newyorker--2020-03-19--Quarantine Tips from My Cat

Quarantine Tips from My Cat

Sleep—anywhere .
On or beneath the bed , in a sunny spot , under the covers , by the window , upside-down , on the couch , in the middle of the floor , on top of the refrigerator , in the closet , on your back , in a ball , in a box .
Knock a bunch of coins or small bottles off a table to see how far they bounce and roll .
Chase your own tail .
Sprawl on top of a good book .
Get scared by something—anything—and race out of the room .
Clean @ @ @ @ @ @ @ again .
Start screaming at 6 A.M. , for no reason , at anyone within hearing distance .
Yowl at the birds .
Walk across ( or lie down on ) a computer keyboard .
Cry in front of the closed door to a room you ’ re not supposed to be in anyway .
Bite a phone .
Yell into your full bowl of food .
Eat small meals , three to fourteen times a day .
Dump food onto the floor for variety .
Put your entire hand in a bowl @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s not what you want .
Steal a piece of turkey from an unattended sandwich .
Hide all of your toys under the couch .
Shred loose pieces of paper .
Pull apart your roommate ’ s chair .
Rub your hair on every article of clothing you can find .
Shit in a box and then completely cover it up .
Stare at a spot on the wall or ceiling for six minutes .
Stay away from humans .
Hiss if you have to .

Get plenty of rest.
Sleep—anywhere. On or beneath the bed, in a sunny spot, under the covers, by the window, upside-down, on the couch, in the middle of the floor, on top of the refrigerator, in the closet, on your back, in a ball, in a box.
Keep active.
Knock a bunch of coins or small bottles off a table to see how far they bounce and roll. Chase your own tail. Sprawl on top of a good book. Get scared by something—anything—and race out of the room.
Bathe regularly.
Clean behind your ears. Now do it again.
Communicate with friends and family.
Start screaming at 6 A.M., for no reason, at anyone within hearing distance. Yowl at the birds. Walk across (or lie down on) a computer keyboard. Cry in front of the closed door to a room you’re not supposed to be in anyway. Bite a phone. Yell into your full bowl of food.
Maintain a balanced diet.
Eat small meals, three to fourteen times a day. Dump food onto the floor for variety. Put your entire hand in a bowl of popcorn but then decide it’s not what you want. Steal a piece of turkey from an unattended sandwich.
Stay hydrated.
Drink plenty of water, ideally directly from a running faucet.
Take on a project.
Hide all of your toys under the couch. Shred loose pieces of paper. Pull apart your roommate’s chair. Rub your hair on every article of clothing you can find. Shit in a box and then completely cover it up.
Meditate.
Stare at a spot on the wall or ceiling for six minutes.
Practice social distancing.
Stay away from humans. Hiss if you have to.


newyorker--2020-03-19--Against the Idea of the Coronavirus as Metaphor

In retrospect—in the rueful retrospect we are living in already—we ’ ll say that the virus was there all along , in the circumstances that enabled it to spread .
It was there in a globally integrated society of travel , work , and commerce , the connecting and conveying powers of which far outstripped the capacity of our health systems to deal with their effects and challenged our willingness to reckon with the downsides of such integration .
But it was there , too , in the language and imagery of viruses , which has been commonplace in our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ much so that the ubiquity of virus as metaphor may have left many of us unprepared to recognize and fear the lethal literal viruses circulating among us , and to prepare ourselves and our societies against them .
It was there in the computer virus : the notion that the snags and missed connections and bits of botched code in our computers behaved virally , spreading through the system , or the network , to countless individual machines .
So we bought and installed virus-protection software and watched as it was updated , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ box , how many tens of thousands of viruses it had successfully blocked .
It was also there in the journalism and nonfiction literature that adapted the modelling techniques of social science ( and its emerging application , Big Data ) to explain everyday phenomena , seeing the way a virus multiplies as a pattern to be marvelled at and sought after .
We learned about the epidemiological curve and the inflection point where it tips into epidemic , and we saw how such models could explain everything from the renovation of our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to social life generally .
As the interpretive idea of the epidemic took hold—spread , we would say—we learned of the wisdom of crowds , the value of indiscriminate sharing , and the power of friction-free networks through which information moved seemingly unhindered .
It was there , most blithely , as an expression of the reach and spontaneity of social media .
We watched as cat videos , practical jokes , blunders , over-the-shoulder half-court shots , and celebrity meltdowns all went “ viral.
” And it was there in the notion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ viral were to be celebrated , cultivated , compensated , imitated .
The term devised for them—we realize , in rueful retrospect—has a distinct echo of the worst virus of modern times , the influenza pandemic of 1918 .
They were called influencers .
It was there , finally , in our national political life .
The man who holds the office of President is said to be fearful of actual germs , but he has a gut-level attraction to notions that can go viral—and a seeming addiction to Twitter , the digital @ @ @ @ @ @ @ notions go viral more swiftly and broadly than any other .
As an actual virus , the coronavirus known as COVID-19 , first developed and spread , he twiddled his thumbs , so to speak , pumping out messages about political rivals , people he dislikes , and friends he may favor with clemency—and about the virus , which , he said , was inflamed by the “ Fake News Media.
” In “ Illness as Metaphor , ” first published in the New York Review of Books , in 1978 , Susan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with diseases—tuberculosis and cancer , in particular—and how they were applied to sick people so relentlessly that they sometimes obscured the nature of the illnesses .
It was said , at the turn of the last century , that people contracted TB due to “ too much passion , ” whereas , half a century later , people were said to get cancer due to psychological repression or “ insufficient passion.
” Sontag wrote , “ My point is that illness is not a metaphor , and that the most truthful way of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ill—is one most purified of , most resistant to , metaphoric thinking.
” In “ AIDS and Its Metaphors , ” from 1989 , she brought the same conviction to the AIDS epidemic , showing how , as the dominant metaphors had it , people became ill because they were prone to “ moral laxity or turpitude , ” and that the disease was a divine punishment .
She concluded , “ With this illness , one that elicits so much guilt and shame , the effort to detach it from loaded meanings @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even consoling.
” Sontag ’ s work suggests that metaphors of illness are malign in a double way : they cast opprobrium on sick people and they hinder the rational and scientific apprehension that is needed to contain disease and provide care for people .
To treat illness as a metaphor is to avoid or delay or even thwart the treatment of literal illness .
Our own situation is different , but not unrelated .
Rather than applying societal metaphors to illness , we ’ ve applied illness metaphors to society , stripping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ process .
It may be that our fondness for virus as metaphor has made it difficult for us to see viruses as potentially dangerous , even lethal , biological phenomena .
In turn , our disinclination to see viruses as literal may have kept us from insisting on and observing the standards and practices that would prevent their spread .
Enthralled with virus as metaphor and the terms associated with it—spread , growth , reach , connectedness—we ceased to be vigilant .
Jetting around the world , we stopped washing our hands .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ going to see a profusion of metaphorical interpretations of the coronavirus .
We ’ ll be tempted to make them ourselves .
But we must keep in mind the need for language to function in a literal sense , so that we can think clearly as we respond to the COVID-19 virus .
• None How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• None How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• None What it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ outbreak .
• None How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• None Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• None The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• None We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• None The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

In retrospect—in the rueful retrospect we are living in already—we’ll say that the virus was there all along, in the circumstances that enabled it to spread. It was there in a globally integrated society of travel, work, and commerce, the connecting and conveying powers of which far outstripped the capacity of our health systems to deal with their effects and challenged our willingness to reckon with the downsides of such integration. But it was there, too, in the language and imagery of viruses, which has been commonplace in our society for a couple of decades now—so much so that the ubiquity of virus as metaphor may have left many of us unprepared to recognize and fear the lethal literal viruses circulating among us, and to prepare ourselves and our societies against them.
It was there in the computer virus: the notion that the snags and missed connections and bits of botched code in our computers behaved virally, spreading through the system, or the network, to countless individual machines. So we bought and installed virus-protection software and watched as it was updated, showing us, in a little onscreen box, how many tens of thousands of viruses it had successfully blocked.
It was also there in the journalism and nonfiction literature that adapted the modelling techniques of social science (and its emerging application, Big Data) to explain everyday phenomena, seeing the way a virus multiplies as a pattern to be marvelled at and sought after. We learned about the epidemiological curve and the inflection point where it tips into epidemic, and we saw how such models could explain everything from the renovation of our public spaces to the nature of friendship to social life generally. As the interpretive idea of the epidemic took hold—spread, we would say—we learned of the wisdom of crowds, the value of indiscriminate sharing, and the power of friction-free networks through which information moved seemingly unhindered.
It was there, most blithely, as an expression of the reach and spontaneity of social media. We watched as cat videos, practical jokes, blunders, over-the-shoulder half-court shots, and celebrity meltdowns all went “viral.” And it was there in the notion that those who could make things go viral were to be celebrated, cultivated, compensated, imitated. The term devised for them—we realize, in rueful retrospect—has a distinct echo of the worst virus of modern times, the influenza pandemic of 1918. They were called influencers.
It was there, finally, in our national political life. The man who holds the office of President is said to be fearful of actual germs, but he has a gut-level attraction to notions that can go viral—and a seeming addiction to Twitter, the digital tool that has the power to make notions go viral more swiftly and broadly than any other. As an actual virus, the coronavirus that causes COVID-19, first developed and spread, he twiddled his thumbs, so to speak, pumping out messages about political rivals, people he dislikes, and friends he may favor with clemency—and about the virus, which, he said, was inflamed by the “Fake News Media.”
In “Illness as Metaphor,” first published in the New York Review of Books, in 1978, Susan Sontag traced the influence of metaphors associated with diseases—tuberculosis and cancer, in particular—and how they were applied to sick people so relentlessly that they sometimes obscured the nature of the illnesses. It was said, at the turn of the last century, that people contracted TB due to “too much passion,” whereas, half a century later, people were said to get cancer due to psychological repression or “insufficient passion.” Sontag wrote, “My point is that illness is not a metaphor, and that the most truthful way of regarding illness—and the healthiest way of being ill—is one most purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking.” In “AIDS and Its Metaphors,” from 1989, she brought the same conviction to the AIDS epidemic, showing how, as the dominant metaphors had it, people became ill because they were prone to “moral laxity or turpitude,” and that the disease was a divine punishment. She concluded, “With this illness, one that elicits so much guilt and shame, the effort to detach it from loaded meanings and misleading metaphors seems particularly liberating, even consoling.”
Sontag’s work suggests that metaphors of illness are malign in a double way: they cast opprobrium on sick people and they hinder the rational and scientific apprehension that is needed to contain disease and provide care for people. To treat illness as a metaphor is to avoid or delay or even thwart the treatment of literal illness.
Our own situation is different, but not unrelated. Rather than applying societal metaphors to illness, we’ve applied illness metaphors to society, stripping them of their malign associations in the process. It may be that our fondness for virus as metaphor has made it difficult for us to see viruses as potentially dangerous, even lethal, biological phenomena. In turn, our disinclination to see viruses as literal may have kept us from insisting on and observing the standards and practices that would prevent their spread. Enthralled with virus as metaphor and the terms associated with it—spread, growth, reach, connectedness—we ceased to be vigilant. Jetting around the world, we stopped washing our hands.
In the weeks ahead, we are going to see a profusion of metaphorical interpretations of the coronavirus. We’ll be tempted to make them ourselves. But we must keep in mind the need for language to function in a literal sense, so that we can think clearly as we respond to the COVID-19 virus.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-20--Eleven Tips for Working from Home Alongside Your Partner During the Global Pandemic

As the coronavirus continues to spread , many office employees are being told to work remotely , meaning that many couples now find themselves sharing the same workspace .
Below are helpful hints for how to work peacefully alongside your partner within the confines of your home .
1 .
Be creative .
Pretend your home is a WeWork , except with fewer kombucha stations and more people wandering around without pants on .
Nod cooly to each other in the shared kitchen space .
Passive-aggressively throw out your wife ’ s Chobani because it was not properly labelled .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ you live in a house , one person should work upstairs , the other downstairs .
If you live in an apartment , one person should work in the kitchen , the other in the office .
If you live in an apartment with a child , one person should work in the bedroom , while the other quietly begins divorce proceedings .
3 .
Don ’ t get sloppy !
Be sure to dress each morning in power suits and elaborate wigs .
This will lend an air of professionalism to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this is the same person you just glimpsed sitting on the toilet watching “ Colbert ” on an iPad .
4 .
Communicate .
Take a break every afternoon to meet in the living room for a snack and some light screaming .
5 .
Remember to find time for intimacy .
Make love in every room of the house .
And by “ make love ” I mean lean anxiously against various pieces of furniture while scrolling on your phones and saying things like “ Did you see what Trump said now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we needed more Lysol.
” 6 .
Be proactive , to avoid bickering .
During lunch breaks , hold a sharp object to the base of your husband ’ s spine , thereby encouraging him to try to chew a sandwich without sounding like a wild fucking boar tearing into a herd of flamingos .
7 .
Keep it sexy !
Play secretary : have your husband wear a pencil skirt and slowly bend over to fetch you the Apple remote .
8 .
Keep it real !
Play lawsuit : have him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Practice social-media distancing .
If your partner posts something on Twitter , you should post something on Instagram .
If your partner posts something on TikTok , roll your eyes and remind her that she ’ s forty-five .
If your partner posts something on Tinder , pay your attractive neighbor a visit , to borrow a hammer .
10 .
End each day with a fun team-building exercise .
Play “ two truths and a lie.
” Then sigh heavily , because you both already know every single goddam thing about @ @ @

As the coronavirus continues to spread, many office employees are being told to work remotely, meaning that many couples now find themselves sharing the same workspace. Below are helpful hints for how to work peacefully alongside your partner within the confines of your home.
1. Be creative. Pretend your home is a WeWork, except with fewer kombucha stations and more people wandering around without pants on. Nod cooly to each other in the shared kitchen space. Passive-aggressively throw out your wife’s Chobani because it was not properly labelled.
2. Set respectful boundaries. If you live in a house, one person should work upstairs, the other downstairs. If you live in an apartment, one person should work in the kitchen, the other in the office. If you live in an apartment with a child, one person should work in the bedroom, while the other quietly begins divorce proceedings.
3. Don’t get sloppy! Be sure to dress each morning in power suits and elaborate wigs. This will lend an air of professionalism to the day and help you to forget that this is the same person you just glimpsed sitting on the toilet watching “Colbert” on an iPad.
4. Communicate. Take a break every afternoon to meet in the living room for a snack and some light screaming.
5. Remember to find time for intimacy. Make love in every room of the house. And by “make love” I mean lean anxiously against various pieces of furniture while scrolling on your phones and saying things like “Did you see what Trump said now?” and “I told you we needed more Lysol.”
6. Be proactive, to avoid bickering. During lunch breaks, hold a sharp object to the base of your husband’s spine, thereby encouraging him to try to chew a sandwich without sounding like a wild fucking boar tearing into a herd of flamingos.
7. Keep it sexy! Play secretary: have your husband wear a pencil skirt and slowly bend over to fetch you the Apple remote.
8. Keep it real! Play lawsuit: have him sue you for sexual harassment.
9. Practice social-media distancing. If your partner posts something on Twitter, you should post something on Instagram. If your partner posts something on TikTok, roll your eyes and remind her that she’s forty-five. If your partner posts something on Tinder, pay your attractive neighbor a visit, to borrow a hammer.
10. End each day with a fun team-building exercise. Play “two truths and a lie.” Then sigh heavily, because you both already know every single goddam thing about each other.
11. Wine.


newyorker--2020-03-20--A Celebration of Catherine Deneuve on the Criterion Channel

Though the opening of Catherine Deneuve ’ s latest film , “ The Truth , ” has been postponed , @ @ @ @ @ movies are available to stream on the Criterion Channel .
In one of the best @ @ @ @ @ ’ s macabre thriller “ Mississippi Mermaid ” ( above ) , from 1969 , @ @ @ @ @ who shows up at the Réunion Island estate of a wealthy planter ( Jean-Paul Belmondo @ @ @ @ @ money .
Truffaut transforms the crime drama into a desperate romance and a portrait of @ @ @ @

Though the opening of Catherine Deneuve’s latest film, “The Truth,” has been postponed, many of her most celebrated movies are available to stream on the Criterion Channel. In one of the best of them, François Truffaut’s macabre thriller “Mississippi Mermaid” (above), from 1969, she plays a mail-order bride who shows up at the Réunion Island estate of a wealthy planter (Jean-Paul Belmondo) with designs on his money. Truffaut transforms the crime drama into a desperate romance and a portrait of French social dysfunction.


newyorker--2020-03-20--The Fever Room: Epidemics and Social Distancing in “Bleak House” and “Jane Eyre”

In Chapter 31 of Charles Dickens ’ s “ Bleak House , ” Esther Summerson realizes that the young girl who is sitting with her , Charley , is very sick .
Esther knows that both she and Charley , who works in the household , had been in the company of a boy who had , in the words of another character , “ a very bad sort of fever about him.
” And just as Charley says , “ I think I ’ m ill , ” Esther hears the voice of Ada Clare , another young woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doesn ’ t hesitate : “ I hurried to the door of communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room , and locked it .
Just in time , for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the key.
” Esther Summerson is one of the great heroines of literature , in part because she understands the vital importance of social distancing and isolation , even when it is hard .
Dickens does not name the illness , but , based on his description , Charley and , soon , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Before Esther slips into delirium , she makes Charley , whom she has nursed and who by then has recovered enough to nurse her , promise not to let anyone in—especially not Ada .
“ When she knows I am ill , she will try to make her way into the room , ” Esther says .
“ Keep her out , Charley , if you love me truly , to the last !
” Charley , despite her youth , does the job , which is a terrible one : “ Bleak @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 1852-53 , before Louis Pasteur and Robert Koch had developed the modern germ theory of disease .
Social distancing was and is a blunt instrument for preventing the spread of disease in the absence of other scientific tricks—and there is a shortage of those for COVID-19 .
The disease is caused by a novel coronavirus , to which the world ’ s population does not have immunity from previous exposure .
One of its insidious qualities is its relative mildness in most , though not all , people who are young and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spread it to older people and those who have other conditions , such as heart disease , respiratory illnesses , or suppressed immune systems from , for example , cancer treatments .
Spreading the disease can kill them in staggering numbers .
One model , developed at Imperial College London , shows more than two million Americans dying if nothing is done—but there are things that can be done , starting , urgently , with social distancing and isolation .
No public gatherings ; close schools and shift to remote instruction ; do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and gatherings of ten people or more ; try to stay six feet away from people outside your household—and do those things even if you don ’ t yet know of anyone in your community with COVID-19 .
Odds are , you soon will .
“ Flatten the curve ” —the measure of how quickly cases pile up—to keep hospitals from being overwhelmed .
( Read Benjamin Wallace-Wells for more on that ; there are simply not enough ventilators in America right now . )
The government , at all levels , can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up emergency production of ventilators , and test people on a mass scale , a tactic that appears to have checked the epidemic in South Korea—but so can everybody .
It ’ s not easy ; loneliness is awful .
It ’ s also not hopeless .
But the plea from epidemiologists is that social distancing must be done early to be most effective .
As with Esther , our hand , collectively , is yet upon the key .
The consequences of Esther ’ s and Charley ’ s illness are , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ personal .
When Esther , too , recovers , Lady Dedlock visits her and reveals that , unbeknownst to everyone else , she is her mother ( long , Dickensian story ) .
Esther is glad that the scarring to her face obscures their resemblance , protecting Lady Dedlock ’ s secret .
In contrast , Charlotte Brontë ’ s “ Jane Eyre , ” published six years before Dickens ’ s novel , holds lessons not only for slowing the COVID-19 crisis but for what could come next .
When Jane is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at Lowood , the charity school to which she has been consigned by her aunt , who despises her .
Lowood is a bleak house ; as Jane describes it , “ semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection ; forty-five of the eighty girls lay ill at one time.
” ( The description of life at Lowood echoes the experience that Brontë and her sisters had at the Clergy Daughters ’ School at Cowan Bridge . )
Some girls “ have friends and relations able and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of contagion ” ; some go home only to die ; some die at school , and are buried quickly , “ the nature of the malady forbidding delay.
” Those that are vulnerable become , during an epidemic , more vulnerable .
And for those , such as Jane , who remain well , “ Classes were broken up , rules relaxed .
The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited licence.
” Some of the most evocative passages of the book describe a child ’ s magical sense of suddenly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ observing the world .
Those running the school are too busy to mete out strictly limited meals : sometimes Jane is just handed “ a large piece of cold pie.
” It does her good .
Parents who are concerned , in this time of closed schools , with maintaining educational normalcy might find something to reflect on in those pages .
Epidemics are a time out of time , and perhaps less a moment to worry about screen time .
Many families , of course , have more existential concerns .
Those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they were younger may remember that Helen Burns , Jane ’ s friend , dies during this period , and that Jane sneaks into her room late at night to say goodbye ; Helen dies in her arms .
What readers might not recall is that Helen is not one of the typhus patients—she has long suffered from consumption , or tuberculosis , and has , in fact , been isolated from the other girls .
Indeed , Brontë seems at pains not to endorse any deliberate breach in social distancing , having @ @ @ @ @ @ @ book , remember that “ by consumption I , in my ignorance , understood something mild , which time and care would be sure to alleviate.
” When Jane , the child , goes through the darkened school to where Helen is , guided by moonlight coming through the windows , there is a place she knows not to enter , filled as it is with schoolmates who have succumbed to the epidemic : an “ odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room : and @ @ @ @ @ @ @

For the characters of the Dickens and Brontë novels, social distancing was a blunt instrument for preventing the spread of disease in the absence of other scientific tricks. Art work from Alamy
In Chapter 31 of Charles Dickens’s “Bleak House,” Esther Summerson realizes that the young girl who is sitting with her, Charley, is very sick. Esther knows that both she and Charley, who works in the household, had been in the company of a boy who had, in the words of another character, “a very bad sort of fever about him.” And just as Charley says, “I think I’m ill,” Esther hears the voice of Ada Clare, another young woman of the house, approaching. Esther doesn’t hesitate: “I hurried to the door of communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and locked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the key.”
Esther Summerson is one of the great heroines of literature, in part because she understands the vital importance of social distancing and isolation, even when it is hard. Dickens does not name the illness, but, based on his description, Charley and, soon, Esther seem to have contracted smallpox. Before Esther slips into delirium, she makes Charley, whom she has nursed and who by then has recovered enough to nurse her, promise not to let anyone in—especially not Ada. “When she knows I am ill, she will try to make her way into the room,” Esther says. “Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to the last!” Charley, despite her youth, does the job, which is a terrible one:
I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her praying and imploring me to be let in to nurse and comfort me, and to leave my bedside no more. . . . Charley had been true to me in that time of need, and with her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.
Ada remains safe.
“Bleak House” was published in serial installments in 1852-53, before Louis Pasteur and Robert Koch had developed the modern germ theory of disease. Social distancing was and is a blunt instrument for preventing the spread of disease in the absence of other scientific tricks—and there is a shortage of those for COVID-19. The disease is caused by a novel coronavirus, to which the world’s population does not have immunity from previous exposure. One of its insidious qualities is its relative mildness in most, though not all, people who are young and healthy, which means that they can spread it to older people and those who have other conditions, such as heart disease, respiratory illnesses, or suppressed immune systems from, for example, cancer treatments. Spreading the disease can kill them in staggering numbers. One model, developed at Imperial College London, shows more than two million Americans dying if nothing is done—but there are things that can be done, starting, urgently, with social distancing and isolation. No public gatherings; close schools and shift to remote instruction; do all you possibly can to avoid travel and gatherings of ten people or more; try to stay six feet away from people outside your household—and do those things even if you don’t yet know of anyone in your community with COVID-19. Odds are, you soon will. “Flatten the curve”—the measure of how quickly cases pile up—to keep hospitals from being overwhelmed. (Read Benjamin Wallace-Wells for more on that; there are simply not enough ventilators in America right now.) The government, at all levels, can do a lot—set up hospitals, ramp up emergency production of ventilators, and test people on a mass scale, a tactic that appears to have checked the epidemic in South Korea—but so can everybody. It’s not easy; loneliness is awful. It’s also not hopeless. But the plea from epidemiologists is that social distancing must be done early to be most effective. As with Esther, our hand, collectively, is yet upon the key.
The consequences of Esther’s and Charley’s illness are, within “Bleak House,” mainly personal. When Esther, too, recovers, Lady Dedlock visits her and reveals that, unbeknownst to everyone else, she is her mother (long, Dickensian story). Esther is glad that the scarring to her face obscures their resemblance, protecting Lady Dedlock’s secret. In contrast, Charlotte Brontë’s “Jane Eyre,” published six years before Dickens’s novel, holds lessons not only for slowing the COVID-19 crisis but for what could come next. When Jane is ten or eleven, typhus runs rampant at Lowood, the charity school to which she has been consigned by her aunt, who despises her. Lowood is a bleak house; as Jane describes it, “semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection; forty-five of the eighty girls lay ill at one time.” (The description of life at Lowood echoes the experience that Brontë and her sisters had at the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge.) Some girls “have friends and relations able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion”; some go home only to die; some die at school, and are buried quickly, “the nature of the malady forbidding delay.” Those that are vulnerable become, during an epidemic, more vulnerable.
And for those, such as Jane, who remain well, “Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited licence.” Some of the most evocative passages of the book describe a child’s magical sense of suddenly being left to her own devices, observing the world. Those running the school are too busy to mete out strictly limited meals: sometimes Jane is just handed “a large piece of cold pie.” It does her good. Parents who are concerned, in this time of closed schools, with maintaining educational normalcy might find something to reflect on in those pages. Epidemics are a time out of time, and perhaps less a moment to worry about screen time. Many families, of course, have more existential concerns.
Those who read “Jane Eyre” when they were younger may remember that Helen Burns, Jane’s friend, dies during this period, and that Jane sneaks into her room late at night to say goodbye; Helen dies in her arms. What readers might not recall is that Helen is not one of the typhus patients—she has long suffered from consumption, or tuberculosis, and has, in fact, been isolated from the other girls. Indeed, Brontë seems at pains not to endorse any deliberate breach in social distancing, having the adult Jane, who narrates the book, remember that “by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate.” When Jane, the child, goes through the darkened school to where Helen is, guided by moonlight coming through the windows, there is a place she knows not to enter, filled as it is with schoolmates who have succumbed to the epidemic: an “odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its door quickly.”
The typhus runs its course and disappears, “but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degree various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree.” There was a new building, new regulations, better food, a better system. “The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution.” Let the same be said of many of our institutions, once we are through this. Indeed, one can forget that Jane ends up loving Lowood: “In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class; then I was invested with the office of teacher.” And then she takes a job as a governess in the home of the mysterious Mr. Rochester, and the novel proceeds to much drama, a surprise inheritance, and a marriage. Helen Burns, meanwhile, is buried in a spot that, the narrator notes, “for fifteen years after her death . . . was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word ‘Resurgam’ ”—“I will rise again.” It is one of the few indications in the novel of what Jane does with her eventual financial security. She remembers, and improves, what was left behind.


newyorker--2020-03-20--Eric Drooker’s “Grand Central Terminal”

Eric Drooker’s “Grand Central Terminal”

The story of any crisis is told , in part , through images .
In the weeks since the coronavirus appeared Stateside , cities across the country have seen their businesses , subways , and public spaces become ghosts of their normal selves .
One such space , featured on Eric Drooker ’ s cover , is Grand Central Terminal—a building that , on any normal day , sees hundreds of thousands of people walk through its doors .
We recently talked to Drooker about how he and his art have been affected by quarantine .
Artists and writers tend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work from home , or has your routine shifted since the pandemic ?
I typically work at home , seven days a week , in a solitary studio , so my daily routine hasn ’ t changed that much .
.
.
yet .
( When I step out into the city , it ’ s a different story , of course . )
Over the years , I ’ ve completed some of my best art during protracted storms , blizzards , and man-made catastrophes .
This image evokes the public art @ @ @ @ @ @ @ during the Great Depression .
Has the pandemic changed your notions of what public art should look like in times of crisis ?
I always loved the public art of the nineteen-thirties .
I ’ m drawn not only to the democratic aesthetic of the W.P.A .
but to the very concept of public works .
During the New Deal , the U.S. government actually hired artists to create grand works in public places .
And the experiment was hugely successful ; it gave relief to thousands of Americans—and meaning to millions—and helped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Depression .
In recent decades , concepts such as “ public space ” and “ public health ” are often branded as socialist , but many of my images are influenced by the art of that era .
Are there artists whom you turn to for solace in times of upheaval ?
Francisco Goya immediately comes to mind ; I find myself returning , in times of tumult , to his etchings .
Pieter Bruegel , James Baldwin , and , recently , Emil Ferris have helped me through many a long , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as inspired as the next guy by Bill Shakespeare .
He ’ s thought to have written some of his best plays ( “ King Lear , ” “ Macbeth ” ) while the theatres were closed during an outbreak of bubonic plague .
What has been your main source of news for the pandemic ?
I read a wide variety of newspapers , and especially the foreign press , which generally gives a more nuanced , rounded , and relevant picture than U.S. media .
See below for other covers that were @ @ @ @ @ @

The story of any crisis is told, in part, through images. In the weeks since the coronavirus appeared Stateside, cities across the country have seen their businesses, subways, and public spaces become ghosts of their normal selves. One such space, featured on Eric Drooker’s cover, is Grand Central Terminal—a building that, on any normal day, sees hundreds of thousands of people walk through its doors. We recently talked to Drooker about how he and his art have been affected by quarantine.
Artists and writers tend to work alone. Do you always work from home, or has your routine shifted since the pandemic?
I typically work at home, seven days a week, in a solitary studio, so my daily routine hasn’t changed that much . . . yet. (When I step out into the city, it’s a different story, of course.) Over the years, I’ve completed some of my best art during protracted storms, blizzards, and man-made catastrophes.
This image evokes the public art created under the Works Progress Administration, during the Great Depression. Has the pandemic changed your notions of what public art should look like in times of crisis?
I always loved the public art of the nineteen-thirties. I’m drawn not only to the democratic aesthetic of the W.P.A. but to the very concept of public works. During the New Deal, the U.S. government actually hired artists to create grand works in public places. And the experiment was hugely successful; it gave relief to thousands of Americans—and meaning to millions—and helped pull the country out of the Great Depression. In recent decades, concepts such as “public space” and “public health” are often branded as socialist, but many of my images are influenced by the art of that era.
Are there artists whom you turn to for solace in times of upheaval?
Francisco Goya immediately comes to mind; I find myself returning, in times of tumult, to his etchings. Pieter Bruegel, James Baldwin, and, recently, Emil Ferris have helped me through many a long, dark night. And I’m as inspired as the next guy by Bill Shakespeare. He’s thought to have written some of his best plays (“King Lear,” “Macbeth”) while the theatres were closed during an outbreak of bubonic plague.
What has been your main source of news for the pandemic?
I read a wide variety of newspapers, and especially the foreign press, which generally gives a more nuanced, rounded, and relevant picture than U.S. media.
See below for other covers that were published during times of crisis:


newyorker--2020-03-20--The Oldest Restaurant in Manhattan’s Chinatown Faces the Coronavirus Shutdown

A few Saturdays ago , I was surprised to find at least a dozen people milling around outside Nom Wah Tea Parlor , taking pictures and waiting for tables .
On any other weekend , I wouldn ’ t have batted an eye .
Nom Wah , which celebrates its hundredth anniversary this year , has bragging rights as the oldest restaurant in Manhattan ’ s Chinatown .
Situated on Doyers Street—a boomerang-shaped block once known as the Bloody Angle , for its history of gang killings—the dim-sum parlor is one of the neighborhood ’ s most popular destinations , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for dumplings and “ OG ” eggrolls .
But I was there just as the COVID-19 pandemic was taking over the news , and Sinophobic paranoia was threatening Chinatown businesses across the country .
The persistence of the crowd was likely due to the media savvy of Wilson Tang , Nom Wah ’ s forty-one-year-old proprietor , who had been drumming up attention on Instagram .
“ There is no coronavirus bs here , ” Tang captioned a post in February .
“ # Supportchinatown.
” This wasn ’ t the first time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ uncertain .
Tang ’ s uncle Wally started working there in 1950 , as a sixteen-year-old Chinese immigrant , and bought it in 1974 .
But by the time Wilson , a telegenic former investment banker , took over , in 2010 , it had fallen into decline .
Wilson upgraded the kitchen and transitioned from cart service to a made-to-order à-la-carte menu , but he also preserved the dining room ’ s dated diner décor and the once red awning , which had faded to a dusty pink .
Nom Wah became @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pre-party , in 2015 ( the theme was China ) , and an Instagram darling .
In the past four years , Tang has opened two outposts in Manhattan , one in Philadelphia , and three in Shenzhen , China .
On Sunday , March 15th , Mayor Bill de Blasio ordered all New York City restaurants to cease service , with the exception of takeout and delivery .
By that point , several of the city ’ s dim-sum parlors had closed of their own accord .
When I spoke to Wilson @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that he would offer takeout and delivery from the Nolita location but not from Chinatown ; many of his employees there , he explained , are Chinese-Americans who live in intergenerational households and are fearful of spreading the virus to relatives .
In Nolita , his staff is much smaller and skews younger and more diverse .
The revenue from to-go orders wouldn ’ t even cover the labor it would take to fulfill them , but it was a way to use up inventory and “ to wind down slowly and stop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an uptick in sales of merchandise and gift certificates since the shutdown , but that won ’ t help much , either .
Still , Tang is better poised to weather the current moment than many others in the restaurant industry , which is in a state of panic and despair .
In New York , restaurants are often forced to operate on razor-thin margins ; without government assistance , many of them may never reopen .
Tang ’ s uncle owns the building on Doyers Street , so he doesn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for failing to make rent .
Taking his lead from “ the big dogs , ” like David Chang , he planned to pay his salaried employees at least through April , and his hourly employees at least through the end of the week .
After that , he said , “ we ’ ll play it by ear .
We ’ re in survival mode.
” Asked about his neighbors in Chinatown , he sounded surprisingly optimistic .
Small immigrant-run businesses tend to be “ very resourceful and resilient , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have debt and they ’ re living within their means.
” Nom Wah has survived for a century .
The outposts in Shenzhen , which were closed for six weeks as the Chinese government fought COVID-19 , reopened recently , and , so far , business hasn ’ t been bad .
“ Confidence in dining out is slowly building there , ” Tang said .
“ Things are improving week by week.
” ♦

A few Saturdays ago, I was surprised to find at least a dozen people milling around outside Nom Wah Tea Parlor, taking pictures and waiting for tables. On any other weekend, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. Nom Wah, which celebrates its hundredth anniversary this year, has bragging rights as the oldest restaurant in Manhattan’s Chinatown.
A decade ago, Wilson Tang took over the original Nom Wah location from his uncle Wally; in the past four years, he has opened multiple outposts, including the one in Nolita and three in Shenzhen, China. Photograph by Zachary Zavislak for The New Yorker
Situated on Doyers Street—a boomerang-shaped block once known as the Bloody Angle, for its history of gang killings—the dim-sum parlor is one of the neighborhood’s most popular destinations, especially among tourists, who line up for dumplings and “OG” eggrolls. But I was there just as the COVID-19 pandemic was taking over the news, and Sinophobic paranoia was threatening Chinatown businesses across the country.
The persistence of the crowd was likely due to the media savvy of Wilson Tang, Nom Wah’s forty-one-year-old proprietor, who had been drumming up attention on Instagram. “There is no coronavirus bs here,” Tang captioned a post in February. “#Supportchinatown.” This wasn’t the first time the fate of the restaurant had been uncertain. Tang’s uncle Wally started working there in 1950, as a sixteen-year-old Chinese immigrant, and bought it in 1974. But by the time Wilson, a telegenic former investment banker, took over, in 2010, it had fallen into decline.
Dumplings (chicken on the left, pork-and-shrimp on the right) in the industrial steamer at Nom Wah Nolita. Photograph by Zachary Zavislak for The New Yorker
Wilson upgraded the kitchen and transitioned from cart service to a made-to-order à-la-carte menu, but he also preserved the dining room’s dated diner décor and the once red awning, which had faded to a dusty pink. Nom Wah became retro-chic—the perfect location for a Met Gala pre-party, in 2015 (the theme was China), and an Instagram darling. In the past four years, Tang has opened two outposts in Manhattan, one in Philadelphia, and three in Shenzhen, China.
On Sunday, March 15th, Mayor Bill de Blasio ordered all New York City restaurants to cease service, with the exception of takeout and delivery. By that point, several of the city’s dim-sum parlors had closed of their own accord. When I spoke to Wilson the following morning, he told me that he would offer takeout and delivery from the Nolita location but not from Chinatown; many of his employees there, he explained, are Chinese-Americans who live in intergenerational households and are fearful of spreading the virus to relatives. In Nolita, his staff is much smaller and skews younger and more diverse. The revenue from to-go orders wouldn’t even cover the labor it would take to fulfill them, but it was a way to use up inventory and “to wind down slowly and stop the bleeding.”
To-go orders won’t bring in enough revenue to even cover the labor it requires to fulfill them, but they’re a way to use up inventory and to feed the neighborhood. Photograph by Zachary Zavislak for The New Yorker
Nom Wah has seen an uptick in sales of merchandise and gift certificates since the shutdown, but that won’t help much, either. Still, Tang is better poised to weather the current moment than many others in the restaurant industry, which is in a state of panic and despair. In New York, restaurants are often forced to operate on razor-thin margins; without government assistance, many of them may never reopen. Tang’s uncle owns the building on Doyers Street, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting kicked out for failing to make rent. Taking his lead from “the big dogs,” like David Chang, he planned to pay his salaried employees at least through April, and his hourly employees at least through the end of the week. After that, he said, “we’ll play it by ear. We’re in survival mode.”
The original Nom Wah, on Doyers Street in Manhattan’s Chinatown, celebrates its one-hundredth birthday this year and is, for now, closed completely. Photograph by Zachary Zavislak for The New Yorker
Asked about his neighbors in Chinatown, he sounded surprisingly optimistic. Small immigrant-run businesses tend to be “very resourceful and resilient,” he said. “They don’t have debt and they’re living within their means.” Nom Wah has survived for a century. The outposts in Shenzhen, which were closed for six weeks as the Chinese government fought COVID-19, reopened recently, and, so far, business hasn’t been bad. “Confidence in dining out is slowly building there,” Tang said. “Things are improving week by week.” ♦


newyorker--2020-03-20--San Francisco Prepares for the Coronavirus

Last week , much of San Francisco was in a state of denial .
Many of the tech shuttles had halted service , and a slate of local conferences had been cancelled .
Still , I received e-mails from a neighborhood yoga studio , a local dispensary , and several hair salons assuring customers that they were open for business .
“ Let ’ s be healthy and well , ” an e-mail from a bath house in Japantown read .
“ Let ’ s lift the vibration globally to allow this to be a time of healing.
” An @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , known for its wine list and seasonal fare , wrote to say that it was temporarily switching to a soup-only menu : asparagus vichyssoise with Dungeness crab ; carrot-ginger with Greek yogurt ; Tuscan minestrone with pancetta and wild peas .
“ This is a brilliant food-safety strategy , ” I said to my boyfriend studiously .
I also was having trouble reading between the lines .
On Thursday evening , I walked from my apartment to a theatre near City Hall , where I was scheduled to do an event—a conversation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and stores were quieter than usual , but the parklets were full .
It felt a little like Burning Man week , the city ’ s annual exhalation , when thousands drain out to the playa .
The clocks had changed , and it was still sunny and warm , a slow slide into summer .
I felt gaslit by the weather .
I paused to check my phone outside a bakery , where two men wearing sunglasses relaxed at a sidewalk table , eating pastries .
Maybe it ’ s all right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that told me otherwise .
One of the men coughed , and I turned my back to him .
The theatre , a beautiful nineteen-twenties auditorium , had the still , cool air of a tomb .
The event organizers had decided to live-stream the event rather than cancel it outright , and a cleaning crew of two moved silently through tight rows of crimson seats , sanitizing .
A few minutes before the event was slated to begin , we took our seats onstage , in two armchairs positioned beneath warm photographer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for a furniture catalogue .
I felt a steady , gnawing panic .
I could not hold an idea .
I wanted to cry , but I was in my thirties , and on a live stream .
“ I have heard people suggest that folks in Silicon Valley were perhaps a little ahead of the curve , because they have really good intuitions for exponential processes , ” the other writer said .
“ Do you think that a founder of a social network actually does get something about a pandemic that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
” I felt caught between my long-standing opinions and recent developments .
For weeks , venture capitalists and founders had been tweeting about their own prescience , attributing their cautionary measures to familiarity with the sort of exponential growth curves exhibited by successful startups .
I didn ’ t mind the warning , which was fundamentally useful ; I minded the smugness , the implication of superiority or exceptionalism .
At the same time , in the absence of trustworthy government authorities , tech companies had been ahead of the curve : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ conferences , suspending travel , taking it seriously .
I gave a terrible , unsatisfying answer .
Embarrassed , I laughed nervously at all my own jokes .
( On a live stream , every joke bombs . )
That night , I went to dinner with a group of people I didn ’ t know well .
On the way there , I passed a night club with open doors .
Inside , a band was playing to a good-sized crowd ; on the street , a man with a mask hanging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The restaurant was half full of people eating from shared plates ; the panicky feeling intensified .
As we sat down , someone asked if I was a mom .
I was not a mom , I said , feeling oddly guilty about it .
“ You need to get on the mom threads , ” she told me helpfully .
She recounted a piece of information that had recently been shared in one of her group chats : drinking water every fifteen minutes , she said , would flush the virus down @ @ @ @ @ @ @ acid would kill it .
This did not sound quite right , I said , picking up a glass of water and draining it .
I excused myself quickly , worried I would have a panic attack .
When I got home , I took a shower and looked up the mom-thread advice .
Google returned several articles warning against it as a hoax .
The next morning , I woke up to an e-mail from a relative containing the exact same misinformation .
Right , I thought .
It went viral .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I stayed home .
On Friday night , we needed things .
Outside , everything was still there : incredible , a miracle .
The sun was setting .
I walked to a nearby market for groceries , passing a group of six or seven people who were standing outside an apartment building , chattering happily .
“ Wait , ” one said .
“ Is he hot ?
” I passed a couple my age , arms locked and heads bent together , singing quietly and dancing a slow , theatrical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ market , a newly opened restaurant was well lit and bustling .
At one table , a dozen people , maybe an intergenerational family , were celebrating .
The market was well stocked and not busy .
The abundance was startling .
There were baskets of citrus , shelves of cereal , tubs of onions and sprouting garlic .
I circumvented the produce , as if it were poisonous .
After each customer had paid and left , the cashier pulled a fresh disinfectant wipe from a nearby tube and rubbed everything down @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the credit-card reader .
Even with this measure , the mundane point-of-sale ritual––handing over my card , signing the receipt , nestling everything into an ill-sized tote bag––felt reassuring .
On the walk back , I passed a jogger in a reflective vest .
A delivery-app courier exited a white minivan , walked up the steps of a crisply painted Victorian , and deposited a bag of food on the porch .
I wanted to know what our neighbors were doing .
Amazon , via a module advertising “ trending items ” near @ @ @ @ @ @ @ perspective : disinfectant wipes , cough-and-cold medication , barbecue-flavored seed mix .
A friend in Los Angeles e-mailed to say that he was cancelling his wedding .
A friend in New Orleans , a public defender , posted an Instagram story soliciting donations to help his incarcerated clients post bail and buy commissary soap .
Friends in New York announced the temporary closures of their restaurants ; friends in Point Reyes announced the temporary closure of their bookstore .
Brushing my teeth , I watched a trio of ants making their way across @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t they know ?
I thought , deranged .
On the Internet , every open tab was a porthole to some new horror : ventilator shortages , death-toll projections , layoffs , Disneyland , spring break .
Still , social media was proving itself helpful in a crisis .
Funding drives for laid-off workers were launched .
Spreadsheets and Google Docs outlining strategies for mutual-aid responses were circulated .
An Instagram account run by volunteer couriers sprang up , offering services to the ill or high-risk .
“ I ’ m off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no limits , ” a woman in San Francisco posted .
Volunteers in Vancouver , Bozeman , Dallas , Indianapolis , Los Angeles , and Portland said that they could provide free dog walking , grocery shopping , babysitting , and transportation ; one offered emotional support , tarot readings , poem readings , meal prep , specialized playlists .
A venture capitalist put out a call for virus-related startups and projects to fund .
“ The Jelly Cam is here for you , ” the Monterey Bay Aquarium tweeted , with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city ’ s museums joined a social-media campaign , # MuseumFromHome , linking to art work and objects in digital collections , including a leather jacket owned by Albert Einstein .
“ Take a break from the mainstream media chaos , turn off your TV , and get lost in music , ” an e-mail from the San Francisco Disco Preservation Society , a nonprofit audio archive , suggested .

Last week, much of San Francisco was in a state of denial. Many of the tech shuttles had halted service, and a slate of local conferences had been cancelled. Still, I received e-mails from a neighborhood yoga studio, a local dispensary, and several hair salons assuring customers that they were open for business. “Let’s be healthy and well,” an e-mail from a bath house in Japantown read. “Let’s lift the vibration globally to allow this to be a time of healing.” An upscale New American restaurant in the Mission, known for its wine list and seasonal fare, wrote to say that it was temporarily switching to a soup-only menu: asparagus vichyssoise with Dungeness crab; carrot-ginger with Greek yogurt; Tuscan minestrone with pancetta and wild peas. “This is a brilliant food-safety strategy,” I said to my boyfriend studiously. I also was having trouble reading between the lines.
On Thursday evening, I walked from my apartment to a theatre near City Hall, where I was scheduled to do an event—a conversation with another writer. The coffee shops and stores were quieter than usual, but the parklets were full. It felt a little like Burning Man week, the city’s annual exhalation, when thousands drain out to the playa. The clocks had changed, and it was still sunny and warm, a slow slide into summer. I felt gaslit by the weather. I paused to check my phone outside a bakery, where two men wearing sunglasses relaxed at a sidewalk table, eating pastries. Maybe it’s all right, I thought, scrolling through headlines that told me otherwise. One of the men coughed, and I turned my back to him.
The theatre, a beautiful nineteen-twenties auditorium, had the still, cool air of a tomb. The event organizers had decided to live-stream the event rather than cancel it outright, and a cleaning crew of two moved silently through tight rows of crimson seats, sanitizing. A few minutes before the event was slated to begin, we took our seats onstage, in two armchairs positioned beneath warm photographer’s lights, as if posing for a furniture catalogue. I felt a steady, gnawing panic. I could not hold an idea. I wanted to cry, but I was in my thirties, and on a live stream.
“I have heard people suggest that folks in Silicon Valley were perhaps a little ahead of the curve, because they have really good intuitions for exponential processes,” the other writer said. “Do you think that a founder of a social network actually does get something about a pandemic that, say, a politician would not?” I felt caught between my long-standing opinions and recent developments. For weeks, venture capitalists and founders had been tweeting about their own prescience, attributing their cautionary measures to familiarity with the sort of exponential growth curves exhibited by successful startups. I didn’t mind the warning, which was fundamentally useful; I minded the smugness, the implication of superiority or exceptionalism. At the same time, in the absence of trustworthy government authorities, tech companies had been ahead of the curve: closing offices, halting shuttles, cancelling conferences, suspending travel, taking it seriously. I gave a terrible, unsatisfying answer. Embarrassed, I laughed nervously at all my own jokes. (On a live stream, every joke bombs.)
That night, I went to dinner with a group of people I didn’t know well. On the way there, I passed a night club with open doors. Inside, a band was playing to a good-sized crowd; on the street, a man with a mask hanging around his neck smoked a cigarette. The restaurant was half full of people eating from shared plates; the panicky feeling intensified. As we sat down, someone asked if I was a mom. I was not a mom, I said, feeling oddly guilty about it. “You need to get on the mom threads,” she told me helpfully. She recounted a piece of information that had recently been shared in one of her group chats: drinking water every fifteen minutes, she said, would flush the virus down the digestive tract, and then stomach acid would kill it. This did not sound quite right, I said, picking up a glass of water and draining it. I excused myself quickly, worried I would have a panic attack. When I got home, I took a shower and looked up the mom-thread advice. Google returned several articles warning against it as a hoax. The next morning, I woke up to an e-mail from a relative containing the exact same misinformation. Right, I thought. It went viral.
I stayed home. I stayed home. I stayed home. On Friday night, we needed things. Outside, everything was still there: incredible, a miracle. The sun was setting. I walked to a nearby market for groceries, passing a group of six or seven people who were standing outside an apartment building, chattering happily. “Wait,” one said. “Is he hot?” I passed a couple my age, arms locked and heads bent together, singing quietly and dancing a slow, theatrical shuffle down the block. By the market, a newly opened restaurant was well lit and bustling. At one table, a dozen people, maybe an intergenerational family, were celebrating.
The market was well stocked and not busy. The abundance was startling. There were baskets of citrus, shelves of cereal, tubs of onions and sprouting garlic. I circumvented the produce, as if it were poisonous. After each customer had paid and left, the cashier pulled a fresh disinfectant wipe from a nearby tube and rubbed everything down: the register, the counter, the credit-card reader. Even with this measure, the mundane point-of-sale ritual––handing over my card, signing the receipt, nestling everything into an ill-sized tote bag––felt reassuring. On the walk back, I passed a jogger in a reflective vest. A delivery-app courier exited a white minivan, walked up the steps of a crisply painted Victorian, and deposited a bag of food on the porch.
I wanted to know what our neighbors were doing. Amazon, via a module advertising “trending items” near me, offered a strange and slanted perspective: disinfectant wipes, cough-and-cold medication, barbecue-flavored seed mix. A friend in Los Angeles e-mailed to say that he was cancelling his wedding. A friend in New Orleans, a public defender, posted an Instagram story soliciting donations to help his incarcerated clients post bail and buy commissary soap. Friends in New York announced the temporary closures of their restaurants; friends in Point Reyes announced the temporary closure of their bookstore. Brushing my teeth, I watched a trio of ants making their way across the edge of the shower. Don’t they know? I thought, deranged.
On the Internet, every open tab was a porthole to some new horror: ventilator shortages, death-toll projections, layoffs, Disneyland, spring break. Still, social media was proving itself helpful in a crisis. Funding drives for laid-off workers were launched. Spreadsheets and Google Docs outlining strategies for mutual-aid responses were circulated. An Instagram account run by volunteer couriers sprang up, offering services to the ill or high-risk. “I’m off the whole week so my availability knows no limits,” a woman in San Francisco posted. Volunteers in Vancouver, Bozeman, Dallas, Indianapolis, Los Angeles, and Portland said that they could provide free dog walking, grocery shopping, babysitting, and transportation; one offered emotional support, tarot readings, poem readings, meal prep, specialized playlists. A venture capitalist put out a call for virus-related startups and projects to fund. “The Jelly Cam is here for you,” the Monterey Bay Aquarium tweeted, with a link to its live-streamed exhibits. The city’s museums joined a social-media campaign, #MuseumFromHome, linking to art work and objects in digital collections, including a leather jacket owned by Albert Einstein. “Take a break from the mainstream media chaos, turn off your TV, and get lost in music,” an e-mail from the San Francisco Disco Preservation Society, a nonprofit audio archive, suggested.
The crisis accelerated, and time slowed. Dread compounded. Outside, it rained in sheets. Sirens felt particularly ominous. Not everything needed to be a metaphor, I reminded myself, staring out the window at an empty street.
Walks were still an option. Somehow, it was spring. It seemed unfair, illusory, that we still had nature. The rain stopped, and the city resumed its shimmer. People trekked to the top of Bernal Hill, Tank Hill, Twin Peaks; they wandered along Ocean Beach. I took short, cautious loops around my neighborhood, wistfully admiring the cherry-blossom trees, the palms, the prehistoric-looking succulents. The constancy of the natural world was jarring.
Over the weekend, the city began laying the groundwork for what is to come. Public schools have closed; libraries, too. Visitors are banned from nursing homes and hospitals. On Sunday, the state followed suit: Governor Gavin Newsom held a news briefing in Sacramento, a California flag behind him draped at such an angle that the grizzly seemed to be trudging perpetually uphill. Seniors and those with compromised immune systems should self-isolate, he said; bars, night clubs, breweries, and wineries should close; restaurants should operate at fifty-per-cent capacity. These were recommendations, and would not be enforced. The state, he said, was looking into housing options for the hundred and fifty thousand people who live in California and are homeless, including the lease of hotel rooms. On Monday morning, the Grand Princess left the Port of Oakland and dropped anchor in the middle of the San Francisco Bay.
On Monday afternoon, London Breed, San Francisco’s mayor, held a press conference in which she announced that six Bay Area counties, and nearly seven million people, were ordered to shelter in place. I watched the conference on YouTube. On the other side of my office door, a pot of dal simmered. Grocery stores, gas stations, banks, and laundromats would remain open, Breed announced; restaurants would be able to offer takeaway meals; dogs could still be walked; hikes could be taken. But, by and large, the city’s residents had one mandate: stay inside. “What we are asking for everyone to do is to remain at home, for all but the most essential outings, for your safety and the safety of those around you,” Breed said. She asked residents, over and over, not to panic.
People panicked, in a way. There was gridlock at the grocery stores. Lines stretched out the doors of dispensaries. Messages were broadcast and received: Safeway announced that it would be hiring two thousand new employees; Amazon announced that it would be suspending shipments of nonessential products; Silicon Valley technologists announced the launch of a new Web site connecting volunteers with specialized projects (developing a strategic reserve of ventilators, scaling the manufacturing of chloroquine, in the event that it might prove useful). A seventeen-year-old housing collective in the Mission announced a rent strike; restaurants announced that they would be selling off ingredients and bottles of wine. “Did someone say delivery promo codes?” a deli asked in an e-mail.
Members of the city’s fragile, critical human infrastructure—nurses, doctors, janitors, grocery clerks, line cooks, mail carriers, delivery drivers, firefighters, and others—are still at their posts. For the rest, as white-collar work, entertainment, exercise, and leisure move online, there is a feeling of suspension—a sense that things are sliding out of time, that life has been displaced and consolidated. The Internet is well suited to a lockdown; it has always excelled at placelessness. It was almost too easy to overlook another announcement that arrived amid Monday’s squall of headlines: P. G. & E. will be temporarily suspending planned upgrades. It’s a reasonable precaution for the immediate situation, in which people cannot afford to have gas and electricity interrupted, and a reminder, or alarm, for California, which still faces seasons of drought and wildfire. There will be more news, an onslaught, as the crisis accelerates and deepens. A revised future will collide, in the coming months, with the future for which we had almost prepared.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-20--A Rikers Island Doctor Speaks Out to Save Her Elderly Patients from the Coronavirus

Rachael Bedard is a geriatrician who works on Rikers Island , caring for the oldest and sickest people in the New York City jail system .
This week , as Mayor Bill de Blasio banned large gatherings and considered a citywide lockdown , Bedard and a few of her colleagues spoke out on behalf of their patients .
“ We need to take the unprecedented step TODAY of providing urgent release to everyone in the jails who is at risk of serious morbidity and mortality from COVID , ” Bedard wrote on Twitter , on Wednesday .
That day , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had arrived on Rikers : an incarcerated person and a correction officer who worked at a security gate near the island ’ s entrance had both tested positive for COVID-19 .
There are about fifty-four hundred people in the city ’ s jails , and more than nine hundred of them are fifty and older , according to the Board of Correction .
Most have not been convicted of the charges against them ; they are waiting for their cases to move through the courts .
By Thursday , Bedard , who is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stayed home from work ; she has not yet been tested for COVID-19 .
When we spoke on the phone that afternoon , she sometimes had to pause because , she said , “ I ’ m a little short of breath.
” That day , de Blasio announced plans to release forty people from the jail system in light of the coronavirus outbreak , a number that Bedard and advocates say is not sufficient .
When we spoke , I asked Bedard about her job , the pressures she faces now , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doing to try to stop the spread of the virus inside the city ’ s jails .
Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity .
People talk about jails and prisons being incubators for infection .
How does that work exactly on Rikers ?
Rikers Island is a mini city unto itself .
It is not just detainees and guards .
It is thousands of people coming on and off every day .
And so , in the same way that the city is struggling with the complexity of its response @ @ @ @ @ @ @ smaller but almost more urgent scale because , like a nursing home , a jail is a perfect setup for an outbreak .
Before COVID19 appeared on Rikers Island , what was your job ?
What types of individuals were you caring for on a daily basis ?
I ’ m the senior director of the geriatrics and complex-care service .
My specialty is taking care of people who are older and sick and then also coördinating with the courts to come up with creative solutions to get these folks out of custody @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a team of two other clinicians—a nurse and a nurse practitioner—social workers , and reëntry specialists .
And we , as a team , follow the hundred-and-eighty-five oldest and sickest patients in the jail system through the facilities , as they go to the hospital , and then for a period of time after they leave .
Tell me about some of your patients .
What health problems do they have ?
First of all , I think there ’ s this incredible misconception about who ’ s sitting in jail .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ three-and-a-half-year jail career , multiple patients over ninety .
I currently have a patient over ninety .
You have a patient on Rikers who is older than ninety ?
Yes .
This is a guy currently being held in pretrial detention .
I have multiple patients in their eighties .
I have patients who are A.D.L.-impaired—which means that they can not attend to their own activities of daily living and would be nursing-home- or assisted-living-eligible if they were in the community—who need daily assistance with really basic tasks like toileting and changing themselves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with significant wounds that require daily wound care .
I have multiple patients who have active cancer and are getting chemotherapy and are both sick and immunosuppressed from their medication .
I have taken care of patients who are on dialysis , who have to be transported three times a week to be dialyzed .
I have taken care of patients who have bounced back and forth from the hospital in the last several months .
I take care of patients who are H.I.V.-positive with low CD4 counts .
We see an enormous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , who have had a history of traumatic brain injury .
Jails are a place where you see an incredible concentration of pathology for a variety of reasons .
On the whole , our population has poor access to primary preventative health care .
These are folks who have been living on the margins .
Poor socioeconomic status , homelessness , etc.
, are obviously incredibly prevalent for our guys .
The popular misconception , I think , is that jails are full of healthy and aggressive young men .
And I can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is from the experience I have when I walk through our infirmary and visit with my patients .
When did you start worrying about what impact the coronavirus could have on Rikers Island ?
For at least two weeks , this has been basically all I have been working on , thinking about : How are we going to identify people ?
What will we do if somebody has a fever ?
All of those things .
But as the situation has evolved locally and nationally , obviously our protocols have evolved as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clear to us—as it always is—that the jails are not a closed system .
They are vulnerable to whatever is happening in the city .
So if the city was not going to be able to contain and mitigate viral spread , we had absolutely no chance of doing that any more effectively in the jails .
We ’ re talking about an average daily population [ of incarcerated people ] that ’ s come down dramatically in the last couple of years but is about five thousand four hundred people .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all living in congregate settings , either dormitories of forty men , beds three and a half feet apart , or cell blocks where everybody is sharing one common space , one common hallway .
These spaces are locked .
These guys have absolutely no freedom of movement .
When they are moved from one location to another , a person has to take them there .
That person has to open the door for them , and they have to be let through it and be walked down the hallway .
When @ @ @ @ @ @ @ another , somebody has to touch them and put cuffs on them .
When we bring them their food , workers go from housing area to housing area with trays that have to be distributed .
When we give them their medication , that has to be done for them .
They can ’ t do it for themselves .
And so , if you think about how many excess human contacts that is , even compared to something like a shelter setting , you can imagine why viral spread in this environment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and your colleagues trying to head off an outbreak ?
It ’ s still evolving .
What we are doing right now is vigilant screening of patients in all clinical encounters for symptoms and encouraging patients to self-report symptoms as much as possible .
Whenever somebody screens positive—whenever somebody , for example , has a fever , presents with something that could be an influenza-like illness—a mask is put on that person , they are isolated , and then they are taken out of their housing area and transferred to a medical unit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and cared for by a different team of health-care providers .

Rachael Bedard is a geriatrician who works on Rikers Island, caring for the oldest and sickest people in the New York City jail system. This week, as Mayor Bill de Blasio banned large gatherings and considered a citywide lockdown, Bedard and a few of her colleagues spoke out on behalf of their patients. “We need to take the unprecedented step TODAY of providing urgent release to everyone in the jails who is at risk of serious morbidity and mortality from COVID,” Bedard wrote on Twitter, on Wednesday. That day, local news outlets reported that the coronavirus had arrived on Rikers: an incarcerated person and a correction officer who worked at a security gate near the island’s entrance had both tested positive for COVID-19. There are about fifty-four hundred people in the city’s jails, and more than nine hundred of them are fifty and older, according to the Board of Correction. Most have not been convicted of the charges against them; they are waiting for their cases to move through the courts.
By Thursday, Bedard, who is thirty-seven, had a low-grade fever and stayed home from work; she has not yet been tested for COVID-19. When we spoke on the phone that afternoon, she sometimes had to pause because, she said, “I’m a little short of breath.” That day, de Blasio announced plans to release forty people from the jail system in light of the coronavirus outbreak, a number that Bedard and advocates say is not sufficient. When we spoke, I asked Bedard about her job, the pressures she faces now, and what she and her colleagues are doing to try to stop the spread of the virus inside the city’s jails. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
People talk about jails and prisons being incubators for infection. How does that work exactly on Rikers?
Rikers Island is a mini city unto itself. It is not just detainees and guards. It is thousands of people coming on and off every day. And so, in the same way that the city is struggling with the complexity of its response, we are doing that on our smaller but almost more urgent scale because, like a nursing home, a jail is a perfect setup for an outbreak.
Before COVID-19 appeared on Rikers Island, what was your job? What types of individuals were you caring for on a daily basis?
I’m the senior director of the geriatrics and complex-care service. My specialty is taking care of people who are older and sick and then also coördinating with the courts to come up with creative solutions to get these folks out of custody as often as possible. I run a team of two other clinicians—a nurse and a nurse practitioner—social workers, and reëntry specialists. And we, as a team, follow the hundred and eighty-five oldest and sickest patients in the jail system through the facilities, as they go to the hospital, and then for a period of time after they leave.
Tell me about some of your patients. What health problems do they have?
First of all, I think there’s this incredible misconception about who’s sitting in jail. I have taken care of, in my three-and-a-half-year jail career, multiple patients over ninety. I currently have a patient over ninety.
You have a patient on Rikers who is older than ninety?
Yes. This is a guy currently being held in pretrial detention. I have multiple patients in their eighties. I have patients who are A.D.L.-impaired—which means that they cannot attend to their own activities of daily living and would be nursing-home- or assisted-living-eligible if they were in the community—who need daily assistance with really basic tasks like toileting and changing themselves. I have patients who are paraplegic with significant wounds that require daily wound care. I have multiple patients who have active cancer and are getting chemotherapy and are both sick and immunosuppressed from their medication.
I have taken care of patients who are on dialysis, who have to be transported three times a week to be dialyzed. I have taken care of patients who have bounced back and forth from the hospital in the last several months. I take care of patients who are H.I.V.-positive with low CD4 counts. We see an enormous amount of folks who have substance-use disorders, who have had a history of traumatic brain injury.
Jails are a place where you see an incredible concentration of pathology for a variety of reasons. On the whole, our population has poor access to primary preventative health care. These are folks who have been living on the margins. Poor socioeconomic status, homelessness, etc., are obviously incredibly prevalent for our guys.
The popular misconception, I think, is that jails are full of healthy and aggressive young men. And I can’t emphasize enough how different that is from the experience I have when I walk through our infirmary and visit with my patients.
When did you start worrying about what impact the coronavirus could have on Rikers Island?
For at least two weeks, this has been basically all I have been working on, thinking about: How are we going to identify people? What will we do if somebody has a fever? All of those things. But as the situation has evolved locally and nationally, obviously our protocols have evolved as well. It has just been incredibly clear to us—as it always is—that the jails are not a closed system. They are vulnerable to whatever is happening in the city. So if the city was not going to be able to contain and mitigate viral spread, we had absolutely no chance of doing that any more effectively in the jails.
We’re talking about an average daily population [of incarcerated people] that’s come down dramatically in the last couple of years but is about five thousand four hundred people. But picture those five thousand four hundred people all living in congregate settings, either dormitories of forty men, beds three and a half feet apart, or cell blocks where everybody is sharing one common space, one common hallway. These spaces are locked. These guys have absolutely no freedom of movement.
When they are moved from one location to another, a person has to take them there. That person has to open the door for them, and they have to be let through it and be walked down the hallway. When they are moved from one facility to another, somebody has to touch them and put cuffs on them. When we bring them their food, workers go from housing area to housing area with trays that have to be distributed. When we give them their medication, that has to be done for them. They can’t do it for themselves. And so, if you think about how many excess human contacts that is, even compared to something like a shelter setting, you can imagine why viral spread in this environment is extra dangerous.
How are you and your colleagues trying to head off an outbreak?
It’s still evolving. What we are doing right now is vigilant screening of patients in all clinical encounters for symptoms and encouraging patients to self-report symptoms as much as possible. Whenever somebody screens positive—whenever somebody, for example, has a fever, presents with something that could be an influenza-like illness—a mask is put on that person, they are isolated, and then they are taken out of their housing area and transferred to a medical unit. They are put in medical isolation and cared for by a different team of health-care providers.
We do have testing capacity on the island. They’re getting flu-swabbed. We have the capacity to test for other respiratory viruses, because there are lots of illnesses that are going around, and not everything that looks like COVID is COVID.
What happens to someone if you suspect they have the coronavirus?
They’re currently in the C.D.U. [Communicable Disease Unit], which is where we have capacity to take care of patients who have any kind of respiratory illness. People who have the flu also go there. It’s the unit that was built for TB outbreaks.
What is the Communicable Disease Unit?
There are these military sprungs [aluminum structures with a white plastic covering] that were built to have capacity to take care of TB patients and other patients who needed to be in isolation during prior jail eras. They have rooms that are actually a little bigger than the average cell. And they have some negative pressure rooms that have these antechambers, so you don’t just open the door and have air mixing. It’s a little bit more of a clinical unit. There is nursing and medical staff.