newyorker--2020-04-01--A Medical Historian on Why We Must Stay the Course in Fighting the Coronavirus

As the coronavirus crisis has evolved into a global public-health emergency over the past few months , the virus and its resulting disease , COVID-19 , have increasingly been compared to the influenza epidemic of 1918 , which ultimately claimed the lives of between twenty and forty million people worldwide , including an estimated six hundred and seventy-five thousand in the United States .
In a feature in The New Yorker , in 1997 , Malcolm Gladwell wrote that , in the fall of 1918 , the influenza had “ reached every continent and virtually every country on the map @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or trucks or trains travelled , killing so many so quickly that some cities were forced to convert streetcars into hearses.
” The coronavirus , too , has touched every corner of the globe .
As of Wednesday morning , according to the World Health Organization , there have been nearly eight hundred and twenty-four thousand confirmed cases , resulting in more than forty thousand deaths .
Public-health officials , epidemiologists , and other experts expect these figures to increase : graphs of coronavirus infections to date show a line arcing exponentially upward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ collective public-health goal is now articulated .
The physician and medical historian Howard Markel , who teaches at the University of Michigan , has studied the 1918 epidemic extensively , and has written about strategies that successfully mitigated its devastation in certain areas .
In a paper published in Emerging Infectious Diseases , in late 2006 , Markel and his team describe how certain cities in the U.S. fared far better than others owing to their stringent use of nonpharmaceutical interventions ( N.P.I.s ) , including social distancing .
In the video above @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writer Isaac Chotiner , Markel explains the ways in which the response to the flu epidemic a century ago can influence decision-making today .
“ [ The 1918 epidemic ] is the largest database of this menu of social distancing , specifically quarantine and isolation , school closure , and public gatherings , ” Markel says .
His 2006 paper specifies , as Chotiner quotes , that “ neither the city ’ s population size , density , sex distribution , nor age distribution accounted for the differences in mortality.
” But , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of practices such as social distancing , Markel says , “ we simply saw .
.
.
fewer deaths in those cities.
” “ The key word about this coronavirus is ‘ novel ’ —we don ’ t have any experience with COVID-19 , ” he continues .
“ We won ’ t know it ’ s over until long after it ’ s over , so it ’ s hard to know when to release the trigger.
” However , he says , “ This I know : if we release these @ @ @ @ @ @ @ going to be back in the same situation that we were in , in terms of cases and deaths , or perhaps worse , and we will have crippled the economy and caused all this social disruption for nothing.
” • How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

As the coronavirus crisis has evolved into a global public-health emergency over the past few months, the virus and its resulting disease, COVID-19, have increasingly been compared to the influenza epidemic of 1918, which ultimately claimed the lives of between twenty and forty million people worldwide, including an estimated six hundred and seventy-five thousand in the United States. In a feature in The New Yorker, in 1997, Malcolm Gladwell wrote that, in the fall of 1918, the influenza had “reached every continent and virtually every country on the map, going wherever ships sailed or cars or trucks or trains travelled, killing so many so quickly that some cities were forced to convert streetcars into hearses.” The coronavirus, too, has touched every corner of the globe. As of Wednesday morning, according to the World Health Organization, there have been nearly eight hundred and twenty-four thousand confirmed cases, resulting in more than forty thousand deaths. Public-health officials, epidemiologists, and other experts expect these figures to increase: graphs of coronavirus infections to date show a line arcing exponentially upward, nowhere close to flattening out—as our collective public-health goal is now articulated.
The physician and medical historian Howard Markel, who teaches at the University of Michigan, has studied the 1918 epidemic extensively, and has written about strategies that successfully mitigated its devastation in certain areas. In a paper published in JAMA, in 2007, Markel and his team describe how certain cities in the U.S. fared far better than others owing to their stringent use of nonpharmaceutical interventions (N.P.I.s), including social distancing. In the video above, speaking with the New Yorker staff writer Isaac Chotiner, Markel explains the ways in which the response to the flu epidemic a century ago can influence decision-making today. “[The 1918 epidemic] is the largest database of this menu of social distancing, specifically quarantine and isolation, school closure, and public gatherings,” Markel says. His 2007 paper specifies, as Chotiner quotes, that “neither the city’s population size, density, sex distribution, nor age distribution accounted for the differences in mortality.” But, when communities implemented early, sustained combinations of practices such as social distancing, Markel says, “we simply saw . . . fewer deaths in those cities.”
“The key word about this coronavirus is ‘novel’—we don’t have any experience with COVID-19,” he continues. “We won’t know it’s over until long after it’s over, so it’s hard to know when to release the trigger.” However, he says, “This I know: if we release these measures too early, we’re going to be back in the same situation that we were in, in terms of cases and deaths, or perhaps worse, and we will have crippled the economy and caused all this social disruption for nothing.”
A previous version of this post incorrectly referred to an earlier paper by Markel and his team.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-01--Alice Notley and the Art of Not Giving a Damn

In his humorous anti-manifesto , “ Personism , ” the poet Frank O ’ Hara discloses one of art ’ s great truths : “ you just go on your nerve.
” Considering this truth , he wonders , “ But how can you really care if anybody gets it , or gets what it means , or if it improves them.
” In the search for immediacy , he writes , questions of accessibility can come to seem pointless : O ’ Hara ’ s insouciance has made his work popular—an antidote to the high seriousness that poetry sometimes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with popularity comes influence : one thinks of the sunny romanticism and Instagram-readiness of “ Having a Coke with You ” ( the more abstract , difficult side of O ’ Hara ’ s work has yet to gain influencer status ) .
But although it feels dashed-off , O ’ Hara ’ s essay is more than fashionable flash .
It ’ s also a passionate entreaty to writers to make work that ’ s completely their own .
Perhaps the greatest O ’ Hara disciple in this sense is the poet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ course of forty-plus years and forty-plus books , has repeatedly cited O ’ Hara as an influence while following her own unconventional path .
Notley is often categorized as a poet of the second generation of the New York School , along with writers such as Eileen Myles and Anne Waldman .
The signature of her work is a restless reinvention and a distrust of groupthink that remains true to her forebear ’ s directive : to not give a damn .
Although Notley is less known to a casual poetry readership—her inventiveness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ —she is one of the singular voices in contemporary American poetry .
Notley ’ s latest collection , “ For the Ride , ” a sprawling book-length poem , continues her trajectory into the unknown : “ anything happens here / in the magic of one ’ s chaos.
” With its mess of divergent voices , picture-poems , and eccentric locutions , the result is baffling , beautiful , and always fascinatingly Notley .
As she writes in the preface , one of the book ’ s few footholds , “ This @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me , but it should be read for pleasure.
” Although “ Personism ” tells us that simply acting like ourselves is enough to make poetry , its lesson is also surprisingly difficult to absorb .
What if you ’ re not sure what kind of person you are ?
What if there are structural barriers that hinder your speaking freely ?
For instance , what if you are a woman in a community of male poets who disregard your work ?
In a poem from the seventies , Notley mocks the downtown @ @ @ @ @ @ @ male poet ’ s rant : “ No women poets are any / good , if you want it / Straight , because they don ’ t handle money.
” In Notley ’ s hands , the free-roving speech of poets like O ’ Hara became a new way of exploring the permeability of identity on the page .
In her earlier work , Notley often incorporated the speech of people around her , particularly her children ( as in her masterpiece “ January ” ) .
In the mixed abstractions of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Notley turns instability into strength : It ’ s a reasonable question to ask about “ For the Ride , ” which begins with a challenge to the reader : “ You ’ ll have to decipher what ’ s going on , as it happens .
Just like I did.
” The jacket copy attempts to sketch the book ’ s “ plot ” : “ the protagonist , named One , is suddenly within the Glyph .
.
.
.
Other beings begin to materialize , and it seems that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ disaster.
” It ’ s rare when a book summary isn ’ t entirely sure what ’ s going on inside , and such enigmas are either an irritant or central to Notley ’ s mystique , depending on your taste .
“ For the Ride ” is a difficult book , constructed largely of long , discursive lines reminiscent of a Beckett monologue , testing the self ’ s capacity to hold together : The character “ One ” is a kind of joke ( Notley has always had an oddball sense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that underscores the flimsiness of a stable idea of the self .
Even as One goes questing , other voices appear , speak against each other , refract .
Wholeness is not the same as unity .
As Notley writes in “ The Prophet ” ( 1981 ) : “ One is you & all this & two & yet.
” The yet is where poetry begins .
Notley ’ s work is famously heterogeneous , but it ’ s possible to see a gradual shift in her work , beginning in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ School ’ s emphasis on ordinary detail and the surfaces of daily city life .
Instead , she gravitated increasingly toward archetype and myth—a search for primordial language bubbling under the surface .
Or , as Notley puts it , the trick is to “ Try to get new language // closer to that of thought .
River beneath appearances .
Poems.
” This evolution in her work was also spurred by a series of personal losses , including of her husband ( the poet Ted Berrigan ) , her step-daughter , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and spirituality were terrain that the fast talk of New York School poetics hadn ’ t fully engaged ; so , too , was the political and feminist consciousness growing in Notley ’ s work .
Notley wrote extensively about pregnancy , childbirth , and child-rearing at a time when the poetry world was often inhospitable to women .
Her poems have grappled with how to depict and think about motherhood , and her influence for a later generation of poets exploring these same subjects is hard to overstate .
But Notley , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has continued to push poetry ’ s formal constraints , and this pursuit has led her far away from portraits of domestic life .
One of her main currents of experimentation has revolved around the search for a “ feminine epic , ” one that could serve as an alternative to the male stories that have dominated the history of poetry since Homer .
Her search culminated in “ The Descent of Alette ” ( 1992 ) , a book-length poem that tells the story of a woman questing through a sinister subway @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s best-known work , perhaps because it ’ s one of the easiest to follow .
But it , too , is elliptical , resisting the familiar satisfactions of narrative : its subway-goers appear and disappear , fragment and melt away under the watch of a seemingly all-powerful tyrant .
Notley ’ s work seems to suggest that correctives to the old narratives are possible but also that real fixity is always out of reach .
Raw language is the final material we have ; it is only by shaping and reshaping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our world .

Alice Notley’s influence on a later generation of poets exploring the subject of motherhood is hard to overstate. Photograph by Nigel Beale / The Biblio File
In his humorous anti-manifesto, “Personism,” the poet Frank O’Hara discloses one of art’s great truths: “you just go on your nerve.” Considering this truth, he wonders, “But how can you really care if anybody gets it, or gets what it means, or if it improves them.” In the search for immediacy, he writes, questions of accessibility can come to seem pointless:
Improves them for what? For death? Why hurry them along? Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not.
O’Hara’s insouciance has made his work popular—an antidote to the high seriousness that poetry sometimes invokes to prove its worth. And with popularity comes influence: one thinks of the sunny romanticism and Instagram-readiness of “Having a Coke with You” (the more abstract, difficult side of O’Hara’s work has yet to gain influencer status). But although it feels dashed-off, O’Hara’s essay is more than fashionable flash. It’s also a passionate entreaty to writers to make work that’s completely their own.
Perhaps the greatest O’Hara disciple in this sense is the poet Alice Notley, who, in the course of forty-plus years and forty-plus books, has repeatedly cited O’Hara as an influence while following her own unconventional path. Notley is often categorized as a poet of the second generation of the New York School, along with writers such as Eileen Myles and Anne Waldman. The signature of her work is a restless reinvention and a distrust of groupthink that remains true to her forebear’s directive: to not give a damn. Although Notley is less known to a casual poetry readership—her inventiveness and audacity are matched by her difficulty —she is one of the singular voices in contemporary American poetry.
Notley’s latest collection, “For the Ride,” a sprawling book-length poem, continues her trajectory into the unknown: “anything happens here / in the magic of one’s chaos.” With its mess of divergent voices, picture-poems, and eccentric locutions, the result is baffling, beautiful, and always fascinatingly Notley. As she writes in the preface, one of the book’s few footholds, “This poem goes pretty far, and terrifies me, but it should be read for pleasure.”
A passage from “For the Ride” (2020), by Alice Notley.
Although “Personism” tells us that simply acting like ourselves is enough to make poetry, its lesson is also surprisingly difficult to absorb. What if you’re not sure what kind of person you are? What if there are structural barriers that hinder your speaking freely? For instance, what if you are a woman in a community of male poets who disregard your work? In a poem from the seventies, Notley mocks the downtown sensibility of the time with an older male poet’s rant: “No women poets are any / good, if you want it / Straight, because they don’t handle money.”
In Notley’s hands, the free-roving speech of poets like O’Hara became a new way of exploring the permeability of identity on the page. In her earlier work, Notley often incorporated the speech of people around her, particularly her children (as in her masterpiece “January”). In the mixed abstractions of a mid-eighties poem called “Congratulating Wedge,” Notley turns instability into strength:
I’m ashamed to keep on babbling
as if I’ve always been oneself,
diamond flow through. Humble
flannel skeleton. Grin, laugh unbecoming
Living at the bottom of the water may
have been obvious all the time. But
I forget. What’s my plot?
It’s a reasonable question to ask about “For the Ride,” which begins with a challenge to the reader: “You’ll have to decipher what’s going on, as it happens. Just like I did.” The jacket copy attempts to sketch the book’s “plot”: “the protagonist, named One, is suddenly within the Glyph. . . . Other beings begin to materialize, and it seems that they are all survivors of a global disaster.” It’s rare when a book summary isn’t entirely sure what’s going on inside, and such enigmas are either an irritant or central to Notley’s mystique, depending on your taste. “For the Ride” is a difficult book, constructed largely of long, discursive lines reminiscent of a Beckett monologue, testing the self’s capacity to hold together:
one is not, ones are not, separated. But only One is here.
One is composed of words like one makes in beginning, chaotically.
One makes them? One is making them, conscious. One knows it
here, not chains,
posh garlands. Why? Why’s not valid here. Making oneself now,
oh One.
The character “One” is a kind of joke (Notley has always had an oddball sense of humor), but a joke that underscores the flimsiness of a stable idea of the self. Even as One goes questing, other voices appear, speak against each other, refract. Wholeness is not the same as unity. As Notley writes in “The Prophet” (1981): “One is you & all this & two & yet.” The yet is where poetry begins.
Notley’s work is famously heterogeneous, but it’s possible to see a gradual shift in her work, beginning in the mid-eighties, away from the New York School’s emphasis on ordinary detail and the surfaces of daily city life. Instead, she gravitated increasingly toward archetype and myth—a search for primordial language bubbling under the surface. Or, as Notley puts it, the trick is to “Try to get new language // closer to that of thought. River beneath appearances. Poems.”
This evolution in her work was also spurred by a series of personal losses, including of her husband (the poet Ted Berrigan), her step-daughter, and her brother. Death, grief, and spirituality were terrain that the fast talk of New York School poetics hadn’t fully engaged; so, too, was the political and feminist consciousness growing in Notley’s work. Notley wrote extensively about pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing at a time when the poetry world was often inhospitable to women. Her poems have grappled with how to depict and think about motherhood, and her influence for a later generation of poets exploring these same subjects is hard to overstate. But Notley, never one to be pinned down, has continued to push poetry’s formal constraints, and this pursuit has led her far away from portraits of domestic life.
One of her main currents of experimentation has revolved around the search for a “feminine epic,” one that could serve as an alternative to the male stories that have dominated the history of poetry since Homer. Her search culminated in “The Descent of Alette” (1992), a book-length poem that tells the story of a woman questing through a sinister subway underworld. It’s probably Notley’s best-known work, perhaps because it’s one of the easiest to follow. But it, too, is elliptical, resisting the familiar satisfactions of narrative: its subway-goers appear and disappear, fragment and melt away under the watch of a seemingly all-powerful tyrant. Notley’s work seems to suggest that correctives to the old narratives are possible but also that real fixity is always out of reach. Raw language is the final material we have; it is only by shaping and reshaping it that we can hope to rebuild our world.


newyorker--2020-04-01--How COVID-19 Will Hit India

How COVID-19 Will Hit India

Last week , Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi ordered a three-week lockdown of the country , telling citizens that they were not to leave their homes , because of the coronavirus pandemic .
The scope of this order is hard to comprehend : India is a country of more than a billion people ; it has extreme poverty in many areas ; and many of its cities , such as Mumbai and Kolkata , are extraordinarily dense .
Since people who live in India often travel between different states for work , the lockdown also left hundreds of thousands of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are trying to return home on foot .
So far , there have been only a few more than sixteen hundred confirmed cases in India , and forty-five confirmed deaths , but a major outbreak in a country with huge public-health deficiencies is likely to have devastating , far-reaching consequences .
To try to understand India ’ s predicament , I spoke by phone with Ramanan Laxminarayan , an epidemiologist and economist who directs the Center for Disease Dynamics , Economics , and Policy in Washington , D.C. , and who is currently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on President Obama ’ s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology ’ s antimicrobial-resistance working group .
During our conversation , which has been edited for length and clarity , we discussed why India is at such grave risk from the coronavirus , the different ways that rural and urban India are likely to be affected , and what the disease has laid bare about the long-term consequences of insufficient health systems .
How would you describe what India is facing right now ?
So , India is in an earlier stage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ probably running about two weeks behind the United States , and about four weeks behind Italy , in terms of when the first seeding of cases happened .
Like in these other countries , it probably happened because of airline traffic—but not because of people coming from China , all of whom were quarantined very early , but likely because of Italians who had carried the virus , who were tourists here .
And a number of the early cases actually involved Italians .
So it arrived after it had fully seeded in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ small at the beginning .
It was restricted to people who were stepping off the plane , or someone who had been in contact with a confirmed COVID-19 case .
And so we ’ ve had a very limited read on how the disease is progressing to date .
It ’ s only a thousand cases and just over thirty deaths .
[ This was true during the time the interview took place ; both numbers have since grown slightly . ]
So that ’ s small for a country the size of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this is probably because of testing not being adequate , similar to what happened in the early stage of the epidemic in the United States , as well , where it suddenly catches fire in some population , like in Seattle—in India , it is unclear where it will actually happen—and then it really takes off .
There is no evidence that the temperature and the humidity are slowing down the virus , even though it ’ s still rather cool across most parts of India , especially the north of India .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of compounding problems , which are that the health-system capacity is generally weak across the country .
The number of hospital beds [ roughly half a bed per thousand people ] is remarkably low .
It ’ s probably a fifth of what the U.K. has , for instance .
And it ’ s also got a population that has tuberculosis and respiratory issues and pneumonia and high rates of smoking and air pollution .
So , the trajectory of the disease in this population is going to be unclear .
The other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lot of hypertensives .
About a third of the country ’ s adults are hypertensive , and about one-tenth of them are diabetic .
And , so , all of this is likely to compound the problem .
Of course , we don ’ t know anything for sure until the numbers actually start going up .
But these are all the reasons why people of India are worried .
To what degree is your concern about the density in Indian cities and the inability to stop this if it reaches cities in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ probably has reached some of these communities .
We ’ ve already seen cases in the slums of Mumbai , which , as you know , are some of the biggest slums in the world , with millions of people living next to each other .
And , so , the virus has appeared where it sort of stays quiet until it hits the target population , and shows up in symptomatic cases , typically the elderly .
So , on the one hand , yes , we ’ ve got people living @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but the other side of that is that a lot of these people living in close proximity with each other are young people .
[ Per capita , ] India ’ s population above the age of sixty-five is much smaller than that of Italy and certainly of China as well .
That ’ s something which has a bit of a protective effect .
But , certainly , the conditions for a rapid spread of the disease are all there in the urban areas .
And , without question , it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through the population , unless something fundamentally changes in the virus itself in India , for which we have no real evidence .
The government ’ s shutdown order , at one level , seems sensible .
At another level , it appears akin to a lot of what this government does , like demonetization : implemented quickly , without a ton of thought about how it was going to be put into effect .
And you see these horrific stories of laborers trying to get back across the country from state to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And the horrific human cost of this lockdown , even if it ’ s necessary .
What have you made of the government ’ s decision to do what it did , and was it the only alternative ?
Should it just have been planned better ?
At the stage we were at , the lockdown had to have happened , to slow down the epidemic .
Otherwise , given all the reasons I spoke of earlier , we would have had a really sharp peak headed into April .
And , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to prevent death is not very popular , because the public will never give credit for deaths they averted .
The public will only blame them for the damage they caused .
So , from that perspective , Modi was very decisive and acted quickly .
Now , could there have been better planning of the lockdown ?
Certainly , yes .
I think , given the complexities of India , some things were focussed on , like supplies and food and so forth , but not others , like how these migrants @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cross borders if they lived in a different state and had to get home and couldn ’ t afford to live in the place where they were , or the homeless , or whatever it is .
You ’ re right .
It was rushed .
But , I think , in the case of demonetization , that ’ s a different experience , because there wasn ’ t a rush to do it at a particular time .
They could have waited a week and done it probably better .
In this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was very little time available , just because everyone is learning from everyone else .
I think the scenes from Italy just shook people here .
And then what started happening in the United States was even more disconcerting .

Last week, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi ordered a three-week lockdown of the country, telling citizens that they were not to leave their homes, because of the coronavirus pandemic. The scope of this order is hard to comprehend: India is a country of more than a billion people; it has extreme poverty in many areas; and many of its cities, such as Mumbai and Kolkata, are extraordinarily dense. Since people who live in India often travel between different states for work, the lockdown also left hundreds of thousands of migrant workers stranded; many of them are trying to return home on foot. So far, there have been only a few more than sixteen hundred confirmed cases in India, and forty-five confirmed deaths, but a major outbreak in a country with huge public-health deficiencies is likely to have devastating, far-reaching consequences.
To try to understand India’s predicament, I spoke by phone with Ramanan Laxminarayan, an epidemiologist and economist who directs the Center for Disease Dynamics, Economics, and Policy in Washington, D.C., and who is currently in New Delhi. He previously served on President Obama’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology’s antimicrobial-resistance working group. During our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we discussed why India is at such grave risk from the coronavirus, the different ways that rural and urban India are likely to be affected, and what the disease has laid bare about the long-term consequences of insufficient health systems.
How would you describe what India is facing right now?
So, India is in an earlier stage of the epidemic. It’s probably running about two weeks behind the United States, and about four weeks behind Italy, in terms of when the first seeding of cases happened. Like in these other countries, it probably happened because of airline traffic—but not because of people coming from China, all of whom were quarantined very early, but likely because of Italians who had carried the virus, who were tourists here. And a number of the early cases actually involved Italians. So it arrived after it had fully seeded in Italy, and the testing was pretty small at the beginning. It was restricted to people who were stepping off the plane, or someone who had been in contact with a confirmed COVID-19 case.
And so we’ve had a very limited read on how the disease is progressing to date. It’s only a thousand cases and just over thirty deaths. [This was true during the time the interview took place; both numbers have since grown slightly.] So that’s small for a country the size of India. What we expect is that this is probably because of testing not being adequate, similar to what happened in the early stage of the epidemic in the United States, as well, where it suddenly catches fire in some population, like in Seattle—in India, it is unclear where it will actually happen—and then it really takes off.
There is no evidence that the temperature and the humidity are slowing down the virus, even though it’s still rather cool across most parts of India, especially the north of India. And we’ve got a lot of compounding problems, which are that the health-system capacity is generally weak across the country. The number of hospital beds [roughly half a bed per thousand people] is remarkably low. It’s probably a fifth of what the U.K. has, for instance.
And it’s also got a population that has tuberculosis and respiratory issues and pneumonia and high rates of smoking and air pollution. So, the trajectory of the disease in this population is going to be unclear. The other thing is that India also has a lot of hypertensives. About a third of the country’s adults are hypertensive, and about one-tenth of them are diabetic. And, so, all of this is likely to compound the problem. Of course, we don’t know anything for sure until the numbers actually start going up. But these are all the reasons why people of India are worried.
To what degree is your concern about the density in Indian cities and the inability to stop this if it reaches cities in a major way?
I think it probably has reached some of these communities. We’ve already seen cases in the slums of Mumbai, which, as you know, are some of the biggest slums in the world, with millions of people living next to each other. And, so, the virus has appeared where it sort of stays quiet until it hits the target population, and shows up in symptomatic cases, typically the elderly.
So, on the one hand, yes, we’ve got people living in close proximity to each other, but the other side of that is that a lot of these people living in close proximity with each other are young people. [Per capita,] India’s population above the age of sixty-five is much smaller than that of Italy and certainly of China as well. That’s something which has a bit of a protective effect. But, certainly, the conditions for a rapid spread of the disease are all there in the urban areas. And, without question, it’s likely that it will just rip through the population, unless something fundamentally changes in the virus itself in India, for which we have no real evidence.
The government’s shutdown order, at one level, seems sensible. At another level, it appears akin to a lot of what this government does, like demonetization: implemented quickly, without a ton of thought about how it was going to be put into effect. And you see these horrific stories of laborers trying to get back across the country from state to state with no way to do so. And the horrific human cost of this lockdown, even if it’s necessary. What have you made of the government’s decision to do what it did, and was it the only alternative? Should it just have been planned better?
At the stage we were at, the lockdown had to have happened, to slow down the epidemic. Otherwise, given all the reasons I spoke of earlier, we would have had a really sharp peak headed into April. And, generally, for politicians to act proactively to prevent death is not very popular, because the public will never give credit for deaths they averted. The public will only blame them for the damage they caused. So, from that perspective, Modi was very decisive and acted quickly.
Now, could there have been better planning of the lockdown? Certainly, yes. I think, given the complexities of India, some things were focussed on, like supplies and food and so forth, but not others, like how these migrants would get home or how people would cross borders if they lived in a different state and had to get home and couldn’t afford to live in the place where they were, or the homeless, or whatever it is.
You’re right. It was rushed. But, I think, in the case of demonetization, that’s a different experience, because there wasn’t a rush to do it at a particular time. They could have waited a week and done it probably better. In this case, I would say that there was very little time available, just because everyone is learning from everyone else. I think the scenes from Italy just shook people here. And then what started happening in the United States was even more disconcerting.
And then when the modelling estimates came out, saying, “Look, this is going to be even worse here because we’re not prepared for it,” that really was something which shook the government into action. I think, in this case, they legitimately had less time, but I certainly think that a bit more planning and organization should have been brought into it.
And it is absolutely gut-wrenching to see what’s happening in the news stories. But, remember, the news stories are only reporting on what they can see in the urban areas. We have no idea about the rural distress, what’s happening out there, whether farmers are okay, whether people are eating, and so forth. So I suspect we have not seen the end of this lockdown story.


newyorker--2020-04-01--What to Stream: The 1978 Film That Inspired Robert Redford to Found Sundance

The New Directors/New Films series , which would have been running now through April 5th , at Lincoln Center , has hosted the New York premières of many notable international movies since its founding , in 1972 .
American films , whether independent or Hollywoodian , have been more scantly programmed , and the ones that do appear have often been far from the forefront of ambition and innovation .
On the other hand , one of the series ’ offerings , from 1978 , wrought an enduring change in the American cinematic landscape : “ The Whole Shootin ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ made it at the age of twenty-five , both as director and as cinematographer .
The film ( which is available to stream on Vimeo and Amazon ) tells the story of two scuffling ne ’ er-do-wells , lifelong friends in Austin , Texas , Loyd ( Lou Perryman ) and Frank ( Sonny Carl Davis ) , somewhere in their thirties , who hustle up occasional and poorly paid work hauling cast-off furniture .
The lanky Lloyd , who keeps a chicken coop at his rumpled house , is a pensive , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and cynical—lives with his wife , Paulette ( Doris Hargrave ) , sort of ; she endures his haphazard providing as well as his carousing , which keeps him out day and night .
She considers him a virtual absentee father for their young son , T. Frank ( David Weber ) , and she ’ s being fervently courted by Frank ’ s smooth-talking , more prosperous cousin Olan ( Eric Henshaw ) , who urges her to dump the bum—in favor of him .
Meanwhile , Lloyd lures Frank into yet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and then another—and when that one seems likely to hit , it adds energy , excitement , and drama to their familiar routine .
Pennell tells this meandering , local picaresque tale with low-key emotions that rise very high through his distinctive eye for idiosyncratic behavior ( as in the very first scene , of Frank sleeping off a bender on Lloyd ’ s pool table ) .
There is observational poetry in the wide-ranging dialogue , which veers from uproarious braggadocio and hard-edged confrontations to poignant revelations and confessions .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Pennell ’ s startlingly spare yet nuanced cinematography—the film was shot in black-and-white , in 16mm.—often holds still for incisive long takes , giving the actors space to fill with their personalities , their tangled feelings , and their verbal wrangles .
( He wrote the script with Lin Sutherland , who was also the movie ’ s producer ; she says that most of the dialogue was improvised by the actors . )
Even Pennell ’ s indoor scenes feel as spacious as landscapes , rooting his characters firmly in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ angles have a calm audacity and a bracing yet modest originality that , with no fuss , stretches imagination and drama .
He embraces the actual landscape , as well , looking with loving care at pebble-strewn roads and tall grass , the swimming hole and the rocky hills , chain-link fences and hand-cranked ice cream and the old wood of modest houses with their junk-strewn yards—and the cheap allure of clothing and cars from the city , which is right at hand and yet seemingly worlds away .
The mood-rich , wry @ @ @ @ @ @ @ perched on the edge of comedy and drama , sometimes lurching between passionate melodrama and wild humor , teems with intimate , lived-in details—a family outing to a drive-in movie is like a playlet that pulls in a wide array of inclinations and observations .
A scene of backing up a pickup with a trailer is real-life comedy that mounts to absurdist heights .
The earnest yet antic practicalities of daily work , involving ladders and valves and pride and humiliation , unfold at a tantalizing , exquisitely agonizing pace .
An ingenious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of work , is a comedic masterstroke .
There ’ s also some gunplay that is both ridiculous and deadly serious , and there ’ s nothing funny about the violence of a bar fight , which , without its Hollywood choreography and props , is ugly , crude , and terrifying .
Paulette ’ s conflicted conscience , her exasperation and temptation , her long-frustrated devotion to the egotistical and preening Frank , her struggles to raise T. Frank as a virtual single parent , and her techniques of coping with her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like the bass notes that give the centrifugal plot its essential structure .
Her life at home , and the assumptions that underlie the bitter terms of her marriage , similarly shadow the movie like the bedrock on which the movie ’ s pair of carefree and freewheeling fuckups , as endearing and as amusing as they may be , can continue to fuck up .
The concluding sequence , grubby and majestic , rises to a height of luminous insight that ’ s also as benighted as all that came before .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Match ” proved influential in surprising , organizational terms .
It screened at the Utah/U.S .
Film Festival , in 1978 ; upon seeing it , a member of the festival ’ s board of directors , Robert Redford , decided to found the Sundance Institute .
Pennell also inspired another , younger Austin movie enthusiast , Richard Linklater , whose second film , “ Slacker , ” would screen both at Sundance and at New Directors/New Films in 1991 .
Pennell died in 2002 , at the age of forty-nine , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( There ’ s a loving , frank , and poignant documentary about Pennell , “ The King of Texas , ” by his nephew René Pinnell and Claire Huie , streaming on YouTube ; Steve McVicker , a friend of Pennell ’ s , wrote a moving tribute to him in the Texas Observer . )
Though Pennell ’ s film has been called the very template of the Sundance film , what makes it enduringly important is what ’ s atypical , exceptional , inimitable .

The New Directors/New Films series, which would have been running now through April 5th, at Lincoln Center, has hosted the New York premières of many notable international movies since its founding, in 1972. American films, whether independent or Hollywoodian, have been more scantly programmed, and the ones that do appear have often been far from the forefront of ambition and innovation. On the other hand, one of the series’ offerings, from 1978, wrought an enduring change in the American cinematic landscape: “The Whole Shootin’ Match,” directed by Eagle Pennell—who made it at the age of twenty-five, both as director and as cinematographer.
The film (which is available to stream on Vimeo and Amazon) tells the story of two scuffling ne’er-do-wells, lifelong friends in Austin, Texas, Loyd (Lou Perryman) and Frank (Sonny Carl Davis), somewhere in their thirties, who hustle up occasional and poorly paid work hauling cast-off furniture. The lanky Lloyd, who keeps a chicken coop at his rumpled house, is a pensive, ambitious dreamer. Frank—short, pugnacious, and cynical—lives with his wife, Paulette (Doris Hargrave), sort of; she endures his haphazard providing as well as his carousing, which keeps him out day and night. She considers him a virtual absentee father for their young son, T. Frank (David Weber), and she’s being fervently courted by Frank’s smooth-talking, more prosperous cousin Olan (Eric Henshaw), who urges her to dump the bum—in favor of him. Meanwhile, Lloyd lures Frank into yet another get-rich-quick scheme, with absurd results, and then another—and when that one seems likely to hit, it adds energy, excitement, and drama to their familiar routine.
Pennell tells this meandering, local picaresque tale with low-key emotions that rise very high through his distinctive eye for idiosyncratic behavior (as in the very first scene, of Frank sleeping off a bender on Lloyd’s pool table). There is observational poetry in the wide-ranging dialogue, which veers from uproarious braggadocio and hard-edged confrontations to poignant revelations and confessions. The performances are both shambling and poised, and Pennell’s startlingly spare yet nuanced cinematography—the film was shot in black-and-white, in 16mm.—often holds still for incisive long takes, giving the actors space to fill with their personalities, their tangled feelings, and their verbal wrangles. (He wrote the script with Lin Sutherland, who was also the movie’s producer; she says that most of the dialogue was improvised by the actors.)
Even Pennell’s indoor scenes feel as spacious as landscapes, rooting his characters firmly in the places they inhabit. His compositions and angles have a calm audacity and a bracing yet modest originality that, with no fuss, stretches imagination and drama. He embraces the actual landscape, as well, looking with loving care at pebble-strewn roads and tall grass, the swimming hole and the rocky hills, chain-link fences and hand-cranked ice cream and the old wood of modest houses with their junk-strewn yards—and the cheap allure of clothing and cars from the city, which is right at hand and yet seemingly worlds away.
The mood-rich, wry yet tense action and inaction, sometimes perched on the edge of comedy and drama, sometimes lurching between passionate melodrama and wild humor, teems with intimate, lived-in details—a family outing to a drive-in movie is like a playlet that pulls in a wide array of inclinations and observations. A scene of backing up a pickup with a trailer is real-life comedy that mounts to absurdist heights. The earnest yet antic practicalities of daily work, involving ladders and valves and pride and humiliation, unfold at a tantalizing, exquisitely agonizing pace. An ingenious dream sequence, anchored in the particulars of work, is a comedic masterstroke. There’s also some gunplay that is both ridiculous and deadly serious, and there’s nothing funny about the violence of a bar fight, which, without its Hollywood choreography and props, is ugly, crude, and terrifying.
Paulette’s conflicted conscience, her exasperation and temptation, her long-frustrated devotion to the egotistical and preening Frank, her struggles to raise T. Frank as a virtual single parent, and her techniques of coping with her self-chosen burden are threaded through the movie like the bass notes that give the centrifugal plot its essential structure. Her life at home, and the assumptions that underlie the bitter terms of her marriage, similarly shadow the movie like the bedrock on which the movie’s pair of carefree and freewheeling fuckups, as endearing and as amusing as they may be, can continue to fuck up. The concluding sequence, grubby and majestic, rises to a height of luminous insight that’s also as benighted as all that came before.
The greatness of “The Whole Shootin’ Match” proved influential in surprising, organizational terms. It screened at the Utah/U.S. Film Festival, in 1978; upon seeing it, a member of the festival’s board of directors, Robert Redford, decided to found the Sundance Institute. Pennell also inspired another, younger Austin movie enthusiast, Richard Linklater, whose second film, “Slacker,” would screen both at Sundance and at New Directors/New Films in 1991. Pennell died in 2002, at the age of forty-nine, after a long struggle with alcoholism. (There’s a loving, frank, and poignant documentary about Pennell, “The King of Texas,” by his nephew René Pinnell and Claire Huie, streaming on YouTube; Steve McVicker, a friend of Pennell’s, wrote a moving tribute to him in the Texas Observer.) Though Pennell’s film has been called the very template of the Sundance film, what makes it enduringly important is what’s atypical, exceptional, inimitable.


newyorker--2020-04-01--Wrong Ways to Meditate

Wrong Ways to Meditate

On 2x speed : The point is to go slow .
1.5x speed at max .
In an Uber : You ’ re just trying to avoid conversation .
Which is honestly valid , but is not meditation .
Meditation is about connecting and speaking a lot .
In yoga class : They let you pretend you ’ re meditating , but you ’ re obviously just taking a break from exercise .
During naps : This is just sleeping .
In a meditation group : This is for meeting eligible men only .
You have to stay focussed on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all about .
While checking your Twitter notifications : This defeats the purpose of meditation , a primary benefit of which is that , when you return to your phones , you have many more notifications .
Drunk : Meditating is more about appreciating how boring it is not to be drunk .
With the TV news on , warning you to evacuate your region : Who still has a TV ?
As you pack your things and rush to your car : You don ’ t have space for your meditation cushion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doesn ’ t count as meditating if your body isn ’ t still .
Besides , that ’ s not what earthquakes are for .
Earthquakes are for texting your crush if he ’ s O.K .
While flames burn around you on all sides : Our bodies are more alert when it ’ s cold , so don ’ t even try .
During the apocalypse : Actually , if your phone ’ s already stopped working , you don ’ t really need to meditate .
“ Turns out it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Hell around you , that took you out of the moment.
” In your brother ’ s bunker that you mercilessly mocked him for investing in : If you ’ re in a bunker , you ’ re already enough of a dweeb .
Don ’ t make it worse by meditating .
On the pot you now pee into : Studies show that meditating on the toilet often leads us to forget to flush .
You can ’ t flush a pot , but it seems like a relevant fact anyway @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re the last person on Earth : There ’ s actually no point in meditating now , because you don ’ t have anyone to brag about it to .

On 2x speed: The point is to go slow. 1.5x speed at max.
In an Uber: You’re just trying to avoid conversation. Which is honestly valid, but is not meditation. Meditation is about connecting and speaking a lot.
In yoga class: They let you pretend you’re meditating, but you’re obviously just taking a break from exercise.
During naps: This is just sleeping.
In a meditation group: This is for meeting eligible men only. You have to stay focussed on the goal—that’s what mindfulness is all about.
While checking your Twitter notifications: This defeats the purpose of meditation, a primary benefit of which is that, when you return to your phones, you have many more notifications.
Drunk: Meditating is more about appreciating how boring it is not to be drunk.
With the TV news on, warning you to evacuate your region: Who still has a TV?
As you pack your things and rush to your car: You don’t have space for your meditation cushion anyway.
In an earthquake: It doesn’t count as meditating if your body isn’t still. Besides, that’s not what earthquakes are for. Earthquakes are for texting your crush if he’s O.K.
While flames burn around you on all sides: Our bodies are more alert when it’s cold, so don’t even try.
During the apocalypse: Actually, if your phone’s already stopped working, you don’t really need to meditate. “Turns out it was your phone, not the raging fires of Hell around you, that took you out of the moment.”
In your brother’s bunker that you mercilessly mocked him for investing in: If you’re in a bunker, you’re already enough of a dweeb. Don’t make it worse by meditating.
On the pot you now pee into: Studies show that meditating on the toilet often leads us to forget to flush. You can’t flush a pot, but it seems like a relevant fact anyway.
After you discover that you’re the last person on Earth: There’s actually no point in meditating now, because you don’t have anyone to brag about it to.


Socially Social-Distanced

I ’ m so glad you reached out !
These are crazy times .
I wish I could chat , but I ’ m currently learning how to make sourdough bread and my hands are covered in flour .
Let ’ s find a time to catch up properly !
Hmm .
.
.
I can ’ t do Wednesday .
Wednesday morning I take an online yoga class .
And then I have a Skype session with my therapist—I need Jill now more than ever !
I could probably do something Friday night ?
I have a happy-hour Google @ @ @ @ @ @ @ P.M .
But that won ’ t last too long , because even before the distancing we ’ d grown apart .
And then I ’ m around until 10 P.M. , when I ’ m having a movie night with my single girlfriends .
( We ’ re synchronize-watching  “ Toy Story 4 , ”  so that we don ’ t have to cry alone . )
Oh , you have something Friday at 8 P.M. ?
You have to work your DoorDash shift ?
I forgot you were still @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ve noticed that social distancing has actually been very healing for me .
It ’ s really forced me to slow down and focus on what ’ s important .
Like live-streaming my sourdough starter .
Hmm .
.
.
Saturday is bad , because I ’ m doing a daylong silent retreat in my hall closet .
Sunday morning I have a FaceTime sesh with my tennis coach .
( Kevin says , “ If I can see your serve , I can coach your serve.
” ) Can ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I ’ m homebound for the foreseeable future/best years of my life !
So that won ’ t work .
Then I ’ m having a virtual lunch with Ed from Bumble .
We ’ re both having bean soup , because we both stocked up on beans !
Sadly , I can ’ t do Sunday night , either , because I ’ m doing masks with my old dog-walker .
( Kiehl ’ s , not N95s—we ’ re not monsters ! )
You know what ?
I could do Monday @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have my Zoom Zumba class , but I could skip it .
No , you ’ re right .
Maintaining physical activity is really important .
I ’ d better not skip .
Afternoon ?
Sorry , but at 3 P.M. every weekday I do my volunteer work , playing Twitch with underprivileged youth .
Thursday is no good .
I have to be on Slack with all my co-workers .
Because , even though our company has gone under , we still won ’ t skip our spicy Slack seshes .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nights I like to unplug and meet with my meditation group on Marco Polo .
Well , what ’ s your week of the 20th like ?
I could cancel my GoToMeeting with my accountant on the 21st at 11 A.M. , and my damage-control emergency session with Jill at noon .
That would give us a two-hour block , and I could update you on all my news .
Honestly , for someone who hasn ’ t left her apartment in fourteen days , I have a lot of news .
Maybe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I gave myself a bob .
A bob !
And I have a square jaw !
But desperate times .
.
.
Damn .
You can ’ t do the 21st ?
Your power is getting shut off on the 20th ?
Bummer !
Wait , are you going to Brian ’ s birthday ?
( I know I only took one improv class with him six years ago , but he still invited me ! )
Maybe I ’ ll see you there , and by “ there ” I mean on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : I need to figure out which loungewear I ’ m wearing to not go to that .
Should we just talk right now ?
( When I say “ talk ” I mean with video .
We ’ re already talking with audio but , as everyone knows , that doesn ’ t count . )
I put my bread in the oven and I ’ m free for the next seven minutes , but then I ’ m playing online poker with my parents and my childhood priest .
Well , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ find a time in the next eighteen months !
You know , when this is all over , I hope I can take something positive away from the whole experience .
I want to remember this time of quiet reflection when life gets all hectic again .
Oh , I forgot : your kids are home with you , so you ’ re literally never free .
Maybe you should talk to Jill .
She ’ s really good .

I’m so glad you reached out! These are crazy times. I wish I could chat, but I’m currently learning how to make sourdough bread and my hands are covered in flour. Let’s find a time to catch up properly!
Hmm . . . I can’t do Wednesday. Wednesday morning I take an online yoga class. And then I have a Skype session with my therapist—I need Jill now more than ever!
But we’ll find a time.
I could probably do something Friday night? I have a happy-hour Google hang with some college friends at 7 P.M. But that won’t last too long, because even before the distancing we’d grown apart. And then I’m around until 10 P.M., when I’m having a movie night with my single girlfriends. (We’re synchronize-watching “Toy Story 4,” so that we don’t have to cry alone.)
Oh, you have something Friday at 8 P.M.? You have to work your DoorDash shift? I forgot you were still doing that.
You know, I’ve noticed that social distancing has actually been very healing for me. It’s really forced me to slow down and focus on what’s important. Like live-streaming my sourdough starter.
Hmm . . . Saturday is bad, because I’m doing a daylong silent retreat in my hall closet. Sunday morning I have a FaceTime sesh with my tennis coach. (Kevin says, “If I can see your serve, I can coach your serve.”) Can’t let my game get sloppy just because I’m homebound for the foreseeable future/best years of my life! So that won’t work. Then I’m having a virtual lunch with Ed from Bumble. We’re both having bean soup, because we both stocked up on beans!
Sadly, I can’t do Sunday night, either, because I’m doing masks with my old dog-walker. (Kiehl’s, not N95s—we’re not monsters!)
You know what? I could do Monday. Monday I’m supposed to have my Zoom Zumba class, but I could skip it.
No, you’re right. Maintaining physical activity is really important. I’d better not skip. Afternoon? Sorry, but at 3 P.M. every weekday I do my volunteer work, playing Twitch with underprivileged youth.
Thursday is no good. I have to be on Slack with all my co-workers. Because, even though our company has gone under, we still won’t skip our spicy Slack seshes.
The 14th? Ugh, no. Tuesday nights I like to unplug and meet with my meditation group on Marco Polo.
Well, what’s your week of the 20th like?
I could cancel my GoToMeeting with my accountant on the 21st at 11 A.M., and my damage-control emergency session with Jill at noon. That would give us a two-hour block, and I could update you on all my news. Honestly, for someone who hasn’t left her apartment in fourteen days, I have a lot of news. Maybe you saw on my Insta, but I gave myself a bob. A bob! And I have a square jaw! But desperate times . . .
Damn. You can’t do the 21st? Your power is getting shut off on the 20th? Bummer!
Wait, are you going to Brian’s birthday? (I know I only took one improv class with him six years ago, but he still invited me!) Maybe I’ll see you there, and by “there” I mean on the group chat. Which reminds me: I need to figure out which loungewear I’m wearing to not go to that.
Should we just talk right now? (When I say “talk” I mean with video. We’re already talking with audio but, as everyone knows, that doesn’t count.) I put my bread in the oven and I’m free for the next seven minutes, but then I’m playing online poker with my parents and my childhood priest.
Well, I’m sure we’ll find a time in the next eighteen months!
You know, when this is all over, I hope I can take something positive away from the whole experience. I want to remember this time of quiet reflection when life gets all hectic again.
Oh, I forgot: your kids are home with you, so you’re literally never free. Maybe you should talk to Jill. She’s really good.


newyorker--2020-04-02--A Boston Hospital Nears Its Limits

A Boston Hospital Nears Its Limits

As the coronavirus spreads in all fifty states , it ’ s becoming clear that not all places are experiencing the pandemic the same way .
Dense urban areas , such as New York and New Orleans , have been hit hardest ; less dense cities , like Seattle , and cities that enforced social distancing earlier , like San Francisco , have seen their numbers rise more gradually .
Demographics may play a role : the prevalence of diabetes in New Orleans is more than double that in King County , Washington , where Seattle is situated .
Other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more dangerous , such as high blood pressure , are also unevenly distributed .
We don ’ t yet know what will happen in Boston , where I live .
At the beginning of last week , I reported to work at my hospital ’ s E.R .
expecting the worst ; sure enough , we were inundated with sick patients by noon .
Some were brought in by the usual car accidents and heart attacks , but many others , judging by their symptoms and X-rays , seemed to have COVID-19 .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the floodgates had opened .
But then , on Tuesday , the emergency department slowed .
Although there were spikes in COVID admissions throughout the week , the momentum never held .
We started wondering whether social distancing might have slowed the spread of the virus .
For now , Boston remains one of the cities that hasn ’ t yet seen an overwhelming surge in COVID cases .
That ’ s not to say that the caseload isn ’ t increasing .
The number of deaths from COVID-19 in Massachusetts has doubled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 21st .
When incoming ambulance crews call in on the radio , their reports are always the same : “ Fever , cough , difficulty breathing .
Requesting isolation precautions.
” So far , we ’ ve been able to handle the volume of COVID patients ; everyone who has needed a ventilator and an I.C.U .
bed has gotten one .
But the hospital is steadily filling up .
The patients we already have don ’ t seem to be getting better quickly enough to free beds and ventilators for the new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what we typically see , and its severity has unsettled even our most experienced doctors .
One man arrived and had to be intubated immediately ; his blood-oxygen level , thirty-eight per cent , was the lowest any of us had ever seen .
( Greater than ninety-five per cent is normal ; eighty per cent is alarming . )
We have seen other patients with levels in the sixties or seventies .
Another patient ’ s levels plummeted to below twenty per cent in the few seconds it took us to connect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ago , one of our physicians started wearing a new fitness tracker that purports to measure stress levels ; when it recognizes high stress , it vibrates and displays messages , like “ Relax ” and “ Take a break.
” During a recent shift , it buzzed almost continuously .
Our supply of personal protective equipment , or P.P.E.
, appears to be holding .
Judicious rationing is helping our stockpiles last longer , and the hospital is investigating whether radiation or ultraviolet light could be used to sterilize N95 respirators and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ used .
I ’ ve been disinfecting my plastic face shield by cleaning it with bleach wipes .
The ambulance crews seem to be in worse shape .
I ’ ve seen medics wearing non-medical respirators , probably purchased at Home Depot or donated ; others have no masks at all .
One crew transported a patient who was breathing with the help of a CPAP machine—a device often used by those with sleep apnea , which delivers breathing support through a tight-fitting mask .
Because air sometimes leaks around the mask , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ full of virus if the patient is infected .
The medics transporting him had no P.P.E .
“ We haven ’ t received any instructions or guidance from our bosses , ” they told me .
Another medic I know said that transporting a COVID patient was “ so much worse than a bad trauma , ” during which blood can splatter all over the back of an ambulance .
“ With a trauma , at least you can see where the blood is , ” he said .
“ With the virus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at all.
” The virus has changed how we think , feel , and interact .
My colleagues and I all seem to be paying more attention to our own bodies .
We wonder if our headaches are a symptom of COVID or just allergies , or if we ’ re starting to develop sore throats .
Recently , I noticed that I now grip door handles with just two or three fingers .
With everyone wearing masks , it ’ s become more difficult to pick up on emotions and moods .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for the first time , the eye colors of people with whom I ’ ve worked for years .
I find it hard not to feel superstitious .
There ’ s a playground near my house , now closed with a padlock and chains .
The magnolias and forsythia planted there have taken advantage of the mild weather and are now sprouting buds .
The forsythia in particular have seemed portentous : their blazing yellow flowers are a symbol of spring ; in Chinese herbal medicine , they ’ re a tonic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cough .
Last week , it was snowing as I left the hospital .
I caught myself worrying about the forsythia , and wondering what lies ahead .
In the last few days , palliative-care doctors , who specialize in well-being and decision-making at the end of a patient ’ s life , have started joining us in the E.R .
Before the sickest patients are intubated , the specialists , wearing full P.P.E.
, enter their rooms to discuss the options .
Because it can take more than a day for results @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patients may find themselves contemplating intubation without knowing for sure that they have the coronavirus .
If they have it , the prognosis can be grim ; if they turn out to be suffering from some non-COVID disease—ordinary pneumonia , or heart failure—they may be more likely to recover .
Some patients choose not to be intubated .
Others decide that they want to move forward , but determine in advance that , if their COVID tests come back positive , they will undergo a terminal extubation in the I.C.U .
Some conclude @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rather free up the ventilator for other , younger patients—a form of self-triage .
If our patient load increases , we may not be able to leave these decisions entirely to patients and their families .
Earlier this month , on Twitter , an Italian physician reported that at his overwhelmed hospital patients older than sixty-five or with serious medical problems were no longer being considered for I.C.U .
beds or ventilators .
A document published recently by the Italian College of Anesthesia , Analgesia , Resuscitation , and Intensive Care notes that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a way to provide extremely scarce resources to those who have the highest likelihood of survival.
” Reports out of New York suggest that hospitals there are dangerously close to this scenario already .
At Columbia University ’ s Irving Medical Center , operating rooms that have been converted into I.C.U.s are already filling up with intubated patients—including the first pair to share a single ventilator .
A friend of mine in New York told me that one of her co-workers intubated seventeen people in a single overnight shift ; arriving at one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that the patient was one of her colleagues .

As the coronavirus spreads in all fifty states, it’s becoming clear that not all places are experiencing the pandemic the same way. Dense urban areas, such as New York and New Orleans, have been hit hardest; less dense cities, like Seattle, and cities that enforced social distancing earlier, like San Francisco, have seen their numbers rise more gradually. Demographics may play a role: the prevalence of diabetes in New Orleans is more than double that in King County, Washington, where Seattle is situated. Other chronic problems that seem to make COVID-19 more dangerous, such as high blood pressure, are also unevenly distributed.
We don’t yet know what will happen in Boston, where I live. At the beginning of last week, I reported to work at my hospital’s E.R. expecting the worst; sure enough, we were inundated with sick patients by noon. Some were brought in by the usual car accidents and heart attacks, but many others, judging by their symptoms and X-rays, seemed to have COVID-19. After my shift ended, I thought the floodgates had opened. But then, on Tuesday, the emergency department slowed. Although there were spikes in COVID admissions throughout the week, the momentum never held. We started wondering whether social distancing might have slowed the spread of the virus. For now, Boston remains one of the cities that hasn’t yet seen an overwhelming surge in COVID cases.
That’s not to say that the caseload isn’t increasing. The number of deaths from COVID-19 in Massachusetts has doubled every two or three days since March 21st. When incoming ambulance crews call in on the radio, their reports are always the same: “Fever, cough, difficulty breathing. Requesting isolation precautions.” So far, we’ve been able to handle the volume of COVID patients; everyone who has needed a ventilator and an I.C.U. bed has gotten one. But the hospital is steadily filling up. The patients we already have don’t seem to be getting better quickly enough to free beds and ventilators for the new arrivals.
This disease is different from what we typically see, and its severity has unsettled even our most experienced doctors. One man arrived and had to be intubated immediately; his blood-oxygen level, thirty-eight per cent, was the lowest any of us had ever seen. (Greater than ninety-five per cent is normal; eighty per cent is alarming.) We have seen other patients with levels in the sixties or seventies. Another patient’s levels plummeted to below twenty per cent in the few seconds it took us to connect him to a ventilator. Not long ago, one of our physicians started wearing a new fitness tracker that purports to measure stress levels; when it recognizes high stress, it vibrates and displays messages, like “Relax” and “Take a break.” During a recent shift, it buzzed almost continuously.
Our supply of personal protective equipment, or P.P.E., appears to be holding. Judicious rationing is helping our stockpiles last longer, and the hospital is investigating whether radiation or ultraviolet light could be used to sterilize N95 respirators and other equipment after it’s been used. I’ve been disinfecting my plastic face shield by cleaning it with bleach wipes. The ambulance crews seem to be in worse shape. I’ve seen medics wearing non-medical respirators, probably purchased at Home Depot or donated; others have no masks at all. One crew transported a patient who was breathing with the help of a CPAP machine—a device often used by those with sleep apnea, which delivers breathing support through a tight-fitting mask. Because air sometimes leaks around the mask, the machine can become a leaf blower full of virus if the patient is infected. The medics transporting him had no P.P.E. “We haven’t received any instructions or guidance from our bosses,” they told me. Another medic I know said that transporting a COVID patient was “so much worse than a bad trauma,” during which blood can splatter all over the back of an ambulance. “With a trauma, at least you can see where the blood is,” he said. “With the virus, you can’t see it at all.”
The virus has changed how we think, feel, and interact. My colleagues and I all seem to be paying more attention to our own bodies. We wonder if our headaches are a symptom of COVID or just allergies, or if we’re starting to develop sore throats. Recently, I noticed that I now grip door handles with just two or three fingers. With everyone wearing masks, it’s become more difficult to pick up on emotions and moods. As compensation, I’ve registered, for the first time, the eye colors of people with whom I’ve worked for years.
I find it hard not to feel superstitious. There’s a playground near my house, now closed with a padlock and chains. The magnolias and forsythia planted there have taken advantage of the mild weather and are now sprouting buds. The forsythia in particular have seemed portentous: their blazing yellow flowers are a symbol of spring; in Chinese herbal medicine, they’re a tonic for fever, sore throat, and cough. Last week, it was snowing as I left the hospital. I caught myself worrying about the forsythia, and wondering what lies ahead.
In the last few days, palliative-care doctors, who specialize in well-being and decision-making at the end of a patient’s life, have started joining us in the E.R. Before the sickest patients are intubated, the specialists, wearing full P.P.E., enter their rooms to discuss the options. Because it can take more than a day for results from a COVID test to arrive, patients may find themselves contemplating intubation without knowing for sure that they have the coronavirus. If they have it, the prognosis can be grim; if they turn out to be suffering from some non-COVID disease—ordinary pneumonia, or heart failure—they may be more likely to recover. Some patients choose not to be intubated. Others decide that they want to move forward, but determine in advance that, if their COVID tests come back positive, they will undergo a terminal extubation in the I.C.U. Some conclude, courageously, that they’d rather free up the ventilator for other, younger patients—a form of self-triage.
If our patient load increases, we may not be able to leave these decisions entirely to patients and their families. Earlier this month, on Twitter, an Italian physician reported that at his overwhelmed hospital patients older than sixty-five or with serious medical problems were no longer being considered for I.C.U. beds or ventilators. A document published recently by the Italian College of Anesthesia, Analgesia, Resuscitation, and Intensive Care notes that age limits may become necessary “as a way to provide extremely scarce resources to those who have the highest likelihood of survival.” Reports out of New York suggest that hospitals there are dangerously close to this scenario already. At Columbia University’s Irving Medical Center, operating rooms that have been converted into I.C.U.s are already filling up with intubated patients—including the first pair to share a single ventilator. A friend of mine in New York told me that one of her co-workers intubated seventeen people in a single overnight shift; arriving at one bedside, she was aghast to find that the patient was one of her colleagues.
Elmhurst Hospital, in Queens, has nearly run out of ventilators; three emergency shipments were required just last week. My friend who works there told me that the emergency room was pure bedlam. “It’s a different approach to medicine,” he texted. “Pure damage control.” (The governor’s office has “moved mountains” to orchestrate relief, he said, but the absence of centralized federal leadership has been a grave handicap.) All of the I.C.U. beds at Elmhurst are now full of intubated COVID patients; as a result, the hospital has begun placing patients in an intermediate-care ward called the step-down unit, where there are no I.C.U. doctors. I.C.U. specialists themselves are becoming a scarce resource: earlier this week, Weill Cornell sent an e-mail asking critical-care physicians from around the country to come to New York to help, all expenses paid. (“Governor Cuomo can approve all credentialing and licensing same day,” the e-mail noted.)
Hearing these stories, I began to wonder how my hospital in Boston might address a situation in which we have more patients than ventilators. Would the approach be first come, first served? Would we prioritize the sickest, as E.R.s often do? (A patient with a twisted ankle waits longer than a patient with a heart attack.) Or would we adopt some more nuanced system? A first-come, first-served approach seems simple—but, in fact, it favors people who are closer to a hospital, who are able to travel more easily, and who don’t have competing needs, such as employment or child care. It may also create perverse outcomes. If older coronavirus patients with chronic medical problems get sicker more quickly while younger ones manage to stave off hospitalization longer, then the older patients will receive ventilator support first, and there may be no more ventilators left when the younger patients arrive. Older patients are also likely to take longer to recover, occupying ventilators longer and compounding the problem.
Most bioethicists try to take a utilitarian approach, seeking to create the greatest good for the greatest number of people. All things being equal, Ezekiel Emanuel, a physician and bioethicist at the University of Pennsylvania, has written, “we should always save five lives rather than one. However, other things are rarely equal.” Some lives have been shorter than others, and some can be prolonged more. The age-cutoff approach adopted by Italian hospitals prioritizes patients who are likely to live longer if they survive; in bioethical parlance, it maximizes “life-years,” rather than just lives. Other bioethicists have argued that a sound approach could prioritize frontline health-care workers, since they are, in turn, helping to save lives.
Reading about these complexities and discussing them with other doctors, I thought of the toll that such decision-making could take on frontline providers like me. “It’s going to put doctors and nurses in a terrible, terrible situation,” Kenneth Prager, a physician and bioethicist at Columbia, said. And yet careful thinking is necessary: “We want to save as many lives as possible,” he said, and “how you do that is in the details.” In his view, decisions might best be made by a third party—a team of doctors “that knows nothing about the patient other than their age, sex, and medical details.” Such a system might ease the burden for clinicians at the bedside.
Patients are scared, too, of course. I’m seeing far more fear in their faces than I’m used to—especially those who are elderly, or have many comorbidities. They know that the hospital has become a dangerous place for them, even if there’s nowhere else to go. For now, we have the time to talk with them, acknowledging their fears and offering some reassurance. As the number of patients surges, time at the bedside will become another scarce resource. I sometimes find myself addressing, in my mind, those future patients: Please know that you are still safe in our hands and we will care for you to the best of our abilities, even if we have just a few moments to spend with you before moving on.
On Friday, in Rome, Pope Francis conducted a remarkable prayer service as rain fell on an empty St. Peter’s Square. He had noticed everywhere the fear that I had seen in our patients. “For weeks now it has been evening,” he said. “Thick darkness has gathered over our squares, our streets, and our cities. It has taken over our lives. . . . We feel it in the air, we notice it in people’s gestures.” Now, he said, was the time to “reawaken and put into practice that solidarity and hope capable of giving strength and meaning to these hours, when everything seems to be floundering.”
In and out of the hospital, people seem to be seeking that strength and meaning. A friend of our family’s has begun retooling his company’s 3-D printers to produce masks; another friend is making face shields from scratch in her living room. My mother is donating blood and marshalling her friends to sew fabric masks. Boxes of N95 respirators are appearing on our hospital doorstep. I find myself thinking of the Pope’s speech. “Lord . . . give health to our bodies and comfort to our hearts,” he said, in prayer. “You ask us not to be afraid . . . . Tell us again—do not be afraid.”
More Medical Dispatches


newyorker--2020-04-02--Quarantine Culture Recommendations: “Better Call Saul,” “Designing Woman,” and Kenneth Branagh

I ’ ve had a bunch of misfires , self-soothing-wise , and a few successes .
I liked the novel “ Such a Fun Age , ” by Kiley Reid , which I picked up out of sheer ghoulishness , because of the title .
It ’ s about a twentysomething black woman who babysits for a white suburban family and gets detained at the grocery store when a security guard suspects her of kidnapping .
I was dismayed by the racism , and also by the grocery store .
( Social distancing ! )
I reread “ The Friend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it ’ s a known quantity and I wish I had a Great Dane to hang out with .
For a while I felt a strong , baffling desire to write fiction—terrifying words from a book critic—and then contented myself with a Google Doc titled “ The Yellow Wallpaper 2020 , ” which I used to compile cookie recipes .
( Only later did the origins of my itch become clear .
Novels allow you to control both facts and interpretations : when a character coughs in a Charles Dickens yarn , everyone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we quarantiners are awash in information—infection rates , empty streets—that could signify any number of things . )
For the moment , I ’ ve relaxed into not analyzing much .
My boyfriend and I are watching “ Better Call Saul , ” and we don ’ t even care that the show seems like less than the sum of its parts ; there are so many intricate and wonderful parts !
Anyway , scouring surfaces for invisible metaphors just reminds us of the germophobic freakout we ’ re forever about to have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Poets.org looking for a poem that I vaguely remembered as evocative of contagion .
It was “ Visits to St. Elizabeths , ” by Elizabeth Bishop , and it begins , “ This is the house of Bedlam.
” The next stanza is two lines : “ This is the man / that lies in the house of Bedlam.
” Each stanza adds a line , and , with it , a point of contact , a vector .
“ This is the roadstead all of board / reached by the sailor / @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time / of the old , brave man / that lies in the house of Bedlam.
” The poem constitutes itself like a zombie coming to life : eerie , macabre , inevitable .
I have no idea what it means .
—Katy Waldman My movie watching in stay-at-home mode has been varied , but I ’ ve been leaning toward films that are warm-hearted and light-toned without being frivolous , such as Vincente Minnelli ’ s imaginative romantic comedy “ Designing Woman , ” from 1957 .
Minnelli may be most celebrated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his melodramas and his comedies far greater .
In this one , he fuses his many modes and moods into a radiant romantic confection .
Lauren Bacall gives what is , to my mind , her most luminous and expansive performance , as a star fashion designer whose whirlwind relationship with a hard-nosed but tender-hearted sportswriter ( Gregory Peck ) leads to a quick marriage and difficult accommodations to each other ’ s way of life .
( I had forgotten a subplot involving a sort of self-quarantine , to avoid unhappy gangsters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the couple ’ s duelling voice-over accounts of the way things happened ; the effervescent score , by André Previn , seems to set their voices to lilting music as if in a virtual operetta .
The standout among a tangy array of supporting actors ( including Dolores Gray and Sam Levene ) is Jack Cole , one of Hollywood ’ s greatest choreographers , who , here , in his only major acting role , both does some spectacular dancing in surprising dramatic contexts and goes far to help Minnelli defy ambient @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the world at large .
—Richard Brody There ’ s some comfort in a touch of melancholy in melancholy times , like listening to a sad song after a breakup .
That ’ s the solace found in Steffen Schäffler ’ s stop-motion animated film “ The Periwig-Maker , ” from 1999 .
Though it ’ s set during the Great Plague of London , in 1665 , it eerily recalls our own era of quarantine .
“ I am still spared and very hearty and sound in health , but a bit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I have been for four weeks now , ” the protagonist , a London wig maker who has self-isolated , says .
He spends his days writing in his diary , intellectualizing the disease , while across the street a young girl succumbs to it .
The German short film , just fifteen minutes long and available on Kanopy and YouTube , was nominated for an Academy Award , and its wonderfully grim aesthetic emerges in an ominous score and a brooding , murky palette of a world colored by disease .
Our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ringed eyes , and recessed cheeks , is himself deathlike , though he avoids even the slightest contact with the sick .
Startled by the moments that close the distance between his removed contemplation of the disease and the human fact of it , he titters and frets , making the small , nervous gestures of a person ill at ease in the world he ’ s built for himself .
But the sweetest treats of the short are the moments when the speaker ’ s reflections , voiced with Shakespearean grace by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Poe .
At one point , the wig maker describes a theory that the breath of the ill , when examined in a looking glass , might reveal a tableau of nightmare creatures : “ dragons , snakes , serpents … and devils horrible to behold , ” he says , as the sick girl plays outside his window .
Though it has the trappings of horror , “ The Periwig-Maker ” is finally about empathy , the idea that a society may , after paying the cost of a catastrophe , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As the transformed wig maker says at the film ’ s end , as the camera pans around a room now shot through with sunlight , “ So in the plague it came to such a violence that the people sat still looking at one another and seemed quite abandoned to despair .
But the near-view of death would soon reconcile men , one to another , so that another plague year would reconcile all differences , a close conversing with death would scum off the gall from our tempers , remove the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to see with different eyes than those with which we looked on things before.
” —Maya Phillips

New Yorker writers suggest what to read, watch, and listen to in a time of social distancing.
I’ve had a bunch of misfires, self-soothing-wise, and a few successes. I liked the novel “Such a Fun Age,” by Kiley Reid, which I picked up out of sheer ghoulishness, because of the title. It’s about a twentysomething black woman who babysits for a white suburban family and gets detained at the grocery store when a security guard suspects her of kidnapping. I was dismayed by the racism, and also by the grocery store. (Social distancing!) I reread “The Friend,” by Sigrid Nunez, because it’s a known quantity and I wish I had a Great Dane to hang out with. For a while I felt a strong, baffling desire to write fiction—terrifying words from a book critic—and then contented myself with a Google Doc titled “The Yellow Wallpaper 2020,” which I used to compile cookie recipes. (Only later did the origins of my itch become clear. Novels allow you to control both facts and interpretations: when a character coughs in a Charles Dickens yarn, everyone knows exactly what it means. Whereas we quarantiners are awash in information—infection rates, empty streets—that could signify any number of things.) For the moment, I’ve relaxed into not analyzing much. My boyfriend and I are watching “Better Call Saul,” and we don’t even care that the show seems like less than the sum of its parts; there are so many intricate and wonderful parts! Anyway, scouring surfaces for invisible metaphors just reminds us of the germophobic freakout we’re forever about to have. Last week, I rabbit-holed through Poets.org looking for a poem that I vaguely remembered as evocative of contagion. It was “Visits to St. Elizabeths,” by Elizabeth Bishop, and it begins, “This is the house of Bedlam.” The next stanza is two lines: “This is the man / that lies in the house of Bedlam.” Each stanza adds a line, and, with it, a point of contact, a vector. “This is the roadstead all of board / reached by the sailor / wearing the watch / that tells the time / of the old, brave man / that lies in the house of Bedlam.” The poem constitutes itself like a zombie coming to life: eerie, macabre, inevitable. I have no idea what it means.—Katy Waldman
My movie watching in stay-at-home mode has been varied, but I’ve been leaning toward films that are warm-hearted and light-toned without being frivolous, such as Vincente Minnelli’s imaginative romantic comedy “Designing Woman,” from 1957. Minnelli may be most celebrated for his musicals, but I find his melodramas and his comedies far greater. In this one, he fuses his many modes and moods into a radiant romantic confection. Lauren Bacall gives what is, to my mind, her most luminous and expansive performance, as a star fashion designer whose whirlwind relationship with a hard-nosed but tender-hearted sportswriter (Gregory Peck) leads to a quick marriage and difficult accommodations to each other’s way of life. (I had forgotten a subplot involving a sort of self-quarantine, to avoid unhappy gangsters.) The witty script glitters with the couple’s duelling voice-over accounts of the way things happened; the effervescent score, by André Previn, seems to set their voices to lilting music as if in a virtual operetta. The standout among a tangy array of supporting actors (including Dolores Gray and Sam Levene) is Jack Cole, one of Hollywood’s greatest choreographers, who, here, in his only major acting role, both does some spectacular dancing in surprising dramatic contexts and goes far to help Minnelli defy ambient stereotypes both within the movie and in the world at large.—Richard Brody
There’s some comfort in a touch of melancholy in melancholy times, like listening to a sad song after a breakup. That’s the solace found in Steffen Schäffler’s stop-motion animated film “The Periwig-Maker,” from 1999. Though it’s set during the Great Plague of London, in 1665, it eerily recalls our own era of quarantine. “I am still spared and very hearty and sound in health, but a bit impatient at being pent up indoors as I have been for four weeks now,” the protagonist, a London wig maker who has self-isolated, says. He spends his days writing in his diary, intellectualizing the disease, while across the street a young girl succumbs to it. The German short film, just fifteen minutes long and available on Kanopy and YouTube, was nominated for an Academy Award, and its wonderfully grim aesthetic emerges in an ominous score and a brooding, murky palette of a world colored by disease. Our protagonist, with his skeletal pallor, ringed eyes, and recessed cheeks, is himself deathlike, though he avoids even the slightest contact with the sick. Startled by the moments that close the distance between his removed contemplation of the disease and the human fact of it, he titters and frets, making the small, nervous gestures of a person ill at ease in the world he’s built for himself.
But the sweetest treats of the short are the moments when the speaker’s reflections, voiced with Shakespearean grace by Kenneth Branagh, recall the extravagant bleakness of Poe. At one point, the wig maker describes a theory that the breath of the ill, when examined in a looking glass, might reveal a tableau of nightmare creatures: “dragons, snakes, serpents . . . and devils horrible to behold,” he says, as the sick girl plays outside his window. Though it has the trappings of horror, “The Periwig-Maker” is finally about empathy, the idea that a society may, after paying the cost of a catastrophe, resolve itself to a brighter future. As the transformed wig maker says at the film’s end, as the camera pans around a room now shot through with sunlight, “So in the plague it came to such a violence that the people sat still looking at one another and seemed quite abandoned to despair. But the near-view of death would soon reconcile men, one to another, so that another plague year would reconcile all differences, a close conversing with death would scum off the gall from our tempers, remove the animosities among us, and bring us to see with different eyes than those with which we looked on things before.”—Maya Phillips
A Guide to the Coronavirus