newyorker--2020-08-13--The Kingdom That Failed

The Kingdom That Failed

This is the sixth story in this summer ’ s online Flash Fiction series .
You can read the entire series , and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years , here .
Just behind the kingdom that failed ran a nice little river .
It was a clear , lovely stream , and many fish lived in it .
Weeds grew there , too , and the fish ate the weeds .
The fish didn ’ t care whether or not the kingdom had failed , of course .
Whether it was a kingdom or a republic made no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t vote or pay taxes .
Makes no difference to us , they figured .
I washed my feet in the stream .
A short soak in the icy-cold water turned them red .
From the stream , you could see the walls and the tower of the castle in the kingdom that failed .
The two-colored flag still flew from the tower , fluttering in the breeze .
Everyone passing along the riverbanks would see the flag and say , “ Hey , look at that .
It ’ s the flag @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and I are friends—or should I say , were friends in college .
It ’ s been more than ten years since the two of us did anything that friends do .
Which is why I use the past tense .
Anyhow , we were friends .
Whenever I try to tell anyone about Q—to describe him as a person—I feel totally helpless .
I ’ ve never been very good at explaining anything , but , even taking that into account , it ’ s a special challenge to try to explain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ do try I ’ m overcome by a deep , deep sense of despair .
Let me make this as simple as I can .
Q and I are the same age , but he ’ s about five hundred and seventy times more handsome .
He has a nice personality , too .
He ’ s never pushy or boastful , and he never gets angry if someone accidentally causes a problem for him .
“ Oh , well , ” he ’ ll say .
“ I ’ ve done the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fact , I ’ ve never heard of him doing anything bad to anyone .
He was well brought up , too .
His father was a doctor who had his own clinic on the island of Shikoku , which meant that Q never wanted for pocket money .
Not that he was extravagant with it .
He was a smart dresser and also an impressive athlete , who ’ d played interscholastic tennis in high school .
He enjoyed swimming and went to the pool at least twice a week .
Politically @ @ @ @ @ @ @ His grades , if not outstanding , were at least good .
He almost never studied for exams , but he never failed a course .
He really listened to the lectures .
He was surprisingly talented on the piano , and he owned a lot of Bill Evans and Mozart records .
His favorite writers tended to be French—Balzac and Maupassant .
Sometimes he ’ d read a novel by Kenzaburo Oe or another writer .
His critiques were always right on the mark .
He was popular with women , naturally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of those “ anyone he can get his hands on ” type of guys .
He had a steady girlfriend , a pretty sophomore from one of the fancy women ’ s colleges .
They went out every Sunday .
Anyhow , that was the Q I knew in college .
In short , he was a character without flaws .
Back then , Q lived in the apartment next door to mine .
What with lending salt or borrowing salad dressing , we got to be friends , and soon we were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the time , listening to records , drinking beer .
Once , my girlfriend and I drove out to the Kamakura shore with Q and his girlfriend .
We were very comfortable together .
Then , during the summer break of my senior year , I moved out , and that was that .
The next time I saw Q , almost a decade had gone by .
I was reading a book by a swanky hotel pool near the Akasaka district .
Q was sitting in the deck chair next to mine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long-legged woman in a bikini .
I knew right away that it was Q .
He was as handsome as ever , and now , just over thirty , he evinced a certain dignity that he hadn ’ t had before .
Young women walking by gave him a quick once-over .
He didn ’ t notice me sitting next to him .
I ’ m a fairly ordinary-looking guy , and I was wearing sunglasses .
I wasn ’ t sure whether I should talk to him , but in the end @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the woman were deep in conversation , and I hesitated to interrupt them .
Besides , there wasn ’ t a lot that he and I could have talked about .
“ I lent you salt , remember ?
” “ Hey , that ’ s right , and I borrowed a bottle of salad dressing.
” We would have run out of topics quickly .
So I kept my mouth shut and stuck to my book .
Still , I couldn ’ t help overhearing what Q and his pretty companion were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a fairly complicated matter .
I gave up trying to read and listened to them .
“ No way , ” the woman said .
“ You ’ ve got to be kidding.
” “ I know , I know , ” Q said .
“ I know exactly what you ’ re saying .
But you ’ ve got to see it my way , too .
I ’ m not doing this because I want to .
It was the guys upstairs .
I ’ m just telling you what they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at me that way.
” Let me summarize their long conversation—filling in a good deal by way of imagination , of course .
Q seemed to be now a director at a TV station or some such place , and the woman was a moderately well-known singer or actress .
She was being let go from a project because of some sort of trouble or scandal she had become involved in , or maybe just because her popularity had declined .
The job of informing her had been left to Q , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day-to-day operations .
I don ’ t know much about the entertainment industry , so I can ’ t be sure of the finer points , but I don ’ t think I ’ m too far off over all .
Judging from what I heard , Q was discharging his duty with genuine sincerity .
“ We can ’ t survive without sponsors , ” he said .
“ I don ’ t have to tell you that—you know the business.
” “ So you ’ re telling me that you don @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the matter ?
” “ No , I ’ m not telling you that .
But what I can do is really limited.
” Their conversation took another turn into a dead-end street .
She wanted to know just how much he had exerted himself on her behalf .
He insisted that he had done everything he could , but he had no way to prove it , and she didn ’ t believe him .
I didn ’ t really believe him , either .
The more sincerely he tried to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of insincerity came to hang over everything .
But it wasn ’ t Q ’ s fault .
It wasn ’ t anybody ’ s fault .
Which was why there was no way out of this conversation .
It appeared that the woman had always liked Q. I sensed that they had got along well until this business came up .
Which probably only added to the woman ’ s anger .
In the end , though , she was the one who gave in .

This is the sixth story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. You can read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years, here.
Just behind the kingdom that failed ran a nice little river. It was a clear, lovely stream, and many fish lived in it. Weeds grew there, too, and the fish ate the weeds. The fish didn’t care whether or not the kingdom had failed, of course. Whether it was a kingdom or a republic made no difference to them. They didn’t vote or pay taxes. Makes no difference to us, they figured.
I washed my feet in the stream. A short soak in the icy-cold water turned them red. From the stream, you could see the walls and the tower of the castle in the kingdom that failed. The two-colored flag still flew from the tower, fluttering in the breeze. Everyone passing along the riverbanks would see the flag and say, “Hey, look at that. It’s the flag of the kingdom that failed.”
Q and I are friends—or should I say, were friends in college. It’s been more than ten years since the two of us did anything that friends do. Which is why I use the past tense. Anyhow, we were friends.
Whenever I try to tell anyone about Q—to describe him as a person—I feel totally helpless. I’ve never been very good at explaining anything, but, even taking that into account, it’s a special challenge to try to explain Q to someone. And when I do try I’m overcome by a deep, deep sense of despair.
Let me make this as simple as I can.
Q and I are the same age, but he’s about five hundred and seventy times more handsome. He has a nice personality, too. He’s never pushy or boastful, and he never gets angry if someone accidentally causes a problem for him. “Oh, well,” he’ll say. “I’ve done the same thing myself.” But, in fact, I’ve never heard of him doing anything bad to anyone.
He was well brought up, too. His father was a doctor who had his own clinic on the island of Shikoku, which meant that Q never wanted for pocket money. Not that he was extravagant with it. He was a smart dresser and also an impressive athlete, who’d played interscholastic tennis in high school. He enjoyed swimming and went to the pool at least twice a week. Politically, he was a moderate liberal. His grades, if not outstanding, were at least good. He almost never studied for exams, but he never failed a course. He really listened to the lectures.
He was surprisingly talented on the piano, and he owned a lot of Bill Evans and Mozart records. His favorite writers tended to be French—Balzac and Maupassant. Sometimes he’d read a novel by Kenzaburo Oe or another writer. His critiques were always right on the mark.
He was popular with women, naturally enough. But he was not one of those “anyone he can get his hands on” type of guys. He had a steady girlfriend, a pretty sophomore from one of the fancy women’s colleges. They went out every Sunday.
Anyhow, that was the Q I knew in college. In short, he was a character without flaws.
Back then, Q lived in the apartment next door to mine. What with lending salt or borrowing salad dressing, we got to be friends, and soon we were at each other’s places all the time, listening to records, drinking beer. Once, my girlfriend and I drove out to the Kamakura shore with Q and his girlfriend. We were very comfortable together. Then, during the summer break of my senior year, I moved out, and that was that.
The next time I saw Q, almost a decade had gone by. I was reading a book by a swanky hotel pool near the Akasaka district. Q was sitting in the deck chair next to mine, and beside him was a beautiful long-legged woman in a bikini.
I knew right away that it was Q. He was as handsome as ever, and now, just over thirty, he evinced a certain dignity that he hadn’t had before. Young women walking by gave him a quick once-over.
He didn’t notice me sitting next to him. I’m a fairly ordinary-looking guy, and I was wearing sunglasses. I wasn’t sure whether I should talk to him, but in the end I decided not to. He and the woman were deep in conversation, and I hesitated to interrupt them. Besides, there wasn’t a lot that he and I could have talked about. “I lent you salt, remember?” “Hey, that’s right, and I borrowed a bottle of salad dressing.” We would have run out of topics quickly. So I kept my mouth shut and stuck to my book.
Still, I couldn’t help overhearing what Q and his pretty companion were saying to each other. It was a fairly complicated matter. I gave up trying to read and listened to them.
“No way,” the woman said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I know, I know,” Q said. “I know exactly what you’re saying. But you’ve got to see it my way, too. I’m not doing this because I want to. It was the guys upstairs. I’m just telling you what they decided. So don’t look at me that way.”
“Yeah, right,” she said.
Q let out a sigh.
Let me summarize their long conversation—filling in a good deal by way of imagination, of course. Q seemed to be now a director at a TV station or some such place, and the woman was a moderately well-known singer or actress. She was being let go from a project because of some sort of trouble or scandal she had become involved in, or maybe just because her popularity had declined. The job of informing her had been left to Q, who was the person most directly responsible for day-to-day operations. I don’t know much about the entertainment industry, so I can’t be sure of the finer points, but I don’t think I’m too far off over all.
Judging from what I heard, Q was discharging his duty with genuine sincerity.
“We can’t survive without sponsors,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you that—you know the business.”
“So you’re telling me that you don’t have any responsibility or say in the matter?”
“No, I’m not telling you that. But what I can do is really limited.”
Their conversation took another turn into a dead-end street. She wanted to know just how much he had exerted himself on her behalf. He insisted that he had done everything he could, but he had no way to prove it, and she didn’t believe him. I didn’t really believe him, either. The more sincerely he tried to explain things, the more a fog of insincerity came to hang over everything. But it wasn’t Q’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Which was why there was no way out of this conversation.
It appeared that the woman had always liked Q. I sensed that they had got along well until this business came up. Which probably only added to the woman’s anger. In the end, though, she was the one who gave in.
“O.K.,” she said. “I’ve had it. Buy me a Coke, will you?”
When he heard that, Q breathed a sigh of relief and went off to the drink stand. The woman put on her sunglasses and stared straight ahead. By this time, I had read the same line in my book a couple hundred times.


newyorker--2020-08-13--The Fall and Rise of Kamala Harris

The Fall and Rise of Kamala Harris

To look at Presidential politics in 2020 , you ’ d think that the one concept unifying the nation was a longing for a befuddled white paterfamilias .
There ’ s the gentle and genial one , tinkering in the basement , and then there ’ s the other one , ranting , Lear-like , in the helicopter wind .
Vice-President Mike Pence , another member of the white-hair club , reportedly , though born in the twentieth century , calls his wife “ Mother.
” Then , on Tuesday , Joe Biden selected Senator Kamala Harris to be his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to choose a woman , and satisfying an expectation by many on the left that he would pick a woman of color .
Several days ago , a hundred prominent Black men , from Bishop William J. Barber to Sean Combs , wrote Biden a letter warning , “ Failing to select a Black woman in 2020 means you will lose the election.
” They were following up on the urgings of prominent Black women—advocates , strategists , activists—who had been writing letters and op-eds for months .
Jotaka Eaddy , a political @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , organized a collective of Black women around the hashtag # winwithblackwomen .
“ Black women represent sixteen million voters in this election , ” she told me .
“ We are the highest and most loyal voting block in the Democratic Party .
There hasn ’ t been for forty years a pathway to Democratic victory without the work of Black women .
It is high time that we are seen not just as the backbone but as the leaders we are.
” Harris , a longtime friend and supporter of President @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to her annoyance , “ the female Obama ” —grew up in the East Bay , the child of politically active immigrants from Jamaica and India .
She ’ s the first Black woman and first Asian woman to be on a major-party ticket .
Her presence on the ticket is historic : whatever happens next , it makes a relic of the multiple factors that previously would have conspired against her being there .
Firstdom is a role that Harris knows from a political career nurtured in San Francisco , where she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ female and first Black district attorney .
The same designation applied when she became California ’ s Attorney General , in 2011 ; when she was elected to the U.S. Senate , in 2016 , she became that body ’ s first Asian and second Black woman .
I Profiled Harris for the magazine in 2019 , during her Presidential run , and she espoused confidence that she ’ d win it , and set precedent again .
There are a number of ways to explain why Harris ’ s Presidential bid didn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ game ; questions of authenticity ; no galvanizing , breakthrough message .
But she seemed to be swimming against the tide from the earliest days of her campaign—mistrusted by an influential faction of progressives who resented her attempt to align—belatedly , they felt—with the criminal-justice-reform movement .
In 2018 , the social-media activist Shaun King named two Democrats he was “ 99 % sure ” he would not “ be supporting – primarily because of their dismal history on criminal justice reform over the course of their entire careers.
” You got it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Party ’ s leading edge , she was an agent of a status quo , whose job it had been to incarcerate men of color in the state with the second-largest prison population .
They saw her as , at heart , a cop , someone who had failed to use her executive power as D.A .
and A.G. to make significant changes to law-enforcement practices .
She was the D.A .
who had , once upon a time , threatened parents of truant children with jail .
Therefore , not the right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a Black Presidential candidate , Harris didn ’ t have space to talk about her evolution on race and criminal justice .
Instead , she rebuffed critics who implied that she had not sufficiently empathized with or advocated for communities of color by reminding them that she is Black , and grew up in America .
There was nothing she didn ’ t know , from daily experience , starting as a child in Oakland .
Her star turn during the primary season was the moment at the second debate when she announced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on this stage , I would like to speak on the issue of race.
” She did not , she said , consider Biden to be a racist .
But .
He had made choices during his long Senate career , including recently talking about his friendly collaboration with known segregationists , that were extremely hurtful .
He had also , she reminded the room , opposed school busing in the nineteen-seventies .
This was not a controversial position at the time , but she made it so , turning to the camera @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in California whose life had been changed by busing .
“ That little girl was me , ” she said .
He was not a racist , and maybe he didn ’ t intend it , but policies have people at the other end .
His , she suggested , would have denied her the opportunity she deserved .
It was a heady moment of confrontation , in spite of its unspontaneous feeling , and it yielded Harris a nice bump .
It was also Harris ’ s last moment of glory ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of the race .
But the moment seemed likely to linger awkwardly , dooming a future political partnership .
Biden has the luxury of being a white politician who can come around , with time and through listening , to more enlightened views .
He gets points for growth .
His choice of Harris is perfectly coherent within the narrative of broadening .
On Tuesday , evolution was in the air .
Shaun King greeted Biden ’ s announcement with a tweet .
“ That ’ s it for me , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ proud to see a brilliant Black woman , and HBCU grad , chosen as a Vice Presidential nominee .
I ’ ve done political work my whole life .
It ’ s rarely things dreams are made of .
Kamala Harris is the most progressive VP nominee in American history.
” If others could not praise her , they at least muzzled their complaints .
It was a pretty cheerful day on liberal Twitter .
Jess Morales Rocketto , an alumna of the Clinton and Obama campaigns who advocates for domestic workers and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ selection of Harris , with whom she has worked closely but not always completely agreed , thrilled her in a way it might not have a year ago .
“ I was so naïve as to what could happen , ” she said .
“ People thought that what Trump was doing a year ago was rock bottom .
It turns out that ’ s not true .
That it can get way , way worse .
The stakes ratchet up so high.
” It is no time for qualifications or asterisks .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ working with Harris when she ’ s in the White House , wrestling over policy gaps that might exist between them , like friends do .
“ Today I ’ m just going to celebrate , ” she said .
“ We ’ re in a triple pandemic of racism , a public-health crisis , and an economic crisis .
It ’ s necessary to have joy and celebration .
”

To look at Presidential politics in 2020, you’d think that the one concept unifying the nation was a longing for a befuddled white paterfamilias. There’s the gentle and genial one, tinkering in the basement, and then there’s the other one, ranting, Lear-like, in the helicopter wind. Vice-President Mike Pence, another member of the white-hair club, reportedly, though born in the twentieth century, calls his wife “Mother.”
Then, on Tuesday, Joe Biden selected Senator Kamala Harris to be his running mate, fulfilling his debate-stage pledge to choose a woman, and satisfying an expectation by many on the left that he would pick a woman of color. Several days ago, a hundred prominent Black men, from Bishop William J. Barber to Sean Combs, wrote Biden a letter warning, “Failing to select a Black woman in 2020 means you will lose the election.” They were following up on the urgings of prominent Black women—advocates, strategists, activists—who had been writing letters and op-eds for months. Jotaka Eaddy, a political strategist and former adviser to the N.A.A.C.P., organized a collective of Black women around the hashtag #winwithblackwomen. “Black women represent sixteen million voters in this election,” she told me. “We are the highest and most loyal voting block in the Democratic Party. There hasn’t been for forty years a pathway to Democratic victory without the work of Black women. It is high time that we are seen not just as the backbone but as the leaders we are.”
Harris, a longtime friend and supporter of President Obama—and someone who has been called, to her annoyance, “the female Obama”—grew up in the East Bay, the child of politically active immigrants from Jamaica and India. She’s the first Black woman and first Asian woman to be on a major-party ticket. Her presence on the ticket is historic: whatever happens next, it makes a relic of the multiple factors that previously would have conspired against her being there.
Firstdom is a role that Harris knows from a political career nurtured in San Francisco, where she served as the county’s first female and first Black district attorney. The same designation applied when she became California’s Attorney General, in 2011; when she was elected to the U.S. Senate, in 2016, she became that body’s first South Asian and second Black woman. I Profiled Harris for the magazine in 2019, during her Presidential run, and she espoused confidence that she’d win it, and set precedent again.
There are a number of ways to explain why Harris’s Presidential bid didn’t work: lack of ground game; questions of authenticity; no galvanizing, breakthrough message. But she seemed to be swimming against the tide from the earliest days of her campaign—mistrusted by an influential faction of progressives who resented her attempt to align—belatedly, they felt—with the criminal-justice-reform movement.
In 2018, the social-media activist Shaun King named two Democrats he was “99% sure” he would not “be supporting – primarily because of their dismal history on criminal justice reform over the course of their entire careers.” You got it: Biden and Harris. To the Party’s leading edge, she was an agent of a status quo, whose job it had been to incarcerate men of color in the state with the second-largest prison population. They saw her as, at heart, a cop, someone who had failed to use her executive power as D.A. and A.G. to make significant changes to law-enforcement practices. She was the D.A. who had, once upon a time, threatened parents of truant children with jail. Therefore, not the right Black woman for the job.
As a Black Presidential candidate, Harris didn’t have space to talk about her evolution on race and criminal justice. Instead, she rebuffed critics who implied that she had not sufficiently empathized with or advocated for communities of color by reminding them that she is Black, and grew up in America. There was nothing she didn’t know, from daily experience, starting as a child in Oakland. Her star turn during the primary season was the moment at the second debate when she announced, “As the only Black person on this stage, I would like to speak on the issue of race.” She did not, she said, consider Biden to be a racist. But. He had made choices during his long Senate career, including recently talking about his friendly collaboration with known segregationists, that were extremely hurtful. He had also, she reminded the room, opposed school busing in the nineteen-seventies. This was not a controversial position at the time, but she made it so, turning to the camera and saying that there was a girl in California whose life had been changed by busing. “That little girl was me,” she said. He was not a racist, and maybe he didn’t intend it, but policies have people at the other end. His, she suggested, would have denied her the opportunity she deserved.
It was a heady moment of confrontation, in spite of its unspontaneous feeling, and it yielded Harris a nice bump. It was also Harris’s last moment of glory; six months later, she had dropped out of the race. But the moment seemed likely to linger awkwardly, dooming a future political partnership. Biden has the luxury of being a white politician who can come around, with time and through listening, to more enlightened views. He gets points for growth. His choice of Harris is perfectly coherent within the narrative of broadening.
On Tuesday, evolution was in the air. Shaun King greeted Biden’s announcement with a tweet. “That’s it for me,” he wrote. “I am incredibly proud to see a brilliant Black woman, and HBCU grad, chosen as a Vice Presidential nominee. I’ve done political work my whole life. It’s rarely things dreams are made of. Kamala Harris is the most progressive VP nominee in American history.” If others could not praise her, they at least muzzled their complaints. It was a pretty cheerful day on liberal Twitter.
Jess Morales Rocketto, an alumna of the Clinton and Obama campaigns who advocates for domestic workers and family reunification, told me that the selection of Harris, with whom she has worked closely but not always completely agreed, thrilled her in a way it might not have a year ago. “I was so naïve as to what could happen,” she said. “People thought that what Trump was doing a year ago was rock bottom. It turns out that’s not true. That it can get way, way worse. The stakes ratchet up so high.” It is no time for qualifications or asterisks. She said that she looks forward to working with Harris when she’s in the White House, wrestling over policy gaps that might exist between them, like friends do. “Today I’m just going to celebrate,” she said. “We’re in a triple pandemic of racism, a public-health crisis, and an economic crisis. It’s necessary to have joy and celebration.”
Note: A previous version of this post erroneously referred to Harris as the first Asian woman elected to the Senate.


newyorker--2020-08-13--The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog, Across Genres

The quick brown fox time-travels over the lazy dog .
Quick and brown , Ser Fox levitates over L ’ azy Dog , just as it has been foretold at the Council of Font—but only after fifteen introductory pages of hand-drawn maps .
The lazy dog jumps over the quick brown fox .
The quick brown fox wants to sleep with her professor .
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog and tragically dies , to make a point about the futility of the American Dream .
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog ( but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brown foxes don ’ t jump over lazy dogs in Norway ( and how this just might help predict the outcome of your next pickup basketball game ) .
And the LORD replied : “ My precious quick brown fox .
I love you and would never leave you .
When you see only one set of paw prints in the sand .
.
.
it was then that I carried you over the lazy dog.
” The quick brown fox jumps over three generations of interfamilial trauma .
The quick brown fox @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Germany .
The quick , buxom fox buxoms over the buxom dog .
“ Throbbing , ” murmurs the fox , with buxom clearly on her mind .
Two heated hours later , they both buxom , simultaneously .
Dog wasn ’ t lazy , after all .
Dog had the sickness .
Went quick .
Quick brown fox jumped over the body and walked on bold down the road .
Wanted to warn him to seek cover by nightfall , when They would hunt .
But he was gone .
Found his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But him .
Piss .
Whiskey .
Rifle .
Rations .
Lonely .
Rust .
Beard .
Wreckage .
Son ?
Goddam .
How it goes .
Also , my wife is dead .
Novel About a Young Woman , Written by a Man The quick brown fox pauses before jumping over the lazy dog to examine her breasts in the mirror .
They are perky .
Novel About an Old Woman , Written by a Man The quick brown fox isn ’ t so quick anymore .
She sighs , cupping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tea , breathing in the steam .
She realizes that she can ’ t remember the last time she could jump over a dog , lazy or not .
But who has the energy ?
Her hair is graying and her skin wrinkled—and how her joints ache—but still , her dimming , cataract-riddled eyes contain something like hard-won wisdom .
“ Come , my dears , ” she calls weakly to the children playing energetically on the floor around her .
“ Come and listen while Grandma tells you a story.
” She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brown fox trips over the lazy dog .
She didn ’ t seen him because , as always , her nose is buried in a book .
“ Wuthering Heights , ” to be exact , which is pretty unexpected , considering that she ’ s a modern teen .
“ Sorry , ” she stammers , biting her lip and blushing .
The lazy dog just laughs and sweeps his hair back from his cerulean eyes .
“ Enjoy your book , nerd , ” he says teasingly , before hopping on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ school hallway .
Get it together , Guinevere ,  she thinks to herself .
As her misunderstood , lower-middle-class scientist father used to tell her before he died under mysterious circumstances , “ For someone with a photographic memory and a black belt , you sure are clumsy !
” Liking books , being clumsy—she has always been different from the other girls .
Mostly , unlike other girls , who are stupid , she is brunette .
Erotica Written by a Man Who , It Is Becoming Clear , Has Never @ @ @ @ @ @ @ straddles the lazy dog and admires her heaving , hexagonal breasts .
They start in her armpits and spill down her torso like a waterslide .
“ Sorry , ” she says , and blushes self-consciously .
“ I know they ’ re not very— ” He cuts her off .
“ They ’ re just the way I like them , ” he reassures her .
“ Sharp in all the right places.
” He gives one of her breasts a tap , and it instantly wraps itself around his wrist like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ecstasy and slings one of countless bosoms around her neck like a scarf , which makes him smile .
He loves how much he knows what boobs are .

Science Fiction
The quick brown fox time-travels over the lazy dog.
Fantasy
Quick and brown, Ser Fox levitates over L’azy Dog, just as it has been foretold at the Council of Font—but only after fifteen introductory pages of hand-drawn maps.
Alternate History
The lazy dog jumps over the quick brown fox.
Literary Fiction
The quick brown fox wants to sleep with her professor.
Dystopian Young-Adult Fiction
The quick brown fox jumps over . . . society.
The American Canon
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog and tragically dies, to make a point about the futility of the American Dream.
The Western Canon
The quick brown fox is white.
Beach Read
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog (but by a woman).
Pop Sociology
Why quick brown foxes don’t jump over lazy dogs in Norway (and how this just might help predict the outcome of your next pickup basketball game).
Religious Self-Help
And the LORD replied: “My precious quick brown fox. I love you and would never leave you. When you see only one set of paw prints in the sand . . . it was then that I carried you over the lazy dog.”
“Tour de Force”
The quick brown fox jumps over three generations of interfamilial trauma.
Pulitzer Prize Winner
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog in Nazi Germany.
Pulp Romance
The quick, buxom fox buxoms over the buxom dog.
“Throbbing,” murmurs the fox, with buxom clearly on her mind.
“Tumescent,” sighs the dog, buxomly.
Two heated hours later, they both buxom, simultaneously.
Post-Apocalyptic Fiction
A fox. Quick. Brown. A dog, lazy as hell. But mine.
Dog wasn’t lazy, after all. Dog had the sickness. Went quick. Quick brown fox jumped over the body and walked on bold down the road. Wanted to warn him to seek cover by nightfall, when They would hunt. But he was gone.
Found his remains the next morning. Mostly bones. But him.
Piss. Whiskey. Rifle. Rations. Lonely. Rust. Beard. Wreckage. Son? Goddam. How it goes.
Also, my wife is dead.
Novel About a Young Woman, Written by a Man
The quick brown fox pauses before jumping over the lazy dog to examine her breasts in the mirror. They are perky.
Novel About an Old Woman, Written by a Man
The quick brown fox isn’t so quick anymore. She sighs, cupping her arthritic fingers around a glass of tea, breathing in the steam. She realizes that she can’t remember the last time she could jump over a dog, lazy or not. But who has the energy? Her hair is graying and her skin wrinkled—and how her joints ache—but still, her dimming, cataract-riddled eyes contain something like hard-won wisdom. “Come, my dears,” she calls weakly to the children playing energetically on the floor around her. “Come and listen while Grandma tells you a story.”
She is thirty-one years old.
Young-Adult Fiction with a Quirky Heroine
The quick brown fox trips over the lazy dog. She didn’t seen him because, as always, her nose is buried in a book. “Wuthering Heights,” to be exact, which is pretty unexpected, considering that she’s a modern teen. “Sorry,” she stammers, biting her lip and blushing. The lazy dog just laughs and sweeps his hair back from his cerulean eyes.
“Enjoy your book, nerd,” he says teasingly, before hopping on his RipStik and gliding away down the school hallway. Get it together, Guinevere, she thinks to herself. As her misunderstood, lower-middle-class scientist father used to tell her before he died under mysterious circumstances, “For someone with a photographic memory and a black belt, you sure are clumsy!” Liking books, being clumsy—she has always been different from the other girls. Mostly, unlike other girls, who are stupid, she is brunette.
Erotica Written by a Man Who, It Is Becoming Clear, Has Never Seen a Woman
The quick brown fox straddles the lazy dog and admires her heaving, hexagonal breasts. They start in her armpits and spill down her torso like a waterslide.
“Sorry,” she says, and blushes self-consciously. “I know they’re not very—”
He cuts her off. “They’re just the way I like them,” he reassures her. “Sharp in all the right places.” He gives one of her breasts a tap, and it instantly wraps itself around his wrist like a slap bracelet. She gurgles in ecstasy and slings one of countless bosoms around her neck like a scarf, which makes him smile. He loves how much he knows what boobs are.


newyorker--2020-08-13--Trump Accuses Kamala Harris of Maliciously Speaking in Complete Sentences

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In a blistering takedown of Joe Biden ’ s running mate , Donald Trump @ @ @ @ @ Harris of maliciously speaking in complete sentences .
Blasting her penchant for hewing to the @ @ @ @ @ said , “ A lot of people are saying , mean , nasty , disrespectful @ @ @ @ @ , like you wouldn ’ t believe.
” “ Sad , ” he said .
@ @ @ @ @ Trump also was contemptuous of Biden , noting , “ Sleepy Joe—something ’ s going @ @ @ @ @ withering criticism , Trump suggested that Harris ’ s stubborn insistence on making subjects agree @ @ @ @ @ to every American voter .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In a blistering takedown of Joe Biden’s running mate, Donald Trump on Thursday accused Senator Kamala Harris of maliciously speaking in complete sentences.
Blasting her penchant for hewing to the rules of grammar, Trump said, “A lot of people are saying, mean, nasty, disrespectful. To a new level, like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Sad,” he said. “Sick and sad.”
Trump also was contemptuous of Biden, noting, “Sleepy Joe—something’s going on.”
“Quite frankly,” he added.
In his most withering criticism, Trump suggested that Harris’s stubborn insistence on making subjects agree with verbs was an insult to every American voter.
“Woman bad,” he said.


newyorker--2020-08-13--An Encouraging Rollout for the Biden-Harris Ticket

For the past few months , the 2020 Presidential campaign has been largely reduced to a virtual phenomenon .
Wednesday ’ s rollout of the Joe Biden-Kamala Harris Democratic ticket was a COVID-19 hybrid .
Heavy rainstorms lashed down on a crowd of spectators that had gathered outside of A. I. Dupont High School , in Wilmington , Delaware , where the candidates were scheduled to appear .
Then the power inside went out , delaying things by about an hour .
When Biden and Harris eventually emerged together , they were both wearing black masks , which they took @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s “ Move on Up.
” “ Hello hello , ” Biden said to the members of an expanded press pool .
“ Thanks for being here .
I wish we were able to talk to the folks outside , but we are keeping our social distancing and playing by the rules.
” Despite the restrictions , nothing in what happened during the event offered any consolation for Donald Trump and his campaign , which seems to have been left flatfooted by Biden picking the obvious choice as his running mate .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Biden-Harris ticket looked like a well-balanced one , whose principals could complement each other effectively during the run-up to the election .
And the selection of Harris has already brought some brio to the Biden campaign .
The former Vice-President ’ s campaign ’ s strategy is to make the election a referendum on Trump , cast a wide net , and avoid any distractions that could knock this strategy off course .
In the remarks that Biden and Harris delivered , they stuck squarely to this template .
The Washington @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Viser described the two speeches as “ perhaps the most crisp and focused .
.
.
either has given during the presidential campaign.
” Despite—or perhaps because—the two candidates didn ’ t have any screaming supporters on hand , their words seemed to carry added weight .
Biden praised Harris ’ s intelligence , toughness , and readiness to take on the job of Vice-President .
Then he moved on to the broader importance of picking her .
He spoke of “ little Black and Brown girls who so often may feel overlooked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ maybe they ’ re seeing themselves for the first time in a new way.
” Despite their dissimilar origins , Biden went on , he and Harris weren ’ t so different .
The two of them had worked hard to rise from modest backgrounds , and , unlike Trump , they were both on the side of working families .
As he shifted to a disquisition on the shortcomings of the forty-fifth President , Biden brought up the fact that Wednesday was the third anniversary of “ that terrible day in Charlottesville.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ spark violence in the Virginia college town , and Trump remark that there were “ very fine people on both sides , ” that he “ knew we were in a battle for the soul of the nation , ” Biden recalled .
“ And I ’ m proud now to have Senator Harris at my side in that battle.
” Biden also noted that Trump had already attacked Harris , claiming she had been “ mean ” and “ nasty.
” As the campaign went forward , there would be more of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , referring to the seated Harris , he added , “ We have to have her back.
” This was a solicitous note from a politician whose empathy is one of his strengths , especially in contrast to Trump .
After Harris got up to speak , however , it quickly became evident—it has been clear all along , really—that she is more than able to take care of herself .
She began by saluting all the “ heroic , and ambitious , women before me whose sacrifice , determination , and resilience @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Then she got down to the business of attacking Trump .
“ The President ’ s mismanagement of the pandemic has plunged us into the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression , ” she declared .
“ And we ’ re experiencing a moral reckoning with racism and systemic injustice that has brought a new coalition of conscience to the streets of our country , demanding change .
America is crying out for leadership .
Yet we have a President who cares more about himself than the people who elected him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ challenge we face even more difficult to solve.
” Where Biden had despaired of Trump ’ s inability to fashion a coherent response to a pandemic that has killed a hundred and sixty-five thousand Americans , Harris went further ; she held the President directly responsible for the terrible human toll .
“ This virus has impacted almost every country , but there ’ s a reason it has hit America worse than any other advanced nation , ” she said .
“ It ’ s because of Trump ’ s failure to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ His refusal to get testing up and running .
His flip-flopping on social distancing and wearing masks .
His delusional belief that he knows better than the experts .
All of that is the reason that an American dies of COVID-19 every eighty seconds.
” That ’ s what political professionals call prosecuting the case against an incumbent .
Harris ’ s gift for doing this , a talent honed during her long career as an actual prosecutor , explains why many observers thought that she would be a shrewd pick .
More @ @ @ @ @ @ @ awareness and deft touch that her speech displayed—attributes that sometimes seemed to be lacking during her ill-fated primary campaign .
It was Harris ’ s embrace of “ Momala ” —the term of affection that her stepchildren use for her—which had social media buzzing .
That was a layup .
More tricky was her invocation of civil rights to appeal to younger and more progressive voters—she called those protesting for racial justice “ heroes of our time ” —while also finessing what she had said about Biden during a Democratic debate last June @ @ @ @ @ @ @ record on busing and criticized him for talking about how he coöperated with segregationists early in his Senate career .
“ The civil-rights struggle is nothing new to Joe , ” Harris said on Wednesday .
“ It ’ s why he got into public service .
It ’ s why he helped reauthorize the Voting Rights Act and restore employment discrimination laws .
And today , he takes his place in the ongoing story of America ’ s march toward equality and justice—as the only person who served alongside the first Black @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Black woman as his running mate.
” Clever .
According to a report in the Times , Biden ’ s campaign aides believe that Harris ’ s presence on the ticket will bolster its appeal with Black and Latino voters and suburban women , and help increase Democratic turnout .
In an election in which most of the attention will focus on the Presidential candidates—as usual—that ’ s a lot to ask of any Vice-Presidential pick , even a historic one like Harris .
But on the third day of the Biden-Harris ticket @ @ @ @ @ @ @ encouraged .
As even some progressive groups that supported other candidates in the primaries have fallen behind Biden and Harris , the Democratic Party seems unusually united , and girded for battle .
And with a recent Monmouth University poll indicating that Trump is trailing Biden by a massive twenty-nine points among women , the Democratic ticket now includes a formidable female politician who will be taking the President on all the way to November 3rd .
If Trump didn ’ t know that before Wednesday , he does now .

For the past few months, the 2020 Presidential campaign has been largely reduced to a virtual phenomenon. Wednesday’s rollout of the Joe Biden-Kamala Harris Democratic ticket was a COVID-19 hybrid. Heavy rainstorms lashed down on a crowd of spectators that had gathered outside of A. I. Dupont High School, in Wilmington, Delaware, where the candidates were scheduled to appear. Then the power inside went out, delaying things by about an hour. When Biden and Harris eventually emerged together, they were both wearing black masks, which they took off to the strains of Curtis Mayfield’s “Move on Up.” “Hello hello,” Biden said to the members of an expanded press pool. “Thanks for being here. I wish we were able to talk to the folks outside, but we are keeping our social distancing and playing by the rules.”
Despite the restrictions, nothing in what happened during the event offered any consolation for Donald Trump and his campaign, which seems to have been left flatfooted by Biden picking the obvious choice as his running mate. On the basis of this joint appearance, the Biden-Harris ticket looked like a well-balanced one, whose principals could complement each other effectively during the run-up to the election. And the selection of Harris has already brought some brio to the Biden campaign.
The former Vice-President’s campaign’s strategy is to make the election a referendum on Trump, cast a wide net, and avoid any distractions that could knock this strategy off course. In the remarks that Biden and Harris delivered, they stuck squarely to this template. The Washington Post’s Annie Linskey and Matt Viser described the two speeches as “perhaps the most crisp and focused . . . either has given during the presidential campaign.” Despite—or perhaps because—the two candidates didn’t have any screaming supporters on hand, their words seemed to carry added weight.
Biden praised Harris’s intelligence, toughness, and readiness to take on the job of Vice-President. Then he moved on to the broader importance of picking her. He spoke of “little Black and Brown girls who so often may feel overlooked and undervalued in our society—but today, maybe they’re seeing themselves for the first time in a new way.”
Despite their dissimilar origins, Biden went on, he and Harris weren’t so different. The two of them had worked hard to rise from modest backgrounds, and, unlike Trump, they were both on the side of working families. As he shifted to a disquisition on the shortcomings of the forty-fifth President, Biden brought up the fact that Wednesday was the third anniversary of “that terrible day in Charlottesville.” It was after seeing white supremacists spark violence in the Virginia college town, and Trump remark that there were “very fine people on both sides,” that he “knew we were in a battle for the soul of the nation,” Biden recalled. “And I’m proud now to have Senator Harris at my side in that battle.”
Biden also noted that Trump had already attacked Harris, claiming she had been “mean” and “nasty.” As the campaign went forward, there would be more of these attacks, Biden said, and, referring to the seated Harris, he added, “We have to have her back.” This was a solicitous note from a politician whose empathy is one of his strengths, especially in contrast to Trump. After Harris got up to speak, however, it quickly became evident—it has been clear all along, really—that she is more than able to take care of herself.
She began by saluting all the “heroic, and ambitious, women before me whose sacrifice, determination, and resilience makes my presence here today even possible.” Then she got down to the business of attacking Trump. “The President’s mismanagement of the pandemic has plunged us into the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression,” she declared. “And we’re experiencing a moral reckoning with racism and systemic injustice that has brought a new coalition of conscience to the streets of our country, demanding change. America is crying out for leadership. Yet we have a President who cares more about himself than the people who elected him; a President who is making every challenge we face even more difficult to solve.”
Where Biden had despaired of Trump’s inability to fashion a coherent response to a pandemic that has killed a hundred and sixty-five thousand Americans, Harris went further; she held the President directly responsible for the terrible human toll. “This virus has impacted almost every country, but there’s a reason it has hit America worse than any other advanced nation,” she said. “It’s because of Trump’s failure to take it seriously from the start. His refusal to get testing up and running. His flip-flopping on social distancing and wearing masks. His delusional belief that he knows better than the experts. All of that is the reason that an American dies of COVID-19 every eighty seconds.”
That’s what political professionals call prosecuting the case against an incumbent. Harris’s gift for doing this, a talent honed during her long career as an actual prosecutor, explains why many observers thought that she would be a shrewd pick. More surprising, perhaps, was the political awareness and deft touch that her speech displayed—attributes that sometimes seemed to be lacking during her ill-fated primary campaign.
It was Harris’s embrace of “Momala”—the term of affection that her stepchildren use for her—which had social media buzzing. That was a layup. More tricky was her invocation of civil rights to appeal to younger and more progressive voters—she called those protesting for racial justice “heroes of our time”—while also finessing what she had said about Biden during a Democratic debate last June, when she brought up his decades-old record on busing and criticized him for talking about how he coöperated with segregationists early in his Senate career. “The civil-rights struggle is nothing new to Joe,” Harris said on Wednesday. “It’s why he got into public service. It’s why he helped reauthorize the Voting Rights Act and restore employment discrimination laws. And today, he takes his place in the ongoing story of America’s march toward equality and justice—as the only person who served alongside the first Black President, and has chosen the first Black woman as his running mate.”
Clever. According to a report in the Times, Biden’s campaign aides believe that Harris’s presence on the ticket will bolster its appeal with Black and Latino voters and suburban women, and help increase Democratic turnout. In an election in which most of the attention will focus on the Presidential candidates—as usual—that’s a lot to ask of any Vice-Presidential pick, even a historic one like Harris. But on the third day of the Biden-Harris ticket, Team Biden has reason to be encouraged.
As even some progressive groups that supported other candidates in the primaries have fallen behind Biden and Harris, the Democratic Party seems unusually united, and girded for battle. And with a recent Monmouth University poll indicating that Trump is trailing Biden by a massive twenty-nine points among women, the Democratic ticket now includes a formidable female politician who will be taking the President on all the way to November 3rd. If Trump didn’t know that before Wednesday, he does now.


newyorker--2020-08-14--When It’s Safe: The First Week of My Post-Pandemic Social Calendar

9:15 A.M. : Intentionally get in a packed subway car on the way to work .
Find the clammiest , most recently grasped part of the pole to hold , allowing the pole ’ s heat to spread inward from my palm all the way to my heart .
Radiate with warmth for all of humanity .
Rest my head tenderly on the backpack of the guy in front of me who keeps bumping into me , rather than tell him to shove said backpack into one of his body ’ s orifices .
11:45 A.M. : Send an e-mail @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ever corresponded with , including those with whom things ended in tears , inviting them all to my local bar for a last-minute hangout .
7:30 P.M. : At the bar , everyone ideally drinks out of a single trough , as we ignore the fact that the world is still full of numerous easily communicable diseases .
Start a trend of consensual but platonic open-mouth kissing as a way to greet casual friends .
I ’ ve missed everyone so much !
10 A.M. : Split a rideshare to the airport with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ simply eavesdrop on their weird arguments and instead engage them in earnest conversation .
What a pleasure it is to meet new people and hear their opinions !
Maybe they are planning to vote for Kanye West for President—that would be exciting !
Buy a round-trip ticket to a nearby city for that afternoon and insist on being patted down by T.S.A .
agents on both legs of the journey—even though you don ’ t technically have to go through security on the way back—just for the thrill of the physical contact .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ picture for a group of tourists standing seven across and blocking the entire sidewalk .
After noticing that the iPhone they hand me is sticky , wash hands for only thirteen seconds .
When one of the tourists sneezes without covering his mouth , cheerfully say “ Bless you !
” and don ’ t give it another thought .
It ’ s probably fine !
9 P.M. : Meet up with a few close friends for duets-only karaoke , with all songs performed Springsteen-style ( standing cheek to cheek , singing into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ songs with lots of wide-open-mouth whooooooaaaaa moments to really hammer home how safe it is to be out on the town , inhaling and exhaling .
11:35 A.M. : Wait in line for an hour at the brunch place that is always packed—you know , the one that ’ s directly next door to an arguably better brunch place where there is no line .
Eat inside , even though it ’ s one of the three good days all year for outdoor dining and the air conditioning is way too cold for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Breathe in that sweet recycled air .
1:42 P.M. : Take a rideshare home ( no strangers this time—what was I thinking before ? )
, where the only things I ’ m worried about lingering in the air of the Hyundai Elantra are the sound of the driver ’ s mixtape and the smell of the cigarette he was definitely smoking with the windows up immediately before I got in the car .
All day : Open every door I encounter without pulling my sleeve over my hand as some kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all ? )
and operate elevator buttons with the tip of my index finger instead of the knuckle ( that couldn ’ t possibly have done anything , right ? )
.
Give a very dirty look to someone who chooses to stand next to me , instead of in another unoccupied-elevator corner .
Luxuriate in the feeling of being annoyed by a stranger without feeling simultaneously terrified of them .
6 P.M. : Attend political protest with the only danger of respiratory harm being if police decide to shoot tear gas into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pretty likely !
2:30 P.M. : While running errands , duck into an overpriced gift shop to avoid a college acquaintance spotted across the street , who I am worried might easily recognize me now that I ’ m not wearing a mask outdoors .
Realize that I have already grown tired of post-coronavirus small talk .
3:45 P.M. : Become actively offended when a colleague pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer after shaking my hand .
What the hell is this guy ’ s problem ?
10:15 A.M. : Cancel plans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for dinner , in favor of a Zoom call .
7:45 P.M. : Order pizza and watch “ Cheers ” reruns with my wife .
Do not even notice how close together everyone is sitting at the bar onscreen .

Day 1 A.V. (After Vaccine)
9:15 A.M.: Intentionally get in a packed subway car on the way to work. Find the clammiest, most recently grasped part of the pole to hold, allowing the pole’s heat to spread inward from my palm all the way to my heart. Radiate with warmth for all of humanity. Rest my head tenderly on the backpack of the guy in front of me who keeps bumping into me, rather than tell him to shove said backpack into one of his body’s orifices.
11:45 A.M.: Send an e-mail to every single person I’ve ever corresponded with, including those with whom things ended in tears, inviting them all to my local bar for a last-minute hangout.
7:30 P.M.: At the bar, everyone ideally drinks out of a single trough, as we ignore the fact that the world is still full of numerous easily communicable diseases. Start a trend of consensual but platonic open-mouth kissing as a way to greet casual friends. I’ve missed everyone so much!
Day 2 A.V.
10 A.M.: Split a rideshare to the airport with several strangers. Ignore the impulse to simply eavesdrop on their weird arguments and instead engage them in earnest conversation. What a pleasure it is to meet new people and hear their opinions! Maybe they are planning to vote for Kanye West for President—that would be exciting! Buy a round-trip ticket to a nearby city for that afternoon and insist on being patted down by T.S.A. agents on both legs of the journey—even though you don’t technically have to go through security on the way back—just for the thrill of the physical contact.
Day 3 A.V.
1:17 P.M.: Offer to take a picture for a group of tourists standing seven across and blocking the entire sidewalk. After noticing that the iPhone they hand me is sticky, wash hands for only thirteen seconds. When one of the tourists sneezes without covering his mouth, cheerfully say “Bless you!” and don’t give it another thought. It’s probably fine!
9 P.M.: Meet up with a few close friends for duets-only karaoke, with all songs performed Springsteen-style (standing cheek to cheek, singing into a single microphone). Intentionally choose songs with lots of wide-open-mouth whooooooaaaaa moments to really hammer home how safe it is to be out on the town, inhaling and exhaling.
Day 4 A.V.
11:35 A.M.: Wait in line for an hour at the brunch place that is always packed—you know, the one that’s directly next door to an arguably better brunch place where there is no line. Eat inside, even though it’s one of the three good days all year for outdoor dining and the air conditioning is way too cold for the clothes I’m wearing. Breathe in that sweet recycled air.
1:42 P.M.: Take a rideshare home (no strangers this time—what was I thinking before?), where the only things I’m worried about lingering in the air of the Hyundai Elantra are the sound of the driver’s mixtape and the smell of the cigarette he was definitely smoking with the windows up immediately before I got in the car.
Day 5 A.V.
All day: Open every door I encounter without pulling my sleeve over my hand as some kind of contagion prophylactic (did that help at all?) and operate elevator buttons with the tip of my index finger instead of the knuckle (that couldn’t possibly have done anything, right?). Give a very dirty look to someone who chooses to stand next to me, instead of in another unoccupied-elevator corner. Luxuriate in the feeling of being annoyed by a stranger without feeling simultaneously terrified of them.
6 P.M.: Attend political protest with the only danger of respiratory harm being if police decide to shoot tear gas into the crowd for some reason—so, still pretty likely!
Day 6 A.V.
2:30 P.M.: While running errands, duck into an overpriced gift shop to avoid a college acquaintance spotted across the street, who I am worried might easily recognize me now that I’m not wearing a mask outdoors. Realize that I have already grown tired of post-coronavirus small talk.
3:45 P.M.: Become actively offended when a colleague pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer after shaking my hand. What the hell is this guy’s problem?
Day 7 A.V.
10:15 A.M.: Cancel plans to meet up with my best friend for dinner, in favor of a Zoom call.
12 P.M.: Cancel Zoom call with best friend.
7:45 P.M.: Order pizza and watch “Cheers” reruns with my wife. Do not even notice how close together everyone is sitting at the bar onscreen.


newyorker--2020-08-14--Rippers, Brothers, and More of the Rockaways’ Seaside Fare

There is something surreal , almost hallucinatory , about the view of Manhattan as seen from the southernmost end of Flatbush Avenue when leaving the Rockaway Peninsula .
A glimpse of the silvery skyline , just after you ’ ve crossed the Marine Parkway Bridge , inspires astonishment : How can that be mere miles from this ?
The Rockaways , as these blocks and beaches of Queens are known , make up a beach community so incongruous with the rest of the city that being there can feel like one of those dreams in which you find an extra @ @ @ @ @ @ @ name sounds like a fairy tale—which , of course , it ’ s not .
It ’ s a phonetic corruption of a word from the language of the Lenape , an indigenous people decimated by European settlers in the seventeenth century .
The peninsula has a complicated , sometimes ugly history , and no shortage of modern-day problems .
Still , in the summer , it has all the trappings of a genuine seaside retreat , including a serious surf culture and plenty of wonderful things to eat , and safely .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ s no dining format better suited to the global pandemic than boardwalk concessions .
The experience of procuring food from Rippers , a nine-year-old burger stand on the boardwalk at Beach Eighty-sixth Street , was so contactless one recent afternoon that it pushed past impersonal and straight into charming , with the retro appeal of an automat .
Through a crackling speaker embedded in a Plexiglas window , I made selections from a slightly pared-down version of the already streamlined menu .
( No hot dogs this summer , nor specials or soft @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masked employee hollered my name and shoved a bag through a small opening in another window , sliding it shut as I retreated .
In possession of a crisp paper sack full of consummate drive-through-style cheeseburgers ( $ 11 ) —smashed patties , American cheese , pickles , and shredded lettuce on potato buns—plus French fries and ice-cold cans of Coke , I felt , gleefully , like Jughead Jones .
The classic combination was especially winning on a partially shaded bench overlooking surf and sand , the scent of salt and sunscreen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so relaxed I could muster no surprise , only delight , when I bumped into a friend wheeling a vintage bicycle painted a shade of Sunkist orange that matched her Crocs .
She was renting a houseboat on Jamaica Bay for the week ; of course she was , what a brilliant idea .
If I were renting a houseboat on Jamaica Bay , I ’ d ride my bike , at breakfast time , to Brothers , on the boardwalk at Beach 106th Street , for a scrambled egg tucked neatly with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into an English muffin , and a frothy Get Up and Catch It smoothie , made with peach , coconut water , lavender , and banana ( $ 3- $ 12 ) .
The words “ Be patient / with us / with each other / with yourselves ” are scrawled on the Plexiglas there , and on the wooden counter below them , “ BLACK TRANS LIVES MATTER.
” When I got hungry again , I ’ d make a beeline for Caracas , my Rockaways go-to , for Venezuelan arepas ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ m partial to La del Gato , stuffed with ripe avocado , caramelized plantains , and stretchy , salty Guayanés cheese , slathered in the house-made hot sauce—and a passion-fruit juice .
For eating on the sand , arepas , with their tidy compactness and tropical vibes , are the perfect food .
If you prefer to imagine your lunch was caught just offshore ( there ’ s a big fishing scene out here , though it ’ s mostly catch and release ) , High 97 , at Beach Ninety-seventh , offers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , plus a foot-operated hand-sanitizer pump and a framed head shot of Anthony Fauci .
For a seafood cornucopia , there is Rockaway Clam Bar , a seasonal offshoot of Red Hook Lobster Pound , on the more bucolic beach at Jacob Riis Park .
The menu features standards including fried clams , fish tacos , and cold peeled shrimp to dip in cocktail sauce , zesty with horseradish ( $ 6- $ 22 ) .
The dish that lingers in my mind , weeks later , is the fried Brussels sprouts drizzled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , lemongrass , ginger , and Thai chili , as unexpected as the Rockaways .
♦

There is something surreal, almost hallucinatory, about the view of Manhattan as seen from the southernmost end of Flatbush Avenue when leaving the Rockaway Peninsula. A glimpse of the silvery skyline, just after you’ve crossed the Marine Parkway Bridge, inspires astonishment: How can that be mere miles from this? The Rockaways, as these blocks and beaches of Queens are known, make up a beach community so incongruous with the rest of the city that being there can feel like one of those dreams in which you find an extra room in your apartment.
Though the Rockaway boardwalk concessions are naturally pandemic-friendly—open-air, counter service only—a host of extra precautions have been taken. Photograph by Myesha Evon for The New Yorker
Even the name sounds like a fairy tale—which, of course, it’s not. It’s a phonetic corruption of a word from the language of the Lenape, an indigenous people decimated by European settlers in the seventeenth century. The peninsula has a complicated, sometimes ugly history, and no shortage of modern-day problems. Still, in the summer, it has all the trappings of a genuine seaside retreat, including a serious surf culture and plenty of wonderful things to eat, and safely. It’s possible that there’s no dining format better suited to the global pandemic than boardwalk concessions.
The experience of procuring food from Rippers, a nine-year-old burger stand on the boardwalk at Beach Eighty-sixth Street, was so contactless one recent afternoon that it pushed past impersonal and straight into charming, with the retro appeal of an automat. Through a crackling speaker embedded in a Plexiglas window, I made selections from a slightly pared-down version of the already streamlined menu. (No hot dogs this summer, nor specials or soft serve.) Minutes later, a masked employee hollered my name and shoved a bag through a small opening in another window, sliding it shut as I retreated.
The slightly pared-down menu at Rippers includes “beach juice,” a frozen sangria. Photograph by Myesha Evon for The New Yorker
In possession of a crisp paper sack full of consummate drive-through-style cheeseburgers ($11)—smashed patties, American cheese, pickles, and shredded lettuce on potato buns—plus French fries and ice-cold cans of Coke, I felt, gleefully, like Jughead Jones. The classic combination was especially winning on a partially shaded bench overlooking surf and sand, the scent of salt and sunscreen in the air, where I was so relaxed I could muster no surprise, only delight, when I bumped into a friend wheeling a vintage bicycle painted a shade of Sunkist orange that matched her Crocs. She was renting a houseboat on Jamaica Bay for the week; of course she was, what a brilliant idea.
A spread from Rockaway Clam Bar, clockwise from bottom: fried-clam basket; fish tacos; crispy Brussels sprouts with lobster caramel; peeled shrimp with cocktail sauce. Photograph by Myesha Evon for The New Yorker
If I were renting a houseboat on Jamaica Bay, I’d ride my bike, at breakfast time, to Brothers, on the boardwalk at Beach 106th Street, for a scrambled egg tucked neatly with pesto, Cheddar, and radish microgreens into an English muffin, and a frothy Get Up and Catch It smoothie, made with peach, coconut water, lavender, and banana ($3-$12). The words “Be patient / with us / with each other / with yourselves” are scrawled on the Plexiglas there, and on the wooden counter below them, “BLACK TRANS LIVES MATTER.” When I got hungry again, I’d make a beeline for Caracas, my Rockaways go-to, for Venezuelan arepas ($9-$11)—I’m partial to La del Gato, stuffed with ripe avocado, caramelized plantains, and stretchy, salty Guayanés cheese, slathered in the house-made hot sauce—and a passion-fruit juice.
A Rippers employee eating a burger on his break. Photograph by Myesha Evon for The New Yorker
For eating on the sand, arepas, with their tidy compactness and tropical vibes, are the perfect food. If you prefer to imagine your lunch was caught just offshore (there’s a big fishing scene out here, though it’s mostly catch and release), High 97, at Beach Ninety-seventh, offers fish and chips ($16), plus a foot-operated hand-sanitizer pump and a framed head shot of Anthony Fauci. For a seafood cornucopia, there is Rockaway Clam Bar, a seasonal offshoot of Red Hook Lobster Pound, on the more bucolic beach at Jacob Riis Park. The menu features standards including fried clams, fish tacos, and cold peeled shrimp to dip in cocktail sauce, zesty with horseradish ($6-$22). The dish that lingers in my mind, weeks later, is the fried Brussels sprouts drizzled in a caramel made with lobster stock, lemongrass, ginger, and Thai chili, as unexpected as the Rockaways. ♦
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newyorker--2020-08-14--Homeschooling with Aunt Lil in the Summer of ’68

When I was seven years old , in 1962 , death parked its car in my family ’ s driveway .
My mother died suddenly , of a heart attack ; my aunt Lil ’ s husband soon followed , then my aunt Belle ’ s husband , then my father ’ s parents , and then our poodle , Nicky .
My sister Betsy , ten years older than I , went off to college , leaving my middle sister , Margaret , and me in Westchester with our affectionate but terminally irresponsible father .
One of the only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , who lived in Manhattan , on Park Avenue and Thirty-Seventh Street .
She was my mother ’ s older sister and , in 1932 , fled their home town of Cincinnati fresh out of nursing school .
She struggled financially for years until the age of forty , when , while working upstate as a nurse at a resort on Loon Lake , she fell in love with one of the clientele , a wealthy accountant , my uncle Lou .
She was at last able to leave her walkup apartment , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into a doorman building in Murray Hill .
After Uncle Lou died , of pancreatic cancer , Aunt Lil , having no children of her own , devoted herself to her nieces and nephew .
With her long , straight brown hair loosely piled on top of her head in a modified Gibson Girl coiffure and her slim , angular Katharine Hepburn figure , to me , she was like Glinda the Good Witch in a Pauline Trigère suit .
She had bought the Westchester house , in Hartsdale , for my mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ widowed , Lil arranged for Belle to move in with Margaret and my father and me .
It was a smart idea , in theory .
Aunt Belle needed a new life and a place to live , and Margaret and I would benefit from her maternal presence ; her salary , as a dietician , could help with household expenses , and she could keep my wayward father on track .
A year or so later , Daddy , having run through the ranks of divorcées and widows in Parents Without Partners @ @ @ @ @ @ @ role in my life became limited to that of a special guest star .
Aunt Belle , Margaret , and I settled into various degrees of despair and irritability .
In 1968 , when I was fourteen and finishing eighth grade , Aunt Lil took the train from Grand Central Terminal , and then a taxi , to attend Parents ’ Day at my school .
In my classes , I had retreated into a kind of invisibility : I had abilities in visual art , playwriting , and acting , but none @ @ @ @ @ @ @ High .
That afternoon , Aunt Lil received quite an education : each of my teachers reported that I seemed to exist in a dream world , failing every exam .
My math teacher , Mrs .
Brewer , was particularly vituperative .
She fancied herself something of a wisecrack-comedian , performing for her entrapped student audience , and my look of blank incomprehension at her snappy algebra lessons brought out a nasty edge .
The school , Aunt Lil was told , had no choice but to recommend that I repeat the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ confronted me with the harsh sentence .
She asked to see my notebook , and when she opened it , instead of notes on math , biology , or social studies , she found ink-filled pages , almost solid blue with doodles .
In those final weeks of classes , I had occupied myself by drawing the great mod beauties of the day—Jean Shrimpton , Penelope Tree , Julie Christie—and cutting out small pieces of the drawings , with the sharp tip of my pen , to create elaborate lacework .
Aunt Lil @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but I could sense her shock .
She had no idea that things had got so out of hand .
I had convinced Aunt Lil that Aunt Belle had seen my report cards—and convinced Aunt Belle that Aunt Lil had seen the report cards .
Now the truth was out .
Aunt Lil went to the principal of Ardsley High and proposed that I attend summer school in Manhattan , where she could supervise me .
If I passed my exams , she asserted , then I should be allowed to proceed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my class .
The school complied with her plan , and by mid-June I was in residence at 50 Park Avenue .
Aunt Lil moved into the dining alcove and gave me the only bedroom .
I took summer-school classes in an office building next door to Ohrbach ’ s department store , but the more important lessons were learned at home .
Aunt Lil and I settled into a routine : we would sit side by side , with my school books opened before us .
Aunt Lil would begin reading aloud @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would slump over , fast asleep .
She would go into the kitchen , return with a cold compress , and hold it to my forehead while we proceeded through the text .
( Aunt Lil had trained as a nurse , and , though she had left the medical profession before her marriage , her instincts were bone-deep . )
Together , we tackled each work of fiction on my assigned summer reading list .
We discussed the psychology of the characters in “ The Old Curiosity Shop ” and “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lil was unerring in her understanding of human behavior .
In our studies , slipped between facts on photosynthesis and the Jamestown colony , were such essential Aunt Lillian axioms as “ From the moment we are born , we have to stretch our necks and pull ourselves upward .
Gravity is our enemy ” and “ You can learn everything you need to know about a woman by how she applies her lipstick.
” Aunt Lil could fix a broken radio , teach herself French and German , and create magnificent medieval @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her senior play .
The only thing she couldn ’ t do was cook .
The base of every dish she prepared for dinner was a can of cream-of-mushroom soup , which she would pour over stringy sautéed chicken legs or frozen-fish croquettes .
One Sunday morning , I craved pancakes , and somehow—I don ’ t know what Aunt Lil did wrong—they rose in the cast-iron frying pan , almost an inch high .
She took a large wooden mallet from the drawer and began pounding them like they were paillards of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but as stiff as a freshly starched dress shirt .
We slathered them with butter and syrup , which did little to help them .
“ You could kill Hitler with these pancakes , ” Aunt Lil was forced to admit .
There were a dozen delicate African violets growing in small pots on the marble-topped table , and Aunt Lil insisted that I water and feed them .
She explained that the tiniest seedlings , insects , and even the smallest cells in the human body played a role in the great @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to me : I had to view myself as part of the world .
To this end , Aunt Lil had us read together the front page of the Times each morning .
This was the summer of the assassinations of Martin Luther King , Jr. , and Robert Kennedy ; the March on Washington ; the violence at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago ; and the ongoing war in Vietnam .
Aunt Lil took me with her to an antiwar march down Fifth Avenue .
I was the only kid in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ star of an M-G-M musical parade number , until a red-faced bystander bellowed at Aunt Lil , “ Commie bitch , get your brat outta here !
”

When I was fourteen and failing eighth grade, my aunt Lil conducted a rehabilitation program from her Manhattan apartment. Art work by Charles Busch
When I was seven years old, in 1962, death parked its car in my family’s driveway. My mother died suddenly, of a heart attack; my aunt Lil’s husband soon followed, then my aunt Belle’s husband, then my father’s parents, and then our poodle, Nicky. My sister Betsy, ten years older than I, went off to college, leaving my middle sister, Margaret, and me in Westchester with our affectionate but terminally irresponsible father.
One of the only constants in my life was Aunt Lil, who lived in Manhattan, on Park Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street. She was my mother’s older sister and, in 1932, fled their home town of Cincinnati fresh out of nursing school. She struggled financially for years until the age of forty, when, while working upstate as a nurse at a resort on Loon Lake, she fell in love with one of the clientele, a wealthy accountant, my uncle Lou. She was at last able to leave her walkup apartment, on West Sixty-ninth Street, and move into a doorman building in Murray Hill. After Uncle Lou died, of pancreatic cancer, Aunt Lil, having no children of her own, devoted herself to her nieces and nephew.
With her long, straight brown hair loosely piled on top of her head in a modified Gibson Girl coiffure and her slim, angular Katharine Hepburn figure, to me, she was like Glinda the Good Witch in a Pauline Trigère suit. She had bought the Westchester house, in Hartsdale, for my mother, and, after Aunt Belle was widowed, Lil arranged for Belle to move in with Margaret and my father and me. It was a smart idea, in theory. Aunt Belle needed a new life and a place to live, and Margaret and I would benefit from her maternal presence; her salary, as a dietician, could help with household expenses, and she could keep my wayward father on track. A year or so later, Daddy, having run through the ranks of divorcées and widows in Parents Without Partners, remarried and moved away. His role in my life became limited to that of a special guest star. Aunt Belle, Margaret, and I settled into various degrees of despair and irritability.
In 1968, when I was fourteen and finishing eighth grade, Aunt Lil took the train from Grand Central Terminal, and then a taxi, to attend Parents’ Day at my school. In my classes, I had retreated into a kind of invisibility: I had abilities in visual art, playwriting, and acting, but none of those interests were encouraged at Ardsley High. That afternoon, Aunt Lil received quite an education: each of my teachers reported that I seemed to exist in a dream world, failing every exam. My math teacher, Mrs. Brewer, was particularly vituperative. She fancied herself something of a wisecrack-comedian, performing for her entrapped student audience, and my look of blank incomprehension at her snappy algebra lessons brought out a nasty edge. The school, Aunt Lil was told, had no choice but to recommend that I repeat the grade.
At home, Aunt Lil confronted me with the harsh sentence. She asked to see my notebook, and when she opened it, instead of notes on math, biology, or social studies, she found ink-filled pages, almost solid blue with doodles. In those final weeks of classes, I had occupied myself by drawing the great mod beauties of the day—Jean Shrimpton, Penelope Tree, Julie Christie—and cutting out small pieces of the drawings, with the sharp tip of my pen, to create elaborate lacework. Aunt Lil’s face remained admirably calm, but I could sense her shock. She had no idea that things had got so out of hand. I had convinced Aunt Lil that Aunt Belle had seen my report cards—and convinced Aunt Belle that Aunt Lil had seen the report cards. Now the truth was out.
Aunt Lil went to the principal of Ardsley High and proposed that I attend summer school in Manhattan, where she could supervise me. If I passed my exams, she asserted, then I should be allowed to proceed to the ninth grade with the rest of my class. The school complied with her plan, and by mid-June I was in residence at 50 Park Avenue. Aunt Lil moved into the dining alcove and gave me the only bedroom.
I took summer-school classes in an office building next door to Ohrbach’s department store, but the more important lessons were learned at home. Aunt Lil and I settled into a routine: we would sit side by side, with my school books opened before us. Aunt Lil would begin reading aloud to me, and within minutes I would slump over, fast asleep. She would go into the kitchen, return with a cold compress, and hold it to my forehead while we proceeded through the text. (Aunt Lil had trained as a nurse, and, though she had left the medical profession before her marriage, her instincts were bone-deep.) Together, we tackled each work of fiction on my assigned summer reading list. We discussed the psychology of the characters in “The Old Curiosity Shop” and “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”; Aunt Lil was unerring in her understanding of human behavior. In our studies, slipped between facts on photosynthesis and the Jamestown colony, were such essential Aunt Lillian axioms as “From the moment we are born, we have to stretch our necks and pull ourselves upward. Gravity is our enemy” and “You can learn everything you need to know about a woman by how she applies her lipstick.”
Aunt Lil could fix a broken radio, teach herself French and German, and create magnificent medieval costumes for my sister to wear in her senior play. The only thing she couldn’t do was cook. The base of every dish she prepared for dinner was a can of cream-of-mushroom soup, which she would pour over stringy sautéed chicken legs or frozen-fish croquettes. One Sunday morning, I craved pancakes, and somehow—I don’t know what Aunt Lil did wrong—they rose in the cast-iron frying pan, almost an inch high. She took a large wooden mallet from the drawer and began pounding them like they were paillards of veal. This made the pancakes thinner but as stiff as a freshly starched dress shirt. We slathered them with butter and syrup, which did little to help them. “You could kill Hitler with these pancakes,” Aunt Lil was forced to admit.


newyorker--2020-08-14--A Taste of Venice with the Frick’s “Cocktails with a Curator”

Nonessential travel from New York to Venice is off limits , but the Frick has a festive alternative .
On @ @ @ @ @ weekly online series “ Cocktails with a Curator , ” Xavier F. Salomon discusses a @ @ @ @ @ Pietro Aretino by the Venetian painter Tiziano Vecellio , a.k.a .
Titian .
Viewers are @ @ @ @ @ version of a popular drink named for another Italian Old Master , Giovanni Bellini .
@ @ @ @ @ prosecco and peach juice ; use red grape juice instead and—cin cin !
—it ’ @ @ @ @

Nonessential travel from New York to Venice is off limits, but the Frick has a festive alternative. On Aug. 21, during its weekly online series “Cocktails with a Curator,” Xavier F. Salomon discusses a portrait of the Renaissance writer Pietro Aretino by the Venetian painter Tiziano Vecellio, a.k.a. Titian. Viewers are invited to mix a Titian-inspired version of a popular drink named for another Italian Old Master, Giovanni Bellini. A classic Bellini calls for prosecco and peach juice; use red grape juice instead and—cin cin!—it’s a Tiziano.


newyorker--2020-08-14--China’s Arrest of a Free-Speech Icon Backfires in Hong Kong

Last September , when I was in Hong Kong reporting on the anti-government protests engulfing the city , I spent an afternoon in the industrial-looking headquarters of Apple Daily , a popular tabloid owned by perhaps the city ’ s most unusual tycoon , an outspoken democracy activist and one of the Communist Party ’ s leading critics .
To meet Jimmy Lai , I walked through the publication ’ s vast open-plan office , where hundreds of staff members busily put out the day ’ s news .
“ When I went into the publishing business , twenty-five years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Lai told me in his office , which resembled the appearance of its owner : determinedly functional and , unusually for Hong Kong , absent of status markers .
“ Information is freedom , and I wanted to be in the business of delivering freedom.
” Lai admitted that back then he hardly thought this was a risky proposition .
“ I believed that all of China was going forward , that it was inevitable China would adapt to openness.
” On Monday morning , Lai , who is seventy-two , was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on Kowloon and later paraded , in handcuffs , through the newsroom of Apple Daily , where I had interviewed him a year earlier .
Among the nine others arrested across the city that day were Agnes Chow , the twenty-three-year-old democracy activist , Lai ’ s two sons , and four executives of Lai ’ s media company , Next Digital , which publishes Apple Daily .
The ostensible charge against Lai is “ collusion with a foreign country.
” In July , 2019 , Lai travelled to the U.S. and met @ @ @ @ @ @ @ State Mike Pompeo in Washington .
In his meeting with the American officials , Lai discussed the imperilled state of Hong Kong ’ s autonomy and the large street protests under way at the time .
The meeting infuriated Communist Party officials in Beijing , who unilaterally ratified a sweeping new security law in June .
Under that new measure , prosecutors could declare Lai ’ s meetings in Washington “ collusion , ” punishable by life in prison .
As the most high-profile case under the Draconian new law , Lai ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Over the years , the singularity of Lai ’ s status and his consistent refusal to bow to the Party has frustrated the regime to the extent that it launched vilification campaigns denouncing him as a “ traitor , ” “ running dog to the Americans , ” “ black hand , ” and the most senior member of the “ gang of four , ” a reference to the reviled quartet who conspired to usurp power from Mao Zedong during the Cultural Revolution .
Monday ’ s arrest was Lai ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In February , he was arrested on charges of “ unauthorized assembly ” for his participation in an earlier protest .
The same happened again in April .
If Chinese national-security officials had hoped to make an example out of Lai to cow dissenters— “ kill the chicken to scare the monkey , ” as the Chinese saying goes—it failed .
Instead of demoralizing Lai ’ s employees and supporters , the arrest of the publisher reinvigorated the unapologetic defiance among workers at Apple Daily and democracy activists .
Reporters did not need @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; the city ’ s most significant newsbreak took place inside the paper ’ s headquarters .
“ Apple will definitely keep fighting , ” the paper announced in a front-page headline on Tuesday , after Lai was taken into police custody .
The paper published nearly thirty articles about the arrest , covering everything from the legality of the government ’ s actions and the worldwide condemnation it sparked to the fate of press freedom in Hong Kong .
In an op-ed , the popular columnist Lee Yee called the arrest “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ National Security Law really has nothing to do with the so-called threat to Hong Kong posed by independence activists , or by those who supposedly want to dismember the Fatherland.
” Instead , Lee wrote , the goal of the new law was the “ brutal and overt repression of the rights and freedoms enjoyed by the people of Hong Kong as a whole.
” Inexplicably , Chinese officials chose to arrest Lai in a manner that created a powerful visual for the world to see .
First , two hundred police officers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
As stunned employees looked on and broadcast the scene on Facebook Live , officers searched through desks and seized more than thirty crates of files .
Instead of projecting government strength , the brazen attempt at intimidation reinforced the notion that Beijing must resort to bare-knuckle coercion .
After the raid , Apple Daily announced on Facebook that it would produce five hundred and fifty thousand copies the following day—an eightfold increase from its normal circulation .
In response , the paper ’ s supporters swiftly rallied , lining up at 2:00 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bought copies in bulk and placed them in public places , with handwritten notes urging others to take them .
By 9:00 A.M. , some shops had sold out .
Fittingly , the stock market in a former colony that had achieved prosperity through freewheeling capitalism sent a political message .
The share price of Next Digital reached a twelve-year high , rising more than eleven hundred per cent in Hong Kong this week .
Yet Lai ’ s fate may have already been sealed .
Global Times , a nationalistic state-backed paper @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tian Feilong praising Lai ’ s arrest and saying that , under the new law , “ the legal boundaries have become much clearer.
” He added , “ Considering his infamous behavior , it ’ s highly possible that Lai would face a severe sentence , and life imprisonment can ’ t be ruled out.
” The Australian scholar of Chinese history Geremie Barmé told me that the arrest of Lai marked the growth of “ Legalistic-Fascist-Stalinism , ” a term coined by the former Tsinghua University law professor Xu Zhangrun , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have long rankled the state .
Barmé called the use of the new security law to stifle press freedom an autocrat ’ s tactic of repression .
“ Jimmy Lai and the Apple Daily may just be the beginning , ” Barmé told me .
“ The law here is a weapon of the regime , designed to legitimize the ruler rather than protect the citizenry.
” I asked Mark Simon , an American executive at Next Digital , who is also being sought by the Hong Kong police , how it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his actions in Washington in 2019—a year before the new national-security law took effect , this July 1st .
“ They are calling it ‘ causation , ’ ” Simon told me , with a sigh .
“ If you did something , it ’ s on you .
And , really , the law is designed to nail people like him , so it ’ ll find the space to make the logic work.
” Simon , who had returned to the U.S. prior to Lai ’ s arrest , took pride @ @ @ @ @ @ @ press freedom .
“ Jimmy has always been a fighter , ” he said , even as he acknowledged that Lai faces a lengthy jail sentence .
Of course , this is a prospect that Lai had been anticipating for some time .
“ What China wants in Hong Kong is a capitalistic city without the concept of politics ; what China wants in its citizens is a body that responds reflexively to fear , ” he told me last September .
Fear might be the Communist Party ’ s most powerful weapon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Party ’ s only weapon .
“ Contrary to what they might think , I don ’ t hate the Party , ” Lai said , with a shrug .
“ I just don ’ t fear them .
”

Last September, when I was in Hong Kong reporting on the anti-government protests engulfing the city, I spent an afternoon in the industrial-looking headquarters of Apple Daily, a popular tabloid owned by perhaps the city’s most unusual tycoon, an outspoken democracy activist and one of the Communist Party’s leading critics. To meet Jimmy Lai, I walked through the publication’s vast open-plan office, where hundreds of staff members busily put out the day’s news. “When I went into the publishing business, twenty-five years ago, it was a no-brainer,” Lai told me in his office, which resembled the appearance of its owner: determinedly functional and, unusually for Hong Kong, absent of status markers. “Information is freedom, and I wanted to be in the business of delivering freedom.” Lai admitted that back then he hardly thought this was a risky proposition. “I believed that all of China was going forward, that it was inevitable China would adapt to openness.”
On Monday morning, Lai, who is seventy-two, was taken into police custody at his home on Kowloon and later paraded, in handcuffs, through the newsroom of Apple Daily, where I had interviewed him a year earlier. Among the nine others arrested across the city that day were Agnes Chow, the twenty-three-year-old democracy activist, Lai’s two sons, and four executives of Lai’s media company, Next Digital, which publishes Apple Daily. The ostensible charge against Lai is “collusion with a foreign country.”
In July, 2019, Lai travelled to the U.S. and met with Vice-President Mike Pence and Secretary of State Mike Pompeo in Washington. In his meeting with the American officials, Lai discussed the imperilled state of Hong Kong’s autonomy and the large street protests under way at the time. The meeting infuriated Communist Party officials in Beijing, who unilaterally ratified a sweeping new security law in June. Under that new measure, prosecutors could declare Lai’s meetings in Washington “collusion,” punishable by life in prison.
As the most high-profile case under the draconian new law, Lai’s arrest is both sobering and predictable. Over the years, the singularity of Lai’s status and his consistent refusal to bow to the Party has frustrated the regime to the extent that it launched vilification campaigns denouncing him as a “traitor,” “running dog to the Americans,” “black hand,” and the most senior member of the “gang of four,” a reference to the reviled quartet who conspired to usurp power from Mao Zedong during the Cultural Revolution. Monday’s arrest was Lai’s third detention in six months. In February, he was arrested on charges of “unauthorized assembly” for his participation in an earlier protest. The same happened again in April.
If Chinese national-security officials had hoped to make an example out of Lai to cow dissenters—“kill the chicken to scare the monkey,” as the Chinese saying goes—it failed. Instead of demoralizing Lai’s employees and supporters, the arrest of the publisher reinvigorated the unapologetic defiance among workers at Apple Daily and democracy activists. Reporters did not need to go out to look for stories; the city’s most significant newsbreak took place inside the paper’s headquarters. “Apple will definitely keep fighting,” the paper announced in a front-page headline on Tuesday, after Lai was taken into police custody. The paper published nearly thirty articles about the arrest, covering everything from the legality of the government’s actions and the worldwide condemnation it sparked to the fate of press freedom in Hong Kong. In an op-ed, the popular columnist Lee Yee called the arrest “incontrovertible evidence that the imposition of the National Security Law really has nothing to do with the so-called threat to Hong Kong posed by independence activists, or by those who supposedly want to dismember the Fatherland.” Instead, Lee wrote, the goal of the new law was the “brutal and overt repression of the rights and freedoms enjoyed by the people of Hong Kong as a whole.”
Inexplicably, Chinese officials chose to arrest Lai in a manner that created a powerful visual for the world to see. First, two hundred police officers arrived in Apple Daily’s headquarters. As stunned employees looked on and broadcast the scene on Facebook Live, officers searched through desks and seized more than thirty crates of files. Instead of projecting government strength, the brazen attempt at intimidation reinforced the notion that Beijing must resort to bare-knuckle coercion.
After the raid, Apple Daily announced on Facebook that it would produce five hundred and fifty thousand copies the following day—an eightfold increase from its normal circulation. In response, the paper’s supporters swiftly rallied, lining up at 2:00 A.M. to purchase the paper. Supporters bought copies in bulk and placed them in public places, with handwritten notes urging others to take them. By 9:00 A.M., some shops had sold out. Fittingly, the stock market in a former colony that had achieved prosperity through freewheeling capitalism sent a political message. The share price of Next Digital reached a twelve-year high, rising more than eleven hundred per cent in Hong Kong this week.
Yet Lai’s fate may have already been sealed. Global Times, a nationalistic state-backed paper, quoted the pro-government Chinese legal scholar Tian Feilong praising Lai’s arrest and saying that, under the new law, “the legal boundaries have become much clearer.” He added, “Considering his infamous behavior, it’s highly possible that Lai would face a severe sentence, and life imprisonment can’t be ruled out.”
The Australian scholar of Chinese history Geremie Barmé told me that the arrest of Lai marked the growth of “Legalistic-Fascist-Stalinism,” a term coined by the former Tsinghua University law professor Xu Zhangrun, whose candid criticisms of the Communist Party have long rankled the state. Barmé called the use of the new security law to stifle press freedom an autocrat’s tactic of repression. “Jimmy Lai and the Apple Daily may just be the beginning,” Barmé told me. “The law here is a weapon of the regime, designed to legitimize the ruler rather than protect the citizenry.” I asked Mark Simon, an American executive at Next Digital, who is also being sought by the Hong Kong police, how it was possible for prosecutors to charge Lai for his actions in Washington in 2019—a year before the new national-security law took effect, this July 1st. “They are calling it ‘causation,’ ” Simon told me, with a sigh. “If you did something, it’s on you. And, really, the law is designed to nail people like him, so it’ll find the space to make the logic work.” Simon, who had returned to the U.S. prior to Lai’s arrest, took pride in Apple Daily’s unequivocal stance on press freedom. “Jimmy has always been a fighter,” he said, even as he acknowledged that Lai faces a lengthy jail sentence.
Of course, this is a prospect that Lai had been anticipating for some time. “What China wants in Hong Kong is a capitalistic city without the concept of politics; what China wants in its citizens is a body that responds reflexively to fear,” he told me last September. Fear might be the Communist Party’s most powerful weapon, but it’s also the Party’s only weapon. “Contrary to what they might think, I don’t hate the Party,” Lai said, with a shrug. “I just don’t fear them.”