newyorker--2020-05-02--Helen, Help Me: Is a Ramp Grown on My Windowsill Still a Ramp?

If you have quarantine-cooking questions for Helen , send them to themail @ newyorker.com with the subject line “ Helen , Help Me.
” My wife , we just discovered , is pregnant .
Meanwhile , there are five pounds of rib-eye steaks in our freezer .
With searing to medium rare no longer an option , I am thoroughly confused .
I thought perhaps sous vide , but don ’ t know what temperature or timing would qualify as safe .
I entertained some sort of braise , but it feels like a waste of prime beef .
What @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Queens , New York I revere a gorgeously marbled rib-eye as much as the next ethically conflicted carnivore , but I do sometimes marvel at how the American predilection for steak—i.e.
, a big , honkin ’ slab of beef—has blinded us to all the other ways those same edible parts of the cow can be put to use .
Thaw your rib eye almost all the way ( or , if it ’ s not currently frozen , pop it in the freezer for about twenty minutes ) and use a very @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the grain—there , you ’ ve got the backbone of a gorgeous stir-fry .
Or shave it even more thinly ( take your time , with both the knife sharpening and the meat shaving ) and make yourself some sweet-spicy Korean bulgogi , or a Chicago-style Italian beef sandwich , a Sichuan hot pot , a Philly cheesesteak , or tacos enchilados , where thinly sliced meat ( usually pork , but , hey , use beef ! )
is marinated in a spicy paste of chiles and herbs and then seared in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crispy , meaty , fiery euphoria , and served atop warm tortillas—a perfect meal to celebrate your impending parenthood !
Can you regrow ramps from their bulbs like you can with scallions and leeks ?
Technically , if a ramp is a wild leek , and what I ’ m growing is cultivated and no longer wild , is it still a ramp ?
—Annmarie P. , Brooklyn , New York From a practical perspective , yes , you can plop the bulb end of a ramp in a glass of water and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little bit .
I have a few cut ramps regrowing right now , lined up next to my stoutly regrowing scallions and some re-shooting green garlic in my windowsill victory garden .
As for the second part of your question , which is one of category , I ’ ll brush the dust off my inner Bertrand Russell and tackle this like the proper logic puzzle it is .
Let ’ s start off with some premises : We can thus interstitially conclude that : But we can also take somewhat axiomatically the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This is either a bold proof of the fact that ramps are not ramps , or else compelling evidence that , at least in matters culinary , certain applications of mathematical logic are largely useless .
If you happen to have any liquid plant food lying around , try adding a drop to the cup of water , both to speed growth and to add a little robustness to the flavor of your ramps , or zombie ramps , or non-ramps , or whatever the hell they are .
I live in Lisbon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ year , passionfruit descends into our frutarias from far-flung nooks of the Lusophone world .
The first time I cut into a passionfruit—and inhaled it—was exactly four years ago , on the seaside road of Timor-Leste ’ s capital , Dili .
Every year since , I would buy one , slice it open over the quiet of my kitchen sink , and take it in straight from the shell : the oyster of fruit .
I ’ ve now gone back to my Bulgarian roots , worshipping at the altar of my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ because it can present a seemingly infinite number of possibilities .
Passionfruit , consumed thousands of miles away from its native land , is suddenly revealed as a single-use delight , unfit for a time of mass hunger ; a metaphor for the rot at the core of our global food system .
So , I humbly ask , what should one do with this year ’ s crop—nay , what should we think of it ?
Eat it because it ’ s here , freeze it for better days , or reject @ @ @ @ @ @ @ destructive ways ?
—Petya K. , Lisbon This is the great ethical question of all consumption , isn ’ t it ?
On one hand , what ’ s done is done—the passionfruit has already been shipped across the world , the cow has already been slaughtered , the thousand-year-old sequoia has already been chopped down .
On the other hand , what ’ s done begets more doing .
If we let the passionfruit go uneaten , in protest of the harm it causes , will the harm have all been imposed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to temper that harm with a dose of pleasure , are we simply creating more demand—more future harm ?
There ’ s no single answer ; it varies by scope , by place , by person , by need , by thing .
Some measure of destruction is inevitable : we should strive to tread lightly in our lives , but it ’ s impossible not to tread at all .
Still , that ’ s no excuse for recklessness .
One passionfruit is a time machine of memory , ten are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be a bloodstain .
It ’ s right there in the poem that is your question : make decisions that feel important , enact them at a scale that feels meaningful , and try to slurp from them every golden drop .
If you do have room in your freezer for a few passionfruit , you might as well save one or two for later .

If you have quarantine-cooking questions for Helen, send them to themail@newyorker.com with the subject line “Helen, Help Me.”
My wife, we just discovered, is pregnant. Meanwhile, there are five pounds of rib-eye steaks in our freezer. With searing to medium rare no longer an option, I am thoroughly confused. I thought perhaps sous vide, but don’t know what temperature or timing would qualify as safe. I entertained some sort of braise, but it feels like a waste of prime beef. What should I do? —Luke M., Queens, New York
I revere a gorgeously marbled rib-eye as much as the next ethically conflicted carnivore, but I do sometimes marvel at how the American predilection for steak—i.e., a big, honkin’ slab of beef—has blinded us to all the other ways those same edible parts of the cow can be put to use. Thaw your rib eye almost all the way (or, if it’s not currently frozen, pop it in the freezer for about twenty minutes) and use a very sharp knife to slice it thinly across the grain—there, you’ve got the backbone of a gorgeous stir-fry. Or shave it even more thinly (take your time, with both the knife sharpening and the meat shaving) and make yourself some sweet-spicy Korean bulgogi, or a Chicago-style Italian beef sandwich, a Sichuan hot pot, a Philly cheesesteak, or tacos enchilados, where thinly sliced meat (usually pork, but, hey, use beef!) is marinated in a spicy paste of chiles and herbs and then seared in a hot pan to a state of crispy, meaty, fiery euphoria, and served atop warm tortillas—a perfect meal to celebrate your impending parenthood!
Can you regrow ramps from their bulbs like you can with scallions and leeks? Technically, if a ramp is a wild leek, and what I’m growing is cultivated and no longer wild, is it still a ramp? —Annmarie P., Brooklyn, New York
From a practical perspective, yes, you can plop the bulb end of a ramp in a glass of water and it will re-sprout, at least a little bit. I have a few cut ramps regrowing right now, lined up next to my stoutly regrowing scallions and some re-shooting green garlic in my windowsill victory garden. As for the second part of your question, which is one of category, I’ll brush the dust off my inner Bertrand Russell and tackle this like the proper logic puzzle it is. Let’s start off with some premises:
R (ramps exist)
R → V (if something is a ramp, it’s a vegetable)
V → (W ⩒ C) (all vegetables are either wild or cultivated, but not both)
R → W (if it’s a ramp, it must be wild)
We can thus interstitially conclude that:
C → ~R (if a vegetable is cultivated, it’s not a ramp)
But we can also take somewhat axiomatically the following:
G (you’re growing vegetables in a cup of water set in your kitchen window)
G → C (if a vegetable is grown in a cup of water set in your kitchen window, it’s cultivated)
And, of course:
V ⊃ ~S (if something is a vegetable, it will not spontaneously transform into a different kind of vegetable upon being regrown in a cup of water set in your kitchen window)
Q.E.D.: G → ~R; whatever you’re growing isn’t ramps.
This is either a bold proof of the fact that ramps are not ramps, or else compelling evidence that, at least in matters culinary, certain applications of mathematical logic are largely useless. If you happen to have any liquid plant food lying around, try adding a drop to the cup of water, both to speed growth and to add a little robustness to the flavor of your ramps, or zombie ramps, or non-ramps, or whatever the hell they are.
I live in Lisbon, Portugal. Around this time every year, passionfruit descends into our frutarias from far-flung nooks of the Lusophone world. The first time I cut into a passionfruit—and inhaled it—was exactly four years ago, on the seaside road of Timor-Leste’s capital, Dili. Every year since, I would buy one, slice it open over the quiet of my kitchen sink, and take it in straight from the shell: the oyster of fruit. I’ve now gone back to my Bulgarian roots, worshipping at the altar of my pantry for survival, each ingredient picked because it can present a seemingly infinite number of possibilities. Passionfruit, consumed thousands of miles away from its native land, is suddenly revealed as a single-use delight, unfit for a time of mass hunger; a metaphor for the rot at the core of our global food system. So, I humbly ask, what should one do with this year’s crop—nay, what should we think of it? Eat it because it’s here, freeze it for better days, or reject it as I hope we reject our destructive ways? —Petya K., Lisbon


newyorker--2020-05-02--Kansas Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

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newyorker--2020-05-03--How Greenwich Republicans Learned to Love Trump

How did America ’ s country-club Republicans , the cultural descendants of Prescott Bush , learn to love Donald Trump ?
They don ’ t have much in common with the clichéd image of his admirers : anxious about losing status to minorities , resentful of imperious élites , and marooned in places where life expectancy has fallen .
But the full picture has never been that simple .
As early as May , 2016 , exit polls and other data showed that Trump supporters earned an average of seventy-two thousand dollars a year , while supporters of Hillary Clinton @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Trump ’ s supporters had incomes higher than the national median—sometimes , as in Greenwich , much higher .
I grew up in Greenwich , on Round Hill Road , not far from the club where Prescott Bush stormed out of the locker room .
My great-grandparents Albert and Linda Sherer moved to town from Chicago in 1937 .
Albert was a Republican who worked in advertising for the National Biscuit Company , and Linda raised their two children .
They were renters until 1968 , when they bought a white Colonial @ @ @ @ @ @ @ passed down through the generations , and , when I was nine years old , my parents moved the family from Brooklyn to Greenwich , into a world of uncountable advantages .
In 1994 , I graduated from Greenwich High School , which is the rare public school that has a championship water-polo team and an electron microscope .
( It was a donation , obtained by an award-winning science teacher . )
People around town have never much cared for caricatures of the place—the starchy patricians , the chinless wonders , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in them .
For decades , many African-Americans and Jews were prevented from buying homes .
In 1975 , protesters came to town with signs reading “ Cocktail bigots ” and “ Share the summer , ” because Greenwich barred nonresidents from a public beach—a restriction that lasted until the state Supreme Court overturned it , in 2001 .
Nobody pretends that bigotry has vanished , but these days the town has more diversity than outsiders expect .
Thirty-eight per cent of its public-school students are minorities , mostly Latino ; in some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ students qualify for free or reduced-price lunch .
Many of their parents work in local service jobs , bearing high rents and expenses in order to access some of the country ’ s best public schools .
Frank Farricker , a real-estate developer and a Democratic activist , said , “ I tell everybody that Greenwich only discriminates on the basis of one color : green.
” The seacoast of Fairfield County has always been one of America ’ s most affluent places , but in recent decades it has sprinted ahead of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2016 , according to federal estimates , it was the wealthiest metropolitan area in the United States , outstripping the oil country of Midland , Texas , and the technology hub of San Francisco .
Even though a string of tycoons have fled Connecticut in search of lower taxes , the latest Forbes ranking of the world ’ s billionaires lists fifteen of them in the “ Greater Greenwich Area , ” led by Ray Dalio , the founder of the hedge fund Bridgewater , who is worth an estimated eighteen billion dollars @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to misread the politics of the place : like much of America ’ s coasts , the Gold Coast has swung left , culturally and politically , since the days of Prescott Bush .
The largest share of voters in Greenwich today are unaffiliated ; Republicans still hold an edge over Democrats , but the margin is less than four thousand registered voters .
In 2016 , nobody was surprised that Clinton beat Trump in Greenwich , fifty-seven per cent to thirty-nine .
But that portrait—of liberal cosmopolitans appalled by Trump—obscures a potent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ class of the Republican Party .
Its members are wealthier , more conservative , and more politically active than their forebears , in ways that have helped Trump reach the White House , survive impeachment , and fortify his bid for reëlection during the anguish of the coronavirus pandemic .
Understanding how he retains the overwhelming support of Republicans requires an accounting of not only what he promised Americans at the bottom but also what he provides Americans at the top .
The story of Trump ’ s rise is often told as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it is something closer to a joint venture , in which members of America ’ s élite accepted the terms of Trumpism as the price of power .
Long before anyone imagined that Trump might become President , a generation of unwitting patrons paved the way for him .
From Greenwich and places like it , they launched a set of financial , philanthropic , and political projects that have changed American ideas about government , taxes , and the legitimacy of the liberal state .
The former congressman Christopher Shays is a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to represent the Gold Coast , from 1987 to 2009 .
Now conservatives mock him as a RINO—a Republican in name only .
“ When Sean Hannity calls someone like me a RINO , I want to punch him in the nose , ” Shays told me .
“ I got elected as a Republican for thirty-four effing years , and Hannity has never gotten elected for anything.
” When Shays talks to former staff and constituents in Connecticut , he has come to recognize the delicate language of accommodation : “ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ well , after some pathetic thing that Trump did , and his response was ‘ Yes , but he ’ s selecting the right Supreme Court Justices.
’ I started to laugh at him , because I know for a fact that ’ s a minor issue for him.
” Shays believes that many Americans quietly share Trump ’ s desire to reduce immigration and cut social-welfare programs for the poor .
“ He ’ s saying what people think , and they appreciate that , ” Shays said .
“ But not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s why they support him.
” When it comes to the essential question—will Trump get reëlected ?
—the answer rests heavily on a persistent mystery : how many Americans plan to vote for him but wouldn ’ t say so to a pollster ?
In Greenwich , Edward Dadakis , a corporate insurance broker who has been involved with Republican politics for fifty years , told me that many of his friends are “ below the radar screen.
” He went on , “ In a sense , I ’ m one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the public domain , so people know where I stand , but in 2016 , for the first election ever , I did not put a bumper sticker on my car.
” He worries how strangers will react .
He said , “ I still have two ‘ Make America Great Again ’ hats at home , wrapped in plastic.
” The southern panhandle of Connecticut is cradled between the gray-blue waters of Long Island Sound and the wooded border of New York State .
In politics and in culture , it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and New York , a place settled by Puritans who agonized over what the historian Missy Wolfe calls “ the proper balance between their flock ’ s economic success and the level of success that they deemed would offend God.
” Long after the Puritans were gone , the tension remained in a seesawing battle between the Brahmin and the buccaneer , service and profit , restraint and greed .
For much of the twentieth century , the Brahmin had the advantage .
In 1927 , Owen D. Young , a Greenwich resident @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Electric , gave a speech at Harvard Business School , in which he scolded businessmen who “ devise ways and means to squeeze out of labor its last ounce of effort and last penny of compensation.
” He encouraged them instead to “ think in terms of human beings—one group of human beings who put their capital in , and another group who put their lives and labor in a common enterprise for mutual advantage.
” Rick Wartzman , a longtime head of the Drucker Institute and a historian of corporate behavior , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beyond rhetoric .
We were much more of a ‘ we ’ culture than an ‘ I ’ culture.
” On Young ’ s watch , G.E .
became one of the first American companies to give workers a pension , profit-sharing , life insurance , medical coverage , loans , and housing assistance .

One of America’s most powerful capitalists, Reginald Jones, who became G.E.’s chairman and C.E.O. in 1972, lived in a modest brick Colonial in Greenwich. His daughter, Grace Vineyard, told me, “He asked my mom, ‘Do you want anything more?’ And she said, ‘Why would we want anything more?’ ” Leo Hindery worked for Jones as a junior executive. “I earned fifteen thousand six hundred dollars when I got out of Stanford, and Reg’s salary was two hundred thousand dollars,” Hindery said. “G.E. was the preëminent company in America, and the C.E.O. was making twelve or thirteen times what I did.” According to the Economic Policy Institute, that ratio wasn’t unusual: in 1965, the C.E.O. of an average large public company earned about twenty times as much as a front-line worker. Today, that figure is two hundred and seventy-eight times.
The moderate consensus was always shakier than it looked, and by the mid-sixties it was gyrating out of control. In 1955, William F. Buckley, Jr., had established his magazine National Review on the principle that government exists only “to protect its citizens’ lives, liberty and property. All other activities of government tend to diminish freedom and hamper progress.” It was the opening shot of the modern conservative movement, though, on the whole, liberal intellectuals did not regard it as a serious challenge. In 1963, John Kenneth Galbraith, the liberal economist and adviser to the Kennedys, mocked the modern conservative for being engaged in “one of man’s oldest, best financed, most applauded, and, on the whole, least successful exercises in moral philosophy. That is, the search for a truly superior moral justification for selfishness.”
In Greenwich, however, some people were seized by the new conservatism. J. William Middendorf II was a Harvard-educated investment banker who had served on the town council with Prescott Bush, his friend and neighbor. “I sold him a piece of land at the foot of my property,” Middendorf told me. When he retired to his porch in the evening, he could hear the Bushes singing Yale songs in their back yard. But, beneath the similarities, Middendorf had adopted a strikingly different ideology; he had become, in his words, a “disciple” of the libertarian movement, enthralled by Friedrich Hayek and Joseph Schumpeter. He condemned Eisenhower’s moderates for regarding government as “a working tool that should be used to shape society.” Instead, he wrote, “I believe that society is shaped by individuals.”
Middendorf wanted to push libertarianism into mainstream politics, and he found a vehicle in Barry Goldwater, the fiery Arizona senator. Goldwater, the heir to a department-store fortune in Phoenix, ran for President in 1964, fuelled by what he described as “my resentment against the New Deal.” Goldwater’s campaign was a backlash against liberalism—the antiwar movement, civil rights, welfare—but also against moderate Republicans. Nelson Rockefeller was a “cardboard candidate,” Middendorf told me. “He could speak for an hour, but I honestly could not remember a single word he ever said.” Middendorf became Goldwater’s campaign treasurer, raising money from other well-to-do dissidents of the East Coast establishment. “He was obviously out of the mainstream, and we had an uphill battle,” he said.
They prevailed that summer, at the Republican National Convention, in San Francisco. Rockefeller made a desperate last attempt for relevance: from the lectern, he denounced the advent of a “radical” right-wing element within the Party, in the hope that the moderates would rise up and resist. Instead, the hall erupted in boos. Jackie Robinson, the black baseball star and an avatar of integration among Republicans, heard the catcalls and felt, as he said later, like “a Jew in Hitler’s Germany.” Middendorf, who was also in attendance, received Rockefeller’s denunciation as an affirmation. “He was talking about me and my friends,” he wrote, in “Potomac Fever,” his political memoir.
In the general election, Goldwater lost—spectacularly—to Lyndon Johnson. But his brand of libertarian, antitax absolutism found a fervent audience among American executives who were confronting an alarming change: after a quarter century of relentless growth, American profits were declining. Japan and Western Europe, finally rebuilt after the Second World War, were formidable new competitors; the Arab oil shock of 1973 triggered the longest recession since the thirties. Moreover, the environmental and consumer-protection movements had hastened new regulations, on products ranging from flammable fabrics to cigarettes and bank loans.
Executives felt besieged. “They decided regulation was mostly to blame,” the historian Rick Perlstein writes in his forthcoming book, “Reaganland.” In Perlstein’s telling, “the denizens of America’s better boardrooms, who had once comported themselves with such ideological gentility, began behaving like the legendary Jacobins of the French Revolution. They declared war without compromise.” Back home in Greenwich, Middendorf—who went on to work in the Nixon, Ford, and Reagan Administrations—gloried in having vanquished the moderates. He wrote, “We created the conditions that put conservative Republicans back in power after more than thirty years of domination by the liberal eastern establishment—the so-called ‘Country Club’ Republicans.”
A short drive from the Round Hill Club, in a Georgian manor overlooking a lake, lived Lee and Allie Hanley, who were early converts to the conservative movement. Lee had graduated from St. Paul’s and from Yale, where he played polo, squash, and soccer, and he had taken over Hanley Co., his family’s brick-and-oil business. He was a bon vivant, with a fondness for salmon-colored slacks, and a ready checkbook for political ventures. “Very warm and engaging,” a Greenwich friend said. “A collector of curiosities, a Renaissance man at sort of a superficial level. More of a gut player who wanted to be in the game.” Allie was a devout Christian with a keen interest in politics. The 1980 Republican primary was shaping up to be a contest between the old Republican Party and the new—George H. W. Bush, a Washington insider known around town as Poppy, versus Ronald Reagan, the conservative governor of California. On that question, the Hanleys broke with their neighbors in Greenwich. “For us, it was never Bush country,” Allie told me recently. “It was always Reagan country.”
Roger Stone, who was Reagan’s campaign director for the Northeastern states, recalled that most people in Greenwich recoiled from his candidate: “They thought, Reagan, oh, my God, he’s another Goldwater. He has no chance in the general election. He’s a cowboy-movie actor.” (Stone, who later became a Trump confidant, spoke to me last year, before he was convicted of lying to Congress during Robert Mueller’s investigation.) “Hanley was the only high Wasp we had,” Stone continued. “All the ‘right’ people were for Poppy.”
The Hanleys, hoping to spread their enthusiasm in Greenwich, agreed to host a reception at their home. But, when they met Reagan to discuss the plans, over lunch at the Pierre Hotel, Allie saw a problem. “He had on a brown tie, and it was ghastly,” she told me. “When you go to a different part of the country, the most important thing you need to do is dress like they do. They feel more comfortable talking to you. So I ran to Bloomingdale’s, and I bought four ties.” When the Reagans turned up for the party, Allie said, “Here’s a gift for you! Go upstairs and freshen up.” Reagan came back down a few minutes later, and the offending tie had been replaced by her gift. “He wore it on all the posters after that,” she said.
“She’s looking right at you. Just act natural and ease up on the tail wag.” Cartoon by Harry Bliss Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Stone and Lee Hanley adopted an approach that uncannily prefigured Trump’s electoral strategy: they built a coalition of conservative élites and the white working class. Hanley introduced Stone to small-business owners in Greenwich, many of them Italian-American—“mining for Catholic votes,” as Stone called it. “Lee was very well connected with the merchants in town—the grocer, the butcher,” Stone said. “He could talk to anybody. He was not stuffy like some Wasps.” Hanley told Stone before one visit, “We’re going to have to drink some espresso, but we can get them.” The strategy worked; in the Connecticut primary, Reagan beat Bush in the Bush-family stronghold of the southern panhandle. In 1984, Reagan rewarded Hanley by nominating him to the board of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. Two years later, he became the chairman.
In the next three decades, Hanley and other wealthy conservatives—Richard Scaife, John Olin, the Koch brothers—helped train a generation of Republicans in Congress to adhere to ideological orthodoxy. Hanley made a string of historic political investments. He saved Regnery, America’s most prominent conservative book publisher, with a crucial infusion of cash. He helped found the Yankee Institute for Public Policy, the Connecticut affiliate of a network of think tanks that advocate for low taxes and small government. He became the principal backer of a political consulting firm formed by Stone and two other young Reaganites, Charlie Black and Paul Manafort. “We had the credentials and the potential business and all that, but we didn’t have any money,” Black told me. “Lee was a good friend, so we approached him.” Black, Manafort & Stone, as they called themselves, became pioneering lobbyists, known for their brazen use of what Manafort described as “influence peddling.” Clients included Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp. and a young real-estate developer named Donald Trump.
By the end of the century, the courtly politics of Prescott Bush were gone, a change accelerated by the decisions of his son George H. W. Bush. George had inherited his father’s restraint—at school in Greenwich, he was nicknamed Have-Half, for his willingness to share—and also the family tradition of public service. But, running for President in 1988, Bush unleashed his brawling campaign manager Lee Atwater on the governor of Massachusetts, Michael Dukakis. Atwater vowed to “strip the bark off the little bastard.” In the most searing moment, a political-action committee linked to the Bush campaign paid for a television ad blaming Dukakis for the case of Willie Horton, a convict who had committed rape during a furlough from a Massachusetts prison. The ad crudely exploited white fears, showing pictures of Horton, who was African-American, while a narrator spoke of kidnapping, rape, and murder. Atwater denied any involvement in the ad, but Bush recognized the power of the rhetoric, and took to mentioning Horton almost daily on the stump. Atwater boasted that he would make Horton “Dukakis’s running mate.”
Not long before Atwater died, in 1991, he apologized to Dukakis for the “naked cruelty” of that campaign. But the Willie Horton strategy was the forerunner of a more savage era in American politics—of Swift Boat attacks on a war hero; of the racist birther fiction against America’s first black President—and it pushed candidates to avoid looking weak by advancing tough-on-crime policies that both parties now view as devastating for low-income and minority Americans.
In the end, Bush was “a gentleman, but he was a politician, too,” his biographer Jon Meacham wrote. For all Bush’s decency, he had decided early on that, in order to serve, he needed to win. In a tape-recorded diary entry near the end of the 1988 campaign, Bush told himself, “The country gets over these things fast. I have no apologies, no regrets, and if I had let the press keep defining me as a wimp, a loser, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
In the early years of this century, the economic divisions that would come to define America in the age of Trump became evident on the lush back roads of Greenwich, in a sign so subtle that it was easy to miss. Many of the new estates going up were no longer surrounded by the simple stone walls, stacked to the height of a farmer’s hip, that crossed the New England landscape. Instead, the builders introduced a more imposing barrier: tall, stately walls of chiselled stone, mortared in place.
The fashion for higher walls had little to do with safety; Greenwich has one of the lowest crime rates in America. To Frank Farricker, who served on the town’s planning-and-zoning commission, they symbolized power and seclusion. “Instead of building two or three feet high, people got into six-footers—the ‘Fuck you’ walls,” he said. When nearby municipalities noticed the trend, they treated it like an invasive species; they rewrote zoning rules to prevent the spread of what stonemasons took to calling “Greenwich walls.”
The walls were products of one of the most extraordinary accumulations of wealth in American history. In much of the country, the corporate convulsions of the seventies had entailed layoffs, offshoring, and declining union power, but on Wall Street they inspired a surge of creativity. Since the seventeen-hundreds, Wall Street had focussed mostly on funnelling American savings into new businesses and mortgages. But, in the last two decades of the twentieth century, financiers and economists opened vast new realms of speculation and financial engineering—aggressive methods to bet on securities, merge businesses, and cut expenses using bankruptcy laws. U.S. stock markets grew twelvefold, and most of the gains accrued to the wealthiest Americans. By 2017, Wall Streeters were taking home twenty-three per cent of the country’s corporate profits—and home, for many of them, was Connecticut.


newyorker--2020-05-03--Paul Romer on How to Survive the Chaos of the Coronavirus

One of the biggest questions every country faces is how to reopen businesses without causing a resurgence of coronavirus infections .
Paul Romer , a Nobel Prize-winning economist who has served as the chief economist at the World Bank , has been putting forward plans to mitigate the economic fallout from the coronavirus and to allow for a return of normal economic activity in the U.S. His main proposal is to offer bimonthly tests to every person in the country , allowing more of us to go about our daily lives safely .
But testing is still short of where @ @ @ @ @ @ @ may be facing an economic crisis akin to the Great Depression .
I recently spoke by phone with Romer , who is a professor at N.Y.U .
During our conversation , which has been edited for length and clarity , we also discussed why Americans may be resistant to digital contact tracing , the need for states to administer tests , and what lessons economists have learned from the crisis .
Over a month ago , you co-wrote an Op-Ed for the New York Times that stated , “ To protect our way @ @ @ @ @ @ @ within a couple of months to a targeted approach that limits the spread of the virus but still lets most people go back to work and resume their daily activities.
” Are we anywhere close to that approach ?
And , if not , is our way of life at risk ?
We ’ re not much closer , no .
We ’ ve made very little progress , and I think we are running some risks here .
There ’ s a difference between saying “ Here ’ s something which is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ something that ’ s possible , but it ’ s so bad we have to start preventing it and avoiding that risk right away.
” And that ’ s what I ’ m trying to say about the possibility that a depression worse than the Great Depression could lead to political turmoil that could do long-lasting damage to the nation .
So I think we have to proceed with urgency to try and solve both the health crisis and the economic crisis , and I ’ m not surprised that we haven ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But I will tell you that I ’ m actually encouraged by the decision by Congress to spend twenty-five billion dollars for testing in the phase-three bill .
[ This allocation is part of Phase 3.5 . ]
That was not what most people were expecting a few weeks ago , and it happened .
What is your biggest fear about the economy right now ?
There was some analysis that was done at the St. Louis Fed , going through job categories and just thinking about the employment consequences of physical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was that we were going to be at an unemployment rate above thirty per cent , so that was the early-warning sign that we ’ re headed for an economic catastrophe that ’ s worse than the Great Depression .
Different people have talked about different ways to get through this .
Your plan focusses on testing more than almost anything else , and more than some of the other plans .
Everyone acknowledges that testing is important , but why is it so central to every idea that you ’ ve put @ @ @ @ @ @ @ economic crisis is to reduce the fear that someone will get sick if they go to work or go shop .
So it ’ s really about building confidence .
The thing about testing is that it ’ s easy to explain and it doesn ’ t frighten people the way digital contact tracing does .
It ’ s not subject to technological and social , political uncertainty the way digital contact tracing is .
It doesn ’ t require the organizational capacity that doing human contact tracing does .
It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ idea—that to control the pandemic , we need to get a reasonable majority of the people who are infectious into a quarantine , and then we ’ re good .
That ’ s really all it ’ s about .
So I wanted to try and articulate a very simple approach for managing this crisis , because I think that ’ s central to restoring confidence .
For example , think about me going back to my dentist .
It doesn ’ t really matter what the law says or the governor says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t want to go back to the dentist ’ s office in New York City until I know that he can show me a recent negative test , and he doesn ’ t want me to come into his office until I can show him that I ’ ve got a recent negative test .
So I think it ’ s easy to explain this idea to people , and I think it ’ s also easy to convince people that this is something we could do for as long as it takes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ takes more than twenty-four months to get to a vaccine .
If it takes more than twenty-four months , I could see going and getting tested before I go to the dentist and the dentist could get tested .
Neither of us has a problem with that .
I really think that confidence is so central to investment decisions , to planning , to anticipating the future , that we need something so simple that nobody worries if it ’ s going to work , nobody worries if we ’ re going to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ painful .
Everybody just says , “ O.K.
, yep , that ’ s the plan .
We ’ re going to stick to it.
” And then we go .
Some of the other plans that have come out have dealt more with things like contract tracing and digital surveillance .
Is your critique of this approach that you yourself are worried about privacy issues , or is it more that you think that politics or that those plans will be concerning to citizens , which will then impair our ability to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ economic growth back where we want ?
I ’ m not worried about the privacy issues , because it ’ s kind of , like , “ Compared to what ?
” I think we ’ ve got enormous problems with surveillance right now .
This doesn ’ t seem to me to make it much worse .
But I was participating in digital discussions about response to the crisis , and the meeting would go like this : “ We need more testing.
” Financial people said , “ Yep , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and protective equipment.
” “ Yep , fine.
” “ And then we need to have the digital contact tracing.
” And then , all of a sudden , the whole meeting is taken up with hand-wringing and anxiety and all kinds of fears .
Every time somebody said “ digital contact tracing , ” it became a target .
So I just don ’ t see how you get something done with the kind of speed we need right now when it raises so many concerns among so many people .
Testing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where it needs to be .
Shouldn ’ t the government be willing to do basically anything , including spending any amount of money , to amp up testing , because the money it spends will be a rounding error in the budget compared to the economy coming back ?
I think I share your puzzlement about why that doesn ’ t just end the discussion .
And some people ask , “ Well , what do you as an economist have , what ’ s your business poking into an issue that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
” And my answer is , “ Listen , you need the perspective of economics to say that , right now , this depression is costing us , in an order of magnitude , back-of-the-envelope , five hundred billion dollars per month .
So , if we can come up with a solution that costs us like eight to ten billion a month , we ’ re way ahead .
And so don ’ t worry about whether we can afford to do the testing compared to the alternative .
We can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just see if we can agree to testing at that level , then provide the kind of safety we need , and that we can communicate to everybody how this works and why it will work .

One of the biggest questions every country faces is how to reopen businesses without causing a resurgence of coronavirus infections. Paul Romer, a Nobel Prize-winning economist who has served as the chief economist at the World Bank, has been putting forward plans to mitigate the economic fallout from the coronavirus and to allow for a return of normal economic activity in the U.S. His main proposal is to offer bimonthly tests to every person in the country, allowing more of us to go about our daily lives safely. But testing is still short of where it needs to be, and we may be facing an economic crisis akin to the Great Depression.
I recently spoke by phone with Romer, who is a professor at N.Y.U. During our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we also discussed why Americans may be resistant to digital contact tracing, the need for states to administer tests, and what lessons economists have learned from the crisis.
Over a month ago, you co-wrote an Op-Ed for the New York Times that stated, “To protect our way of life, we need to shift within a couple of months to a targeted approach that limits the spread of the virus but still lets most people go back to work and resume their daily activities.” Are we anywhere close to that approach? And, if not, is our way of life at risk?
We’re not much closer, no. We’ve made very little progress, and I think we are running some risks here. There’s a difference between saying “Here’s something which is likely” and “Here’s something that’s possible, but it’s so bad we have to start preventing it and avoiding that risk right away.” And that’s what I’m trying to say about the possibility that a depression worse than the Great Depression could lead to political turmoil that could do long-lasting damage to the nation. So I think we have to proceed with urgency to try and solve both the health crisis and the economic crisis, and I’m not surprised that we haven’t made a lot of progress yet. But I will tell you that I’m actually encouraged by the decision by Congress to spend twenty-five billion dollars for testing in the phase-three bill. [This allocation is part of Phase 3.5.] That was not what most people were expecting a few weeks ago, and it happened.
What is your biggest fear about the economy right now?
There was some analysis that was done at the St. Louis Fed, going through job categories and just thinking about the employment consequences of physical lockdown and social distancing. Their conclusion was that we were going to be at an unemployment rate above thirty per cent, so that was the early-warning sign that we’re headed for an economic catastrophe that’s worse than the Great Depression.
Different people have talked about different ways to get through this. Your plan focusses on testing more than almost anything else, and more than some of the other plans. Everyone acknowledges that testing is important, but why is it so central to every idea that you’ve put forward?
The key to solving the economic crisis is to reduce the fear that someone will get sick if they go to work or go shop. So it’s really about building confidence. The thing about testing is that it’s easy to explain and it doesn’t frighten people the way digital contact tracing does. It’s not subject to technological and social, political uncertainty the way digital contact tracing is. It doesn’t require the organizational capacity that doing human contact tracing does. It’s really just a very simple, easy-to-explain idea—that to control the pandemic, we need to get a reasonable majority of the people who are infectious into a quarantine, and then we’re good. That’s really all it’s about. So I wanted to try and articulate a very simple approach for managing this crisis, because I think that’s central to restoring confidence.
For example, think about me going back to my dentist. It doesn’t really matter what the law says or the governor says I can do. I don’t want to go back to the dentist’s office in New York City until I know that he can show me a recent negative test, and he doesn’t want me to come into his office until I can show him that I’ve got a recent negative test. So I think it’s easy to explain this idea to people, and I think it’s also easy to convince people that this is something we could do for as long as it takes to manage this pandemic. Suppose it takes more than twenty-four months to get to a vaccine. If it takes more than twenty-four months, I could see going and getting tested before I go to the dentist and the dentist could get tested. Neither of us has a problem with that.
I really think that confidence is so central to investment decisions, to planning, to anticipating the future, that we need something so simple that nobody worries if it’s going to work, nobody worries if we’re going to abandon it because it’s too painful. Everybody just says, “O.K., yep, that’s the plan. We’re going to stick to it.” And then we go.
Some of the other plans that have come out have dealt more with things like contract tracing and digital surveillance. Is your critique of this approach that you yourself are worried about privacy issues, or is it more that you think that politics or that those plans will be concerning to citizens, which will then impair our ability to put them into effect and get the economic growth back where we want?
I’m not worried about the privacy issues, because it’s kind of, like, “Compared to what?” I think we’ve got enormous problems with surveillance right now. This doesn’t seem to me to make it much worse. But I was participating in digital discussions about response to the crisis, and the meeting would go like this: “We need more testing.” Financial people said, “Yep, we got it.” “We need masks and protective equipment.” “Yep, fine.” “And then we need to have the digital contact tracing.” And then, all of a sudden, the whole meeting is taken up with hand-wringing and anxiety and all kinds of fears. Every time somebody said “digital contact tracing,” it became a target. So I just don’t see how you get something done with the kind of speed we need right now when it raises so many concerns among so many people.
Testing has sped up but is still not where it needs to be. Shouldn’t the government be willing to do basically anything, including spending any amount of money, to amp up testing, because the money it spends will be a rounding error in the budget compared to the economy coming back?
I think I share your puzzlement about why that doesn’t just end the discussion. And some people ask, “Well, what do you as an economist have, what’s your business poking into an issue that should be the domain of the epidemiologists?” And my answer is, “Listen, you need the perspective of economics to say that, right now, this depression is costing us, in an order of magnitude, back-of-the-envelope, five hundred billion dollars per month. So, if we can come up with a solution that costs us like eight to ten billion a month, we’re way ahead. And so don’t worry about whether we can afford to do the testing compared to the alternative. We can obviously afford it. Let’s just see if we can agree to testing at that level, then provide the kind of safety we need, and that we can communicate to everybody how this works and why it will work.


newyorker--2020-05-03--“Validation Is for Parking Tickets”: A Conversation with Lorrie Moore

Lorrie Moore ’ s first collection of stories , “ Self-Help , ” was published in 1985 , when she was twenty-eight and teaching creative writing at the University of Wisconsin , Madison , where she would stay for almost thirty years .
The collection , a series of stories often told in the second person , used the tropes of self-improvement texts to capture the complicated and sometimes excruciating details of life as a young woman in America , and introduced to readers what Jay McInerney , reviewing the book for the New York Times , called “ a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
.
.
the depths of our fears and yearnings.
” “ Self-Help ” was followed by three more story collections , “ Like Life ” ( 1990 ) , “ Birds of America ” ( 1998 ) , and “ Bark ” ( 2014 ) ; and by three novels , “ Anagrams ” ( 1986 ) , “ Who Will Run the Frog Hospital ?
” ( 1994 ) , and “ A Gate at the Stairs ” ( 2009 ) .
The first story she published in The New Yorker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Too , ” came out in 1989 .
It was followed by fifteen more , including her devastating , O. Henry Prize-winning portrait of a mother coping with a child ’ s cancer , “ People Like That Are the Only People Here , ” of which Lauren Groff writes , in the introduction to Moore ’ s “ Collected Stories , ” which was published by Everyman , in March , “ This is a story written from the deepest part of the soul ; it sings with rage and despair , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and wears its wit like the pitch-black bravado of a man facing a firing squad.
” We carried out this interview by e-mail during the coronavirus lockdown , going back and forth with batches of questions and responses , and responses to the responses , while I was at home in New York and Moore was at home in Nashville , where she has been the Gertrude Conaway Vanderbilt Professor of English at Vanderbilt since 2013 .
Our exchange was edited .
To start at the beginning : you won a Seventeen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
When did the impulse to write first hit you ?
Was it something you ’ d always imagined yourself doing ?
I don ’ t know if Seventeen was really the beginning of anything .
It was all a little misleading and has continued to mislead others , who imagine , “ Seventeen !
That ’ s when you became a writer.
” I don ’ t think most of the winners of the Seventeen contest kept on writing , and it was a little bumpy for me , too , for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I decided to give myself seven years to learn how to really do it , and , if no one was interested in my work by the time I was thirty , I would find something else to do .
That , too , is a little stupid .
But I just kept going .
I kept moving the goalpost and stayed in it for the long game .
Is that a mixed sports metaphor ?
It was all less an impulse and more of a decision .
I really wish I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ painter , but I was insufficiently gifted in those areas .
As in , not gifted at all .
Did you see your winning the Seventeen contest as a form of validation ?
Perhaps , among other things , that was what made you feel justified in devoting seven years to learning to write ?
Again , I really don ’ t know what that Seventeen thing meant .
It was a surprise and a gift , but even the lawyers who hired me , after college graduation , to work as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were more impressed with the fact of it than I was .
I wasn ’ t attached to the story that won ; I felt I had better stories .
In fact , I had sent the magazine two stories and thought the other one was more interesting .
Which it may not have been .
So , you see , I had a certain independence of judgment , which is important for all artistic pursuits .
I didn ’ t depend on Seventeen magazine to give me validation .
You can ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In fact , I ’ m not sure what validation even means .
If you are looking for validation ( a stamp of approval ? )
, you may not last long .
Validation is for parking tickets : yes , I parked there .
You had writers in the family , right ?
Were your parents supportive of your ambitions ?
I did not come from an era or a demographic or a gene pool where parents were supportive of their children ’ s ambitions , if we even had them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Everyone minded their own business .
My parents had tried a little writing , but I wouldn ’ t say I had “ writers in the family.
” I had a great uncle who was a Defoe scholar and published some poetry .
Did I have ambitions ?
That was a besmirching word when I was a young adult , unless it referred to the aspirations of an actual work of art .
The work could be ambitious .
As an artist , you merely had to have intelligence and devotion .
Everything @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you describe the demographic and the gene pool you came from ?
What are your strongest memories of childhood ?
I am from provincial people , though some were academics and scientists and musicians .
There was very little money , some religion , much education , some unrealized talent , some actualized talent , and a strong sense that the world was simultaneously beautiful and unwelcoming .
My strongest memories of childhood are of quiet interior spaces as well as the outdoors , full of mud and bugs and us kids running @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It was flight in both senses .
You wrote in an essay that , when you were reading as a teen-ager , “ books by women came as great friends , a relief .
They showed up on the front lawn and waved .
Books by men one had to walk a distance to get to , take a hike to arrive at , though as readers we girls were all well trained for the hike and we didn ’ t learn to begrudge and resent it until later.
” What were the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ made you feel so at home with them ?
Oh , any and all stories of women who spoke and thought !
Those were , by and large , not the books we were taught in school .
I am of the “ Johnny Tremain ” and “ Old Yeller ” generation .
But I did love “ Old Yeller.
” When I was in college , I took a course on the contemporary American novel , and the professor , when asked at the semester ’ s end why we hadn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ woman , said , “ Women have not yet taken on the great American themes.
” By which I think he meant “ lighting out for the territory ” in all its masculine guises .
He was not horrible .
He was a very nice man mired in his upbringing .
But times were changing .
And what were the first books you read that made you think about writing as a possible vocation for yourself ?
Why ?
Not a one .
Loving books and then applying them to myself in terms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ occur to me much .
I mean , I suppose I sometimes would read something fantastic and maybe then , in retrospect , think about how I also might contribute to the great sea of literature .
But it was very much like hearing a song and wanting to sing it .
I might have thought , Wouldn ’ t that be a good song to try to sing ?
I didn ’ t think I was being called to it .
I loved all the arts and merely hoped I ’ d @ @ @ @ @ @ @ among them .
I especially loved plays , and my friends and I would read plays aloud just for ourselves .
We had no audience except us , the cast .

Lorrie Moore’s first collection of stories, “Self-Help,” was published in 1985, when she was twenty-eight and teaching creative writing at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, where she would stay for almost thirty years. The collection, a series of stories often told in the second person, used the tropes of self-improvement texts to capture the complicated and sometimes excruciating details of life as a young woman in America, and introduced to readers what Jay McInerney, reviewing the book for the New York Times, called “a distinctive, scalpel-sharp fictional voice that probes . . . the depths of our fears and yearnings.” “Self-Help” was followed by three more story collections, “Like Life” (1990), “Birds of America” (1998), and “Bark” (2014); and by three novels, “Anagrams” (1986), “Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?” (1994), and “A Gate at the Stairs” (2009). The first story she published in The New Yorker, “You’re Ugly, Too,” came out in 1989. It was followed by fifteen more, including her devastating, O. Henry Prize-winning portrait of a mother coping with a child’s cancer, “People Like That Are the Only People Here,” of which Lauren Groff writes, in the introduction to Moore’s “Collected Stories,” which was published by Everyman, in March, “This is a story written from the deepest part of the soul; it sings with rage and despair, cuts you with its violent maternal love, and wears its wit like the pitch-black bravado of a man facing a firing squad.”
We carried out this interview by e-mail during the coronavirus lockdown, going back and forth with batches of questions and responses, and responses to the responses, while I was at home in New York and Moore was at home in Nashville, where she has been the Gertrude Conaway Vanderbilt Professor of English at Vanderbilt since 2013. Our exchange was edited.
To start at the beginning: you won a Seventeen magazine fiction contest when you were nineteen. When did the impulse to write first hit you? Was it something you’d always imagined yourself doing?
I don’t know if Seventeen was really the beginning of anything. It was all a little misleading and has continued to mislead others, who imagine, “Seventeen! That’s when you became a writer.”
I don’t think most of the winners of the Seventeen contest kept on writing, and it was a little bumpy for me, too, for a while. When I was twenty-three, I decided to give myself seven years to learn how to really do it, and, if no one was interested in my work by the time I was thirty, I would find something else to do. That, too, is a little stupid. But I just kept going. I kept moving the goalpost and stayed in it for the long game. Is that a mixed sports metaphor? It was all less an impulse and more of a decision. I really wish I could have been a singer or a painter, but I was insufficiently gifted in those areas. As in, not gifted at all.
Did you see your winning the Seventeen contest as a form of validation? Perhaps, among other things, that was what made you feel justified in devoting seven years to learning to write?
Again, I really don’t know what that Seventeen thing meant. It was a surprise and a gift, but even the lawyers who hired me, after college graduation, to work as a paralegal in their Manhattan law firm, were more impressed with the fact of it than I was. I wasn’t attached to the story that won; I felt I had better stories. In fact, I had sent the magazine two stories and thought the other one was more interesting. Which it may not have been. So, you see, I had a certain independence of judgment, which is important for all artistic pursuits. I didn’t depend on Seventeen magazine to give me validation. You can’t depend on anything external for that. In fact, I’m not sure what validation even means. If you are looking for validation (a stamp of approval?), you may not last long. Validation is for parking tickets: yes, I parked there.
You had writers in the family, right? Were your parents supportive of your ambitions?
I did not come from an era or a demographic or a gene pool where parents were supportive of their children’s ambitions, if we even had them. We all stayed very quiet. Everyone minded their own business. My parents had tried a little writing, but I wouldn’t say I had “writers in the family.” I had a great uncle who was a Defoe scholar and published some poetry. Did I have ambitions? That was a besmirching word when I was a young adult, unless it referred to the aspirations of an actual work of art. The work could be ambitious. As an artist, you merely had to have intelligence and devotion. Everything else would come from that.
Can you describe the demographic and the gene pool you came from? What are your strongest memories of childhood?
I am from provincial people, though some were academics and scientists and musicians. There was very little money, some religion, much education, some unrealized talent, some actualized talent, and a strong sense that the world was simultaneously beautiful and unwelcoming. My strongest memories of childhood are of quiet interior spaces as well as the outdoors, full of mud and bugs and us kids running everywhere. I miss running everywhere. It was flight in both senses.
You wrote in an essay that, when you were reading as a teen-ager, “books by women came as great friends, a relief. They showed up on the front lawn and waved. Books by men one had to walk a distance to get to, take a hike to arrive at, though as readers we girls were all well trained for the hike and we didn’t learn to begrudge and resent it until later.” What were the books that waved at you? What made you feel so at home with them?
Oh, any and all stories of women who spoke and thought! Those were, by and large, not the books we were taught in school. I am of the “Johnny Tremain” and “Old Yeller” generation. But I did love “Old Yeller.” When I was in college, I took a course on the contemporary American novel, and the professor, when asked at the semester’s end why we hadn’t read a single novel by a woman, said, “Women have not yet taken on the great American themes.” By which I think he meant “lighting out for the territory” in all its masculine guises. He was not horrible. He was a very nice man mired in his upbringing. But times were changing.
And what were the first books you read that made you think about writing as a possible vocation for yourself? Why?
Not a one. Loving books and then applying them to myself in terms of a creative pursuit didn’t occur to me much. I mean, I suppose I sometimes would read something fantastic and maybe then, in retrospect, think about how I also might contribute to the great sea of literature. But it was very much like hearing a song and wanting to sing it. I might have thought, Wouldn’t that be a good song to try to sing? I didn’t think I was being called to it. I loved all the arts and merely hoped I’d somehow find a little spot for myself among them. I especially loved plays, and my friends and I would read plays aloud just for ourselves. We had no audience except us, the cast.
You’ve said that your talent for writing came partly out of your “capacity for solitude.” Is that a required trait in a writer? Do you still have it?
I think I referred to my “ability” to write, meaning just the basic physical ability, not so much “talent,” which perhaps is a different element. A capacity for solitude is a required literary trait, but I don’t know if it’s an acquired one. That is, I don’t know if you can teach yourself to be alone if you really just can’t bear it. Yes, I still have the capacity for solitude. It’s kind of like eye color. Not much you can do about it. Although perhaps quarantine and lockdown and social distancing will teach it to everyone.
You did an M.F.A. at Cornell back before M.F.A.s were popular. What attracted you to that program?
Among writers back then they seemed popular enough. I knew about these programs.
Flannery O’Connor had gone to Iowa. My undergraduate writing professor had gone to Iowa. I was terrified of the faraway state of Iowa but was interested in programs that would fund you to write, and there were many that were not in Iowa, as it turned out.
What do you feel you learned there?
All the things you learn from reading and writing and hanging out with writers and scholars and artists. I had to leave New York to do that. New York at that time seemed to be filling up with Reagan-era financial people.
When you made the decision, you were living in Manhattan and working as a paralegal. What led you to that?
To working in a law firm? I was not really led. I was twenty-one and living in New York and just needed a job. I didn’t have any family subsidy that would have allowed me to take a job that grossed less than ten thousand dollars a year and still pay rent, and entry-level publishing jobs in 1978 paid nine thousand a year, so they often went to people with invisible (parental) money. I had no invisible money. I was completely financially independent at twenty-one. And in Manhattan.
Your first collection of stories, “Self-Help,” came out when you were in your late twenties. Was it a shock to be published so young? How did you cope with the response to the book?


newyorker--2020-05-03--Sunday Reading: Cooking at Home

Sunday Reading: Cooking at Home

Everyone has an idea of home cooking , and everyone ’ s idea is different .
Like Proust ’ s madeleine , the radical simplicity of home cooking has a way of evoking powerful feelings and recollections .
Some of us conjure images of days spent in the kitchen with our families , whereas others contemplate the improvisation of new meals or recipes from a favorite cookbook .
The common thread is that certain tastes can make us feel , at least for a moment , that all is right with the world .
This week , we ’ re @ @ @ @ @ @ @ food and memories of home and hearty cooking .
In “ Serial Monogamy , ” Nora Ephron explores her fascination with cookbooks and reflects on her early years as a journalist in New York City .
In “ The Lamb Roast , ” the chef Gabrielle Hamilton writes about the glamorous springtime meals organized by her family when she was growing up .
In “ Coming Home Again , ” Chang-rae Lee describes the delicious Korean dishes that his mother used to prepare at home .
Jane Kramer examines the phenomenon of foraging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vegetables while preparing meals .
Finally , in “ As the French Do , ” Janet Malcolm recounts the beginnings of her love affair with French food and her fondness for “ The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book.
” Taken together , we hope that these pieces offer an appetizing addition to your weekend .
What was cooking at our place .
What a son remembers best , when all that is left are memories .
Why is foraging all the rage ?

Everyone has an idea of home cooking, and everyone’s idea is different. Like Proust’s madeleine, the radical simplicity of home cooking has a way of evoking powerful feelings and recollections. Some of us conjure images of days spent in the kitchen with our families, whereas others contemplate the improvisation of new meals or recipes from a favorite cookbook. The common thread is that certain tastes can make us feel, at least for a moment, that all is right with the world. This week, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces about food and memories of home and hearty cooking. In “Serial Monogamy,” Nora Ephron explores her fascination with cookbooks and reflects on her early years as a journalist in New York City. In “The Lamb Roast,” the chef Gabrielle Hamilton writes about the glamorous springtime meals organized by her family when she was growing up. In “Coming Home Again,” Chang-rae Lee describes the delicious Korean dishes that his mother used to prepare at home. Jane Kramer examines the phenomenon of foraging and the use of novel herbs and vegetables while preparing meals. Finally, in “As the French Do,” Janet Malcolm recounts the beginnings of her love affair with French food and her fondness for “The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book.” Taken together, we hope that these pieces offer an appetizing addition to your weekend.
—David Remnick
Illustration by Laurie Rosenwald
My cookbook crushes.
What was cooking at our place.
Photograph by Chad Ehlers / Alamy
What a son remembers best, when all that is left are memories.
Photograph by Bill Boch / Getty
Cooking the Alice B. Toklas way.
Why is foraging all the rage?


newyorker--2020-05-03--The Rush to Reopen

The Rush to Reopen

The fatal confusion of the United States ’ response to the coronavirus crisis is now moving to a more disjointed stage : the rush to reopen .
Last week , as statewide stay-at-home orders began to expire , governors from Alabama to Missouri softened or declined to extend them .
The new measures are a hodgepodge : Texas is allowing movie theatres to reopen , with some limits , but not gyms .
Georgia allows both—and massage and tattoo parlors .
Some of the steps seem influenced less by epidemiology than by industry lobbies and excessive attention paid to scattered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Americans support closures . )
The Attorney General , William Barr , has told prosecutors to look for and take action against “ overbearing ” restrictions .
President Trump , who has left reopening decisions to the states , offering only loose guidelines , does not seem especially worried that moving too quickly might lead to more waves of death from COVID-19 .
“ If there ’ s a fire , we ’ re going to put it out , ” he said , on Wednesday .
The danger is that reopening will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A key point of closures and social distancing was to slow the spread—to flatten the curve—so that the first wave of the pandemic would not overwhelm the health-care system .
Those actions bought time to prepare hospitals , develop treatments , and get closer to a vaccine .
Perhaps above all , time was needed to make widespread testing available , and to follow it up with contact tracing .
As much as President Trump has claimed otherwise , that effort has hardly begun .
Texas has tested only about one per cent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not yet declining there in a sustained way .
In Indiana and Minnesota , which are pushing to reopen , cases are rising .
Even New York , which is testing more people than many countries , doesn ’ t seem to have the tests it needs to provide an accurate death toll .
More than five thousand presumed COVID victims in New York City have been excluded from the state tally because they were never tested , complicating attempts to assess the disease ’ s trajectory .
Still , given the heavy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ states are drawing up more cautious , calibrated plans .
Governor Andrew Cuomo , of New York , has said that he intends to allow hospitals in some upstate counties , which have been less hard hit , to resume performing elective procedures—a category that includes many cancer surgeries .
He also has committed New York to work in concert with six other Northeastern states , so that they do not end up undercutting one another ’ s efforts .
California , Oregon , and Washington have formed a similar partnership .
Reopening @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not of relaxation but of vigilance .
Governor Gavin Newsom , of California , has begun talking about opening schools in July , to make up for lost days , but he also closed the state ’ s beaches , after crowds of people flocked to them .
Some who argue for reopening sooner rather than later say that doing so will allow for a “ controlled spread ” of the disease , in which more people can develop a resistance and the population as a whole can achieve “ herd immunity.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ projected number of hospitalizations and deaths along the way , which is very high .
Another is that the idea assumes that those who have had COVID-19 will , indeed , be immune .
But , as the World Health Organization recently warned , it isn ’ t yet clear how effective or enduring any immunity might be .
There are viruses , such as measles , for which the immunity is lifelong ; for SARS and MERS , which are coronaviruses , immunity seems to fade , on average , in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other known human coronaviruses , which cause varieties of the common cold , immunity lasts just months .
Meanwhile , the F.D.A .
has allowed companies to market a grab bag of serological tests , meant to detect a prior infection , even though they tend to give high rates of false positives , possibly mistaking antibodies that a person has acquired from fighting off a cold for the remnants of a battle with COVID-19 .
That is a shaky basis on which , say , to send a health worker back into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stringent standards , the field of serological testing will remain in a hazardous state , threatening a cruel replay of the disastrous problems with diagnostic testing .
The discussion around reopening often draws a distinction between “ the vulnerable ” and everybody else , as if our strength were not defined by our willingness to stand together .
Reading Texas ’ s reopening plan , one would think that only the elderly are vulnerable .
Yet one of the risk factors for death from COVID-19 is obesity , which affects a third of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Midwest .
And diabetes is a major factor in the many deaths of people who are relatively young .
There is a misperception , too , that only cities are susceptible , in spite of the fact that some rural areas have been devastated .
The most dangerous illusion one can have in a pandemic is that it is only happening to other people , someplace else .
The absurdity of some of the reopening measures—tattoo parlors ?
—raises the possibility that the public may be reluctant to follow the governors ’ lead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or to keep their employees working from home .
People may decide not to go to restaurants or malls or to take public transportation .
But those with fewer financial resources may not have the luxury to choose safer ways of living .
Last week , officials in Iowa and Nebraska made it clear that anyone who declines to go back to work will risk losing unemployment benefits .
Many low-wage workers—in grocery stores , hospitals , and the meatpacking plants that Trump has ordered to stay open , even as they have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up .
Moreover , as the COVID Tracking Project noted , in South Dakota , a state that is almost ninety per cent white , people of color account for close to seventy per cent of the confirmed cases—a reflection of the demographics of meatpackers , and of wider disparities .
Reopening should be something other than a lopsided reapportionment of risk .
Nor can it rely on wishful thinking or luck .
It requires hard , deliberate work , with clear prerequisites : testing , contact tracing , leadership , mask-wearing , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if cases spike , to change course .
It can be done , but we have to get it right .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
The fatal confusion of the United States’ response to the coronavirus crisis is now moving to a more disjointed stage: the rush to reopen. Last week, as statewide stay-at-home orders began to expire, governors from Alabama to Missouri softened or declined to extend them. The new measures are a hodgepodge: Texas is allowing movie theatres to reopen, with some limits, but not gyms. Georgia allows both—and massage and tattoo parlors. Some of the steps seem influenced less by epidemiology than by industry lobbies and excessive attention paid to scattered protests. (Polls show that most Americans support closures.) The Attorney General, William Barr, has told prosecutors to look for and take action against “overbearing” restrictions. President Trump, who has left reopening decisions to the states, offering only loose guidelines, does not seem especially worried that moving too quickly might lead to more waves of death from COVID-19. “If there’s a fire, we’re going to put it out,” he said, on Wednesday. The danger is that reopening will become an act of mass arson.
A key point of closures and social distancing was to slow the spread—to flatten the curve—so that the first wave of the pandemic would not overwhelm the health-care system. Those actions bought time to prepare hospitals, develop treatments, and get closer to a vaccine. Perhaps above all, time was needed to make widespread testing available, and to follow it up with contact tracing. As much as President Trump has claimed otherwise, that effort has hardly begun. Texas has tested only about one per cent of its population, and cases are not yet declining there in a sustained way. In Indiana and Minnesota, which are pushing to reopen, cases are rising. Even New York, which is testing more people than many countries, doesn’t seem to have the tests it needs to provide an accurate death toll. More than five thousand presumed COVID victims in New York City have been excluded from the state tally because they were never tested, complicating attempts to assess the disease’s trajectory.
Still, given the heavy social burdens of the closures, some states are drawing up more cautious, calibrated plans. Governor Andrew Cuomo, of New York, has said that he intends to allow hospitals in some upstate counties, which have been less hard hit, to resume performing elective procedures—a category that includes many cancer surgeries. He also has committed New York to work in concert with six other Northeastern states, so that they do not end up undercutting one another’s efforts. California, Oregon, and Washington have formed a similar partnership. Reopening is, in fact, a matter not of relaxation but of vigilance. Governor Gavin Newsom, of California, has begun talking about opening schools in July, to make up for lost days, but he also closed the state’s beaches, after crowds of people flocked to them.
Some who argue for reopening sooner rather than later say that doing so will allow for a “controlled spread” of the disease, in which more people can develop a resistance and the population as a whole can achieve “herd immunity.” One problem with this approach is the projected number of hospitalizations and deaths along the way, which is very high. Another is that the idea assumes that those who have had COVID-19 will, indeed, be immune. But, as the World Health Organization recently warned, it isn’t yet clear how effective or enduring any immunity might be. There are viruses, such as measles, for which the immunity is lifelong; for SARS and MERS, which are coronaviruses, immunity seems to fade, on average, in a couple of years. For the four other known human coronaviruses, which cause varieties of the common cold, immunity lasts just months.
Meanwhile, the F.D.A. has allowed companies to market a grab bag of serological tests, meant to detect a prior infection, even though they tend to give high rates of false positives, possibly mistaking antibodies that a person has acquired from fighting off a cold for the remnants of a battle with COVID-19. That is a shaky basis on which, say, to send a health worker back into a nursing home. Without coherent, stringent standards, the field of serological testing will remain in a hazardous state, threatening a cruel replay of the disastrous problems with diagnostic testing.
The discussion around reopening often draws a distinction between “the vulnerable” and everybody else, as if our strength were not defined by our willingness to stand together. Reading Texas’s reopening plan, one would think that only the elderly are vulnerable. Yet one of the risk factors for death from COVID-19 is obesity, which affects a third of the adults in the South and the Midwest. And diabetes is a major factor in the many deaths of people who are relatively young. There is a misperception, too, that only cities are susceptible, in spite of the fact that some rural areas have been devastated. The most dangerous illusion one can have in a pandemic is that it is only happening to other people, someplace else.
The absurdity of some of the reopening measures—tattoo parlors?—raises the possibility that the public may be reluctant to follow the governors’ lead. Businesses may decide to stay closed or to keep their employees working from home. People may decide not to go to restaurants or malls or to take public transportation. But those with fewer financial resources may not have the luxury to choose safer ways of living. Last week, officials in Iowa and Nebraska made it clear that anyone who declines to go back to work will risk losing unemployment benefits. Many low-wage workers—in grocery stores, hospitals, and the meatpacking plants that Trump has ordered to stay open, even as they have become centers of outbreaks—have never stopped showing up. Moreover, as the COVID Tracking Project noted, in South Dakota, a state that is almost ninety per cent white, people of color account for close to seventy per cent of the confirmed cases—a reflection of the demographics of meatpackers, and of wider disparities.
Reopening should be something other than a lopsided reapportionment of risk. Nor can it rely on wishful thinking or luck. It requires hard, deliberate work, with clear prerequisites: testing, contact tracing, leadership, mask-wearing, individual discipline, and a willingness, if cases spike, to change course. It can be done, but we have to get it right. ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-04--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

American Harvest , by Marie Mutsuki Mockett ( Graywolf ) .
Harvest season in the American wheat belt begins in Texas , in the late spring , when hundreds of seasonal workers are hired into crews and begin moving from farm to farm , to cut the year ’ s grain .
In this reflective travelogue , Mockett , who grew up in California , inherits a stake in her family ’ s farm , in Nebraska , and sets out to understand the ways of the heartland by accompanying one of these harvesting teams on its months-long trek north @ @ @ @ @ @ @ self-consciousness , offers a compassionate portrait of conservative evangelicals , along with lucid musings on agricultural science , Native American history , and the quiet majesty of the Great Plains .
Sick Souls , Healthy Minds , by John Kaag ( Princeton ) .
This earnest , accessible treatment of William James ’ s thought is propelled by personal crises : the author , a professor of philosophy , leans on James ’ s writing through the upheaval of his second divorce , his first forays into co-parenting , and his experiences teaching @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the way , he delves into pragmatism , a philosophical tradition that James ( the eldest brother of Henry , the novelist ) pioneered , which holds that truths should be judged by their practical consequences .
As Kaag traces James ’ s intellectual path away from determinism and depression , he both clarifies thorny academic questions and offers dashes of self-help , showing how today ’ s anxious souls might apply James ’ s principles and learn how to “ be not afraid of life.
” Afterlife , by Julia Alvarez ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ resonant novel , Antonia Vega , is an English professor who finds the comforts of language diminished after the sudden death of her husband .
The needs of others soon bleed into her grief : an undocumented worker from a nearby farm asks Antonia , who is originally from the Dominican Republic , to help reunite him with the lover he left behind in Mexico , and the disappearance of one of Antonia ’ s sisters further spurs her to muster her husband ’ s generous spirit .
The novel , set in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and mental-health policies , and it is a moving exploration of the ways we inadvertently fail the people we love .
As Antonia observes , “ It ’ s a great effrontery to discover other people aren ’ t you.
” Our Riches , by Kaouther Adimi , translated from the French by Chris Andrews ( New Directions ) .
This stirring novel , which was shortlisted for the Prix Goncourt , is based on the life of Edmond Charlot , the publisher best known for discovering Albert Camus and for opening the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in 1936 .
In his mission to distribute great literature , Charlot confronted overwhelming odds—he ran out of paper during the Second World War , and French colonial forces destroyed another of his stores during the Algerian war .
His story is interspersed with that of a young man , sent to gut the storefront of Les Vraies Richesses eighty years later , who discovers the spirit of Charlot—and that of his bibliophilia—alive in the community .

American Harvest, by Marie Mutsuki Mockett (Graywolf). Harvest season in the American wheat belt begins in Texas, in the late spring, when hundreds of seasonal workers are hired into crews and begin moving from farm to farm, to cut the year’s grain. In this reflective travelogue, Mockett, who grew up in California, inherits a stake in her family’s farm, in Nebraska, and sets out to understand the ways of the heartland by accompanying one of these harvesting teams on its months-long trek north. Mockett, writing with a gentle self-consciousness, offers a compassionate portrait of conservative evangelicals, along with lucid musings on agricultural science, Native American history, and the quiet majesty of the Great Plains.
Sick Souls, Healthy Minds, by John Kaag (Princeton). This earnest, accessible treatment of William James’s thought is propelled by personal crises: the author, a professor of philosophy, leans on James’s writing through the upheaval of his second divorce, his first forays into co-parenting, and his experiences teaching in the modern university system. Along the way, he delves into pragmatism, a philosophical tradition that James (the eldest brother of Henry, the novelist) pioneered, which holds that truths should be judged by their practical consequences. As Kaag traces James’s intellectual path away from determinism and depression, he both clarifies thorny academic questions and offers dashes of self-help, showing how today’s anxious souls might apply James’s principles and learn how to “be not afraid of life.”
Afterlife, by Julia Alvarez (Algonquin). The protagonist of this resonant novel, Antonia Vega, is an English professor who finds the comforts of language diminished after the sudden death of her husband. The needs of others soon bleed into her grief: an undocumented worker from a nearby farm asks Antonia, who is originally from the Dominican Republic, to help reunite him with the lover he left behind in Mexico, and the disappearance of one of Antonia’s sisters further spurs her to muster her husband’s generous spirit. The novel, set in 2019, poses questions about American immigration and mental-health policies, and it is a moving exploration of the ways we inadvertently fail the people we love. As Antonia observes, “It’s a great effrontery to discover other people aren’t you.”
Our Riches, by Kaouther Adimi, translated from the French by Chris Andrews (New Directions). This stirring novel, which was shortlisted for the Prix Goncourt, is based on the life of Edmond Charlot, the publisher best known for discovering Albert Camus and for opening the famed bookstore Les Vraies Richesses in Algiers, in 1936. In his mission to distribute great literature, Charlot confronted overwhelming odds—he ran out of paper during the Second World War, and French colonial forces destroyed another of his stores during the Algerian war. His story is interspersed with that of a young man, sent to gut the storefront of Les Vraies Richesses eighty years later, who discovers the spirit of Charlot—and that of his bibliophilia—alive in the community.


newyorker--2020-05-04--Pam McCarthy, Champion of Change

Pam McCarthy, Champion of Change

Of the many things that we ’ ve missed in these bewildering weeks of homebound distancing , one is the ability to mark properly the joyful passages of life : births , graduations , weddings , anniversaries .
A FaceTime toast or a Zoom-ed congratulations hardly feels sufficient , but , for now , in-person festivities must be deferred for safer , sunnier days .
Here at The New Yorker , we had plans to celebrate the astonishing career of our dear friend and colleague Pamela Maffei McCarthy , who has been the magazine ’ s deputy editor since 1995 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that the time had come to spend her days doing something new .
It wasn ’ t easy for any of us to accept this news—no one is more respected or adored at One World Trade Center .
And yet no one is more deserving of a next chapter .
This is Pam ’ s last issue , and , while we ’ re keeping the champagne on ice for a little longer , we want to thank and celebrate her here .
In the earliest years of The New Yorker , Harold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said he was looking for a “ Jesus ” —someone who could keep his venture calm and steady , fending off crisis , bringing the good news .
He never quite found that savior .
In Pam McCarthy , The New Yorker finally got what Ross was searching for : here was someone who would find , shepherd , and protect every variety of talent , a diplomat who could quiet troubled waters , a businessperson who could multiply loaves and fishes .
In no small measure , today ’ s New Yorker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extraordinary people she found , put into place , and promoted .
The building started the moment she arrived ; now she leaves the magazine transformed , expanded , and healthy .
She did it not only with editorial acuity and business savvy but with immense depth of character , kindness , and generosity .
Pam McCarthy started her career at Esquire , where , first as a proofreader and later as executive editor , she learned every skill that magazines demand , on and off the page .
She learned how to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ things run .
As Tina Brown ’ s managing editor at Vanity Fair , she became an essential figure in that title ’ s rebirth and flourishing .
In “ The Vanity Fair Diaries : 1983-1992 , ” Brown describes her as “ miraculous , ” arriving on the scene and , in no time at all , taking everything in hand : editorial debates , fact-checking disputes , restive egos , production snarls , budgetary headaches , legal quandaries .
When Brown succeeded Robert Gottlieb as the editor of The New Yorker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ help revitalize its pages with new writers and artists .
The New Yorker entered the modern age gradually––and then , it seemed , all at once , adding a Web site , then a fuller Web site , podcasts , video , newsletters , a radio show .
At each step , Pam championed change while making sure that our editorial soul remained true and our business prospects solid .
And , even as she shouldered the countless details required to make The New Yorker sail straight , Pam , often on weekends @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Invariably , her suggestions were about fairness , discipline , and tone .
She has deep confidence in the power of facts , and she is wary of the cheap shot , the flash of hyperbole , the rickety insinuation .
“ She protected our business—and that was a huge thing , ” as one of us put it .
“ But her editorial protection was the thing I valued the most.
” Pam McCarthy made sure that we could achieve our greatest ambitions while managing to be a fair-minded , decent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a role that once seemed impossible , she has proved one of the most important and influential people to walk through the doors of The New Yorker since the place opened , in midtown , ninety-five years ago .
We ’ ve long ceased to marvel at her ability to create calm from the stuff of crisis .
Working miracles , as Ross knew , was always part of the job description .
♦

Of the many things that we’ve missed in these bewildering weeks of homebound distancing, one is the ability to mark properly the joyful passages of life: births, graduations, weddings, anniversaries. A FaceTime toast or a Zoom-ed congratulations hardly feels sufficient, but, for now, in-person festivities must be deferred for safer, sunnier days. Here at The New Yorker, we had plans to celebrate the astonishing career of our dear friend and colleague Pamela Maffei McCarthy, who has been the magazine’s deputy editor since 1995, and who decided not long ago that the time had come to spend her days doing something new. It wasn’t easy for any of us to accept this news—no one is more respected or adored at One World Trade Center. And yet no one is more deserving of a next chapter. This is Pam’s last issue, and, while we’re keeping the champagne on ice for a little longer, we want to thank and celebrate her here.
In the earliest years of The New Yorker, Harold Ross, its founding editor, always said he was looking for a “Jesus”—someone who could keep his venture calm and steady, fending off crisis, bringing the good news. He never quite found that savior. In Pam McCarthy, The New Yorker finally got what Ross was searching for: here was someone who would find, shepherd, and protect every variety of talent, a diplomat who could quiet troubled waters, a businessperson who could multiply loaves and fishes. In no small measure, today’s New Yorker would not exist without her and the extraordinary people she found, put into place, and promoted. The building started the moment she arrived; now she leaves the magazine transformed, expanded, and healthy. She did it not only with editorial acuity and business savvy but with immense depth of character, kindness, and generosity.
Pam McCarthy started her career at Esquire, where, first as a proofreader and later as executive editor, she learned every skill that magazines demand, on and off the page. She learned how to make things sing and how to make things run. As Tina Brown’s managing editor at Vanity Fair, she became an essential figure in that title’s rebirth and flourishing. In “The Vanity Fair Diaries: 1983-1992,” Brown describes her as “miraculous,” arriving on the scene and, in no time at all, taking everything in hand: editorial debates, fact-checking disputes, restive egos, production snarls, budgetary headaches, legal quandaries.
When Brown succeeded Robert Gottlieb as the editor of The New Yorker, she brought Pam with her to help revitalize its pages with new writers and artists. The New Yorker entered the modern age gradually––and then, it seemed, all at once, adding a Web site, then a fuller Web site, podcasts, video, newsletters, a radio show. At each step, Pam championed change while making sure that our editorial soul remained true and our business prospects solid. And, even as she shouldered the countless details required to make The New Yorker sail straight, Pam, often on weekends, provided other editors with editorial counsel. Invariably, her suggestions were about fairness, discipline, and tone. She has deep confidence in the power of facts, and she is wary of the cheap shot, the flash of hyperbole, the rickety insinuation. “She protected our business—and that was a huge thing,” as one of us put it. “But her editorial protection was the thing I valued the most.”
Pam McCarthy made sure that we could achieve our greatest ambitions while managing to be a fair-minded, decent, and financially sustainable workplace. Filling a role that once seemed impossible, she has proved one of the most important and influential people to walk through the doors of The New Yorker since the place opened, in midtown, ninety-five years ago. We’ve long ceased to marvel at her ability to create calm from the stuff of crisis. Working miracles, as Ross knew, was always part of the job description. ♦


newyorker--2020-05-04--“The Fire Gilder,” by Eavan Boland

“The Fire Gilder,” by Eavan Boland

She loved silver , she loved gold , my mother .
She spoke about the influence of metals , the congruence of atoms , the art classes where she learned these things : think of it she would say as she told me to gild any surface a master craftsman had to meld gold with mercury , had to heat both so one was volatile , one was not and to do it right had to separate them and then burn , burn , burn mercury until it fled and left behind a skin of light .
The only thing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that I forgot .
What she spent a lifetime forgetting could be my subject : the fenced-in small towns of Leinster , the coastal villages where the language of the sea was handed on , phrases bruised by storms , by shipwrecks .
But isn ’ t .
My subject is the part wishing plays in the way villages are made to vanish , in the way I learned to separate memory from knowledge , so one was volatile , one was not and how I started writing , burning light , building @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the fire gilder ready to lay radiance down , ready to decorate it happened with it never did when all at once I remember what it was she said : the only thing is it is extremely dangerous .

Audio: Read by the author.
She loved silver, she loved gold,
my mother. She spoke about the influence
of metals, the congruence of atoms,
the art classes where she learned
these things: think of it
she would say as she told me
to gild any surface a master craftsman
had to meld gold with mercury,
had to heat both so one was volatile,
one was not
and to do it right
had to separate them and then
burn, burn, burn mercury
until it fled and left behind
a skin of light. The only thing, she added—
but what came after that I forgot.
What she spent a lifetime forgetting
could be my subject:
the fenced-in small towns of Leinster,
the coastal villages where the language
of the sea was handed on,
phrases bruised by storms,
by shipwrecks. But isn’t.
My subject is the part wishing plays in
the way villages are made
to vanish, in the way I learned
to separate memory from knowledge,
so one was volatile, one was not
and how I started writing,
burning light,
building heat until all at once
I was the fire gilder
ready to lay radiance down,
ready to decorate it happened
with it never did when
all at once I remember what it was
she said: the only thing is
it is extremely dangerous.