in crisis now ?
” she typed .
“ This is the crisis line.
” The person , who was nine , had tried to snuggle a pet mouse during an anxious moment in quarantine , and had inadvertently choked the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Beth told Morgan , a middle-aged woman supervising the group .
“ You ’ re amazing and wonderful , ” Morgan replied , “ but I ’ m going to take that.
” After a moment , Morgan ascertained that the creature had survived .
“ It ’ s sleeping now in its cage , ” she said .
A veteran volunteer across the room ended a call .
“ It ’ s so wild how some people just don ’ t have boundaries , ” she said to the others @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , this time recommending a hot bath or shower .
“ The other thing I ’ d maybe recommend , ” she continued , “ is an app called Calm Harm , which can sometimes help when you ’ re having really intense self-harm urges.
” Beth took another call .
It lasted awhile .
A seventeen-year-old had gone to her doctor to get tested for the virus and learned she was pregnant .
“ Awful timing , ” Beth said to the caller , after calming her down .
McCaleb ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sibling had recently died by suicide .
“ Their parents aren ’ t very responsive , ” he said .
“ Like , a pat on the back and ‘ You ’ re good.
’ ” He shook his head .
“ Virus or no virus , it ’ s just hard.
” He listened to “ Althea ” again on the drive home .
The name , he later learned , means “ healer.
” ♦

McCaleb Nesseler-Cass Illustration by João Fazenda
On a recent Thursday, in Portland, Oregon, McCaleb Nesseler-Cass got out of bed five minutes before his ten o’clock check-in at Central Catholic High School. “It doesn’t compare to real school,” he said of the online version. He went back to sleep. After lunch, he headed to the basement to lift weights. “Self-care,” he said. “I’ve got my weights. I’ve got my video games. And sanitizing carts at Trader Joe’s,” where he works on the weekends. (“Makes people feel better.”) After an hour of reading about “the five pillars of Islam,” and a couple playing Super Smash Bros., he got into his Toyota Sienna, cranked up “Althea”—Grateful Dead, 1980—and drove to an office where he volunteers at YouthLine, a crisis line for teens.
“It’s not for school or anything,” McCaleb, who is eighteen, said. “Men, especially, hide their feelings. I just try to support them.” He wore a tie-dyed Dead T-shirt, jeans, and skater shoes, on which he’d scrawled, “People who do this suck.” Irony. He arrived at the office, where seven other teen-age volunteers—all girls—were seated and masked at their spaced-out desks. A supervisor pointed a thermometer gun at McCaleb’s forehead. “You’re good,” she said. McCaleb masked up and said hi to a schoolmate named Maddi, who was wearing knee-high boots and had pasted rhinestones around her eyes.
In March, YouthLine received nearly twenty-two hundred messages and calls, compared with around fourteen hundred twelve months earlier. The virus has necessitated a larger room. “More space is dope,” McCaleb said. The air was thick with the scent of hand sanitizer and the sound of typing. Also, Beyoncé.
After wiping down his desk, McCaleb checked the messages on his computer. “This person is a preteen,” he said, examining the first one. “They’re having trouble with their gender identity.” He added, “They’re really scared to tell their parents while quarantined.” McCaleb typed a response. “They asked me how old I am,” he said—a question that the volunteers frequently get from callers. “I said I’m in high school. I didn’t want to say I’m eighteen—that could be kind of imposing.” (Later, he gently told another caller, “I’m not an adult,” but the caller didn’t believe him, and hung up.) McCaleb turned to schoolwork while he waited for another message to ping. “I have this A.P. Bio video lecture on DNA,” he said. “Which is annoying.”
Maddi said, “When I was here last week, I had two contacts talk about the virus pretty much the whole time.” They felt trapped. Maddi, who lives in an apartment with her mother, related—to a point. “One was talking about how it was making them feel even more suicidal,” she said. “They were into writing, so I said it would be really fun to write letters to friends or family.” The idea seemed to take.
To Maddi’s left, Sophie, seventeen, who wore a baggy sweatshirt, played Animal Crossing on her Nintendo Switch between calls. “You live on a little island with all these animals,” she said of the game. “You, like, fish and catch bugs. It’s really cute and stress-relieving.” She talked about recent chats. “I’ve gotten abusive situations,” she said. “Now they can’t get out and go to school and escape that. They ask, ‘How long is this gonna be?’ ”
Nearby, Beth, another seventeen-year-old, wearing an olive crop top, responded to a new message. “Are you in crisis now?” she typed. “This is the crisis line.” The person, who was nine, had tried to snuggle a pet mouse during an anxious moment in quarantine, and had inadvertently choked the animal. “They’re suicidal,” Beth told Morgan, a middle-aged woman supervising the group.
“You’re amazing and wonderful,” Morgan replied, “but I’m going to take that.” After a moment, Morgan ascertained that the creature had survived. “It’s sleeping now in its cage,” she said.
A veteran volunteer across the room ended a call. “It’s so wild how some people just don’t have boundaries,” she said to the others, sighing. She took another call, this time recommending a hot bath or shower. “The other thing I’d maybe recommend,” she continued, “is an app called Calm Harm, which can sometimes help when you’re having really intense self-harm urges.”
Beth took another call. It lasted awhile. A seventeen-year-old had gone to her doctor to get tested for the virus and learned she was pregnant. “Awful timing,” Beth said to the caller, after calming her down.
McCaleb’s last chat was with a teen-ager whose sibling had recently died by suicide. “Their parents aren’t very responsive,” he said. “Like, a pat on the back and ‘You’re good.’ ” He shook his head. “Virus or no virus, it’s just hard.” He listened to “Althea” again on the drive home. The name, he later learned, means “healer.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-04--Søren Kierkegaard’s Struggle with Himself

Imagine an educated , affluent European in his late twenties , seemingly one of fortune ’ s favored , who suffers from crippling feelings of despair and guilt .
For no apparent reason , he breaks up with the woman everyone thought he was going to marry—not because he loves someone else but out of a sudden conviction that he is incapable of marriage and can only make her miserable .
He abandons the career for which he has been studying for ten years and holes up in his apartment , where a kind of graphomania compels him to stay @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pace .
His activity is so relentless that , in a few short years , he has accumulated many volumes ’ worth of manuscripts .
If this happened today—say , in Denmark , the standard example of a rational modern society—the man would sooner or later end up in a psychiatrist ’ s office , where he would probably be given a diagnosis of depression or bipolar disorder .
He would start seeing a therapist and might be prescribed medication .
The goal would be to get him back to normal , as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ able to take pleasure in life , to form relationships , to meet his obligations as a family member , friend , and citizen .
The man would seek professional help , because , in the twenty-first century , he would recognize his propensities as symptoms—evidence of a psychological problem .
But when Søren Kierkegaard underwent these experiences in the Denmark of the eighteen-forties they had a different meaning .
“ At times , there is such a noise in my head that it is as though my cranium were being lifted up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hobgoblins lift a mountain up a little and then hold a ball and make merry inside , ” he wrote in his journal in February , 1838 , when he was twenty-four .
But Kierkegaard had learned from Romantic literature that wild emotion was a sign of genius , especially when it was painful .
“ Real depression , like the ‘ vapors , ’ is found only in the highest circles , in the former case understood in a spiritual sense , ” he wrote two months later .
He considered his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a “ close confidant .
.
.
the most faithful mistress I have known.
” Side by side with this fashionable style of feeling , Kierkegaard inherited from his ancestors a rigorously introspective Protestantism .
His father , Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard , had grown up poor in the countryside , moved to Copenhagen to become a merchant , and ended up as one of the city ’ s richest men .
Michael Pedersen raised his seven children , of whom Søren was the youngest , under strict religious discipline , instilling a sense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them .
“ Oh , how frightful it is when for a moment I think of the dark background of my life , right from the earliest days !
” Kierkegaard recalled .
“ The anxiety with which my father filled my soul , his own frightful melancholy.
” For Kierkegaard , unhappiness became not a condition but a vocation .
In a new biography , “ Philosopher of the Heart ” ( Farrar , Straus & Giroux ) , the British scholar Clare Carlisle shows that this calling consumed his life .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of seventeen , in 1830 , he enrolled as a theology student at the University of Copenhagen , in order to prepare for a career in the church .
But it took him ten years to complete his degree , and he never became a pastor or had any other kind of job .
He never got married or had children .
Other than a few visits to Berlin , then the capital of philosophy , and one trip to Sweden , Kierkegaard never left Denmark .
He took no interest in politics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sweeping Europe reached Denmark , as protests forced the king to promise a new constitution and parliament ; but Kierkegaard was indifferent .
“ So the king flees—and so there is a republic , ” he wrote in his journal that year .
“ Piffle.
” What he did instead was write .
Until his death , in 1855 , at the age of forty-two , Kierkegaard lived off his inheritance and produced a stream of unclassifiable books—hybrids of philosophy , autobiography , fiction , and sermon .
Advancing deeper and deeper into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a profoundly new way of thinking about human existence .
The dark exigency of Kierkegaard ’ s books , which he sometimes published two or even four at a time , is plain from their titles : “ Fear and Trembling , ” “ The Concept of Anxiety , ” “ The Sickness Unto Death.
” In that last book , which appeared in 1849 , Kierkegaard offers an uncompromising diagnosis of the human condition .
“ There is not a single human being who does not despair at least a little @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not dwell an uneasiness , an unquiet , a discordance , an anxiety in the face of an unknown something , ” he writes .
If you don ’ t think you are in despair , you are lying to yourself , which is an even worse form of despair .
Only by acknowledging our condition , he says , can we begin to understand that the true name of despair is sin , defiance of God .
We are freed from it only when we accept that “ a human self is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ every secret desire and thought.
” This understanding of sin and redemption wasn ’ t Kierkegaard ’ s invention .
Something like it was preached in Denmark ’ s Lutheran churches every Sunday .
What made his work explosive was his insistence that those very churches had become the chief obstacles to genuine Christian belief .
Nineteenth-century Europeans took for granted that they were Christians simply because they were living in “ Christendom , ” in countries where there were “ just as many Christians as there are people , ” he wrote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , isn ’ t something you are born ; it is something you have to become through terrific inner effort .
His “ authorship , ” as he called it , was meant as an alarm bell to wake the modern world from its spiritual slumber .
Kierkegaard published his books at his own expense , and they initially had a tiny readership : the most popular , “ Either/Or , ” didn ’ t sell out its first edition of five hundred and twenty-five copies for three years .
Nevertheless , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to his eccentricities and his penchant for public feuds .
The editor of one Copenhagen paper , the Corsair , observed that , in “ Kierkegaard ’ s entire personal appearance and manner , there was something that verged on the comic.
” When the Corsair portrayed him in a series of mocking caricatures , in 1846 , he became even more notorious .
“ Every kitchen boy feels justified in almost insulting me .
.
.
young students titter and grin and are happy to see a prominent person trampled on , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of tuberculosis , though the diagnosis remains unclear—Kierkegaard had few if any readers outside Denmark .
That didn ’ t begin to change until he found an influential champion in the Danish literary critic Georg Brandes , who , in 1877 , wrote the first book about Kierkegaard and brought him to the attention of a wider European audience .
( Later , Brandes did the same for Nietzsche . )
The first English translations of Kierkegaard appeared in the nineteen-thirties , and it wasn ’ t until the sixties , more than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the translators Howard and Edna Hong began to produce a complete English edition of his works .
By that time , the Copenhagen eccentric had become one of the most important influences on twentieth-century theology and philosophy .
Although the term “ existentialism ” wasn ’ t coined until the nineteen-forties , in retrospect Kierkegaard appears as the first existentialist , thanks to his insistence that life ’ s most important questions—How should I act ?
What must I believe ?
—can ’ t be resolved by abstract reasoning .
They present themselves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ demanding commitment and action .
“ To be entirely present to oneself is the highest thing and the highest task for the personal life , ” he wrote .

Imagine an educated, affluent European in his late twenties, seemingly one of fortune’s favored, who suffers from crippling feelings of despair and guilt. For no apparent reason, he breaks up with the woman everyone thought he was going to marry—not because he loves someone else but out of a sudden conviction that he is incapable of marriage and can only make her miserable. He abandons the career for which he has been studying for ten years and holes up in his apartment, where a kind of graphomania compels him to stay up all night writing at a frantic pace. His activity is so relentless that, in a few short years, he has accumulated many volumes’ worth of manuscripts.
If this happened today—say, in Denmark, the standard example of a rational modern society—the man would sooner or later end up in a psychiatrist’s office, where he would probably be given a diagnosis of depression or bipolar disorder. He would start seeing a therapist and might be prescribed medication. The goal would be to get him back to normal, as the world defines “normal”: able to take pleasure in life, to form relationships, to meet his obligations as a family member, friend, and citizen. The man would seek professional help, because, in the twenty-first century, he would recognize his propensities as symptoms—evidence of a psychological problem.
But when Søren Kierkegaard underwent these experiences in the Denmark of the eighteen-forties they had a different meaning. “At times, there is such a noise in my head that it is as though my cranium were being lifted up, it is exactly like when the hobgoblins lift a mountain up a little and then hold a ball and make merry inside,” he wrote in his journal in February, 1838, when he was twenty-four. But Kierkegaard had learned from Romantic literature that wild emotion was a sign of genius, especially when it was painful. “Real depression, like the ‘vapors,’ is found only in the highest circles, in the former case understood in a spiritual sense,” he wrote two months later. He considered his “melancholy” not a disease but a “close confidant . . . the most faithful mistress I have known.”
Side by side with this fashionable style of feeling, Kierkegaard inherited from his ancestors a rigorously introspective Protestantism. His father, Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard, had grown up poor in the countryside, moved to Copenhagen to become a merchant, and ended up as one of the city’s richest men. Michael Pedersen raised his seven children, of whom Søren was the youngest, under strict religious discipline, instilling a sense of fear and guilt that never left them. “Oh, how frightful it is when for a moment I think of the dark background of my life, right from the earliest days!” Kierkegaard recalled. “The anxiety with which my father filled my soul, his own frightful melancholy.”
For Kierkegaard, unhappiness became not a condition but a vocation. In a new biography, “Philosopher of the Heart” (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), the British scholar Clare Carlisle shows that this calling consumed his life. After leaving school, at the age of seventeen, in 1830, he enrolled as a theology student at the University of Copenhagen, in order to prepare for a career in the church. But it took him ten years to complete his degree, and he never became a pastor or had any other kind of job. He never got married or had children. Other than a few visits to Berlin, then the capital of philosophy, and one trip to Sweden, Kierkegaard never left Denmark. He took no interest in politics. In 1848, the liberal revolutions sweeping Europe reached Denmark, as protests forced the king to promise a new constitution and parliament; but Kierkegaard was indifferent. “So the king flees—and so there is a republic,” he wrote in his journal that year. “Piffle.”
What he did instead was write. Until his death, in 1855, at the age of forty-two, Kierkegaard lived off his inheritance and produced a stream of unclassifiable books—hybrids of philosophy, autobiography, fiction, and sermon. Advancing deeper and deeper into the experience of suffering, he emerged with a profoundly new way of thinking about human existence. The dark exigency of Kierkegaard’s books, which he sometimes published two or even four at a time, is plain from their titles: “Fear and Trembling,” “The Concept of Anxiety,” “The Sickness Unto Death.”
In that last book, which appeared in 1849, Kierkegaard offers an uncompromising diagnosis of the human condition. “There is not a single human being who does not despair at least a little, in whose innermost being there does not dwell an uneasiness, an unquiet, a discordance, an anxiety in the face of an unknown something,” he writes. If you don’t think you are in despair, you are lying to yourself, which is an even worse form of despair. Only by acknowledging our condition, he says, can we begin to understand that the true name of despair is sin, defiance of God. We are freed from it only when we accept that “a human self is under an obligation to obey God—in its every secret desire and thought.”
This understanding of sin and redemption wasn’t Kierkegaard’s invention. Something like it was preached in Denmark’s Lutheran churches every Sunday. What made his work explosive was his insistence that those very churches had become the chief obstacles to genuine Christian belief. Nineteenth-century Europeans took for granted that they were Christians simply because they were living in “Christendom,” in countries where there were “just as many Christians as there are people,” he wrote. But a Christian, for Kierkegaard, isn’t something you are born; it is something you have to become through terrific inner effort. His “authorship,” as he called it, was meant as an alarm bell to wake the modern world from its spiritual slumber.
Kierkegaard published his books at his own expense, and they initially had a tiny readership: the most popular, “Either/Or,” didn’t sell out its first edition of five hundred and twenty-five copies for three years. Nevertheless, he became a local celebrity, thanks mainly to his eccentricities and his penchant for public feuds. The editor of one Copenhagen paper, the Corsair, observed that, in “Kierkegaard’s entire personal appearance and manner, there was something that verged on the comic.” When the Corsair portrayed him in a series of mocking caricatures, in 1846, he became even more notorious. “Every kitchen boy feels justified in almost insulting me . . . young students titter and grin and are happy to see a prominent person trampled on,” he complained.
When he died—probably of tuberculosis, though the diagnosis remains unclear—Kierkegaard had few if any readers outside Denmark. That didn’t begin to change until he found an influential champion in the Danish literary critic Georg Brandes, who, in 1877, wrote the first book about Kierkegaard and brought him to the attention of a wider European audience. (Later, Brandes did the same for Nietzsche.) The first English translations of Kierkegaard appeared in the nineteen-thirties, and it wasn’t until the sixties, more than a century after his death, that the translators Howard and Edna Hong began to produce a complete English edition of his works.
By that time, the Copenhagen eccentric had become one of the most important influences on twentieth-century theology and philosophy. Although the term “existentialism” wasn’t coined until the nineteen-forties, in retrospect Kierkegaard appears as the first existentialist, thanks to his insistence that life’s most important questions—How should I act? What must I believe?—can’t be resolved by abstract reasoning. They present themselves as urgent problems for each individual, demanding commitment and action. “To be entirely present to oneself is the highest thing and the highest task for the personal life,” he wrote.
The intimate connection between Kierkegaard’s thought and his personal life has made him a compelling subject for biographers. Reading the “Critique of Pure Reason” won’t tell you the first thing about Immanuel Kant, nor do you need to know anything about Kant’s life to understand it. But Kierkegaard’s work emerged, in complex yet unmistakable ways, from his own experiences. Other great thinkers specialize in technical fields such as logic or metaphysics, but Kierkegaard, as Carlisle’s title has it, was a philosopher of the heart, “an expert on love and suffering, humor and anxiety, despair and courage.”
Yet Kierkegaard also resists biography. The genre is inherently opposed to the way he thought about human existence. One of the best-known Kierkegaardian sayings, paraphrased from an entry in his journal, is that life can only be understood backward, but it has to be lived forward. In other words, at every moment, we are making a decision about how to live, one that can’t be made for us by history, society, or even religion—any of the causes that might emerge when we try to analyze the course of our lives in retrospect. My future is no one’s responsibility but my own. This is what Kierkegaard calls “the dizziness of freedom,” which he compares to the vertigo we feel when looking into a “yawning abyss.”
Biography, however, is necessarily written backward. It deals with life as a known quantity, obscuring the reality of contingency and choice. Carlisle, who has published three previous books about Kierkegaard, has tried to avoid this problem by writing what she calls “a Kierkegaardian biography of Kierkegaard,” one that “does not consider Kierkegaard’s life from a remote, knowing perspective, but joins him on his journey and confronts its uncertainties with him.”
In practice, this means that Carlisle tells the story out of chronological order and adds passages of novel-like scene-setting. “Never before has he moved so quickly! And yet he is sitting quite still, not uncomfortably—resting, even—in a ‘marvelous armchair,’ ” the first of the book’s three sections begins. We are with Kierkegaard in 1843 as he takes a train, that new invention, from Berlin to Copenhagen. Carlisle then fills in his story up to 1843, before jumping ahead, in the next section, to 1848 and again filling in the missing years—a cumbersome and sometimes confusing method.


newyorker--2020-05-04--How We Got to Sesame Street

How We Got to Sesame Street

In 1969 , the Children ’ s Television Workshop made a twenty-six-minute pitch reel to line up stations to air a radically new program that appeared to have , as yet , no title .
Instead , a team of fleece- and fur- and muddle-headed puppets were seen brainstorming in a boardroom .
“ What are those guys doing ?
” a dubious green frog asks , peering into the room with Ping-Pong eyes .
“ Well , you see , we haven ’ t settled on a title for the show yet , so the guys are working on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a wide mouth says .
The guys come up with some whoppers .
Like “ The Two and Two Are Five Show.
” “ Two plus two don ’ t make five , you meatball !
” “ They don ’ t ?
Then how about ‘ The Two and Two Ain ’ t Five Show ’ ?
” Then they try out a title that keeps getting longer and longer .
“ Howzabout we call it ‘ The Little Kiddie Show ’ ?
” “ But we oughta say something about the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Maybe ‘ The Nitty Gritty Little Kiddie Show ’ ?
” The frog , named Kermit , shakes his head at his dog friend , Rowlf .
“ Are you really gon na depend on that bunch to come up with a title ?
” “ You never can tell , Kermit , ” Rowlf says , with a hopefulness known only to dogs .
“ They just might think of the right one.
” Half a century ago , before “ Sesame Street , ” and long before the age of quarantine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spent a crazy amount of time indoors , watching television , a bleary-eyed average of fifty-four hours a week .
In 1965 , the year the Johnson Administration founded Head Start , Lloyd Morrisett , a vice-president of the Carnegie Corporation with a Ph.D. in experimental psychology from Yale , got up one Sunday morning , at about six-thirty , a half hour before the networks began their day ’ s programming , to find his three-year-old daughter , Sarah , lying on the living-room floor in her pink footie pajamas , watching @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have watched anything , even “ The Itty-Bitty , Farm and City , Witty-Ditty , Nitty-Gritty , Dog and Kitty , Pretty Little Kiddie Show.
” Not much later , Morrisett fell into a dinner-party conversation with Joan Ganz Cooney , a public-affairs producer at New York ’ s Channel 13 .
The first time Cooney had seen a television set was in 1952 , when she watched Adlai Stevenson accept the Democratic nomination .
She ’ d gone on to champion Democratic causes and had moved from Phoenix to New York to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ documentary projects included “ A Chance at a Beginning , ” about a preschool program in Harlem .
As David Kamp reports in “ Sunny Days : The Children ’ s Television Revolution That Changed America ” ( Simon & Schuster ) , both Cooney and Morrisett were caught up in Lyndon Johnson ’ s vision of a Great Society , his War on Poverty , and the promise of the civil-rights movement , and they ’ d both been stirred by a speech delivered in 1961 by Newton Minow , President Kennedy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called television a “ vast wasteland.
” Minow , a former law partner of Stevenson ’ s , had gone on to rescue Channel 13 ’ s public-broadcast mandate during a takeover bid .
At that dinner party , Cooney and Morrisett got to talking about whether public-minded television might be able to educate young kids .
Educational television for preschoolers seemed to solve two problems at once : the scarcity of preschools and the abundance of televisions .
At the time , half of the nation ’ s school districts didn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ achievement gap that had persisted long after Brown v. Board of Education , it would have been better to have universal kindergarten , and universal preschool , but , in the meantime , there was universal television .
“ More households have televisions than bathtubs , telephones , vacuum cleaners , toasters , or a regular daily newspaper , ” Cooney noted in a Carnegie-funded feasibility study , “ The Potential Uses of Television in Preschool Education.
” With that report in hand , Morrisett arranged for a million-dollar grant that allowed Cooney @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no other title than “ Early Childhood Television Program.
” In a fifty-five-page 1968 proposal , “ Television for Preschool Children , ” Cooney reported the results of a national study of the increasingly sophisticated scholarship on child development : she ’ d travelled the country , interviewing scholars and visiting preschools to find out about what was called , at the time , the “ sandbox-to-classroom revolution ” —the pressing case for intellectual stimulation for three- , four- , and five-year-olds .
That proposal brought in the eight million dollars in foundation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ founding of the nonprofit Children ’ s Television Workshop and the production of the first season of the still unnamed “ Early Childhood Television Program.
” “ Nothing comparable to such a program now exists on television , ” Cooney observed .
“ Captain Kangaroo , ” broadcast on CBS beginning in 1955 , had educational bits , but it was mainly goofy .
( Bob Keeshan , who played the captain , had started out as a Sideshow Bob clown named Clarabell on “ Howdy Doody ” and then starred as Corny @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Time for Fun.
” ) “ Mister Rogers ’ Neighborhood , ” a half-hour show produced by WQED , in black-and-white , had gone national in 1968 , but reached mainly a middle-class audience .
The new show would be broadcast nationally , every weekday , for an hour , in color ; it would be aimed at all children , from all socioeconomic backgrounds ; it would be explicitly educational , with eight specific learning objectives drawn from a list devised by experts ; and its format would be that of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one- to fifteen-minute segments in different styles ” —animation , puppetry , games , stories .
The “ Early Childhood Television Program ” would also be an experiment : its outcome would be measured .
Cooney put together a board of academic advisers , chaired by the developmental psychologist Gerald Lesser , and in 1968 she began a series of seminars loosely affiliated with the Harvard School of Education , where Lesser was a professor .
To one of those seminars , she later recalled , “ this bearded , prophetic figure in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the back , ram-rod straight , staring ahead with no expression on his face.
” She thought that he might be a member of the Weather Underground .
She whispered to a colleague , “ How do we know that man back there isn ’ t going to throw a bomb up here or toss a hand grenade ?
” Henson—along with Kermit—had got his start on “ Sam and Friends , ” a puppet-centric show broadcast on an NBC affiliate in Washington , D.C. , beginning in 1955 .
Other puppets on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the many features of Henson ’ s lavish genius was his understanding that the television screen itself was a perfect puppet stage .
“ Sam and Friends was to the Muppets what the Cavern Club was to the Beatles , ” Michael Davis wrote in his 2008 book , “ Street Gang : The Complete History of Sesame Street.
” The Muppets were witty and edgy , more Beat than square .
Kermit appeared on the “ Tonight Show ” in 1957 .
But , four years later , “ Sam and Friends @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and his Muppets had outgrown it .
Henson turned to making documentaries and films and commercials , as avant-garde as you could get with eyes made out of Ping-Pong balls .
In 1968 , “ The Itty-Bitty , Farm and City , Witty-Ditty , Nitty-Gritty , Dog and Kitty , Pretty Little Kiddie Show ” was not what he had in mind for his next career move .
Cooney hired a lot of her talent from “ Captain Kangaroo , ” including Jon Stone , who would produce and direct the new show @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Henson to the seminars .
“ If we can ’ t get Henson , ” Stone ’ s team said , “ then we just won ’ t have puppets.
” In negotiations , Henson drove a hard bargain .
He wanted to retain all rights to his Muppets and split any merchandising from the characters , fifty-fifty , with the Children ’ s Television Workshop .
Henson signed on , and brought on a team that included Frank Oz , who performed Bert , Cookie Monster , and Grover , and Caroll @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on Boston ’ s “ Bozo ’ s Circus , ” and now took on the roles of Oscar the Grouch and Big Bird , a character modelled on an easily flustered four-year-old who needs a lot of help .
But Henson brought more than Muppets to “ Sesame Street ” : he produced many of the show ’ s “ inserts , ” the short films that work like commercials .
And it was Henson who put into the pitch reel the running gag about the show ’ s having no title @

In 1969, the Children’s Television Workshop made a twenty-six-minute pitch reel to line up stations to air a radically new program that appeared to have, as yet, no title. Instead, a team of fleece- and fur- and muddle-headed puppets were seen brainstorming in a boardroom.
“What are those guys doing?” a dubious green frog asks, peering into the room with Ping-Pong eyes.
“Well, you see, we haven’t settled on a title for the show yet, so the guys are working on it,” a floppy-eared dog with a wide mouth says.
The guys come up with some whoppers. Like “The Two and Two Are Five Show.”
“Two plus two don’t make five, you meatball!”
“They don’t? Then how about ‘The Two and Two Ain’t Five Show’?”
Then they try out a title that keeps getting longer and longer.
“Howzabout we call it ‘The Little Kiddie Show’?”
“But we oughta say something about the show telling it like it is! Maybe ‘The Nitty Gritty Little Kiddie Show’?”
The frog, named Kermit, shakes his head at his dog friend, Rowlf. “Are you really gonna depend on that bunch to come up with a title?”
“You never can tell, Kermit,” Rowlf says, with a hopefulness known only to dogs. “They just might think of the right one.”
Half a century ago, before “Sesame Street,” and long before the age of quarantine, kids under the age of six spent a crazy amount of time indoors, watching television, a bleary-eyed average of fifty-four hours a week. In 1965, the year the Johnson Administration founded Head Start, Lloyd Morrisett, a vice-president of the Carnegie Corporation with a Ph.D. in experimental psychology from Yale, got up one Sunday morning, at about six-thirty, a half hour before the networks began their day’s programming, to find his three-year-old daughter, Sarah, lying on the living-room floor in her pink footie pajamas, watching the test pattern. She’d have watched anything, even “The Itty-Bitty, Farm and City, Witty-Ditty, Nitty-Gritty, Dog and Kitty, Pretty Little Kiddie Show.”
Not much later, Morrisett fell into a dinner-party conversation with Joan Ganz Cooney, a public-affairs producer at New York’s Channel 13. The first time Cooney had seen a television set was in 1952, when she watched Adlai Stevenson accept the Democratic nomination. She’d gone on to champion Democratic causes and had moved from Phoenix to New York to work at Channel 13, where her documentary projects included “A Chance at the Beginning,” about a preschool program in Harlem. As David Kamp reports in “Sunny Days: The Children’s Television Revolution That Changed America” (Simon & Schuster), both Cooney and Morrisett were caught up in Lyndon Johnson’s vision of a Great Society, his War on Poverty, and the promise of the civil-rights movement, and they’d both been stirred by a speech delivered in 1961 by Newton Minow, President Kennedy’s F.C.C. chairman, which called television a “vast wasteland.” Minow, a former law partner of Stevenson’s, had gone on to rescue Channel 13’s public-broadcast mandate during a takeover bid. At that dinner party, Cooney and Morrisett got to talking about whether public-minded television might be able to educate young kids.
Educational television for preschoolers seemed to solve two problems at once: the scarcity of preschools and the abundance of televisions. At the time, half of the nation’s school districts didn’t have kindergartens. To address an achievement gap that had persisted long after Brown v. Board of Education, it would have been better to have universal kindergarten, and universal preschool, but, in the meantime, there was universal television. “More households have televisions than bathtubs, telephones, vacuum cleaners, toasters, or a regular daily newspaper,” Cooney noted in a Carnegie-funded feasibility study, “The Potential Uses of Television in Preschool Education.” With that report in hand, Morrisett arranged for a million-dollar grant that allowed Cooney to begin development of a show with no other title than “Early Childhood Television Program.” In a fifty-five-page 1968 proposal, “Television for Preschool Children,” Cooney reported the results of a national study of the increasingly sophisticated scholarship on child development: she’d travelled the country, interviewing scholars and visiting preschools to find out about what was called, at the time, the “sandbox-to-classroom revolution”—the pressing case for intellectual stimulation for three-, four-, and five-year-olds.
That proposal brought in the eight million dollars in foundation and government funding that made possible the founding of the nonprofit Children’s Television Workshop and the production of the first season of the still unnamed “Early Childhood Television Program.” “Nothing comparable to such a program now exists on television,” Cooney observed. “Captain Kangaroo,” broadcast on CBS beginning in 1955, had educational bits, but it was mainly goofy. (Bob Keeshan, who played the captain, had started out as a Sideshow Bob clown named Clarabell on “Howdy Doody” and then starred as Corny the Clown on ABC’s “Time for Fun.”) “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” a half-hour show produced by WQED, in black-and-white, had gone national in 1968, but reached mainly a middle-class audience. The new show would be broadcast nationally, every weekday, for an hour, in color; it would be aimed at all children, from all socioeconomic backgrounds; it would be explicitly educational, with eight specific learning objectives drawn from a list devised by experts; and its format would be that of a “magazine” made up of “one- to fifteen-minute segments in different styles”—animation, puppetry, games, stories. The “Early Childhood Television Program” would also be an experiment: its outcome would be measured.
Cooney put together a board of academic advisers, chaired by the developmental psychologist Gerald Lesser, and in 1968 she began a series of seminars loosely affiliated with the Harvard School of Education, where Lesser was a professor. To one of those seminars, she later recalled, “this bearded, prophetic figure in sandals walks in and sits way at the back, ram-rod straight, staring ahead with no expression on his face.” She thought that he might be a member of the Weather Underground. She whispered to a colleague, “How do we know that man back there isn’t going to throw a bomb up here or toss a hand grenade?”
“Not likely,” he said. “That’s Jim Henson.”
Henson—along with Kermit—had got his start on “Sam and Friends,” a puppet-centric show broadcast on an NBC affiliate in Washington, D.C., beginning in 1955. Other puppets on television performed on puppet stages. Among the many features of Henson’s lavish genius was his understanding that the television screen itself was a perfect puppet stage. “Sam and Friends was to the Muppets what the Cavern Club was to the Beatles,” Michael Davis wrote in his 2008 book, “Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street.” The Muppets were witty and edgy, more Beat than square. Kermit appeared on the “Tonight Show” in 1957. But, four years later, “Sam and Friends” went off the air: Henson and his Muppets had outgrown it. Henson turned to making documentaries and films and commercials, as avant-garde as you could get with eyes made out of Ping-Pong balls. In 1968, “The Itty-Bitty, Farm and City, Witty-Ditty, Nitty-Gritty, Dog and Kitty, Pretty Little Kiddie Show” was not what he had in mind for his next career move.
Cooney hired a lot of her talent from “Captain Kangaroo,” including Jon Stone, who would produce and direct the new show. It was Stone who had brought Henson to the seminars. “If we can’t get Henson,” Stone’s team said, “then we just won’t have puppets.” In negotiations, Henson drove a hard bargain. He wanted to retain all rights to his Muppets and split any merchandising from the characters, fifty-fifty, with the Children’s Television Workshop. Henson signed on, and brought on a team that included Frank Oz, who performed Bert, Cookie Monster, and Grover, and Caroll Spinney, who had played a lion on Boston’s “Bozo’s Circus,” and now took on the roles of Oscar the Grouch and Big Bird, a character modelled on an easily flustered four-year-old who needs a lot of help. But Henson brought more than Muppets to “Sesame Street”: he produced many of the show’s “inserts,” the short films that work like commercials. And it was Henson who put into the pitch reel the running gag about the show’s having no title.
The bit was a sendup, but there had been a real battle about the title over at the Children’s Television Workshop, where everyone had been required to come up with a list of twenty names. None of them worked. Stone suggested “123 Avenue B.” The main stage, after all, was supposed to be a brownstone-lined city street, and, as Rowlf told Kermit in the pitch reel, “The idea is to teach little preschool kids some stuff that’ll be useful to them in school, like numbers and letters, and like that.” (Kermit cocked his green head: “And your idea is that the kids are gonna race in from baseball and turn on the educational-TV channel to be taught letters and numbers, hmm?”) But “123 Avenue B” got struck down: too New York.
In the smoke-filled boardroom at the end of a long day, the network executives’ clothes have grown rumpled and the table is heaped with crumpled pieces of paper.
Finally, one Muppet executive has an idea:
“Hey, these kids can’t read or write, can they?” he asks, with the oily voice of a villain.
The other Muppets murmur their assent.
Cartoon by Colin Tom Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
“Then howzabout we call the show ‘Hey, Stupid!’ ”
This was Henson’s swipe at the vapidity and condescension of earlier children’s television shows, from “Ding Dong School” to “Howdy Doody” and “The Mickey Mouse Club,” and at the kind of show that do-gooding foundations had imagined targeting, exclusively, to disadvantaged kids. (“What are they going to call it?” Cooney, wanted to know. “ ‘The Poor Children’s Hour’?”)
“ ‘Hey, Stupid!’?” Rowlf yowls, incredulous. “O.K., that does it! Out, you guys, out!”
The dog despairs—“Who’s gonna find us a title now?”—until the frog croaks, “Hey, Rowlf, why don’t you call your show ‘Sesame Street’? . . . You know, like ‘Open Sesame’? It kind of gives the idea of a street where neat stuff happens.”
“Kermit, why, you’re a genius!”
In fact, the idea hadn’t gone over that well at the Children’s Television Workshop, since, as one wisecracker pointed out, a good part of the show’s audience—kids losing their baby teeth—would only be able to say, “Theth-a-me Threet.” That, it turned out, was a price the Children’s Television Workshop was prepared to pay.
“Sesame Street” débuted on PBS stations across the country on November 10, 1969, four months after Apollo 11 landed on the moon, and about six months before the U.S. invaded Cambodia. “Brought to you today by the letters ‘W,’ ‘S,’ and ‘E,’ and by the numbers 2 and 3,” the show was actually underwritten by grants from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (established by the Public Broadcasting Act of 1967), the U.S. Department of Education, the Ford Foundation, and the Carnegie Corporation.
Both NBC and CBS had turned down the chance to broadcast the show. But, a week before its launch, NBC, in an act of surprising public-spiritedness, ran a half-hour preview, “This Way to Sesame Street,” hosted by Ernie and Bert from their basement apartment. “It’s gonna be on the air every day for a whole hour, and in some places it’s going to be on twice a day, twice a day, Bert,” Ernie says, holding up two fuzzy orange fingers.
The original “Sesame Street” has some of the campiness and Pop-art punchiness of the “Batman” TV series, broadcast on ABC from 1966 to 1968. It’s got the pace and variety and kookiness of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus,” which made its début only weeks before “Sesame Street.” And through it all runs a deep vein of earnestness, especially embodied in the human characters, assembled from a cast led by Matt Robinson. He had been hired as a producer and a coördinator of the show’s live-action films but was recruited to play Gordon, a human character named for Gordon Parks. (Robinson’s very young daughter, watching the first episode back home, cried and said, “His name’s not Gordon, his name is Daddy.”)
Within weeks, “Sesame Street” was a cultural phenomenon. A 1970 New Yorker cartoon: “Why isn’t that child at home watching ‘Sesame Street’?” a street cop asks the mother of a little girl feeding pigeons in the park. TV Guide declared in 1971 that “Sesame Street has enjoyed what may be the most astonishing success of any show in the whole history of American television.” The Times critic Jack Gould predicted, “When the Educational Testing Service of Princeton, New Jersey, completes its analysis in the months to come, ‘Sesame Street’ may prove to be far more than an unusual television program. On a large scale, the country’s reward may be a social document of infinite value in education.”
To an astonishing degree, that turned out to be true. A recent study by the National Bureau of Economic Research, following up on the original E.T.S. assessment by looking at longer-term outcomes, described “Sesame Street” as “the first MOOC.” But that description sells the show short; massive open online courses, like other kinds of “remote teaching,” are mainly an educational catastrophe. Children all over the world have been shut out of their schools by the COVID-19 crisis, and, one fears, are learning very little on Google Hangouts and in Zoom classrooms. The story was different with “Sesame Street.” For kids who were under six in 1969, watching “Sesame Street” had a measurable effect on what is known as “grade for age” status: they entered school at grade level, and, in elementary school, they stayed on grade level, an effect that, the study concluded, “was particularly pronounced for boys, black, non-Hispanic children, and those living in economically disadvantaged areas.” And it cost only five dollars per kid per year.


newyorker--2020-05-04--“The Resident Poet,” by Katherine Dunn

“The Resident Poet,” by Katherine Dunn

At his request , I am hiding in the parking lot .
Every time lights show on the road , I jump behind a tree or crouch beside one of the cold parked cars .
I don ’ t really care whether I ’ m seen or not , but I do plan to emerge mysteriously when he drives up .
Impress him with my discretion , my knowledge of the surreptitious .
But the rain is ruining the effect .
I ’ m beginning to get angry .
Who does he think would see us ?
Or care ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and making a sign to hold up at passing cars : “ I AM WAITING TO SCREW MR. LUCAS , THE RESIDENT POET !
” My mascara is running into the pouches beneath my eyes .
I can feel the thin mud of powder on my forehead and cheeks beginning to slide .
The lights from the dormitories and the dining hall glow on the hill .
No shapes around them , only blackness , and the moonless dark on me and around me .
Another car turns off the main road .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ disappears up the long driveway to the college .
I forgot to ask what kind of car he drives .
The spy game palls .
I huddle under the tree and wish myself back in bed with a book and an inexhaustible supply of cigarettes .
The image of my cozy self in a soft puddle of smoky lamplight grieves me .
I could have picked a less paranoid professor .
But would that professor have picked me ?
Fortunately , the resident poet feels duty bound to fondle the freshmen , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ far who has been susceptible to his paunch and poetry .
And he ’ s the only dope susceptible to me .
Unless he chickens out and I ’ m left soaking all night .
If he ’ s not here when the moon comes up , I decide , I ’ m going in .
Light from the road , turning .
A puttering of syncopated pistons .
An old Volkswagen gasping and shaking into the lot .
The headlights beam in odd directions , and eyeglasses shine through the dim windshield @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tree and squelch suavely toward the car .
His face , gray and anxious , dips a smile at me .
I get in on the passenger side , bringing the wetness in with me .
Slam the door .
He wheels the car around and rips out of the lot , down the driveway , and onto the road without looking at me .
When I first met him , I thought he looked like Ulysses S. Grant .
All that curly black hair and curly black beard , the thick pink @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I see of him , the truer the resemblance seems .
The light from the street lamps is slashed by the rain and ripples over his face .
The spreading veins across his cheeks , the odd pits in the skin of his nose , the watery blue eyes , the secret weakness of his chin .
He crops his beard so that it juts , instead of sliding toward his Adam ’ s apple along with his chin .
His worries are bunched in lumps all over his forehead .
At a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , constipated grin .
“ Nobody saw you ?
” His face turns back to the street , but I can see his eyes sliding at me in jerks , waiting for my answer .
“ Only the fire department and your wife ’ s mother.
” His chuckle is a long time coming .
His pudgy knuckles are pale green in the moving light .
“ Would you mind crouching down in your seat until we get out of town ?
” His apologetic teeth .
The rasp in my breath .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ my chin on the seat .
Try to keep my wet boots from touching my ass .
There are strange drafts down here , whispering through the framework , jets of cold squirting me in the back and the hair .
He looks very large .
His stodgy shoes pump and move over the pedals at the end of his reliable wool legs .
The gray cloth swags over his belly , droops from his arms .
“ Do you think I ’ m crazy ?
” he says .
His fat lips @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d rather be home in bed with his soft wife and a bottle of beer .
I tip my head so that he can see my smile in the dark beneath the dashboard .
He is pleased .
It ’ s so important to be crazy if you ’ re a poet .
He reaches into his breast pocket .
“ I got something for you.
” “ Don ’ t these bother you ?
Your asthma ?
I wasn ’ t going to smoke at all.
” I have prepared to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I don ’ t mind cigar smoke .
I can smoke these myself .
It ’ s just cigarettes that make me choke.
” In his class , we sit with all the windows open , the rain blowing in .
We don ’ t take off our coats .
He always wears the same suit .
It looks as though he ’ s stored potatoes in the pockets for a few seasons .
The same plaid flannel shirts over improbable layers of underwear , or maybe that softness is his flesh @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clashing plaid tie is always just enough askew to allow his wiry chest hair to peep through at the collar .
“ Have you eaten dinner ?
I haven ’ t .
How about a hamburger ?
” Throw a few volts into the smile , a few more than usual , actually , because of the dark beneath the dashboard .
The car wheezes to a stop .
He removes the key and looks around , his eyes reflecting light .
Then he smiles down at me and slips out .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the door closed .
“ Keep hidden just a little while longer .
A lot of the students come here.
” His anxious face is gone with a flash of spectacles .
I lift my head above the level of the window and watch his broken-butt trot across the shining tar .
The big neon mouth on the sign prepares to chomp down on a seductively plump olive with an obscenely oriented pimento .
He ’ s left me at the dark end of the parking area .
Am I really going to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ over this character ?
Yes .
What dull stuff I get into for the sake of excitement .
I can see him through the café window as he casts furtive glances at the ragtag collection of customers , muttering his order at the waitress so that no potential blackmailers or squealers can hear him ask for two coffees and two hamburgers and two orders of French fries .
By the time he gets back to the car , I ’ m giggling .
He hands me the lidded coffees .
I balance them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I ’ m sorry about all this .
You can get up now.
” My ass is numb and my legs ache .
The chill has penetrated to my kidneys and set off a reaction .
I pull myself onto the seat and open the coffee .
Rest the cups on the gyrating dash .
Rip open the hot , greasy paper around the food .
“ What did you tell your wife ?
” Hand him a hamburger , smear a capsule of ketchup on the potatoes .
He chomps @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a publisher .
”

At his request, I am hiding in the parking lot. Every time lights show on the road, I jump behind a tree or crouch beside one of the cold parked cars. I don’t really care whether I’m seen or not, but I do plan to emerge mysteriously when he drives up. Impress him with my discretion, my knowledge of the surreptitious. But the rain is ruining the effect. I’m beginning to get angry. Who does he think would see us? Or care? I consider going back to my room and making a sign to hold up at passing cars: “I AM WAITING TO SCREW MR. LUCAS, THE RESIDENT POET!”
My mascara is running into the pouches beneath my eyes. I can feel the thin mud of powder on my forehead and cheeks beginning to slide.
The lights from the dormitories and the dining hall glow on the hill. No shapes around them, only blackness, and the moonless dark on me and around me. Another car turns off the main road. I stand behind a tree until it disappears up the long driveway to the college. I forgot to ask what kind of car he drives.
The spy game palls. I huddle under the tree and wish myself back in bed with a book and an inexhaustible supply of cigarettes. The image of my cozy self in a soft puddle of smoky lamplight grieves me.
I could have picked a less paranoid professor. But would that professor have picked me? Fortunately, the resident poet feels duty bound to fondle the freshmen, and I’m the only dope so far who has been susceptible to his paunch and poetry. And he’s the only dope susceptible to me. Unless he chickens out and I’m left soaking all night. If he’s not here when the moon comes up, I decide, I’m going in.
Light from the road, turning. A puttering of syncopated pistons. An old Volkswagen gasping and shaking into the lot. The headlights beam in odd directions, and eyeglasses shine through the dim windshield. I slide out from under the tree and squelch suavely toward the car. His face, gray and anxious, dips a smile at me. I get in on the passenger side, bringing the wetness in with me. Slam the door. He wheels the car around and rips out of the lot, down the driveway, and onto the road without looking at me.
When I first met him, I thought he looked like Ulysses S. Grant. All that curly black hair and curly black beard, the thick pink lips and square forehead. The more I see of him, the truer the resemblance seems. The light from the street lamps is slashed by the rain and ripples over his face. The spreading veins across his cheeks, the odd pits in the skin of his nose, the watery blue eyes, the secret weakness of his chin. He crops his beard so that it juts, instead of sliding toward his Adam’s apple along with his chin. His worries are bunched in lumps all over his forehead. At a stoplight, he gives me a quick, constipated grin.
“Nobody saw you?” His face turns back to the street, but I can see his eyes sliding at me in jerks, waiting for my answer.
“Only the fire department and your wife’s mother.”
His chuckle is a long time coming. His pudgy knuckles are pale green in the moving light.
“Would you mind crouching down in your seat until we get out of town?”
His apologetic teeth. The rasp in my breath. I drop onto the floor and prop my chin on the seat. Try to keep my wet boots from touching my ass. There are strange drafts down here, whispering through the framework, jets of cold squirting me in the back and the hair.
He looks very large. His stodgy shoes pump and move over the pedals at the end of his reliable wool legs. The gray cloth swags over his belly, droops from his arms.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” he says.
His fat lips. The pleading eyes. He’d rather be home in bed with his soft wife and a bottle of beer. I tip my head so that he can see my smile in the dark beneath the dashboard.
“Of course, you’re a lunatic.”
He is pleased. It’s so important to be crazy if you’re a poet. He reaches into his breast pocket. “I got something for you.”
A package of little cigars.
“Don’t these bother you? Your asthma? I wasn’t going to smoke at all.” I have prepared to be vicious for two days.
“No. I don’t mind cigar smoke. I can smoke these myself. It’s just cigarettes that make me choke.”
In his class, we sit with all the windows open, the rain blowing in. We don’t take off our coats. He always wears the same suit. It looks as though he’s stored potatoes in the pockets for a few seasons. The same plaid flannel shirts over improbable layers of underwear, or maybe that softness is his flesh welling up beneath the cloth. The clashing plaid tie is always just enough askew to allow his wiry chest hair to peep through at the collar.
“Have you eaten dinner? I haven’t. How about a hamburger?”
“Great!” I chirp.
Throw a few volts into the smile, a few more than usual, actually, because of the dark beneath the dashboard. The car wheezes to a stop. He removes the key and looks around, his eyes reflecting light. Then he smiles down at me and slips out. He leans in for a moment before swinging the door closed.
“Keep hidden just a little while longer. A lot of the students come here.”
His anxious face is gone with a flash of spectacles. I lift my head above the level of the window and watch his broken-butt trot across the shining tar. The big neon mouth on the sign prepares to chomp down on a seductively plump olive with an obscenely oriented pimento. He’s left me at the dark end of the parking area. Am I really going to wallow and stroke and gurgle and sigh over this character? Yes. What dull stuff I get into for the sake of excitement. I can see him through the café window as he casts furtive glances at the ragtag collection of customers, muttering his order at the waitress so that no potential blackmailers or squealers can hear him ask for two coffees and two hamburgers and two orders of French fries.
By the time he gets back to the car, I’m giggling. He hands me the lidded coffees. I balance them above the seat as he pulls out.
“I’m sorry about all this. You can get up now.”
My ass is numb and my legs ache. The chill has penetrated to my kidneys and set off a reaction. I pull myself onto the seat and open the coffee. Rest the cups on the gyrating dash. Rip open the hot, greasy paper around the food.
“I hope you like onions.”
“What did you tell your wife?”
Hand him a hamburger, smear a capsule of ketchup on the potatoes. He chomps and chews. “A weekend conference with a publisher.”
The darkness moves and pales and disappears into more darkness. No cars. No lights. The gray road spinning beneath us. The headlights catch momentary shapes. I won’t ask whether she believed him. That would open up too many nasties. Either he’d be smug and say he didn’t care or he’d tell me all about her.
The river is dead gray beside us. A small hard light shows briefly on the other side. Better be poetic for him. Get him off the thought of repercussions.
“I came down here often last summer to fish,” I said. “I’d bring canned corn and fish for carp there by the flour mills early in the morning. The dawn would break and soften all the docks and bridges, soak everything in lavender light. Then I’d pull the big gold fish out of the purple water and the scales would come off in my fingernails like gold dust.”


newyorker--2020-05-04--Christoph Mueller’s “Shelter in Place”

Christoph Mueller’s “Shelter in Place”

The coronavirus has hit different countries in different ways , but billions of people worldwide are now living with some kind of restriction on public life .
This week ’ s cover , by Christoph Mueller , an artist based in Germany , portrays a now common experience : seeing life , and the bloom of spring , through a window .
We talked to Mueller recently about the image .
Europe has been in quarantine for more than a month .
Have you still been able to enjoy strolls in nature ?
And , if so , how has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Leonie , and I live close to the Dutch border , and our favorite getaway is a small heathland nature reserve in the Netherlands .
It ’ s an incredibly beautiful place that has an almost spiritual effect on me .
Unfortunately , nonessential people are not allowed to cross the borders at the moment , so we ’ ve switched to taking our strolls through small local parks .
They ’ re nice , but I do miss those Dutch pines .
Fortunately , we had a chance to collect some seeds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and we ’ re now growing a pine forest in the living room of our apartment .
Has sheltering in place made you more or less aware of what ’ s going on outside your window ?
Much more aware—and I mean that quite literally .
I ’ ve developed a habit of looking out the window right after I get up in the morning : I step into the living room , greet Wembley and Schlomi , our two cockatiels , and stare outside the window for a while , almost @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of confirmation , for signs of normality , some real-life feedback that lets me know that we ’ ll be O.K .
for another day .
After that , I check on our baby pines and make coffee .
Does your approach shift when you set out to tell a story in one image , like this cover , versus a comic strip ?
I don ’ t think I ’ ve ever thought about that .
Usually , I start with the specs of what I ’ m aiming for , do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it until I arrive at some sort of emotional starting point .
Then the image or images just sort of work their way through my hand onto the paper .
I try to not overthink the underlying mechanics too much .
“ Festival , ” by Daniel Celentano , 1934 , U.S. Government ’ s Public Works of Art Project Who are some of your favorite artists of city life ?
One of the first names that comes to mind would be Heinrich Zille , who chronicled the everyday life of Berlin ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ century .
His work offers a fascinating look at what life was like then .
An American favorite is Daniel Celentano , who captured life in the Italian neighborhood of East Harlem in the nineteen-thirties .
As far as contemporary artists are concerned , there ’ s no doubt that Chris Ware is one of my favorites for depicting the theme of human existence in the city .
See below for more covers about city life as seen through a window : Find Christoph Mueller ’ s cover , cartoons , and more @ @ @ @ @ @

The coronavirus has hit different countries in different ways, but billions of people worldwide are now living with some kind of restriction on public life. This week’s cover, by Christoph Mueller, an artist based in Germany, portrays a now common experience: seeing life, and the bloom of spring, through a window. We talked to Mueller recently about the image.
Europe has been in quarantine for more than a month. Have you still been able to enjoy strolls in nature? And, if so, how has the experience shifted?
My wife, Leonie, and I live close to the Dutch border, and our favorite getaway is a small heathland nature reserve in the Netherlands. It’s an incredibly beautiful place that has an almost spiritual effect on me. Unfortunately, nonessential people are not allowed to cross the borders at the moment, so we’ve switched to taking our strolls through small local parks. They’re nice, but I do miss those Dutch pines. Fortunately, we had a chance to collect some seeds during our last visit to the heathlands, and we’re now growing a pine forest in the living room of our apartment.
Has sheltering in place made you more or less aware of what’s going on outside your window?
Much more aware—and I mean that quite literally. I’ve developed a habit of looking out the window right after I get up in the morning: I step into the living room, greet Wembley and Schlomi, our two cockatiels, and stare outside the window for a while, almost like I am searching for some sort of confirmation, for signs of normality, some real-life feedback that lets me know that we’ll be O.K. for another day. After that, I check on our baby pines and make coffee.
Does your approach shift when you set out to tell a story in one image, like this cover, versus a comic strip?
I don’t think I’ve ever thought about that. Usually, I start with the specs of what I’m aiming for, do my research, and keep thinking about it until I arrive at some sort of emotional starting point. Then the image or images just sort of work their way through my hand onto the paper. I try to not overthink the underlying mechanics too much.