newyorker--2020-12-14--Mariana Enriquez on Teen-Age Desire

Mariana Enriquez on Teen-Age Desire

When I wrote “ Our Lady , ” I was obsessed with teen-age girls and with my own teen-age years .
Girls can be like bees or like locusts : there ’ s something toxic and delicious and exotic about them together—they can convey a certain power .
They are a coven , and they are vulnerable , and this mix intrigues me .
I ’ ve written many stories about teen-age girls that tend to have just one voice , yes , like a chorus , because to me there ’ s a buzz at that age , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ language .
You are going through a metamorphosis : it ’ s a very mythological time .
You ’ re a beauty and you ’ re a monster and you can be damaged and you can hurt .
Something about teens swimming at the quarry seems like a classic recipe for disaster : they ’ re trespassing , swimming there is dangerous , and there ’ s also this sexual tension bubbling up .
Were there any particular horror stories that inspired this one , maybe even a certain kind of slasher film @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The place exists , and I did go swimming in a quarry like that when I was a teen-ager .
I wasn ’ t thinking at all about B movies .
I can see how it has that atmosphere , certainly , but the setting was inspired by a real place .
It was eerie and kind of lawless to go there : it was out of town , and of course it was forbidden to swim there , because it was dangerous .
It was almost always empty , and there was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” who were a phantasmagoric presence , because we really didn ’ t know if someone owned these places .
Of course , parents didn ’ t know about these escapades , and many friends didn ’ t know either , because they disapproved of our going there .
The story ’ s beginning seems relatively grounded in the everyday world , but , as we go , the story seems to move toward the supernatural .
Maybe Natalia ’ s experiment with menstrual blood is one place where we start to feel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about the movement of the story into a more “ magical ” or unfamiliar destination ?
Yes , the menstrual blood is the magical rite that moves the story forward .
Actually , it ’ s also based on an urban legend that some girls from my school firmly believed in .
One I know for certain did it—and she got the boy , for a while anyway .
It ’ s not exactly an autobiographical story , but it has many scenes inspired by real-life events .
In terms of the story @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it does shift .
The girls think about sex a lot .
It ’ s interesting that Natalia ends up appealing to “ the Virgin ” for her revenge .
What kind of Virgin is the statue , and why do you think Natalia is able to summon this curse ?
She ’ s expecting a Virgin , but what she actually finds is Pomba Gira , an Afro-Brazilian spirit evoked by practitioners of Umbanda and Quimbanda .
Pomba Gira is often depicted as a beautiful , half-naked woman with long hair , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and witchcraft .
So Natalia wins in a way : that ’ s the spirit that represents her .
It ’ s not that common , but it happens sometimes here that you see a street sanctuary—a spontaneous sanctuary , let ’ s say—and you think it ’ s for a Catholic saint , but sometimes it ’ s not .
From afar , they look similar in size and texture , and also the materials , as they are all made of plaster—sometimes you have to really look , and you can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you , a story about revenge ?
I think it ’ s a story about rage and the desire for revenge , and Natalia gaining the power to unleash it .
There is some foreshadowing early on in the story about the owner and his dogs .
Is there something satisfying about the way that we know in a horror story that something bad is going to happen—its inevitability—even if we ’ re not sure exactly what ?
What I like about horror is the sense of anticipation , of waiting for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feeling unsafe in a story , both reading and writing it .
In the end , we get the dogs only , uncannily large , and no owner .
Why dogs in particular , and is there something creepier about there being no other human presence in this strange place ?
I don ’ t trust dogs .
I ’ m quite alone in this , because most people really love them , but I don ’ t .
There ’ s an element of childhood trauma : I saw a dog attacking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really gory .
The dog bit the mouth of its owner—someone I knew—and ate her lips .
She agonized with plastic surgeries for years , until she died of an unrelated disease , but to me her death and that violent event will be forever linked .
I never trusted a dog again .
They told me many times that she tried to take away from him something that he was eating , and that this is something you can ’ t do , but that explanation was never enough for me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I remember that I was in a phase of reading and rereading Ian McEwan , and the novel “ Black Dogs ” struck a chord .
It ’ s not my favorite book of his , but the image of the enormous black dogs trained to rape was such a great image of evil that I used it .
The black dog as evil is a very traditional image , but it works for me .
Also , there were always urban legends about the appearance of strange animals , and even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .

Photograph by Marta Perez / EPA-EFE / Shutterstock
“Our Lady of the Quarry,” your story in this week’s issue, doesn’t have one protagonist—instead, we hear a plural voice of teen-age girls, almost like a chorus. What drew you to the voice of these girls speaking together? Is it important that they share the same desires?
When I wrote “Our Lady,” I was obsessed with teen-age girls and with my own teen-age years. Girls can be like bees or like locusts: there’s something toxic and delicious and exotic about them together—they can convey a certain power. They are a coven, and they are vulnerable, and this mix intrigues me. I’ve written many stories about teen-age girls that tend to have just one voice, yes, like a chorus, because to me there’s a buzz at that age, a world that functions in your own private language. You are going through a metamorphosis: it’s a very mythological time. You’re a beauty and you’re a monster and you can be damaged and you can hurt.
Something about teens swimming at the quarry seems like a classic recipe for disaster: they’re trespassing, swimming there is dangerous, and there’s also this sexual tension bubbling up. Were there any particular horror stories that inspired this one, maybe even a certain kind of slasher film or B movie?
Not really. The place exists, and I did go swimming in a quarry like that when I was a teen-ager. I wasn’t thinking at all about B movies. I can see how it has that atmosphere, certainly, but the setting was inspired by a real place. It was eerie and kind of lawless to go there: it was out of town, and of course it was forbidden to swim there, because it was dangerous. It was almost always empty, and there was the menace of the “owners,” who were a phantasmagoric presence, because we really didn’t know if someone owned these places. Of course, parents didn’t know about these escapades, and many friends didn’t know either, because they disapproved of our going there.
The story’s beginning seems relatively grounded in the everyday world, but, as we go, the story seems to move toward the supernatural. Maybe Natalia’s experiment with menstrual blood is one place where we start to feel the shift. How did you think about the movement of the story into a more “magical” or unfamiliar destination?
Yes, the menstrual blood is the magical rite that moves the story forward. Actually, it’s also based on an urban legend that some girls from my school firmly believed in. One I know for certain did it—and she got the boy, for a while anyway. It’s not exactly an autobiographical story, but it has many scenes inspired by real-life events. In terms of the story, though, that’s when it does shift.
The girls think about sex a lot. It’s interesting that Natalia ends up appealing to “the Virgin” for her revenge. What kind of Virgin is the statue, and why do you think Natalia is able to summon this curse?
She’s expecting a Virgin, but what she actually finds is Pomba Gira, an Afro-Brazilian spirit evoked by practitioners of Umbanda and Quimbanda. Pomba Gira is often depicted as a beautiful, half-naked woman with long hair, and she represents, roughly, sexuality and witchcraft. So Natalia wins in a way: that’s the spirit that represents her. It’s not that common, but it happens sometimes here that you see a street sanctuary—a spontaneous sanctuary, let’s say—and you think it’s for a Catholic saint, but sometimes it’s not. From afar, they look similar in size and texture, and also the materials, as they are all made of plaster—sometimes you have to really look, and you can be surprised.
Is this, to you, a story about revenge?
I think it’s a story about rage and the desire for revenge, and Natalia gaining the power to unleash it.
There is some foreshadowing early on in the story about the owner and his dogs. Is there something satisfying about the way that we know in a horror story that something bad is going to happen—its inevitability—even if we’re not sure exactly what?
What I like about horror is the sense of anticipation, of waiting for the inevitable to hit you. I like feeling unsafe in a story, both reading and writing it.
In the end, we get the dogs only, uncannily large, and no owner. Why dogs in particular, and is there something creepier about there being no other human presence in this strange place?
I don’t trust dogs. I’m quite alone in this, because most people really love them, but I don’t. There’s an element of childhood trauma: I saw a dog attacking its owner once, and it was really gory. The dog bit the mouth of its owner—someone I knew—and ate her lips. She agonized with plastic surgeries for years, until she died of an unrelated disease, but to me her death and that violent event will be forever linked. I never trusted a dog again. They told me many times that she tried to take away from him something that he was eating, and that this is something you can’t do, but that explanation was never enough for me. When I was writing this particular story, I remember that I was in a phase of reading and rereading Ian McEwan, and the novel “Black Dogs” struck a chord. It’s not my favorite book of his, but the image of the enormous black dogs trained to rape was such a great image of evil that I used it. The black dog as evil is a very traditional image, but it works for me. Also, there were always urban legends about the appearance of strange animals, and even aliens, in and around those quarries.


newyorker--2020-12-14--Paul McCartney’s Surprisingly Playful Pandemic Album

Since the Beatles officially broke up , in 1970 , Paul McCartney has released more than thirty original albums and dozens of singles .
They have included ragged , folksy home recordings ; propulsive , glossy rock ; children ’ s music featuring singing frogs ; covers of fifties R. & B. favorites ; duets with Carl Perkins , Michael Jackson , and Stevie Wonder ; collaborations with members of Led Zeppelin and the Royal Liverpool Symphony Orchestra ; and excursions into disco , ambient techno , and cut-and-paste soundscapes .
By comparison , the Beatles released only twelve full @ @ @ @ @ @ @ They made statements with their records , but McCartney seems to be perpetually sketching , pursuing a career of whims and compulsions .
In 1971 , he and his then wife , Linda , formed a new band , Wings , perhaps so that their family could spend more time together .
“ It was just something we wanted to do , so if we got it wrong , big deal , ” he said .
He characterized an album in the eighties as having started as “ a mess-around.
” Even when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a 2016 retrospective of his post-Beatles career , he shrugged off any grand purpose , saying that it was simply “ something fun to listen to.
” No doubt McCartney takes his craft and his career seriously .
But he ’ s a living legend who seems less interested in tending to his legacy than in scratching a chronic itch .
He recorded his solo début in secret , in 1969 and 1970 .
The Beatles were in the process of disbanding , and he was reportedly sullen ; the album , called @ @ @ @ @ @ @ record , though its heartache manifests less in the songs ’ lyrics than in their tattered edges .
The record is filled with gorgeous half-finished melodies that eschew the perfectionism to which Beatles fans had grown accustomed , baffling listeners .
“ The Lovely Linda , ” for example , starts off as a pretty ode to his wife but then ends suddenly , as McCartney dissolves into giggles .
In the eighties , as Wings was breaking up , McCartney recorded a sequel , “ McCartney II , ” on which he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ machines .
Perhaps it wasn ’ t a masterpiece , he told an interviewer , but it was “ total freedom.
” This year , as the pandemic swept across the world , McCartney and his family retreated to his farm in East Sussex .
He turned his prodigious work ethic to home recording and started tinkering with a scrap of a song he ’ d begun in the nineties .
He ended up with an entire album , “ McCartney III , ” which comes out on December 18th .
The opener @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” summarizes the one-man approach .
He begins by casually strumming his guitar , almost as if he ’ s tuning it , and then works out a raga-like pattern .
He adds layers : a friendly bass line , background coos , electric guitar , pounding drums , strings and woodwinds .
It goes on a bit longer than necessary , as if he were just noodling around .
“ Deep Deep Feeling ” opens with McCartney riffing about the highs and lows of love , exhausting the rhyming possibilities of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” “ ocean , ” and “ motion.
” He adds an ethereal synth line , a stretched-out blues guitar ; together , the instruments convey a storminess that his words never quite capture .
In the popular imagination of the Beatles , John Lennon was the anguished , hard-driving dreamer , the one plumbing his psychological depths or reaching for the impossible vision .
McCartney was the simpler one : he was congenial and silly , pathological only about songwriting .
He came up with melodies and left them unfinished because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There are a few moments of “ McCartney III ” that recall this sense of delight .
“ Lavatory Lil , ” a trifling blues boogie , echoes the childish , character-driven songs of the Beatles ’ “ Abbey Road.
” Since the nineties , many of McCartney ’ s albums have been produced in a way that seems conscious of his glory days , and his effect on British music .
Sometimes it sounds as though he were singing over a simulacrum of a Beatles song , and at other times as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of disciples like Oasis or Adele .
The most affecting moments of “ McCartney III ” are when his age and his limitations show .
( He ’ s seventy-eight . )
He works his way through a lovely acoustic ballad called “ The Kiss of Venus ” slowly and gingerly , his voice carefully tracing an ascending guitar line .
On “ Women and Wives , ” he sounds warbly , as though he were losing control of his instrument .
“ When tomorrow comes around / You ’ ll be looking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sternly .
“ So keep your feet upon the ground / And get ready to run.
” In this way , McCartney can sometimes seem like a symbol rather than a person .
Currently , his most streamed song on Spotify is “ FourFiveSeconds , ” a 2015 track featuring Rihanna and Kanye West .
( It has seven hundred million listens , nearly two hundred million more than “ Here Comes the Sun.
” ) Kanye and Rihanna are the stars of the song ; McCartney ’ s presence seems gestural , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the canon .
But McCartney appears to relish these brushes with the Zeitgeist .
In 2016 , when Rae Sremmurd ’ s “ Black Beatles ” ( streamed a hundred and thirty million more times than “ Here Comes the Sun ” ) became the soundtrack for a viral “ mannequin ” challenge , McCartney took part , filming a video of himself frozen while playing a grand piano .
“ Love those Black Beatles , ” he wrote on Twitter .
In recent years , McCartney has sung on a track @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Beetroots and performed with the surviving members of Nirvana .
He is on this month ’ s cover of Rolling Stone , alongside Taylor Swift .
Such moments give younger artists a bridge to history ; McCartney satisfies his curiosity about kids these days .
But it may be impossible for a septuagenarian ex-Beatle to grasp the anxiety-filled world that his musical descendants have inherited .
The pandemic has provided an occasion for younger artists , including Taylor Swift , Charli XCX , and BTS , to release work that touches on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ By contrast , there ’ s something incredibly “ Paul ” about McCartney ’ s approach to the pandemic album : cheery , resilient , forever looking forward .
It ’ s a reminder of one of the Beatles ’ most powerful messages to baby boomers : life gets better .
It ’ s getting better all the time .
McCartney ’ s optimism feels vintage .
In “ Seize the Day , ” he reminds us , over warm electric keys , to stay in the moment : “ When the cold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fade away / There ’ ll be no more sun / And we ’ ll wish that we had held on to the day.
” For the album ’ s splendid closer , “ Winter Bird—When Winter Comes , ” he returns to the album ’ s opening guitar lick .
The song then morphs into a folk tune that doubles as a to-do list of tasks around his farm : fix a fence , dig a drain , plant some trees .
Time passes , he notes , and someday the trees @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that McCartney won ’ t be around to see them , but , by doing his part , he has helped a future visitor .
The sentiment is lovely , and it harks back to a different generation ’ s sense of what ’ s possible .
We ’ d all like to believe that love will prevail , that the earth will heal itself , and that we ’ ll leave things better than we found them .
He ’ s written this song countless times .
But it sounds a little @ @ @ @

Since the Beatles officially broke up, in 1970, Paul McCartney has released more than thirty original albums and dozens of singles. They have included ragged, folksy home recordings; propulsive, glossy rock; children’s music featuring singing frogs; covers of fifties R. & B. favorites; duets with Carl Perkins, Michael Jackson, and Stevie Wonder; collaborations with members of Led Zeppelin and the Royal Liverpool Symphony Orchestra; and excursions into disco, ambient techno, and cut-and-paste soundscapes. By comparison, the Beatles released only twelve full studio albums—about nine hours of music. They made statements with their records, but McCartney seems to be perpetually sketching, pursuing a career of whims and compulsions. In 1971, he and his then wife, Linda, formed a new band, Wings, perhaps so that their family could spend more time together. “It was just something we wanted to do, so if we got it wrong, big deal,” he said. He characterized an album in the eighties as having started as “a mess-around.” Even when he compiled “Pure McCartney,” a 2016 retrospective of his post-Beatles career, he shrugged off any grand purpose, saying that it was simply “something fun to listen to.” No doubt McCartney takes his craft and his career seriously. But he’s a living legend who seems less interested in tending to his legacy than in scratching a chronic itch.
He recorded his solo début in secret, in 1969 and 1970. The Beatles were in the process of disbanding, and he was reportedly sullen; the album, called “McCartney,” is a breakup record, though its heartache manifests less in the songs’ lyrics than in their tattered edges. The record is filled with gorgeous half-finished melodies that eschew the perfectionism to which Beatles fans had grown accustomed, baffling listeners. “The Lovely Linda,” for example, starts off as a pretty ode to his wife but then ends suddenly, as McCartney dissolves into giggles. In the eighties, as Wings was breaking up, McCartney recorded a sequel, “McCartney II,” on which he ditched rock classicism for synthesizers and drum machines. Perhaps it wasn’t a masterpiece, he told an interviewer, but it was “total freedom.”
This year, as the pandemic swept across the world, McCartney and his family retreated to his farm in East Sussex. He turned his prodigious work ethic to home recording and started tinkering with a scrap of a song he’d begun in the nineties. He ended up with an entire album, “McCartney III,” which comes out on December 18th. The opener, “Long Tailed Winter Bird,” summarizes the one-man approach. He begins by casually strumming his guitar, almost as if he’s tuning it, and then works out a raga-like pattern. He adds layers: a friendly bass line, background coos, electric guitar, pounding drums, strings and woodwinds. It goes on a bit longer than necessary, as if he were just noodling around. “Deep Deep Feeling” opens with McCartney riffing about the highs and lows of love, exhausting the rhyming possibilities of the word “emotion” with “devotion,” “ocean,” and “motion.” He adds an ethereal synth line, a stretched-out blues guitar; together, the instruments convey a storminess that his words never quite capture.
In the popular imagination of the Beatles, John Lennon was the anguished, hard-driving dreamer, the one plumbing his psychological depths or reaching for the impossible vision. McCartney was the simpler one: he was congenial and silly, pathological only about songwriting. He came up with melodies and left them unfinished because there were always more to write. There are a few moments of “McCartney III” that recall this sense of delight. “Lavatory Lil,” a trifling blues boogie, echoes the childish, character-driven songs of the Beatles’ “Abbey Road.”
Since the nineties, many of McCartney’s albums have been produced in a way that seems conscious of his glory days, and his effect on British music. Sometimes it sounds as though he were singing over a simulacrum of a Beatles song, and at other times as though he were sharing in the fun of disciples like Oasis or Adele. The most affecting moments of “McCartney III” are when his age and his limitations show. (He’s seventy-eight.) He works his way through a lovely acoustic ballad called “The Kiss of Venus” slowly and gingerly, his voice carefully tracing an ascending guitar line. On “Women and Wives,” he sounds warbly, as though he were losing control of his instrument. “When tomorrow comes around / You’ll be looking at the future,” he sings sternly. “So keep your feet upon the ground / And get ready to run.”
A few years ago, there was a trollish online debate about whether the Atlanta rap trio Migos was better than the Beatles. A version of it took place in my college dorm in the nineties; the challenger then was Boyz II Men. I’ve since decided that there is no way for the upstart to win this argument. One gets the sense that it simply entrenches the Beatles as a cultural monolith. Invoking their name connects us to the possibility of some universally agreed-upon standard of greatness, a kind of consensus that no longer seems within reach.
In this way, McCartney can sometimes seem like a symbol rather than a person. Currently, his most streamed song on Spotify is “FourFiveSeconds,” a 2015 track featuring Rihanna and Kanye West. (It has seven hundred million listens, nearly two hundred million more than “Here Comes the Sun.”) Kanye and Rihanna are the stars of the song; McCartney’s presence seems gestural, a way for them to link themselves to the canon. But McCartney appears to relish these brushes with the Zeitgeist. In 2016, when Rae Sremmurd’s “Black Beatles” (streamed a hundred and thirty million more times than “Here Comes the Sun”) became the soundtrack for a viral “mannequin” challenge, McCartney took part, filming a video of himself frozen while playing a grand piano. “Love those Black Beatles,” he wrote on Twitter. In recent years, McCartney has sung on a track by the E.D.M. producer the Bloody Beetroots and performed with the surviving members of Nirvana. He is on this month’s cover of Rolling Stone, alongside Taylor Swift. Such moments give younger artists a bridge to history; McCartney satisfies his curiosity about kids these days.
But it may be impossible for a septuagenarian ex-Beatle to grasp the anxiety-filled world that his musical descendants have inherited. The pandemic has provided an occasion for younger artists, including Taylor Swift, Charli XCX, and BTS, to release work that touches on the isolation and loneliness of contemporary life. By contrast, there’s something incredibly “Paul” about McCartney’s approach to the pandemic album: cheery, resilient, forever looking forward. It’s a reminder of one of the Beatles’ most powerful messages to baby boomers: life gets better. It’s getting better all the time.
McCartney’s optimism feels vintage. In “Seize the Day,” he reminds us, over warm electric keys, to stay in the moment: “When the cold days come / When the old ways fade away / There’ll be no more sun / And we’ll wish that we had held on to the day.” For the album’s splendid closer, “Winter Bird—When Winter Comes,” he returns to the album’s opening guitar lick. The song then morphs into a folk tune that doubles as a to-do list of tasks around his farm: fix a fence, dig a drain, plant some trees. Time passes, he notes, and someday the trees will cast shade. The implication is that McCartney won’t be around to see them, but, by doing his part, he has helped a future visitor. The sentiment is lovely, and it harks back to a different generation’s sense of what’s possible. We’d all like to believe that love will prevail, that the earth will heal itself, and that we’ll leave things better than we found them. He’s written this song countless times. But it sounds a little different now. ♦


newyorker--2020-12-14--“The Bats,” by Mark Wunderlich

“The Bats,” by Mark Wunderlich

I share my house with a colony of bats .
They live in the roof peak , enter through a @ @ @ @ @ fly out , dip into inverted arcs to catch what flutters or stings , what @ @ @ @ @ night .
Sunlight stops their flight , drives them into their hot chamber to rest @ @ @ @ @ shut .
I hear them scratch .
In darkness they chop and hazard through the @ @ @ @ @ of pines , pitch up over the old Dutch house we share .
They scare @ @ @ @ @ I see them for what they seem— timid , wee , happy or lucky , @ @ @ @ @ , stitched up in their ammonia reek and private as dreams .

Audio: Read by the author.
I share my house with a colony of bats.
They live in the roof peak,
enter through a gap.
At dusk they fly out, dip
into inverted arcs
to catch what flutters or stings,
what can only be hunted at night.
Sunlight stops their flight,
drives them into their hot chamber
to rest and nest, troll-faces
pinched shut. I hear them scratch.
In darkness they chop and hazard through the sky,
around blue outlines of pines,
pitch up over the old Dutch house
we share. They scare some
but not me. I see them
for what they seem—
timid, wee, happy or lucky,
pinned to the roof beams,
stitched up in their ammonia reek
and private as dreams.


newyorker--2020-12-14--The Melancholy Gestalt of Isolation

The Melancholy Gestalt of Isolation

An invitational show of international artists , “ 100 Drawings from Now , ” at the Drawing Center , in SoHo , speaks to our lockdown epoch with startling poignancy .
All but one of the works have been created since the pandemic ’ s onset .
They are mounted on walls with magnets , unframed , and arrayed seemingly helter-skelter .
Few are thematic .
There are scant visual references to the spiky virus , though there are some good jokes on homebound malaise .
Among the better-known artists , Raymond Pettibon pictures himself bingeing on episodes of “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reports a homeopathic regimen of cigarettes and Xanax .
Stylistic commonalities are scarce , aside from a frequent tilt toward wonky figuration .
The show confirms a deltalike trend—or anti-trend—of eclectic eccentricities without any discernible mainstream .
( Does this signal the end of art history ?
It can feel that way , absent competitive modes and manners .
Anyone today can do anything , which sounds nice but makes for little synergy . )
What unites Rashid Johnson ’ s grease-stick abstraction , conjuring a state of alarm in a pigment that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; Cecily Brown ’ s pencilled carnage of game animals after a seventeenth-century still-life by Frans Snyders ; and a meticulous , strikingly sombre self-portrait by R. Crumb ?
Isolation .
Intended or not in individual cases , the melancholy gestalt is strong , as is its silver-lining irony of satisfying all artists ’ ruling wish : to be alone in the studio .
Alone with themselves .
Alone with drawing .
I found myself experiencing the works less as calculated images than as prayers .
It ’ s an effect common enough @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stumbling upon soulfulness .
I think of lines by John Ashbery : An event rather than an entity , the soul defines our deepest depths , oblivious of sensation , thought , and feeling—touching bottom in our simple existence .
Nearly all mystics posit a oneness of attention and worship .
This may seem a lot to lay on a group show of overwhelmingly secular and cosmopolitan art , but you know what ?
I may have a point .
Friends agree with me that , for those of us who have been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of forced lassitude have given rise to moments that are essentially mystical : temporary losses of ourselves , like existential hiccups , that we would likely not have noticed if we were leading full lives .
When time is a trackless waste , escapes from the aridity detonate .
Gone before we ’ re quite aware of them , they return us to interminable tedium—in which it ’ s easy to brood that the world is full of possibilities , all of them over—but with a lasting glint of resilience .
The universe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Will we recall our ordeals and their momentary reprieves or expunge them from memory when the vaccines kick in ?
( The flu of 1918 , which resulted in fifty million deaths , seemed to have dropped from the nation ’ s collective mind the instant it ended . )
But here we are , and “ 100 Drawings from Now ” vivifies the situation for me .
Drawing seems the most apt medium for expressing the fix we ’ re in .
It ’ s quick , and hospitable to surges @ @ @ @ @ @ @ insertion ) of individual solitudes in shared time .
For most artists , perhaps including most of those in the show , drawing is a workaday task central to a process that is destined to yield results in painting , sculpture , installation , or another format .
( If a drawing is like a prayer , a completed project is like a Sabbath . )
I ’ m imposing my thesis on a lot of work that , while impressive on its own terms , seems output-as-usual for its creators : a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protest of institutionalized violence against Black people , by the Bahamas-born Lavar Munroe ; an antic scarecrow figure against a geometric ground , by the thirty-one-year-old Walter Price , from Georgia ; a congeries of jammed-together gray-and-yellow checkerboard patterns , by Sam Moyer , a promising Brooklynite new to me .
But those fine efforts amount to background accompaniment to the show ’ s instances of urgency and agitation .
( And who can say what inner pressures attended their making ? )
Even—or especially—understatement succeeds .
I was at first perplexed and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kilimnik , a rococo visual poet of courtly romance .
She sketched only the symbols of the four card suits—heart , spade , diamond , club—in blue , two greens , and red .
I take the work as a confession of the inadequacy of art in the face of lived suffering , but also as a log-in for the occasion : another artist is present , making things despite all .
Kilimnik ’ s gesture seemed to me the next best thing to Wittgenstein ’ s dictum “ Whereof one can not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A fluent acrylic of a blooming iris by Amy Sillman evinces similar tact : the artist weighing in with the little , but all of the little , that she can muster amid common distress .
The Drawing Center merits gratitude for the thoughtfulness and nimble timing of the show .
It is an exemplary nonprofit that has survived art-world ups and downs since its founding , in 1977 , in a disused warehouse on Greene Street and its move , ten years later , to 35 Wooster Street , in what was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is gelid now .
The rationale for its creation was an argument that graphic mediums are too often discounted in assessments of new art .
I remember initially doubting the emphasis , which seemed to me a mite precious .
( What next ?
The Macramé Nook ? )
But the center ’ s exhibition programs , featuring artists both prominent and tyro , have proved invaluable for their sidelights on technical developments and critical issues in art and the wider culture .
( There have been tours de force representing tattoo artists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and , last year , prisoners . )
The artists in “ 100 Drawings from Now ” were selected by three staff curators of different generations : the boomer Laura Hoptman , the Gen X-er Claire Gilman , and the millennial Rosario Güiraldes—though , again , you wouldn ’ t easily distinguish period styles among their respective cohorts .
The works pick no perceptible critical fights with one another .
Movements are moot .
Romances of avant-gardism have died on the vine .
Today , becoming an artist at all has come to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s intervention in history .
But quality and energy count , as always .
You know you ’ re in good hands with brisk portraits that the New Yorkers Sam Messer and Rochelle Feinstein drew of each other , simultaneously , via Zoom .
There ’ s refreshment , besides ominousness , in the Chinese artist Cao Fei ’ s realist rendering of a bottle of hand sanitizer and introspective drama in the Hong Kong-born Paul Chan ’ s inky and dense semi-abstract of his studio , drawn with his nondominant left hand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wary , I viewed the show .
The space was almost deserted .
I might have thought , Where is everybody ?
But , of course , I knew .
The world ’ s population is atomized among the dying , the ill , the quarantined , the sheltered , the heroically imperilled “ essential ” ( never forget ! )
, and , God save the mark , the blinkered fools .
None are likely to crowd art shows anytime soon , even as precautionary measures have enabled the reopening of galleries @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Do you sometimes imagine that you ’ re getting used to the emergency ?
I think I can guarantee that you ’ re not , burdened by states of mind that will be comprehensible only retrospectively , when they no longer pertain .
The world going on nonetheless , as the world will , feels bizarrely conditional , subject in thought and action to a blanketing subjunctive mood : things as we wish they were .
We are waiting this out with nostalgia for lost freedoms , fear and empathy in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anticipation of eventual survivor ’ s guilt .
Never has social privilege seemed more unfair while being clung to so tenaciously .
Some of us—artists—are undergoing the siege in ways that can alert us to the subjective dimensions of an objective calamity .
We should want those people to keep it up as best they can .
♦

An invitational show of international artists, “100 Drawings from Now,” at the Drawing Center, in SoHo, speaks to our lockdown epoch with startling poignancy. All but one of the works have been created since the pandemic’s onset. They are mounted on walls with magnets, unframed, and arrayed seemingly helter-skelter. Few are thematic. There are scant visual references to the spiky virus, though there are some good jokes on homebound malaise. Among the better-known artists, Raymond Pettibon pictures himself bingeing on episodes of “The Twilight Zone” and Katherine Bernhardt reports a homeopathic regimen of cigarettes and Xanax. Stylistic commonalities are scarce, aside from a frequent tilt toward wonky figuration. The show confirms a deltalike trend—or anti-trend—of eclectic eccentricities without any discernible mainstream. (Does this signal the end of art history? It can feel that way, absent competitive modes and manners. Anyone today can do anything, which sounds nice but makes for little synergy.) What unites Rashid Johnson’s grease-stick abstraction, conjuring a state of alarm in a pigment that he has invented and dubbed Anxious Red; Cecily Brown’s pencilled carnage of game animals after a seventeenth-century still-life by Frans Snyders; and a meticulous, strikingly sombre self-portrait by R. Crumb? Isolation. Intended or not in individual cases, the melancholy gestalt is strong, as is its silver-lining irony of satisfying all artists’ ruling wish: to be alone in the studio. Alone with themselves. Alone with drawing. I found myself experiencing the works less as calculated images than as prayers.
It’s an effect common enough in both art and life: consciousness stumbling upon soulfulness. I think of lines by John Ashbery:
the soul is not a soul,
Has no secret, is small, and it fits
Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.
An event rather than an entity, the soul defines our deepest depths, oblivious of sensation, thought, and feeling—touching bottom in our simple existence. Nearly all mystics posit a oneness of attention and worship. This may seem a lot to lay on a group show of overwhelmingly secular and cosmopolitan art, but you know what? I may have a point. Friends agree with me that, for those of us who have been confined to home, these past months of forced lassitude have given rise to moments that are essentially mystical: temporary losses of ourselves, like existential hiccups, that we would likely not have noticed if we were leading full lives. When time is a trackless waste, escapes from the aridity detonate. Gone before we’re quite aware of them, they return us to interminable tedium—in which it’s easy to brood that the world is full of possibilities, all of them over—but with a lasting glint of resilience. The universe isn’t done with us yet. Will we recall our ordeals and their momentary reprieves or expunge them from memory when the vaccines kick in? (The flu of 1918, which resulted in fifty million deaths, seemed to have dropped from the nation’s collective mind the instant it ended.) But here we are, and “100 Drawings from Now” vivifies the situation for me.
“R. Crumb by R. Crumb,” by R. Crumb. Art work courtesy the artist, Paul Morris, and David Zwirner © Robert Crumb, 2020
Drawing seems the most apt medium for expressing the fix we’re in. It’s quick, and hospitable to surges of soulfulness: the assertion (or insertion) of individual solitudes in shared time. For most artists, perhaps including most of those in the show, drawing is a workaday task central to a process that is destined to yield results in painting, sculpture, installation, or another format. (If a drawing is like a prayer, a completed project is like a Sabbath.) I’m imposing my thesis on a lot of work that, while impressive on its own terms, seems output-as-usual for its creators: a powerfully composed (and plenty timely) protest of institutionalized violence against Black people, by the Bahamas-born Lavar Munroe; an antic scarecrow figure against a geometric ground, by the thirty-one-year-old Walter Price, from Georgia; a congeries of jammed-together gray-and-yellow checkerboard patterns, by Sam Moyer, a promising Brooklynite new to me. But those fine efforts amount to background accompaniment to the show’s instances of urgency and agitation. (And who can say what inner pressures attended their making?) Even—or especially—understatement succeeds. I was at first perplexed and then riveted by the contribution from Karen Kilimnik, a rococo visual poet of courtly romance. She sketched only the symbols of the four card suits—heart, spade, diamond, club—in blue, two greens, and red. I take the work as a confession of the inadequacy of art in the face of lived suffering, but also as a log-in for the occasion: another artist is present, making things despite all. Kilimnik’s gesture seemed to me the next best thing to Wittgenstein’s dictum “Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent.” A fluent acrylic of a blooming iris by Amy Sillman evinces similar tact: the artist weighing in with the little, but all of the little, that she can muster amid common distress.
The Drawing Center merits gratitude for the thoughtfulness and nimble timing of the show. It is an exemplary nonprofit that has survived art-world ups and downs since its founding, in 1977, in a disused warehouse on Greene Street and its move, ten years later, to 35 Wooster Street, in what was then a hot zone for galleries but is gelid now. The rationale for its creation was an argument that graphic mediums are too often discounted in assessments of new art. I remember initially doubting the emphasis, which seemed to me a mite precious. (What next? The Macramé Nook?) But the center’s exhibition programs, featuring artists both prominent and tyro, have proved invaluable for their sidelights on technical developments and critical issues in art and the wider culture. (There have been tours de force representing tattoo artists, writers, chefs, soldiers, and, last year, prisoners.) The artists in “100 Drawings from Now” were selected by three staff curators of different generations: the boomer Laura Hoptman, the Gen X-er Claire Gilman, and the millennial Rosario Güiraldes—though, again, you wouldn’t easily distinguish period styles among their respective cohorts. The works pick no perceptible critical fights with one another. Movements are moot. Romances of avant-gardism have died on the vine. Today, becoming an artist at all has come to seem the limit of an individual’s intervention in history. But quality and energy count, as always. You know you’re in good hands with brisk portraits that the New Yorkers Sam Messer and Rochelle Feinstein drew of each other, simultaneously, via Zoom. There’s refreshment, besides ominousness, in the Chinese artist Cao Fei’s realist rendering of a bottle of hand sanitizer and introspective drama in the Hong Kong-born Paul Chan’s inky and dense semi-abstract of his studio, drawn with his nondominant left hand.
“Untitled,” by Katherine Bernhardt, from 2020. Art work courtesy the artist and Canada Gallery
Silence reigned as, masked and wary, I viewed the show. The space was almost deserted. I might have thought, Where is everybody? But, of course, I knew. The world’s population is atomized among the dying, the ill, the quarantined, the sheltered, the heroically imperilled “essential” (never forget!), and, God save the mark, the blinkered fools. None are likely to crowd art shows anytime soon, even as precautionary measures have enabled the reopening of galleries and museums in parts of the country. Do you sometimes imagine that you’re getting used to the emergency? I think I can guarantee that you’re not, burdened by states of mind that will be comprehensible only retrospectively, when they no longer pertain. The world going on nonetheless, as the world will, feels bizarrely conditional, subject in thought and action to a blanketing subjunctive mood: things as we wish they were. We are waiting this out with nostalgia for lost freedoms, fear and empathy in the present, and, perhaps, vague anticipation of eventual survivor’s guilt. Never has social privilege seemed more unfair while being clung to so tenaciously. Some of us—artists—are undergoing the siege in ways that can alert us to the subjective dimensions of an objective calamity. We should want those people to keep it up as best they can. ♦


newyorker--2020-12-14--Instagram’s Favorite New Yorker Cartoons of 2020

Ah , what a joy to be at the end of the year , and to reflect on 2020 !
It ’ s true that it ’ s been a pretty uneventful twelve months , but , as they say , sometimes no news is good news .
I for one am very glad to be without a care , and to have exactly zero very bad things gnawing at my mind and soul .
When I go to bed at night , my head is instantly filled with a calming reverie of birdsong , and my limbs are in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the Land of Nod .
But , alas , there is trouble in paradise .
As I ’ m sure you know , this kind of bliss does get a bit tedious as time goes on—too much of a good thing makes Johnny a dull boy .
So sometimes I crave something different .
In these moments , I grab my cell phone and begin to look at various social-media sites .
Instagram is one that I use in particular—I hear that it is quite popular .
If you go to instagram @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what I ’ m talking about .
Images , more than any one person could possibly imagine , flood the senses !
Any sensation of bliss is replaced with a rabid urge to scroll and see every last one .
If you take a look , there are even a number of cartoons there !
I ’ m told that it is part of “ my job ” to be “ aware of this , ” but in truth there ’ s excitement in discovering life ’ s little mysteries .
I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cartoons we ’ ve posted on Instagram this year can be collected in one place , and enjoyed all at once !
If this sounds like something you ’ d be interested in , you ’ re in for a treat .
If you , like me , need a fun-filled break from the exalted state that this year has left you in , feast your eyes on the cartoons below .

Ah, what a joy to be at the end of the year, and to reflect on 2020! It’s true that it’s been a pretty uneventful twelve months, but, as they say, sometimes no news is good news. I for one am very glad to be without a care, and to have exactly zero very bad things gnawing at my mind and soul. When I go to bed at night, my head is instantly filled with a calming reverie of birdsong, and my limbs are in total relaxation as I drift effortlessly off to the Land of Nod. But, alas, there is trouble in paradise.
2020 in Review New Yorker writers reflect on the year’s highs and lows.
As I’m sure you know, this kind of bliss does get a bit tedious as time goes on—too much of a good thing makes Johnny a dull boy. So sometimes I crave something different. In these moments, I grab my cell phone and begin to look at various social-media sites. Instagram is one that I use in particular—I hear that it is quite popular. If you go to instagram dot com, you’ll see what I’m talking about. Images, more than any one person could possibly imagine, flood the senses! Any sensation of bliss is replaced with a rabid urge to scroll and see every last one. If you take a look, there are even a number of cartoons there! I’m told that it is part of “my job” to be “aware of this,” but in truth there’s excitement in discovering life’s little mysteries. I’ve even learned that the most popular cartoons we’ve posted on Instagram this year can be collected in one place, and enjoyed all at once! If this sounds like something you’d be interested in, you’re in for a treat. If you, like me, need a fun-filled break from the exalted state that this year has left you in, feast your eyes on the cartoons below.
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2020 in Review


Cartoon Caption Contest

Each week , we provide a cartoon in need of a caption .
You , the reader , submit your @ @ @ @ @ three finalists , and you vote for your favorite .
Anyone age thirteen or older @ @ @ @ @ To read the complete rules , click here .

Each week, we provide a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, submit your caption here, we choose three finalists, and you vote for your favorite. Anyone age thirteen or older can enter or vote. To read the complete rules, click here.
P. C. Vey Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop


newyorker--2020-12-15--Biden’s Victory in the Electoral College Was a Welcome Affirmation of Democracy

Monday , December 14th , has long been marked on the political calendar as the moment when the Electoral College—that antiquated , rickety , and in some ways unrepresentative vestige of the country ’ s founding—would gather to confirm the results of the 2020 election .
Like many other days since November 3rd , it began with Donald Trump ranting on Twitter about a “ Rigged Election ” and some of his supporters intimating at possible violence .
In Michigan , state officials announced that legislative buildings and the capitol wouldn ’ t open , owing to what they termed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ state congressman , Barry Eisen , said he couldn ’ t rule out violence at a Trump protest that he was planning to attend .
From other parts of the country , there were reports of electors receiving threats , some of which the authorities took seriously .
In Arizona , authorities declined to divulge the location where its electors would be meeting .
This was all alarming .
But , once the actual voting started , the proceedings were reassuringly mundane and free of incident .
In the ten-o ’ clock hour @ @ @ @ @ @ @ red states , each of which has eleven electoral votes—got things going in a way that would be mimicked , later in the day , all across the country .
After answering a roll call , the electors voted by paper ballot—one for President and another for Vice-President .
Once their votes were tallied , the electors signed six certificates recording their actions .
One of these certificates was destined to be mailed—yes , snail-mailed—to the president of the U.S. Senate , Vice-President Mike Pence .
( The other five copies would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Archaic as this procedure is , it represented American democracy in action .
After all of Trump ’ s assaults and provocations over the past month , that alone was something to celebrate .
And , with the result not in any doubt , there was an unexpected pleasure in watching the vote tallies mount .
At noon , Trump was still leading Joe Biden , fifty-six votes to thirty-six .
Then came another wave of states , including three critical ones that flipped to Biden : Arizona , Georgia , and Pennsylvania @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the Electoral College .
At the Georgia statehouse , in Atlanta , Stacey Abrams , the Democratic politician whose voter-registration drives contributed to Biden ’ s narrow victory in that state , conducted the roll call .
“ We stand not for ourselves and not for our party but for the people of Georgia , ” Abrams said , beaming .
After the electors had cast their votes and the tellers had confirmed them , Abrams returned to the dais and declared , “ We have now cast sixteen Electoral College votes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for Joseph R. Biden as President of the United States , and sixteen Electoral College votes on behalf of the state of Georgia for Kamala D. Harris as Vice-President of the United States.
” It was the first time since 1992 that Georgia had gone Democrat .
Seven hundred miles north , in Harrisburg , similar scenes were playing out .
Pennsylvania is another state where Trump and his legal team have conducted a blistering campaign against the voters ’ will , of course .
And , indeed , as the Electoral College @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a group of local Republicans held a rival meeting at which they staged their own vote—for Trump .
“ We took this procedural vote to preserve any legal claims that may be presented going forward , ” Bernie Comfort , the chair of Trump ’ s campaign in Pennsylvania , said in a statement .
But there was nothing that Trump or any of his supporters could do to stop the official ceremony .
After the twenty Democratic electors had cast their votes for Biden and Harris , Kathy Boockvar , the Pennsylvania @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all the state ’ s election officials for the work they had done .
Loosely quoting former President George H. W. Bush , Boockvar said they had “ effectuated the majesty of our democracy.
” The votes kept coming in .
Opening the proceedings at the state capitol in Lansing , Michigan , Governor Gretchen Whitmer noted that the election result in the Wolverine State had been clear and decisive .
( Biden won by more than a hundred and fifty thousand votes . )
“ After today , the result will be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her face mask .
“ It is time to move forward together as one United States of America.
” If FedEx and UPS could work together to agree on distributing a vaccine for the coronavirus , Whitmer added , it shouldn ’ t be beyond Democrats and Republicans to work together , too .
These were hopeful words , but Whitmer , more than almost anybody , knows just how poisonous American politics has become .
Since the start of the pandemic , her response to it has made her the target of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she criticized the remarks made by Eisen .
“ Anyone who is inciting people to take action is contributing to a hostile environment that can lead to domestic terrorism , and I take it very seriously , ” she said .
In October , the F.B.I .
arrested thirteen suspects tied to militia groups who they said were plotting to kidnap Whitmer .
Mercifully , the large-scale protests that had been threatened in Michigan , an open-carry state , didn ’ t materialize .
Before the vote was taken , some Trump supporters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but MLive.com estimated their numbers at “ roughly a dozen.
” In Harrisburg , too , Trump supporters were surprisingly thin on the ground : “ The dozen or so appeared to be part of a group that has met at the Capitol most days at noon since the Election , ” PennLive.com reported .
It would be good to believe these small turnouts indicate that support for Trump ’ s false crusade is faltering .
Reaching such a conclusion may be premature , however .
As long as Trump is out there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ supporters will refuse to accept Biden ’ s victory and many Republican politicians will kowtow .
But on Monday , at least , the focus shifted away from the mendacious President , his rages , and the shiftless Republicans , and onto the majority of Americans who voted to rid the country of the Trump scourge .
Shortly before six o ’ clock Eastern Time , in Sacramento , California , fifty-five Democratic members of the Electoral College cast their votes for Biden , raising him above the threshold of two hundred and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now official , pending only the formality of a ratification by the U.S. Congress , on January 6th .
Trump will try to make that final step more than a formality , of course .
In the coming days , he will surely call on Republicans in the House and the Senate to query the contents of the envelopes that the United States Postal Service delivers to Pence .
But , after last week ’ s Supreme Court ruling and the events of Monday , it seems virtually certain that Trump ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will be forced to leave office on January 20th .
American democracy has cracked under his assault , but it hasn ’ t collapsed .
For that , at least , we can all be grateful .
Read More About the Presidential Transition • Donald Trump has survived impeachment , twenty-six sexual-misconduct accusations , and thousands of lawsuits .
His luck may well end now that Joe Biden is the next President .
• With litigation unlikely to change the outcome of the election , Republicans are looking to strategies that might remain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and in court .
• With the Trump Presidency ending , we need to talk about how to prevent the moral injuries of the past four years from happening again .
• If 2020 has demonstrated anything , it is the need to rebalance the economy to benefit the working class .
There are many ways a Biden Administration can start .
• Trump is being forced to give up his attempt to overturn the election .
But his efforts to build an alternative reality around himself will continue .
• Sign up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ analysis from our reporters and columnists .

Monday, December 14th, has long been marked on the political calendar as the moment when the Electoral College—that antiquated, rickety, and in some ways unrepresentative vestige of the country’s founding—would gather to confirm the results of the 2020 election. Like many other days since November 3rd, it began with Donald Trump ranting on Twitter about a “Rigged Election” and some of his supporters intimating at possible violence. In Michigan, state officials announced that legislative buildings and the capitol wouldn’t open, owing to what they termed a “credible threat.” A Republican state congressman, Gary Eisen, said he couldn’t rule out violence at a Trump protest that he was planning to attend. From other parts of the country, there were reports of electors receiving threats, some of which the authorities took seriously. In Arizona, authorities declined to divulge the location where its electors would be meeting.
This was all alarming. But, once the actual voting started, the proceedings were reassuringly mundane and free of incident. In the ten-o’clock hour, the electors in Indiana and Tennessee—two red states, each of which has eleven electoral votes—got things going in a way that would be mimicked, later in the day, all across the country. After answering a roll call, the electors voted by paper ballot—one for President and another for Vice-President. Once their votes were tallied, the electors signed six certificates recording their actions. One of these certificates was destined to be mailed—yes, snail-mailed—to the president of the U.S. Senate, Vice-President Mike Pence. (The other five copies would be sent to various local officials.)
Archaic as this procedure is, it represented American democracy in action. After all of Trump’s assaults and provocations over the past month, that alone was something to celebrate. And, with the result not in any doubt, there was an unexpected pleasure in watching the vote tallies mount. At noon, Trump was still leading Joe Biden, fifty-six votes to thirty-six. Then came another wave of states, including three critical ones that flipped to Biden on Election Day: Arizona, Georgia, and Pennsylvania, which together accounted for forty-seven votes in the Electoral College.
At the Georgia statehouse, in Atlanta, Stacey Abrams, the Democratic politician whose voter-registration drives contributed to Biden’s narrow victory in that state, conducted the roll call. “We stand not for ourselves and not for our party but for the people of Georgia,” Abrams said, beaming. After the electors had cast their votes and the tellers had confirmed them, Abrams returned to the dais and declared, “We have now cast sixteen Electoral College votes on behalf of the state of Georgia for Joseph R. Biden as President of the United States, and sixteen Electoral College votes on behalf of the state of Georgia for Kamala D. Harris as Vice-President of the United States.” It was the first time since 1992 that Georgia had gone Democrat.
Seven hundred miles north, in Harrisburg, similar scenes were playing out. Pennsylvania is another state where Trump and his legal team have conducted a blistering campaign against the voters’ will, of course. And, indeed, as the Electoral College electors were gathering at the capitol, a group of local Republicans held a rival meeting at which they staged their own vote—for Trump. “We took this procedural vote to preserve any legal claims that may be presented going forward,” Bernie Comfort, the chair of Trump’s campaign in Pennsylvania, said in a statement. But there was nothing that Trump or any of his supporters could do to stop the official ceremony. After the twenty Democratic electors had cast their votes for Biden and Harris, Kathy Boockvar, the Pennsylvania secretary of state, thanked them and all the state’s election officials for the work they had done. Loosely quoting former President George H. W. Bush, Boockvar said they had “effectuated the majesty of our democracy.”
The votes kept coming in. Opening the proceedings at the state capitol in Lansing, Michigan, Governor Gretchen Whitmer noted that the election result in the Wolverine State had been clear and decisive. (Biden won by more than a hundred and fifty thousand votes.) “After today, the result will be final,” Whitmer said, through her face mask. “It is time to move forward together as one United States of America.” If FedEx and UPS could work together to agree on distributing a vaccine for the coronavirus, Whitmer added, it shouldn’t be beyond Democrats and Republicans to work together, too.
These were hopeful words, but Whitmer, more than almost anybody, knows just how poisonous American politics has become. Since the start of the pandemic, her response to it has made her the target of right-wing extremists. Speaking to reporters, she criticized the remarks made by Eisen. “Anyone who is inciting people to take action is contributing to a hostile environment that can lead to domestic terrorism, and I take it very seriously,” she said. In October, the F.B.I. arrested thirteen suspects tied to militia groups who they said were plotting to kidnap Whitmer.
Mercifully, the large-scale protests that had been threatened in Michigan, an open-carry state, didn’t materialize. Before the vote was taken, some Trump supporters did gather on the capitol lawn, but MLive.com estimated their numbers at “roughly a dozen.” In Harrisburg, too, Trump supporters were surprisingly thin on the ground: “The dozen or so appeared to be part of a group that has met at the Capitol most days at noon since the Election,” PennLive.com reported.
It would be good to believe these small turnouts indicate that support for Trump’s false crusade is faltering. Reaching such a conclusion may be premature, however. As long as Trump is out there egging them on, many of his supporters will refuse to accept Biden’s victory and many Republican politicians will kowtow. But on Monday, at least, the focus shifted away from the mendacious President, his rages, and the shiftless Republicans, and onto the majority of Americans who voted to rid the country of the Trump scourge.
Shortly before six o’clock Eastern Time, in Sacramento, California, fifty-five Democratic members of the Electoral College cast their votes for Biden, raising him above the threshold of two hundred and seventy. The 2020 election result was now official, pending only the formality of a ratification by the U.S. Congress, on January 6th. Trump will try to make that final step more than a formality, of course. In the coming days, he will surely call on Republicans in the House and the Senate to query the contents of the envelopes that the United States Postal Service delivers to Pence. But, after last week’s Supreme Court ruling and the events of Monday, it seems virtually certain that Trump’s seditious efforts will fail, and he will be forced to leave office on January 20th. American democracy has cracked under his assault, but it hasn’t collapsed. For that, at least, we can all be grateful.
Read More About the Presidential Transition


newyorker--2020-12-14--“Let Them All Talk,” Reviewed: What’s Missing from Steven Soderbergh’s Cruise-Ship Film

The credits of Steven Soderbergh ’ s new film , “ Let Them All Talk , ” don ’ t quite tell the truth .
The movie ostensibly stars a quintet of formidable actors ( Meryl Streep , Candice Bergen , Dianne Wiest , Lucas Hedges , and Gemma Chan ) in a drama that takes place mostly during an ocean crossing aboard the Queen Mary 2 .
But the real star of the movie is the ship itself .
The result is something of a boat show , in which the actors become—what ’ s the opposite of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ story that grinds through its paces in order to showcase the variety of the ship ’ s own spaces and surfaces , confines and vistas .
Even there , Soderbergh ’ s artistry is somewhat confined—indeed , he deftly weaves the constraint , perhaps even the frustration , into the action .
Yet “ Let Them All Talk ” offers enough surprises of tone , pleasures of mood , and piquantly composed images to carry the film through with a sort of visual music , compensating for the dramatic thinness without overcoming it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ All Talk , ” written by Deborah Eisenberg , involves the creation of stories .
It ’ s centered on Alice Hughes ( played by Streep ) , a celebrated New York novelist who is struggling with her new novel .
Alice has won a prestigious British award that her new agent , Karen ( Chan ) , wants her to go and collect , for publicity ’ s sake .
Alice has an inhibition against flying , so Karen arranges for her to go by ship , and Alice invites a trio @ @ @ @ @ @ @ longtime friends Roberta ( Bergen ) , who works in the lingerie department of a Dallas department store , and Susan ( Wiest ) , a lawyer in Seattle representing victims of domestic violence , along with her nephew Tyler ( Lucas Hedges ) , an inchoate student type from Cleveland , to be her factotum .
There ’ s also a mystery guest ( John Douglas Thompson ) , who accompanies Alice at a distance ( and whom Tyler spies slipping out of her room in the mornings ) , and Karen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Alice and plans to approach her , in the course of the crossing , for word about her next novel , about which she has disclosed nothing .
Karen and her publisher are hoping , in particular , for a sequel to Alice ’ s most popular novel—one that Alice apparently based largely on Roberta , who had confided in her as a friend and instead found her personal life displayed on the page , recognizable to all who knew her .
After that novel came out , decades earlier , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shipboard reunion with Roberta leads Karen to surmise that Alice is planning a sequel based on the same character .
Alice—who , in a public talk aboard ship , expounds her lofty conception of literature as a sort of spiritual communion—has nonetheless developed her art , as Soderbergh portrays it , on acts of predatory betrayal .
As a contrast to Alice and her practice , there is another passenger on the ship : a rich writer of popular mysteries named Kelvin Kranz ( Daniel Algrant ) .
Roberta and Susan are fans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( he cheerfully signs autographs for his crowds of admirers ) , but Alice derides his prose as “ Styrofoam ” and his utterly impersonal plots , assembled on the basis of library research , as “ jigsaw puzzles.
” There ’ s nothing Styrofoam-like about Soderbergh ’ s visual prose : doing his own camera work , under the pseudonym of Peter Andrews , he exults in the glitzy surfaces and mighty architectural lines , the garish lighting and the cavernous grandeur , the paradoxical blend of ostentatiously superficial luxury amid the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Yet the plot of “ Let Them All Talk ” is as puzzle-like as a potboiler , and it depends , dramatically , on having no point of view .
Although Alice is the main character , the movie never gets into her mind , except for two quick and inconsequential exceptions , one at the beginning and one at the end .
Alice ’ s view , and even her awareness , of her literary debt to Roberta remains unclear ; her relationship to the mystery guest remains unclear ; the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she works on diligently throughout the voyage , remains unclear .
The movie ’ s characters exist only to the extent that their relationships fit together—like the notches in jigsaw pieces .
The ambiguities of the story are factitious ; the movie depends largely on what Alice clearly knows but doesn ’ t disclose , what those around her try to guess on the basis of the tidbits of information that they extract , espy , or steal .
The paradox of the impersonal personal is the defining trait of Soderbergh ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are composed of opposing artistic tendencies : one to make movies spontaneously , lightly , with his two hands and an artisanal passion , the other to make movies that ring with the industrial solidity of a clean dramatic exoskeleton .
In his best films—such as “ Magic Mike , ” “ Behind the Candelabra , ” “ High Flying Bird , ” and parts of “ The Laundromat ” —dramatic clarity and simplicity merge with a hands-on sense of swing and verve , of passionate physical vitality that doesn ’ t merely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even converges with it to become the drama ’ s very subject , its very idea .
The more that Soderbergh manneristically distorts his stories with extreme moves and gestures , with the flair of his own technical prowess and passion , the more he reveals their essence—and himself .
I was surprised to learn that much of the dialogue in “ Let Them All Talk ” is improvised , because the movie ’ s construction is so taut and compressed .
( In a recent interview with the Daily Beast , Soderbergh @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the basis of Eisenberg ’ s script , and estimated “ the ratio at about 70-30 , in terms of improv versus scripted dialogue.
” ) This looseness of production appears to have prompted Soderbergh to film noncommittally—to multiply angles in order to be able to edit scenes to appear no less precise and consistent than if they were scripted .
( Soderbergh also does his own editing , under the pseudonym of Mary Ann Bernard . )
As if to compensate and overcompensate for the loose production , the movie is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the film ’ s actors may have been freer than usual during filming , that freedom is invisible in the final product ; meanwhile , the images , for all their incidental allure , are tethered not just to the actors but to the dialogue and feel less free than in Soderbergh ’ s best movies .
In “ High Flying Bird , ” the impulsive physical energy of the visuals have an intellectual underpinning in the form of references to the sociologist Harry Edwards and his book “ The Revolt of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ character ( played by Bill Duke ) —which burst through the film ’ s texture and drama .
In “ Let Them All Talk , ” there ’ s only the trace of such an underpinning and a hint of such a dramatic disruption , in brief shots that show the ship ’ s crew behind the scenes , wheeling cases through corridors and at work in the kitchen , where hundreds of pancakes and other delicacies are plated .
This is the part of the ship that ’ s only hinted at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ part where the work to keep it running , to sustain the material basis and theatrical illusion of its passengers ’ experience , takes place .
There ’ s one remarkable moment , in particular , that indicates what ’ s missing from the film , and why it ’ s missing : Alice , wandering alone in the warm light of the passengers ’ wood-panelled , brass-knobbed hallways , passes through a curtain of transparent plastic streamers to enter the fluorescent-lit , bare-white-walled clinical bareness of the crew ’ s working space @ @ @ @ @ @ @ greeted by a member of the staff , who tells her that the area is off limits to her and to all passengers , owing to insurance .
“ Let Them All Talk ” is built on an unfulfilled longing to film in that area , to merge the public and private sides of the ship ’ s voyage , to see both realms of activity , each on its own , and together in their inevitable interactions .
In the Daily Beast interview , Soderbergh described the shipboard experience .
“ It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , this ship .
This is not a case where you see it on screen and it looks great , and when you go on the ship in real life , it ’ s not as great .
It ’ s as good as it looks , ” he said .
“ I would come home from the editing room on board , back to my room at 2am , and there were cleaning crews everywhere .
They ’ re obsessive.
” The crews and their obsessions are what make “ Let Them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who ’ s also obsessive about process and method , displays his fascination with the ship but , with his focus on the foregrounded story , doesn ’ t show the underlying action .
With its absence , he has subtracted the personal element from his impersonal-personal artistry .
• Ian Crouch recounts the best jokes of the year .
• Sheldon Pearce on the albums that helped him navigate a lost plague year .
• New Yorker writers on the best books they read this year .
• Amanda Petrusich counts down @ @ @ @

The credits of Steven Soderbergh’s new film, “Let Them All Talk,” don’t quite tell the truth. The movie ostensibly stars a quintet of formidable actors (Meryl Streep, Candice Bergen, Dianne Wiest, Lucas Hedges, and Gemma Chan) in a drama that takes place mostly during an ocean crossing aboard the Queen Mary 2. But the real star of the movie is the ship itself. The result is something of a boat show, in which the actors become—what’s the opposite of a backdrop?—the foregrounded pretexts in a story that grinds through its paces in order to showcase the variety of the ship’s own spaces and surfaces, confines and vistas. Even there, Soderbergh’s artistry is somewhat confined—indeed, he deftly weaves the constraint, perhaps even the frustration, into the action. Yet “Let Them All Talk” offers enough surprises of tone, pleasures of mood, and piquantly composed images to carry the film through with a sort of visual music, compensating for the dramatic thinness without overcoming it.
The story of “Let Them All Talk,” written by Deborah Eisenberg, involves the creation of stories. It’s centered on Alice Hughes (played by Streep), a celebrated New York novelist who is struggling with her new novel. Alice has won a prestigious British award that her new agent, Karen (Chan), wants her to go and collect, for publicity’s sake. Alice has an inhibition against flying, so Karen arranges for her to go by ship, and Alice invites a trio of guests to join her: her longtime friends Roberta (Bergen), who works in the lingerie department of a Dallas department store, and Susan (Wiest), a lawyer in Seattle representing victims of domestic violence, along with her nephew Tyler (Lucas Hedges), an inchoate student type from Cleveland, to be her factotum. There’s also a mystery guest (John Douglas Thompson), who accompanies Alice at a distance (and whom Tyler spies slipping out of her room in the mornings), and Karen herself, who boards the vessel unbeknownst to Alice and plans to approach her, in the course of the crossing, for word about her next novel, about which she has disclosed nothing.
2020 in Review New Yorker writers reflect on the year’s highs and lows.
Karen and her publisher are hoping, in particular, for a sequel to Alice’s most popular novel—one that Alice apparently based largely on Roberta, who had confided in her as a friend and instead found her personal life displayed on the page, recognizable to all who knew her. After that novel came out, decades earlier, the friendship broke; now Alice’s shipboard reunion with Roberta leads Karen to surmise that Alice is planning a sequel based on the same character. Alice—who, in a public talk aboard ship, expounds her lofty conception of literature as a sort of spiritual communion—has nonetheless developed her art, as Soderbergh portrays it, on acts of predatory betrayal. As a contrast to Alice and her practice, there is another passenger on the ship: a rich writer of popular mysteries named Kelvin Kranz (Daniel Algrant). Roberta and Susan are fans and are excited to find him there (he cheerfully signs autographs for his crowds of admirers), but Alice derides his prose as “Styrofoam” and his utterly impersonal plots, assembled on the basis of library research, as “jigsaw puzzles.”
There’s nothing Styrofoam-like about Soderbergh’s visual prose: doing his own camera work, under the pseudonym of Peter Andrews, he exults in the glitzy surfaces and mighty architectural lines, the garish lighting and the cavernous grandeur, the paradoxical blend of ostentatiously superficial luxury amid the enveloping natural astonishments of sea and sky. Yet the plot of “Let Them All Talk” is as puzzle-like as a potboiler, and it depends, dramatically, on having no point of view. Although Alice is the main character, the movie never gets into her mind, except for two quick and inconsequential exceptions, one at the beginning and one at the end. Alice’s view, and even her awareness, of her literary debt to Roberta remains unclear; her relationship to the mystery guest remains unclear; the subject of her new novel, which she works on diligently throughout the voyage, remains unclear. The movie’s characters exist only to the extent that their relationships fit together—like the notches in jigsaw pieces. The ambiguities of the story are factitious; the movie depends largely on what Alice clearly knows but doesn’t disclose, what those around her try to guess on the basis of the tidbits of information that they extract, espy, or steal.
The paradox of the impersonal personal is the defining trait of Soderbergh’s art. Over all, his films are composed of opposing artistic tendencies: one to make movies spontaneously, lightly, with his two hands and an artisanal passion, the other to make movies that ring with the industrial solidity of a clean dramatic exoskeleton. In his best films—such as “Magic Mike,” “Behind the Candelabra,” “High Flying Bird,” and parts of “The Laundromat”—dramatic clarity and simplicity merge with a hands-on sense of swing and verve, of passionate physical vitality that doesn’t merely adorn the story but informs it, even converges with it to become the drama’s very subject, its very idea. The more that Soderbergh manneristically distorts his stories with extreme moves and gestures, with the flair of his own technical prowess and passion, the more he reveals their essence—and himself.
I was surprised to learn that much of the dialogue in “Let Them All Talk” is improvised, because the movie’s construction is so taut and compressed. (In a recent interview with the Daily Beast, Soderbergh called it “highly structured improvisation” on the basis of Eisenberg’s script, and estimated “the ratio at about 70-30, in terms of improv versus scripted dialogue.”) This looseness of production appears to have prompted Soderbergh to film noncommittally—to multiply angles in order to be able to edit scenes to appear no less precise and consistent than if they were scripted. (Soderbergh also does his own editing, under the pseudonym of Mary Ann Bernard.) As if to compensate and overcompensate for the loose production, the movie is distractingly smoothed-out and well groomed. Although the film’s actors may have been freer than usual during filming, that freedom is invisible in the final product; meanwhile, the images, for all their incidental allure, are tethered not just to the actors but to the dialogue and feel less free than in Soderbergh’s best movies.
In “High Flying Bird,” the impulsive physical energy of the visuals have an intellectual underpinning in the form of references to the sociologist Harry Edwards and his book “The Revolt of the Black Athlete”—along with an oracular character (played by Bill Duke)—which burst through the film’s texture and drama. In “Let Them All Talk,” there’s only the trace of such an underpinning and a hint of such a dramatic disruption, in brief shots that show the ship’s crew behind the scenes, wheeling cases through corridors and at work in the kitchen, where hundreds of pancakes and other delicacies are plated. This is the part of the ship that’s only hinted at in the movie—the backstage part, the part where the work to keep it running, to sustain the material basis and theatrical illusion of its passengers’ experience, takes place. There’s one remarkable moment, in particular, that indicates what’s missing from the film, and why it’s missing: Alice, wandering alone in the warm light of the passengers’ wood-panelled, brass-knobbed hallways, passes through a curtain of transparent plastic streamers to enter the fluorescent-lit, bare-white-walled clinical bareness of the crew’s working space. There, she’s quickly greeted by a member of the staff, who tells her that the area is off limits to her and to all passengers, owing to insurance.
“Let Them All Talk” is built on an unfulfilled longing to film in that area, to merge the public and private sides of the ship’s voyage, to see both realms of activity, each on its own, and together in their inevitable interactions. In the Daily Beast interview, Soderbergh described the shipboard experience. “It’s a really stunning engineering achievement, this ship. This is not a case where you see it on screen and it looks great, and when you go on the ship in real life, it’s not as great. It’s as good as it looks,” he said. “I would come home from the editing room on board, back to my room at 2am, and there were cleaning crews everywhere. They’re obsessive.” The crews and their obsessions are what make “Let Them All Talk” possible; Soderbergh, who’s also obsessive about process and method, displays his fascination with the ship but, with his focus on the foregrounded story, doesn’t show the underlying action. With its absence, he has subtracted the personal element from his impersonal-personal artistry.
2020 in Review


newyorker--2020-12-14--Horrible Student Rejected by College

Horrible Student Rejected by College

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In a widely expected outcome , a horrible student was rejected by a college @ @ @ @ @ ’ s decision to reject the student was unsurprising given his poor performance in such @ @ @ @ @ math , history , and spelling .
Although the student was reportedly taking his rejection @ @ @ @ @ said that the news should have come as no surprise .
“ He was told @ @ @ @ @ getting in more than a month ago , ” the spokesperson said .
“ This @ @ @ @ @ Having failed to get accepted by the college , the student is expected to live @ @ @ @ @ job in a business started by his dad .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In a widely expected outcome, a horrible student was rejected by a college on Monday.
The college’s decision to reject the student was unsurprising given his poor performance in such important subjects as science, math, history, and spelling.
Although the student was reportedly taking his rejection badly, a college spokesperson said that the news should have come as no surprise.
“He was told that he wasn’t getting in more than a month ago,” the spokesperson said. “This was just a formality.”
Having failed to get accepted by the college, the student is expected to live at home and take a job in a business started by his dad.


newyorker--2020-12-14--John le Carré Missed Nothing

John le Carré Missed Nothing

The passing of John le Carré , who has died at the age of eighty-nine , leaves not so much a gap in the market as a hollow space in the world .
It is unlikely to be filled .
There will not be another writer of his ilk , largely because the ilk was him .
On the page—and , by all accounts , in person , though he was an accomplished mimic and would have made a delightful actor—he sounded like himself and nobody else .
It was only between hard covers , you might say , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be blown : It is the final detail that cuts deep .
The passage is taken from “ The Spy Who Came In from the Cold , ” le Carré ’ s first triumph , published in 1963 , and it illustrates his abiding themes .
His own father , famously , had been a confidence trickster , and le Carré was therefore all too well equipped to mount a lifelong investigation into the uses of roguery , not to mention sleights of hand , some of them amounting to a national disgrace @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; there are many authors who , consciously addressing themselves to matters of psychological intensity or grave historical concern , produce dull and ignorable books .
What set le Carré apart , gave him his edge , and kept it whetted from one decade to the next was his forensic skill .
Ideas and passions , under his guiding hand , are never floated ; they are tethered down and incarnated in his characters—in their particular speech patterns , and in the inch-by-inch inflection of their movements .
Le Carré is fluent in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the mercy of the abstract than an oncologist , or a sushi chef .
Consider , say , Toby Esterhase , plucked long ago by George Smiley from the gutters of Vienna , trained in the dark arts of espionage , and thenceforth to be found , as often as not , at George ’ s side .
Something of a dandy , Toby runs a rough assortment of helpers—babysitters and pavement artists , in the argot of the trade .
Backed into a corner , in “ Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he gives “ a very Hungarian movement of the hand , a spreading of the palm and a tilting either way.
” There he is .
We see him .
There is a small-scale literary form of the old school , the pen portrait , which is rarely heard of these days , maybe because so few of us pick up a pen .
Yet the form remains indispensable for anyone seeking to snare the reader ’ s attention .
No wonder it was mastered by le Carré , who kept and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was wider by far than that of many authors who were judged to be more serious than he was , the joke being that he was in fact their superior .
What counts is not prizes but being prized . )
Given his skills as a portraitist , is it not a cause for mild regret that he strayed so rarely into nonfiction ?
Who , for example , could this be ?
The answer is Rupert Murdoch , complete with his sniper ’ s gaze , and this account of meeting him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Murdoch regarded as a leisurely lunch ( it was over in twenty-five minutes ) , comes from “ The Pigeon Tunnel , ” a bundle of autobiographical sketches that le Carré produced in 2016 .
The book is , as expected , both revealing and concealing , and it ’ s notable how many of the anecdotes with which he regales us conclude in half-truths , quarter-truths , and candid bafflement .
The tone is set by his reminiscences of the period that he spent , as a junior member of the British @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the early nineteen-sixties .
It was a time , he tells us , when clean and productive lives were being led , in the spirit of public service , by Germans with filthy pasts , and that conundrum—how on earth can you proceed and prosper , either as a nation or as an individual , when to do so demands a monumental act of forgetting ?
—clearly stayed with le Carré , and stuck .
So notoriously charming was he , in the flesh , and so suave—if unfathomable—a master of ceremonies does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The Pigeon Tunnel , ” that it ’ s easy to overlook le Carré ’ s wrath .
The rules of the spying game , as laid down in novel upon novel ( one of them , from 1995 , is actually called “ Our Game ” ) , divert us to such an extent that we can , if we ’ re lazy , avert our eyes from the real human nastiness that lies , lightly buried , beneath the thrills .
But it ’ s there , in the books , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ They are frequently violent , yet the violence does not meet us head on , for le Carré is allergic to sadism ; rather , it is recalled by its long-suffering victims , or witnessed secondhand , and is all the more striking for being held at that remove .
Take Jim Prideaux , in “ Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy , ” who was captured , imprisoned behind the Iron Curtain , and interrogated .
“ A lot of the muscle was done electrically , ” he says to Smiley , much later @ @ @ @ @ @ @ calm words carry a shock .
Then there ’ s Salvo , the hero of “ The Mission Song ” ( 2006 ) , who , in his capacity as an official interpreter , winds up listening in real time , through headphones , to a scene of torture .
That book concerns an underhand plot , financed by Western backers , to secure mineral rights in the Congo .
It ’ s fair to say that , wherever in the world a malevolent or mercenary pulse happened to be beating , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ find it .
He wrote about the satanic business of arms dealing , in “ The Night Manager ” ( 1993 ) , whose drawling British villain is referred to as “ the worst man in the world ” ; about the corrupting influence of grand pharmaceutical companies , in “ The Constant Gardener ” ( 2001 ) ; and about Russian money laundering , in “ Our Kind of Traitor ” ( 2010 ) .
Even in the absence of physical brutality , the mere fact of political foolishness , as le @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rile him ; his final completed novel ( so far as we know ) was last year ’ s “ Agent Running in the Field , ” which included a thundering broadside against Brexit .
True , it was a character , on center stage , who delivered the speech , but le Carré , you felt , was prompting from the wings .
One has to reach back to Yeats , perhaps , to find a writer so emboldened by the fruitful furies of old age .

The passing of John le Carré, who has died at the age of eighty-nine, leaves not so much a gap in the market as a hollow space in the world. It is unlikely to be filled. There will not be another writer of his ilk, largely because the ilk was him. On the page—and, by all accounts, in person, though he was an accomplished mimic and would have made a delightful actor—he sounded like himself and nobody else. It was only between hard covers, you might say, that he was happy for his cover to be blown:
In itself the practice of deception is not particularly exacting; it is a matter of experience, of professional expertise, it is a facility most of us can acquire. But while a confidence trickster, a play-actor, or a gambler can return from his performance to the ranks of his admirers, the secret agent enjoys no such relief. For him, deception is first a matter of self-defense. He must protect himself not only from without, but from within, and against the most natural of impulses; though he earn a fortune, his role may forbid him the purchase of a razor.
It is the final detail that cuts deep. The passage is taken from “The Spy Who Came In from the Cold,” le Carré’s first triumph, published in 1963, and it illustrates his abiding themes. His own father, famously, had been a confidence trickster, and le Carré was therefore all too well equipped to mount a lifelong investigation into the uses of roguery, not to mention sleights of hand, some of them amounting to a national disgrace. But let’s be honest; there are many authors who, consciously addressing themselves to matters of psychological intensity or grave historical concern, produce dull and ignorable books. What set le Carré apart, gave him his edge, and kept it whetted from one decade to the next was his forensic skill. Ideas and passions, under his guiding hand, are never floated; they are tethered down and incarnated in his characters—in their particular speech patterns, and in the inch-by-inch inflection of their movements. Le Carré is fluent in body language. He is no more at the mercy of the abstract than an oncologist, or a sushi chef.
Consider, say, Toby Esterhase, plucked long ago by George Smiley from the gutters of Vienna, trained in the dark arts of espionage, and thenceforth to be found, as often as not, at George’s side. Something of a dandy, Toby runs a rough assortment of helpers—babysitters and pavement artists, in the argot of the trade. Backed into a corner, in “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy,” and asked some uncomfortable questions, he gives “a very Hungarian movement of the hand, a spreading of the palm and a tilting either way.” There he is. We see him.
There is a small-scale literary form of the old school, the pen portrait, which is rarely heard of these days, maybe because so few of us pick up a pen. Yet the form remains indispensable for anyone seeking to snare the reader’s attention. No wonder it was mastered by le Carré, who kept and enjoyed an extensive readership. (It was wider by far than that of many authors who were judged to be more serious than he was, the joke being that he was in fact their superior. What counts is not prizes but being prized.) Given his skills as a portraitist, is it not a cause for mild regret that he strayed so rarely into nonfiction? Who, for example, could this be?
He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me.
The answer is Rupert Murdoch, complete with his sniper’s gaze, and this account of meeting him at the Savoy Grill, for what Murdoch regarded as a leisurely lunch (it was over in twenty-five minutes), comes from “The Pigeon Tunnel,” a bundle of autobiographical sketches that le Carré produced in 2016. The book is, as expected, both revealing and concealing, and it’s notable how many of the anecdotes with which he regales us conclude in half-truths, quarter-truths, and candid bafflement. The tone is set by his reminiscences of the period that he spent, as a junior member of the British intelligence community, in Bonn, in the early nineteen-sixties. It was a time, he tells us, when clean and productive lives were being led, in the spirit of public service, by Germans with filthy pasts, and that conundrum—how on earth can you proceed and prosper, either as a nation or as an individual, when to do so demands a monumental act of forgetting?—clearly stayed with le Carré, and stuck.
So notoriously charming was he, in the flesh, and so suave—if unfathomable—a master of ceremonies does he appear to be, in “The Pigeon Tunnel,” that it’s easy to overlook le Carré’s wrath. The rules of the spying game, as laid down in novel upon novel (one of them, from 1995, is actually called “Our Game”), divert us to such an extent that we can, if we’re lazy, avert our eyes from the real human nastiness that lies, lightly buried, beneath the thrills. But it’s there, in the books, if you know where to look. They are frequently violent, yet the violence does not meet us head on, for le Carré is allergic to sadism; rather, it is recalled by its long-suffering victims, or witnessed secondhand, and is all the more striking for being held at that remove. Take Jim Prideaux, in “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy,” who was captured, imprisoned behind the Iron Curtain, and interrogated. “A lot of the muscle was done electrically,” he says to Smiley, much later, back in England, and the calm words carry a shock. Then there’s Salvo, the hero of “The Mission Song” (2006), who, in his capacity as an official interpreter, winds up listening in real time, through headphones, to a scene of torture.
That book concerns an underhand plot, financed by Western backers, to secure mineral rights in the Congo. It’s fair to say that, wherever in the world a malevolent or mercenary pulse happened to be beating, the finger of le Carré was liable to find it. He wrote about the satanic business of arms dealing, in “The Night Manager” (1993), whose drawling British villain is referred to as “the worst man in the world”; about the corrupting influence of grand pharmaceutical companies, in “The Constant Gardener” (2001); and about Russian money laundering, in “Our Kind of Traitor” (2010). Even in the absence of physical brutality, the mere fact of political foolishness, as le Carré saw it, was enough to rile him; his final completed novel (so far as we know) was last year’s “Agent Running in the Field,” which included a thundering broadside against Brexit. True, it was a character, on center stage, who delivered the speech, but le Carré, you felt, was prompting from the wings. One has to reach back to Yeats, perhaps, to find a writer so emboldened by the fruitful furies of old age.


newyorker--2020-12-14--Abigail Spanberger and Ayanna Pressley on the Democratic Rift

In November , when the Democratic Party lost seats in the House and a hoped-for victory in the Senate fizzled , centrist Democrats were quick to blame left-leaning progressives .
Rhetoric about democratic socialism and defunding the police , they said , had scared away moderate voters , who rejected Donald Trump but voted for Republicans down ballot .
Abigail Spanberger , who represents the conservative Seventh Congressional District of Virginia , made that argument on a post-election call with fellow House members which was then leaked to the press .
She tells David Remnick that the Party can not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ may be to progressives .
But Ayanna Pressley , who represents the liberal Seventh Congressional District of Massachusetts , doesn ’ t buy it .
In order to prove Democrats ’ value to voters , she says , the Party must stand up for ideals and not seek compromise .
Pressley feels that a sufficiently populist approach to pandemic relief , for example , can sway Republican voters .
“ We know , before the pandemic , [ many ] families didn ’ t have four hundred dollars saved to weather a disruptive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ And I ’ m sure many of those families were Republicans .
So the ultimate persuasion tool is impact .
”

Photograph by Bill Clark / CQ Roll Call / Getty
In November, when the Democratic Party lost seats in the House and a hoped-for victory in the Senate fizzled, centrist Democrats were quick to blame left-leaning progressives. Rhetoric about democratic socialism and defunding the police, they said, had scared away moderate voters, who rejected Donald Trump but voted for Republicans down ballot. Abigail Spanberger, who represents the conservative Seventh Congressional District of Virginia, made that argument on a post-election call with fellow House members which was then leaked to the press. She tells David Remnick that the Party cannot achieve anything without bipartisan dealmaking—however unwelcome it may be to progressives. But Ayanna Pressley, who represents the liberal Seventh Congressional District of Massachusetts, doesn’t buy it. In order to prove Democrats’ value to voters, she says, the Party must stand up for ideals and not seek compromise. Pressley feels that a sufficiently populist approach to pandemic relief, for example, can sway Republican voters. “We know, before the pandemic, [many] families didn’t have four hundred dollars saved to weather a disruptive life event,” she points out. “And I’m sure many of those families were Republicans. So the ultimate persuasion tool is impact.”