newyorker--2020-11-29--Joni Mitchell’s Youthful Artistry

Joni Mitchell’s Youthful Artistry

In 1964 , a twenty-year-old Canadian singer named Joan Anderson began composing her own folk songs .
They were good folk songs , sturdily constructed and memorable , but the genre corseted her .
She would need to roam the mountains and plains of rock and jazz in order to claim her gift .
Folk was not enough—but it was what was available to her as a young woman from Saskatoon , Saskatchewan , in the early nineteen-sixties , a woman in possession of an ethereal soprano and a four-string baritone ukulele , the instrument she could afford to buy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a guitar .
At nineteen , she left home for art school in Alberta—painting was her first creative outlet—and then began touring , playing in coffeehouses or church basements in Toronto and Calgary and Detroit .
For her mother Myrtle ’ s birthday in 1965 , Joan made her a tape with three of the songs she had written , “ Urge for Going , ” “ Born to Take the Highway , ” and “ Here Today and Gone Tomorrow.
” In the folk tradition , they celebrate footloose rambling .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ impersonal : Seven years later , as Joni Mitchell , she would record a song called “ Let the Wind Carry Me , ” in which she transposed the abstract , youthful restlessness of those first songs into the intimate personal idiom in which she was by then writing .
“ Joni Mitchell Archives—Vol .
1 : The Early Years ( 1963-1967 ) , ” a five-CD set just released by Rhino Records , is a document of this metamorphosis .
To listen to it is to hear Joan Anderson , the winsome @ @ @ @ @ @ @ herself into Joni Mitchell , the magisterial singer-songwriter .
The earliest recording , from 1963 , has her performing traditional folk songs— “ House of the Rising Sun , ” “ John Hardy , ” “ Molly Malone ” —accompanying herself on the ukulele , at a radio station in Saskatoon .
The last is from a live set in October , 1967 , at the Canterbury House , in Ann Arbor , Michigan , in which she plays the guitar , performing , among other songs from her early albums , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Collins recorded first and would turn into a hit , and “ Little Green , ” her wistful composition about the baby she had given up for adoption two years earlier .
Unmoored , broke , she lived for a time in a Toronto attic where the previous tenants had burned the railings for firewood ; yet her lodestar was the big , strange , unwieldy talent she was discovering she had .
It would be , as she later sang , the key to set her free .
Joan was born the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a housewife dedicated to keeping up appearances and chiding her daughter for failing to .
Her mother “ wanted me to be Doris Day or something like that , ” Mitchell recalled years later .
The young Joan—with her gift for painting , her passion for dancing , her bristling impatience with school rules , and her wanderlust—was more like a changeling .
When she was ten , and living in a small town called North Battleford , she came down with polio and was hospitalized for several months , nearly a hundred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in keeping with medical practice at the time , her mother visited only once and her father not at all .
The experience seems to have enhanced in her a bemused sense of autonomy—especially when she defied the predictions of her doctors and , through sheer force of will , trained her body to dance again .
“ Let the Wind Carry Me ” embraces the ceaseless yearning and the allusions to the natural world of her early folk songs , but it twines them with emotional directness , cinematic specificity , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hallmarks of her mature songwriting : The song goes on to explore the puzzle of ambivalence that Mitchell returned to again and again : the longing , in fervent , equal measure , for independence and for love : The new collection came about by something of a serendipitous accident .
The overnight d.j .
on that Saskatoon station , Barry Bowman , misplaced the tapes for more than fifty years .
Then one day , a few years ago , his daughter found a box of old cassettes in her mother ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them were two marked “ Joni Anderson Audition.
” The quality of the recordings , like Mitchell ’ s voice on them , is disarmingly clear and pure .
Mitchell had never been particularly keen to revisit the recordings and performances she ’ d made before her first album , “ Song to a Seagull , ” in 1968 .
She ’ d bristled at the label folksinger , and said she found her early songs melodic but “ ingénue-y.
” But Patrick Milligan , the A .
& R. director at Rhino @ @ @ @ @ @ @ set with Mitchell , said that there was something about the rediscovery of the 1963 tapes that seemed to change her mind—especially when it became clear that Bowman “ just wanted her to have them , rather than trying to get rich off of it .
That really impressed her .
She liked the tapes—she said , ‘ I want this to be my next album.
’ I think it really opened her mind to the whole idea.
” Mitchell also had some of her own early demos—and that birthday tape for her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ radio broadcasts were added to the mix .
Alas , there seems to be no tracking down one tape that Mitchell mentions in an interview with the music writer Cameron Crowe that accompanies the rereleases .
In 1968 , when she was playing at a coffeehouse in Ottawa , Jimi Hendrix , who was performing at the big theatre in town , came to see her , and asked if she minded him taping her show .
Kneeling down , with headphones on , he recorded the entire set , manipulating the controls @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” as she says .
Unfortunately , the tape recorder and tapes were stolen a couple of days later .
Mitchell describes the folk scene she came up in as “ very cliquish and very exclusive and very unfriendly towards me , a newcomer , ” and herself in those years as consistently “ undervalued.
” At one of the first folk festivals she played , she once told an interviewer , she had “ a lot of trouble with the audience booing and hissing and saying , ‘ Take your clothes off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hear in these recordings that , at least some of the time , small , appreciative audiences listened quietly and applauded for her at length .
Alone on the stage with her guitar , she seems to be collaborating with the audience in lieu of a band , honing her craft in the relentless give-and-take of performing .
By 1967 , she was crisscrossing the eastern United States , booking her own gigs until she hired a manager , Elliot Roberts , who saw the potential of her music—not so much “ radio @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mitchell ’ s biographer , David Yaffe , but a sense of “ people being guided ” by her songs , using them “ for the soundtrack of their lives.
” Milligan told me that what struck him about the collected early recordings was that “ you can hear right off the bat how very accomplished she is musically—she ’ s just so in command , and there ’ s hardly an errant note .
Her ukulele playing and her phrasing , the intricacy and the detail are spot on .
We ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ art , but she ’ s an exceptionally talented musician.
” In the years that the CD set covers , you can sense Mitchell feeling into the corners of her talent , poking and stretching it .
Once she starts writing songs , they quickly become more sophisticated .
Crucially , she discovers and embraces her lower vocal range , a breakthrough that adds warmer and darker moods to her music .
In the live performances , she chats up the audience , while she takes her time turning the pegs on her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the affinity for open tunings that produced many of the unusual , emotionally charged chords in her songs .
When , in 1968 , Mitchell landed in Los Angeles , that style astonished the denizens of the flourishing Laurel Canyon scene , including the rock-star guys David Crosby , who produced her first album ; Eric Clapton , when he dropped in ; and Graham Nash , Mitchell ’ s live-in lover on Lookout Mountain Avenue .
When Mitchell played a song for musicians who didn ’ t know her yet , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watch their minds crumble out of their noses when they heard this girl , ” Crosby told David Yaffe .
“ Nobody knew about the open tunings , and up till then there were very few of us doing it.
” Fellow-musicians would pick up a guitar after she ’ d put it in a tuning , Mitchell told Crowe , and think , The Martians have been here !

In 1964, a twenty-year-old Canadian singer named Joan Anderson began composing her own folk songs. They were good folk songs, sturdily constructed and memorable, but the genre corseted her. She would need to roam the mountains and plains of rock and jazz in order to claim her gift. Folk was not enough—but it was what was available to her as a young woman from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, in the early nineteen-sixties, a woman in possession of an ethereal soprano and a four-string baritone ukulele, the instrument she could afford to buy on her own after her mother nixed a guitar. At nineteen, she left home for art school in Alberta—painting was her first creative outlet—and then began touring, playing in coffeehouses or church basements in Toronto and Calgary and Detroit. For her mother Myrtle’s birthday in 1965, Joan made her a tape with three of the songs she had written, “Urge for Going,” “Born to Take the Highway,” and “Here Today and Gone Tomorrow.” In the folk tradition, they celebrate footloose rambling. The lyrics are vivid and earnest, but impersonal:
I was born to take the highway
I was born to chase a dream
Any road at all is my way
Any place is where I’ve been
Anything is what I’ve seen
Seven years later, as Joni Mitchell, she would record a song called “Let the Wind Carry Me,” in which she transposed the abstract, youthful restlessness of those first songs into the intimate personal idiom in which she was by then writing. “Joni Mitchell Archives—Vol. 1: The Early Years (1963-1967),” a five-CD set just released by Rhino Records, is a document of this metamorphosis. To listen to it is to hear Joan Anderson, the winsome folksinger, beginning the work of transmuting herself into Joni Mitchell, the magisterial singer-songwriter. The earliest recording, from 1963, has her performing traditional folk songs—“House of the Rising Sun,” “John Hardy,” “Molly Malone”—accompanying herself on the ukulele, at a radio station in Saskatoon. The last is from a live set in October, 1967, at the Canterbury House, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in which she plays the guitar, performing, among other songs from her early albums, “Both Sides Now,” which Judy Collins recorded first and would turn into a hit, and “Little Green,” her wistful composition about the baby she had given up for adoption two years earlier. Unmoored, broke, she lived for a time in a Toronto attic where the previous tenants had burned the railings for firewood; yet her lodestar was the big, strange, unwieldy talent she was discovering she had. It would be, as she later sang, the key to set her free.
Joan was born the only child of a grocery-store manager and a housewife dedicated to keeping up appearances and chiding her daughter for failing to. Her mother “wanted me to be Doris Day or something like that,” Mitchell recalled years later. The young Joan—with her gift for painting, her passion for dancing, her bristling impatience with school rules, and her wanderlust—was more like a changeling. When she was ten, and living in a small town called North Battleford, she came down with polio and was hospitalized for several months, nearly a hundred miles from home, in Saskatoon; in keeping with medical practice at the time, her mother visited only once and her father not at all. The experience seems to have enhanced in her a bemused sense of autonomy—especially when she defied the predictions of her doctors and, through sheer force of will, trained her body to dance again. “Let the Wind Carry Me” embraces the ceaseless yearning and the allusions to the natural world of her early folk songs, but it twines them with emotional directness, cinematic specificity, and a keen ear for dialogue, the hallmarks of her mature songwriting:
She don’t like my kick-pleat skirt
She don’t like my eyelids painted green
She don’t like me staying up late
In my high-heeled shoes
Living for that rock-’n’-roll dancing scene
Papa says, “Leave the girl alone, Mother
She’s looking like a movie queen”
The song goes on to explore the puzzle of ambivalence that Mitchell returned to again and again: the longing, in fervent, equal measure, for independence and for love:
Sometimes I get that feeling
And I wanna settle
And raise a child up with somebody
I get that strong longing
And I wanna settle
And raise a child up with somebody
But it passes like the summer
I’m a wild seed again
Let the wind carry me
The new collection came about by something of a serendipitous accident. The overnight d.j. on that Saskatoon station, Barry Bowman, misplaced the tapes for more than fifty years. Then one day, a few years ago, his daughter found a box of old cassettes in her mother’s house and brought them to him—among them were two marked “Joni Anderson Audition.” The quality of the recordings, like Mitchell’s voice on them, is disarmingly clear and pure. Mitchell had never been particularly keen to revisit the recordings and performances she’d made before her first album, “Song to a Seagull,” in 1968. She’d bristled at the label folksinger, and said she found her early songs melodic but “ingénue-y.” But Patrick Milligan, the A. & R. director at Rhino Records, who co-produced the new CD set with Mitchell, said that there was something about the rediscovery of the 1963 tapes that seemed to change her mind—especially when it became clear that Bowman “just wanted her to have them, rather than trying to get rich off of it. That really impressed her. She liked the tapes—she said, ‘I want this to be my next album.’ I think it really opened her mind to the whole idea.”
Mitchell also had some of her own early demos—and that birthday tape for her mother—and tapes of Canadian television and U.S. radio broadcasts were added to the mix. Alas, there seems to be no tracking down one tape that Mitchell mentions in an interview with the music writer Cameron Crowe that accompanies the rereleases. In 1968, when she was playing at a coffeehouse in Ottawa, Jimi Hendrix, who was performing at the big theatre in town, came to see her, and asked if she minded him taping her show. Kneeling down, with headphones on, he recorded the entire set, manipulating the controls on the bulky machine—“engineering,” as she says. Unfortunately, the tape recorder and tapes were stolen a couple of days later.
Mitchell describes the folk scene she came up in as “very cliquish and very exclusive and very unfriendly towards me, a newcomer,” and herself in those years as consistently “undervalued.” At one of the first folk festivals she played, she once told an interviewer, she had “a lot of trouble with the audience booing and hissing and saying, ‘Take your clothes off, sweetheart.’ ” But you can hear in these recordings that, at least some of the time, small, appreciative audiences listened quietly and applauded for her at length. Alone on the stage with her guitar, she seems to be collaborating with the audience in lieu of a band, honing her craft in the relentless give-and-take of performing. By 1967, she was crisscrossing the eastern United States, booking her own gigs until she hired a manager, Elliot Roberts, who saw the potential of her music—not so much “radio play or hits,” he told Mitchell’s biographer, David Yaffe, but a sense of “people being guided” by her songs, using them “for the soundtrack of their lives.”
Milligan told me that what struck him about the collected early recordings was that “you can hear right off the bat how very accomplished she is musically—she’s just so in command, and there’s hardly an errant note. Her ukulele playing and her phrasing, the intricacy and the detail are spot on. We’re so focussed on her songwriting and art, but she’s an exceptionally talented musician.”
In the years that the CD set covers, you can sense Mitchell feeling into the corners of her talent, poking and stretching it. Once she starts writing songs, they quickly become more sophisticated. Crucially, she discovers and embraces her lower vocal range, a breakthrough that adds warmer and darker moods to her music. In the live performances, she chats up the audience, while she takes her time turning the pegs on her guitar in her own distinctive ways—the beginnings of the affinity for open tunings that produced many of the unusual, emotionally charged chords in her songs. When, in 1968, Mitchell landed in Los Angeles, that style astonished the denizens of the flourishing Laurel Canyon scene, including the rock-star guys David Crosby, who produced her first album; Eric Clapton, when he dropped in; and Graham Nash, Mitchell’s live-in lover on Lookout Mountain Avenue. When Mitchell played a song for musicians who didn’t know her yet, “it was just a delight to watch their minds crumble out of their noses when they heard this girl,” Crosby told David Yaffe. “Nobody knew about the open tunings, and up till then there were very few of us doing it.” Fellow-musicians would pick up a guitar after she’d put it in a tuning, Mitchell told Crowe, and think, The Martians have been here!


Raised by Wolves

In 2003 , a group of hunters discovered a young woman in Siberia who had apparently been raised by wolves .
Scientists were unable to explain the child ’ s origins , but an examination indicated that she was approximately eighteen years old and in surprisingly good health .
Researchers named her “ Lauren ” and worked to assimilate her into human society .
With effort , Lauren caught up to her peers , both socially and intellectually .
By the age of thirty-five , she had married an actuary named Gabe and given birth to a daughter .
Lauren @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her , except when they came over for Thanksgiving .
“ It ’ s the least I can do , ” Gabe said , in a chipper Boy Scout voice .
“ It ’ s so cool of them to come all the way out here !
” He dumped the carcass on the coffee table , shattering several bowls of nuts and olives .
Lauren sighed .
“ I just don ’ t understand why we always have to accommodate their needs.
” Gabe shot her a look .
“ Because they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guests.
” Lauren popped the Klonopin and washed it down with Pinot Grigio .
“ Look , I get it , ” Gabe said .
“ Parents are hard .
Mine drive me crazy , too .
I mean , my dad , with those puns ?
” “ I think my parents are worse , ” Lauren said .
“ I mean , growing up with them was a full-on nightmare.
” “ It was documented by scientists , ” she said , frustration creeping into her voice .
“ There have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ award-winning documentary.
” Gabe rubbed her shoulders in a way that managed to somehow make her feel even more tense .
“ I know your folks aren ’ t perfect , ” he said .
“ But they came all the way from Siberia .
They ’ ve been running and swimming for months , and they ’ ll be gone in half an hour .
The least we can do is be civil , right ?
” “ Great !
” he said , sealing the agreement with a condescending forehead kiss @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fun .
I mean , your dad ’ s stories are pretty epic.
” Lauren smiled tightly as Gabe set out the napkins and the tarps .
She ’ d told him all about her screwed-up childhood .
The barking , the growling , the total lack of structure and support .
Her parents had never been abusive , but it had still been a dysfunctional home .
Her therapist had confirmed it .
“ They did not see you , ” she ’ d said .
“ And you were not heard.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of her parents ’ transgressions , he ’ d never actually witnessed any .
They had mellowed considerably with age .
Her father had stopped howling at the moon following his stroke , and , after a few false starts , her mother had finally quit drinking .
Lauren knew that she should be grateful for their progress , but somehow it galled her .
By rehabilitating themselves , they had robbed her of an audience for her suffering .
It was one more deprivation , the latest in a chain stretching all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Two piercing howls sounded outside .
“ I think that might be them , ” Gabe said .
“ Do you want to let them in ?
” “ You can do it , ” she said .
Lauren refilled her wineglass while Gabe opened the window so that her parents could jump into the living room .
“ Sorry we ’ re late !
” her mother said .
“ You know your daddy—he didn ’ t want to ask for directions !
” “ Good thing I had my better half @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as her parents nuzzled .
When she was a kid , her father had cheated on her mother constantly , with her friends and neighbors and , once , with a log that had a hole in it .
And now everyone was supposed to pretend like their marriage was perfect ?
There was a two-second pause , and Gabe rushed to fill it .
“ Work ’ s better than fine , ” he said , smacking Lauren ’ s arm with an annoying amount of force .
“ Honey , tell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s not nothing , ” Gabe protested .
He turned to her parents and gestured at her like a game-show host : “ You are looking at Verizon ’ s newest regional marketing-communications manager !
” Lauren ’ s parents tackled her and licked her face .
“ We ’ re so proud of you !
” “ So what does this mean ?
” her father asked .
“ You get to hunt bigger animals ?
” “ I ’ m not a hunter , ” she said .
“ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Ah , gotcha , ” he said , lowering his eyes .
“ I ’ m sorry I got it wrong.
” “ You ’ re not wrong , ” Gabe told him , reassuringly .
“ She got a raise , which is sort of like the human equivalent of hunting bigger animals .
Right , honey ?
” “ I ’ m not surprised , ” her mother said .
“ We always used to say , ‘ There goes Lauren , our little genius !
’ ” “ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ saying that , ” she said .
“ My memory , in fact , is that you never named me.
” “ Would anybody like to eat this dead elk ’ s ass ?
” Gabe asked .
“ I ’ m not hungry , ” her father said .
“ O.K , I ’ m sorry , ” Lauren said , rolling her eyes .
“ I should have remembered the family rule : never say anything about anything uncomfortable , ever.
” Lauren ’ s father put his tail between his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a mistake , ” he murmured .
“ Maybe we should just leap out the window.
” Lauren shrugged .
“ Wouldn ’ t be the first time you left.
” “ Sweetheart , ” he said .
“ We went over this in therapy .
The reason I left the family had nothing to do with you .
It was a period in my life when I was confused .
I thought that log with a hole in it was your mother .
I literally thought the moss on it was her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for me .
I had rabies.
” “ I ’ m supposed to feel sorry for you now ?
” Lauren asked .
Despite the wine and Klonopin , her hands were shaking .
“ We ’ re not asking for sympathy , ” her mother said .
“ And , if there ’ s something you need to say to us , we ’ re here to listen .
Right , darling ?
” “ Yes , ” her father said .
“ We are prepared to honor your emotions.
” Lauren @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when they used therapy jargon .
“ Let ’ s start with my leaving , ” her father said .
“ Why did it upset you so much ?
” “ Oh , I don ’ t know , ” Lauren said , sarcastically .
“ Maybe because it happened on my fucking birthday ?
” Her parents eyed each other subtly .
“ Let me guess , ” Lauren said .
“ You don ’ t remember.
” “ So you ’ re saying that I made it up ?
” “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he said , raising a paw .
“ It totally could have happened the way you remember it .
I ’ m just saying that my memory is different.
” “ O.K.
, fine , ” she said .
“ What ’ s your memory of the day you left ?
” “ O.K.
, well—and , again , this could be inaccurate .
We ’ re talking about a long time ago , and my brain is the size of a pine cone , and I have no understanding of time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that day is : I was walking in the woods .
And then the big , yellow god that lives in the sky shined hot .
And then there was a smell , like , ‘ O.K .
time to go.
’ So I ran into the wet place that is cold .
And , again , that might not be a perfectly accurate description of what happened .
But that ’ s what I remember about that day.
” “ That ’ s what I remember , too , ” said her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ point doing this , ” Lauren said .
“ It just leads to frustration.
” “ We ’ re frustrated , too !
” her father said .
He sighed .
“ I ’ m sorry for growling .
I was flooded.
” “ Thank you , ” he said .
“ My point is , I know we weren ’ t great parents .
We were young , and we were wolves , and we didn ’ t always know what we were doing .
But every time we see you all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ over , and it ’ s not easy .
In order to do it , we both had to learn to talk English , and it hurts our throats and sounds insane .
Just hearing my voice right now , coming out of my snout—it ’ s incredibly unnatural and disturbing .
So if you want us to keep saying sorry in these weird , choking animal voices , we will .
Because we are sorry .
But , at a certain point , the ball is in your court .
”

In 2003, a group of hunters discovered a young woman in Siberia who had apparently been raised by wolves. Scientists were unable to explain the child’s origins, but an examination indicated that she was approximately eighteen years old and in surprisingly good health. Researchers named her “Lauren” and worked to assimilate her into human society. With effort, Lauren caught up to her peers, both socially and intellectually. By the age of thirty-five, she had married an actuary named Gabe and given birth to a daughter. Lauren never interacted with the wolves that raised her, except when they came over for Thanksgiving.
Lauren was considering whether or not to take a Klonopin when her husband shuffled in, straining under the weight of a dead elk. “You didn’t have to get that,” she said.
“It’s the least I can do,” Gabe said, in a chipper Boy Scout voice. “It’s so cool of them to come all the way out here!”
He dumped the carcass on the coffee table, shattering several bowls of nuts and olives. Lauren sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Gabe asked.
“I just don’t understand why we always have to accommodate their needs.”
Gabe shot her a look. “Because they’re your parents. And our guests.”
Lauren popped the Klonopin and washed it down with Pinot Grigio.
“Look, I get it,” Gabe said. “Parents are hard. Mine drive me crazy, too. I mean, my dad, with those puns?”
“I think my parents are worse,” Lauren said. “I mean, growing up with them was a full-on nightmare.”
“Maybe it’s worse in your memory?”
“It was documented by scientists,” she said, frustration creeping into her voice. “There have been books about it, and an award-winning documentary.”
Gabe rubbed her shoulders in a way that managed to somehow make her feel even more tense. “I know your folks aren’t perfect,” he said. “But they came all the way from Siberia. They’ve been running and swimming for months, and they’ll be gone in half an hour. The least we can do is be civil, right?”
“I guess,” she said.
“Great!” he said, sealing the agreement with a condescending forehead kiss. “Besides, it might be fun. I mean, your dad’s stories are pretty epic.”
Lauren smiled tightly as Gabe set out the napkins and the tarps. She’d told him all about her screwed-up childhood. The barking, the growling, the total lack of structure and support. Her parents had never been abusive, but it had still been a dysfunctional home. Her therapist had confirmed it.
“They did not see you,” she’d said. “And you were not heard.”
Still, though Gabe was aware of her parents’ transgressions, he’d never actually witnessed any. They had mellowed considerably with age. Her father had stopped howling at the moon following his stroke, and, after a few false starts, her mother had finally quit drinking. Lauren knew that she should be grateful for their progress, but somehow it galled her. By rehabilitating themselves, they had robbed her of an audience for her suffering. It was one more deprivation, the latest in a chain stretching all the way back to her childhood.
Two piercing howls sounded outside. “I think that might be them,” Gabe said. “Do you want to let them in?”
“You can do it,” she said.
Lauren refilled her wineglass while Gabe opened the window so that her parents could jump into the living room.
“Sorry we’re late!” her mother said. “You know your daddy—he didn’t want to ask for directions!”
“Good thing I had my better half!” he said.
Lauren cringed as her parents nuzzled. When she was a kid, her father had cheated on her mother constantly, with her friends and neighbors and, once, with a log that had a hole in it. And now everyone was supposed to pretend like their marriage was perfect?
“So, how’s everything?” her father asked. “How’s work?”
“It’s fine,” Lauren said.
There was a two-second pause, and Gabe rushed to fill it. “Work’s better than fine,” he said, smacking Lauren’s arm with an annoying amount of force. “Honey, tell them your news!”
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“It’s not nothing,” Gabe protested. He turned to her parents and gestured at her like a game-show host: “You are looking at Verizon’s newest regional marketing-communications manager!”
Lauren’s parents tackled her and licked her face. “We’re so proud of you!”
“So what does this mean?” her father asked. “You get to hunt bigger animals?”
“I’m not a hunter,” she said. “I work for Verizon. In telecommunications.”
“Ah, gotcha,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I’m sorry I got it wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” Gabe told him, reassuringly. “She got a raise, which is sort of like the human equivalent of hunting bigger animals. Right, honey?”
“I mean, I guess,” Lauren said.
“I’m not surprised,” her mother said. “We always used to say, ‘There goes Lauren, our little genius!’ ”
“Huh,” Lauren said.
Gabe shot her a warning look.
“What?” her mother asked.
“I just don’t remember you ever saying that,” she said. “My memory, in fact, is that you never named me.”
Her parents hung their heads.
“Would anybody like to eat this dead elk’s ass?” Gabe asked.
“I’m not hungry,” her father said.
“O.K, I’m sorry,” Lauren said, rolling her eyes. “I should have remembered the family rule: never say anything about anything uncomfortable, ever.”
Lauren’s father put his tail between his legs. “Maybe coming here was a mistake,” he murmured. “Maybe we should just leap out the window.”
Lauren shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time you left.”
“Sweetheart,” he said. “We went over this in therapy. The reason I left the family had nothing to do with you. It was a period in my life when I was confused. I thought that log with a hole in it was your mother. I literally thought the moss on it was her fur. It was a crazy time for me. I had rabies.”
“I’m supposed to feel sorry for you now?” Lauren asked. Despite the wine and Klonopin, her hands were shaking.


newyorker--2020-11-30--The Race to Make Vials for Coronavirus Vaccines

Corning ’ s manufacturing process , which Payne documents with an architect ’ s sensitivity to form , begins with cylindrical machines called converters .
They cut and shape tubes of Valor Glass into vials , which are then submerged in a molten-salt bath .
Potassium atoms in the hot mixture swap with smaller sodium atoms embedded in the surface of the glass , creating tension and therefore toughness .
( Corning first developed this process for Gorilla Glass , which is used in iPhones and other electronic devices ; a vial fortified in this way can withstand as much @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) Afterward , the glass is rinsed , and the exterior is given a polymer coating , so that bottles don ’ t grind against one another on a filling line , generating glass dust that can ruin doses .
All this work is being conducted under conditions of severe urgency .
Corning ’ s facility is running around the clock .
“ Glass is used to protect our most valuable liquids , ” Schaut said .
“ It has an aura of protection.
” By the end of the year , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ enough vials to deliver more than a hundred million doses of COVID-19 vaccines , but Corning ’ s production is merely one part of a larger effort .
SiO2 Materials Science , a company in Alabama , is manufacturing another alternative to borosilicate vials .
The makers of the standard product have been ramping up operations , too .
The demand calls for everything .
As the chief executive of AstraZeneca , one of the companies racing to produce a vaccine , warned , early in the pandemic , “ There ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ”

Corning’s manufacturing process, which Payne documents with an architect’s sensitivity to form, begins with cylindrical machines called converters. They cut and shape tubes of Valor Glass into vials, which are then submerged in a molten-salt bath. Potassium atoms in the hot mixture swap with smaller sodium atoms embedded in the surface of the glass, creating tension and therefore toughness. (Corning first developed this process for Gorilla Glass, which is used in iPhones and other electronic devices; a vial fortified in this way can withstand as much as a thousand pounds of force.) Afterward, the glass is rinsed, and the exterior is given a polymer coating, so that bottles don’t grind against one another on a filling line, generating glass dust that can ruin doses. All this work is being conducted under conditions of severe urgency. Corning’s facility is running around the clock. “Glass is used to protect our most valuable liquids,” Schaut said. “It has an aura of protection.”
By the end of the year, the machines in these images will have produced enough vials to deliver more than a hundred million doses of COVID-19 vaccines, but Corning’s production is merely one part of a larger effort. SiO2 Materials Science, a company in Alabama, is manufacturing another alternative to borosilicate vials. The makers of the standard product have been ramping up operations, too. The demand calls for everything. As the chief executive of AstraZeneca, one of the companies racing to produce a vaccine, warned, early in the pandemic, “There’s not enough vials in the world.”


newyorker--2020-11-30--COVID Goes to College

COVID Goes to College

For professors , particularly those in the social sciences , COVID-19 has provided a real-time trove of case studies on which to center syllabi .
Iverson began developing his course , The Economics of COVID-19 , in April .
He specializes in climate change , and as lockdowns were starting he began to draw connections between ecological disaster and global pandemic .
In the lecture , he told his students , “ If we think about COVID , we might want to add up the costs and benefits of social distancing.
” Iverson , who is forty-four , had a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Suppose the state of Colorado is going into lockdown for two weeks , ” he said , and explained how to conduct a cost-benefit analysis , weighing the advantages against the potential economic losses .
The critical factor in making such an assessment , he said , is determining the “ value of statistical life , ” a variable that calculates a fractional risk for an entire population .
“ If we have a million people and each person has a one-in-a-million chance of dying , that would count as one statistical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Does anybody have any idea what they think the value of a statistical life should be in the U.S. in 2020 ?
” Although participation , according to the class syllabus , accounts for ten per cent of a student ’ s grade , no one jumped to answer .
“ Make a guess , ” he prodded .
Iverson seemed taken aback .
“ Twenty-four thousand .
.
.
dollars ?
” he asked .
“ Uh , to put that in perspective , that ’ s about half the median income @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you think that a life is only worth six months of income ?
” “ If we looked just at people ’ s wages , what would be the right amount of wages ?
” he continued .
“ A year of wages , their whole lifetimes of wages ?
That ’ s an interesting question.
” He asked the students why focussing on wages might understate the value of a life .
“ Emotional impact , ” a student said .
Bingo .
Iverson said , “ That pain and trauma—the consequences @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have big impacts.
” Using Zoom ’ s chat feature , a student ventured , “ How much you are worth with your organs and such on the black market was what I thought of , ” she wrote .
“ 100,000.
” Another young woman chimed in : “ Could it also be a person ’ s wage or jobs ?
Like , a C.E.O .
of a company has a really high income , then a doctor has a lower one .
Then you ’ d say that the C.E.O .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ life ?
” “ Excellent question , ” Iverson said .
“ Should society view a richer person being worth more than a poorer person ?
” He guided the students back to looking for a figure more representative across a population .
“ Throw out a number that you think is too high , since we have a number that ’ s too low.
” “ I ’ d say half a million , or anything in that range , would be too high , ” a young man offered .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ someone ’ s life , how much would I spend just to save some random stranger ’ s life ?
” the student went on .
“ I wouldn ’ t spend that much , because that would possibly bankrupt me .
And I would also feel like , Why is this person special ?
Why not help save this other person ?
” “ What if that person was you , or someone you cared about ?
” Iverson asked .
The class began to feel more like philosophy than like economics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be an anonymous person , ” the student noted .
“ It would suck , but , at the same time , I can ’ t really help the fact that they don ’ t know me.
” Iverson was unpersuaded .
“ It ’ s more like , What should society at large be willing to spend to avoid loss of life in general ?
” He mentioned the way in which seat-belt laws constrain personal liberties but save thousands of lives .
In the chat , a student wrote that , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ people would cut them out of their car.
” Iverson ignored the comment and told the class that the government actually has a number .
“ The number tends to be a little higher when the President is a Democrat and a little lower when the President is a Republican , ” he said .
“ They tend to range from about five to ten million dollars .
So it ’ s quite a bit higher than what you guys have thrown out there.
” “ How ’ d they get to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ It ’ s actually quite an interesting puzzle , ” Iverson said .
But the class was over .
They ’ d have to wait till next time .
♦

During a recent Zoom lecture, Terry Iverson, an economist at Colorado State University, posed a question to the students in his introductory economics course. It was one that Americans have been mulling all year. “What’s the value of a life?” he asked. “And how do we compare lives saved with the value of lost economic activity?”
For professors, particularly those in the social sciences, COVID-19 has provided a real-time trove of case studies on which to center syllabi. Iverson began developing his course, The Economics of COVID-19, in April. He specializes in climate change, and as lockdowns were starting he began to draw connections between ecological disaster and global pandemic. In the lecture, he told his students, “If we think about COVID, we might want to add up the costs and benefits of social distancing.” Iverson, who is forty-four, had a salt-and-pepper beard and wore black-rimmed glasses. “Suppose the state of Colorado is going into lockdown for two weeks,” he said, and explained how to conduct a cost-benefit analysis, weighing the advantages against the potential economic losses.
The critical factor in making such an assessment, he said, is determining the “value of statistical life,” a variable that calculates a fractional risk for an entire population. “If we have a million people and each person has a one-in-a-million chance of dying, that would count as one statistical life.” He went on, “Does anybody have any idea what they think the value of a statistical life should be in the U.S. in 2020?” Although participation, according to the class syllabus, accounts for ten per cent of a student’s grade, no one jumped to answer. “Make a guess,” he prodded.
“Twenty-four thousand?” a young woman asked, haltingly.
Iverson seemed taken aback. “Twenty-four thousand . . . dollars?” he asked. “Uh, to put that in perspective, that’s about half the median income of a person in the U.S. Do you think that a life is only worth six months of income?”
The girl laughed nervously. “No.”
“If we looked just at people’s wages, what would be the right amount of wages?” he continued. “A year of wages, their whole lifetimes of wages? That’s an interesting question.” He asked the students why focussing on wages might understate the value of a life.
“Emotional impact,” a student said. Bingo. Iverson said, “That pain and trauma—the consequences kids have if they lose a parent—can have big impacts.”
Using Zoom’s chat feature, a student ventured, “How much you are worth with your organs and such on the black market was what I thought of,” she wrote. “100,000.”
Another young woman chimed in: “Could it also be a person’s wage or jobs? Like, a C.E.O. of a company has a really high income, then a doctor has a lower one. Then you’d say that the C.E.O. has, like, a more valuable life?”
“Excellent question,” Iverson said. “Should society view a richer person being worth more than a poorer person?” He guided the students back to looking for a figure more representative across a population. “Throw out a number that you think is too high, since we have a number that’s too low.”
“I’d say half a million, or anything in that range, would be too high,” a young man offered.
“Half a million feels too high?”
“Assuming I had the money to save someone’s life, how much would I spend just to save some random stranger’s life?” the student went on. “I wouldn’t spend that much, because that would possibly bankrupt me. And I would also feel like, Why is this person special? Why not help save this other person?”
“What if that person was you, or someone you cared about?” Iverson asked. The class began to feel more like philosophy than like economics.
“It’s supposed to be an anonymous person,” the student noted. “It would suck, but, at the same time, I can’t really help the fact that they don’t know me.”
Iverson was unpersuaded. “It’s more like, What should society at large be willing to spend to avoid loss of life in general?” He mentioned the way in which seat-belt laws constrain personal liberties but save thousands of lives. In the chat, a student wrote that, when seat-belt laws were first passed, “people would cut them out of their car.” Iverson ignored the comment and told the class that the government actually has a number. “The number tends to be a little higher when the President is a Democrat and a little lower when the President is a Republican,” he said. “They tend to range from about five to ten million dollars. So it’s quite a bit higher than what you guys have thrown out there.”
“How’d they get to that number?” someone asked.
“It’s actually quite an interesting puzzle,” Iverson said. But the class was over. They’d have to wait till next time. ♦


newyorker--2020-11-30--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Wintering , by Katherine May ( Riverhead ) .
This timely memoir details seven months that the author , suffering from a mysterious illness , spent sequestered at home .
For May , who saw life as “ linear , a long march from birth to death , ” the enforced hiatus comes to feel like nonexistence .
Yet it inspires unusual investigations—into hibernating animals , deciduous trees , the cultures of places with long winters , and the ritual pauses that once shaped human society .
May ’ s message isn ’ t about how to be cheery during @ @ @ @ @ @ @ embrace the “ negative presence ” of these moments , and to allow the rebirth they naturally engender .
“ We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us , ” she writes .
“ Given time , they grow again.
” We Keep the Dead Close , by Becky Cooper ( Grand Central ) .
The woman at the center of this biography-cum-detective story is Jane Britton , a doctoral student in archeology at Harvard who was brutally murdered in 1969. Cooper , a Harvard alumna , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ neighbor who found the body , a policeman , university museum staff—and charts how Britton ’ s story has metamorphosed , through successive generations of students , into a “ myth ” about the dangers that women in academia face .
While projecting her own life onto Britton ’ s , Cooper weighs the responsibility to accurately narrate the past : “ Is it ever justifiable , I wondered , to trap someone in a story that robs them of their truth , but voices someone else ’ s ?
” Bring Me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Julián Herbert , translated from the Spanish by Christina MacSweeney ( Graywolf ) .
Conceptual artists and sicarios share a capitalist Wild West in this Mexican writer ’ s phantasmagoric stories .
A “ personal memories coach ” extorts his clients ; a crack addict impersonates a famous writer ; and , in the titular story , a film critic tutors the leader of a cartel who , bearing “ the face of Quentin Tarantino , ” has put a bounty on his doppelgänger .
Giddily undermining authorial convention—one character delights in “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who adore straightforward literature ” —the stories show that , as the hapless film critic notes , “ parody and the sublime are complementary , even at times interchangeable , aesthetic concepts.
” Music for the Dead and Resurrected , by Valzhyna Mort ( Farrar , Straus & Giroux ) .
Memory , metaphor , and myth intermingle to sometimes nightmarish effect in this collection by a Belarus-born poet .
Mort excavates the individual and communal traumas wrought by a violent and repressive national history , and calls herself “ a test-child exposed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s memory.
” Her poetry can be stark in its sorrow and startling in its horror , but it is enlivened with gallows humor and a surreal sensibility .
“ Why does unfolding this starched bedding / feel like / skinning someone invisible ?
” she asks .
“ Why can ’ t the spoons , head-down in glasses , stop screaming ?
” Incantatory refrains evoke the wails of an accordion , an instrument that provides a leitmotif .

Wintering, by Katherine May (Riverhead). This timely memoir details seven months that the author, suffering from a mysterious illness, spent sequestered at home. For May, who saw life as “linear, a long march from birth to death,” the enforced hiatus comes to feel like nonexistence. Yet it inspires unusual investigations—into hibernating animals, deciduous trees, the cultures of places with long winters, and the ritual pauses that once shaped human society. May’s message isn’t about how to be cheery during a personal winter but about how to embrace the “negative presence” of these moments, and to allow the rebirth they naturally engender. “We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us,” she writes. “Given time, they grow again.”
We Keep the Dead Close, by Becky Cooper (Grand Central). The woman at the center of this biography-cum-detective story is Jane Britton, a doctoral student in archeology at Harvard who was brutally murdered in 1969. Cooper, a Harvard alumna, tracks down people involved in the case—the neighbor who found the body, a policeman, university museum staff—and charts how Britton’s story has metamorphosed, through successive generations of students, into a “myth” about the dangers that women in academia face. While projecting her own life onto Britton’s, Cooper weighs the responsibility to accurately narrate the past: “Is it ever justifiable, I wondered, to trap someone in a story that robs them of their truth, but voices someone else’s?”
Bring Me the Head of Quentin Tarantino, by Julián Herbert, translated from the Spanish by Christina MacSweeney (Graywolf). Conceptual artists and sicarios share a capitalist Wild West in this Mexican writer’s phantasmagoric stories. A “personal memories coach” extorts his clients; a crack addict impersonates a famous writer; and, in the titular story, a film critic tutors the leader of a cartel who, bearing “the face of Quentin Tarantino,” has put a bounty on his doppelgänger. Giddily undermining authorial convention—one character delights in “depositing a little vomit on those readers who adore straightforward literature”—the stories show that, as the hapless film critic notes, “parody and the sublime are complementary, even at times interchangeable, aesthetic concepts.”
Music for the Dead and Resurrected, by Valzhyna Mort (Farrar, Straus & Giroux). Memory, metaphor, and myth intermingle to sometimes nightmarish effect in this collection by a Belarus-born poet. Mort excavates the individual and communal traumas wrought by a violent and repressive national history, and calls herself “a test-child exposed to the burning reactor of my grandmother’s memory.” Her poetry can be stark in its sorrow and startling in its horror, but it is enlivened with gallows humor and a surreal sensibility. “Why does unfolding this starched bedding / feel like / skinning someone invisible?” she asks. “Why can’t the spoons, head-down in glasses, stop screaming?” Incantatory refrains evoke the wails of an accordion, an instrument that provides a leitmotif.


newyorker--2020-11-30--Tobias Menzies of “The Crown” Survived Lockdown on Helena Bonham Carter’s Couch

Like Prince Philip , the actor Tobias Menzies , who plays him in Seasons 3 and 4 of “ The Crown , ” occupies prewar lodgings in London .
He shares his home not with Queen Elizabeth II but with a black cat named Bernie , who came to him as a stray .
“ My cat ’ s shouting at me , ” he said on a recent Zoom from his kitchen , as Bernie piped up in the background .
“ I might have forgotten to feed him.
” Menzies , forty-six , wore eyeglasses and an oxford @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exposing cookbooks and a toaster .
( “ A backstage view , ” he said , laughing . )
When lockdown began , he had just moved back into his flat , after renovations had required him to couch-surf .
“ One of the places where I stayed was with Helena , which was delightful , ” he said .
“ I was sort of an outer satellite of the Bonham Carter family.
” On “ The Crown , ” he and Helena Bonham Carter , as Princess Margaret , are both outer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Margaret has given Bonham Carter a chance to romp ( “ There was a young lady from Dallas !
” she says , trading limericks with L.B.J .
at a White House dinner ) , and the role of Philip has given Menzies a chance to invest a stolid figure with layers of intrigue .
“ What ’ s continually being unwrapped with Philip is this contradictory tension—quite a lot of emotion for the desire for things to be incredibly straightforward and unemotional , ” he said .
“ Even in interviews @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little away , there ’ s a hot emotionality that seems to pour off him , despite his best attempts.
” In the new season , which dives headlong into the eighties , Diana ( Emma Corrin ) comes on the scene , as does Margaret Thatcher ( Gillian Anderson ) .
“ That ’ s the last thing this country needs , ” Philip tells the Queen ( Olivia Colman ) , as they watch the news .
“ Two women running the shop.
” The Queen disagrees .
Menzies is tall @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with grooved cheeks and a brow that creases with concern .
Whether he ’ s playing Brutus , on “ Rome ” ; the academic Frank Randall or his ancestor Black Jack Randall , whipping fiend , on “ Outlander ” ; or the nobleman Edmure Tully , on “ Game of Thrones , ” whose wedding ends in mass murder , Menzies conveys the sense that there ’ s much going on beneath the surface .
All actors , he said , “ come with a set of things that come for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ part , where the unconscious aspects of you bump into the work.
” His might be “ a certain kind of .
.
.
” He trailed off , thinking .
“ Reticence.
” Early in the fourth season , Philip seals his son ’ s fate during a weekend at Balmoral , in Scotland , when Diana visits and flatters Philip on a stag-hunting excursion .
( “ Good shot , sir !
” ) Season 3 showcases Philip ’ s interior life , especially in a midlife-crisis episode , in which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
( “ Extraordinary .
What men .
What courage.
” ) The camera lingers on his face as it cycles through quiet shades of disbelief , wonder , and amusement , his eyes brimming with tears .
Menzies was born in London , to a drama-teacher mother and a BBC radio-producer father .
Growing up , “ we never paid a huge amount of attention to the Royal Family , ” he said .
His parents separated when he was six , and he and his mother and brother moved to Kent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ In my teens , in the early nineties , my mum was taking me to see theatre , the best stuff that was going on in London , ” he said .
“ There was this explosion of visual theatre , dance theatre , movement theatre.
” ( He explored that realm himself , and hoped to attend mime school , but couldn ’ t afford it ; he went to drama school instead . )
As a teen , he saw Wallace Shawn ’ s “ mad , amazing ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the Edinburgh Festival .
“ This character goes through a fever of self-recrimination , class guilt , ” he said .
“ It always stayed with me.
” In 2015 , Menzies performed it himself , under the direction of Robert Icke , for a small audience , in a room at the May Fair hotel .
“ I remember feeling pretty sick to my stomach every night before I did it , ” he said .
But Shawn himself came— “ a great privilege ” —and “ seemed very delighted by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has given him time to reflect—not a Philip-style midlife crisis but a sharpening of focus .
He ’ d like to do some “ highly authored film work , ” he said— “ working with , you know , the Paul Thomas Andersons and the Joanna Hoggs , these filmmakers who I admire so much.
” His next project is a second season of Aisling Bea ’ s Channel 4 dramedy , “ This Way Up , ” in which he plays her potential love interest , a moody widower with a young @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I ’ m not a great dad , and I ’ m pretty distant , ” Menzies said , smiling .
Another onion to be peeled , perhaps ?
“ So many onions , ” he said , laughing .
“ My eyes are watering.
” ♦

Tobias Menzies Illustration by João Fazenda
Like Prince Philip, the actor Tobias Menzies, who plays him in Seasons 3 and 4 of “The Crown,” occupies prewar lodgings in London. He shares his home not with Queen Elizabeth II but with a black cat named Bernie, who came to him as a stray. “My cat’s shouting at me,” he said on a recent Zoom from his kitchen, as Bernie piped up in the background. “I might have forgotten to feed him.” Menzies, forty-six, wore eyeglasses and an oxford shirt, an open cabinet behind him exposing cookbooks and a toaster. (“A backstage view,” he said, laughing.) When lockdown began, he had just moved back into his flat, after renovations had required him to couch-surf. “One of the places where I stayed was with Helena, which was delightful,” he said. “I was sort of an outer satellite of the Bonham Carter family.”
On “The Crown,” he and Helena Bonham Carter, as Princess Margaret, are both outer satellites of the Queen. The role of Margaret has given Bonham Carter a chance to romp (“There was a young lady from Dallas!” she says, trading limericks with L.B.J. at a White House dinner), and the role of Philip has given Menzies a chance to invest a stolid figure with layers of intrigue. “What’s continually being unwrapped with Philip is this contradictory tension—quite a lot of emotion for the desire for things to be incredibly straightforward and unemotional,” he said. “Even in interviews where he’s really giving very little away, there’s a hot emotionality that seems to pour off him, despite his best attempts.” In the new season, which dives headlong into the eighties, Diana (Emma Corrin) comes on the scene, as does Margaret Thatcher (Gillian Anderson). “That’s the last thing this country needs,” Philip tells the Queen (Olivia Colman), as they watch the news. “Two women running the shop.” The Queen disagrees.
Menzies is tall, lean, and understatedly handsome, with grooved cheeks and a brow that creases with concern. Whether he’s playing Brutus, on “Rome”; the academic Frank Randall or his ancestor Black Jack Randall, whipping fiend, on “Outlander”; or the nobleman Edmure Tully, on “Game of Thrones,” whose wedding ends in mass murder, Menzies conveys the sense that there’s much going on beneath the surface. All actors, he said, “come with a set of things that come for free, that you bring to every part, where the unconscious aspects of you bump into the work.” His might be “a certain kind of . . .” He trailed off, thinking. “Reticence.”
Early in the fourth season, Philip seals his son’s fate during a weekend at Balmoral, in Scotland, when Diana visits and flatters Philip on a stag-hunting excursion. (“Good shot, sir!”) Season 3 showcases Philip’s interior life, especially in a midlife-crisis episode, in which he becomes fixated on the moon landing. (“Extraordinary. What men. What courage.”) The camera lingers on his face as it cycles through quiet shades of disbelief, wonder, and amusement, his eyes brimming with tears.
Menzies was born in London, to a drama-teacher mother and a BBC radio-producer father. Growing up, “we never paid a huge amount of attention to the Royal Family,” he said. His parents separated when he was six, and he and his mother and brother moved to Kent, where he attended a Waldorf school. “In my teens, in the early nineties, my mum was taking me to see theatre, the best stuff that was going on in London,” he said. “There was this explosion of visual theatre, dance theatre, movement theatre.” (He explored that realm himself, and hoped to attend mime school, but couldn’t afford it; he went to drama school instead.) As a teen, he saw Wallace Shawn’s “mad, amazing” one-man play “The Fever,” at the Edinburgh Festival. “This character goes through a fever of self-recrimination, class guilt,” he said. “It always stayed with me.” In 2015, Menzies performed it himself, under the direction of Robert Icke, for a small audience, in a room at the May Fair hotel. “I remember feeling pretty sick to my stomach every night before I did it,” he said. But Shawn himself came—“a great privilege”—and “seemed very delighted by what we’d done.”
Lockdown has given him time to reflect—not a Philip-style midlife crisis but a sharpening of focus. He’d like to do some “highly authored film work,” he said—“working with, you know, the Paul Thomas Andersons and the Joanna Hoggs, these filmmakers who I admire so much.” His next project is a second season of Aisling Bea’s Channel 4 dramedy, “This Way Up,” in which he plays her potential love interest, a moody widower with a young son. In the first season, “I’m not a great dad, and I’m pretty distant,” Menzies said, smiling. Another onion to be peeled, perhaps? “So many onions,” he said, laughing. “My eyes are watering.” ♦
The title of an earlier version of this story misstated when Tobias Menzies stayed at Helena Bonham Carter’s house.


newyorker--2020-11-30--“Little Spy in My Bedroom,” by Yusef Komunyakaa

What ’ s that ticking sound under the red velvet sofa , breathing a little click-song stolen from South Africa , perched on a windowsill or lost in a coffin drawer singing a half-pint of good luck , aping such big emotion ?
Whatever it is , it materialized up here on the second floor , as if from my head—the silent timekeeper ’ s rasping alarm .
I pace around the room , careful not to trip on the tiger rug , to search out the mechanical night song of a small being .
What good can it bring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ climate change & hunting death stars to give the names of hermit kings & outlaws .
Love , have I always listened with my whole damn body , 18k .
tick of a pocket watch ?
I rise , gazing into an inlaid box of hex signs & cheap rings .
Now I hardly hear the faint noise , yet know it is here .
I cover my eyes with my left hand to hear the machine pulse of a careless heart , & in a patch of early-morning sunlight I see a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shoe before I can think to say , No , one of us must show mercy .

Audio: Read by the author.
What’s that ticking sound
under the red velvet sofa,
breathing a little click-song
stolen from South Africa,
perched on a windowsill
or lost in a coffin drawer
singing a half-pint of good
luck, aping such big emotion?
Whatever it is, it materialized
up here on the second floor,
as if from my head—the silent
timekeeper’s rasping alarm.
I pace around the room, careful
not to trip on the tiger rug,
to search out the mechanical
night song of a small being.
What good can it bring now
in our highly evolved world
of climate change & hunting
death stars to give the names
of hermit kings & outlaws.
Love, have I always listened
with my whole damn body,
18k. tick of a pocket watch?
I rise, gazing into an inlaid box
of hex signs & cheap rings.
Now I hardly hear the faint
noise, yet know it is here.
I cover my eyes with my left
hand to hear the machine
pulse of a careless heart, &
in a patch of early-morning
sunlight I see a black cricket.
Someone kicks off her shoe
before I can think to say, No,
one of us must show mercy.


newyorker--2020-11-30--Slide Show: New Yorker Cartoons December 7, 2020

“ Thanks to the effects of time dilation , only three days will have passed for us , but when @ @ @ @ @ Trump Presidency will have just ended .
”

“Thanks to the effects of time dilation, only three days will have passed for us, but when we return to Earth the Trump Presidency will have just ended.”
Cartoon by Darrin Bell


newyorker--2020-11-30--When One Parent Leaves a Hasidic Community, What Happens to the Kids?

Outwardly , she was still a good girl .
She worked at a community magazine , she was involved with the PTA .
But she must have had some kind of air about her , because people started confiding their own weird stuff .
This one wished she could wear shorter skirts ; that one wanted to go to the movies .
Some women were meeting strangers they had found on Craigslist .
One day , she heard her co-workers gossiping about a woman named Chani Getter .
Chani was a little older , but Chavie knew who she was—she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Someone said , Did you hear ?
Chani is a lesbian now , and she ’ s running crazy wild retreats for lesbians , and she takes her kids there .
The co-workers were horrified , but Chavie went home , Googled Chani Getter , and called her .
She couldn ’ t force her family to keep kosher , so she ate vegetarian .
She babysat and mowed lawns in order to earn money to buy an extra set of dishes , so they wouldn ’ t be tainted by her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stopped wearing pants .
Her mother was appalled ; she said that Marie was spitting on her family ’ s way of life .
Eventually , this caused so much strain that Marie went to live with a religious friend she knew from her synagogue .
After graduating from high school , she went to Baylor to study premed .
While she was in college , Marie met a rabbi from Monsey .
He told her that in Monsey there were men who were a little older than she but still unmarried because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ considered a catch .
If she wanted to marry a Haredi man , he said , she should look for a man like that , because with her dubious religious background she wasn ’ t a catch , either .
It took her a while to get used to the idea of marrying a man she didn ’ t know , but she believed that she should trust God without questioning , so she did .
She met a twenty-seven-year-old man in a religious chat room , and left college to marry him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Marie first arrived in Monsey , it felt wonderful to her to be in a place where nobody thought she was strange for being religious .
There were kosher stores everywhere , lots of people were modestly dressed .
People in the community spoke Yiddish , but Marie understood them because she spoke German .
Early on , a woman walking near her on the street grabbed her shirt and yanked her over to let a man pass by , so that he wouldn ’ t have to walk behind or between them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she told herself that she was new to this , and there were bound to be customs she didn ’ t know about .
The marriage , though , was difficult from the start .
She wanted to go back to college—she still hoped to become a doctor—but she was scolded for trying to overthrow her husband .
( Marie ’ s husband , too , declined to be interviewed . )
She saw that as a bride she had not received the same kinds of gifts as other daughters-in-law ; her husband @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that his family took her in after the way she had been raised , like an animal in a zoo .
When she and her husband had their first child , a daughter , she became absorbed in being a mother and felt happier .
A couple of years later , they had a son .
But the marriage grew worse .
Her husband controlled the household money , and told her that in order for him to give her some , even to buy basic items such as sanitary napkins , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her names , and when their daughter was around six or seven he started calling her names , too—ugly , fat , stupid .
Finally , in 2012 , they went to the beis din to get a divorce .
She got custody of the children ; he was to see them for dinner a couple of times a week and every other Shabbos .
After her husband moved out , Marie began seeking out family and old friends .
Before she had kids , she had been estranged from her parents , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ visit her .
Her family knew that she hadn ’ t had a minute to herself during the more than ten years that she was married , so they gathered together some money and told her to take a vacation .
One of the friends Marie reconnected with was an Indian-Jewish woman whom she ’ d met in college and who had moved back home afterward , and this friend invited her to visit .
Marie arranged for the kids to stay with a family in Monsey for two weeks and bought a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to sleepaway camp for the first time when he was nine or ten .
On visiting day his father came to see him , and while the other parents played games , or took their kids out boating , Issac ’ s father took him into the empty shul and said , Let ’ s review what you have studied these past two weeks .
The summer that Issac was fifteen , he had a rough week at camp and decided to kill himself .
Luckily , he didn ’ t know how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and went to bed .
The camp nurse gave him water the next day to flush his system , but apart from that no one did much ; mental illness tended to be hushed up , because it could affect the marriage prospects of everyone in the family .
Issac didn ’ t see a therapist until about six months later , and that was to deal with attention deficit disorder .
He was advised to tell nobody about the therapy , not even his brothers and sisters .
When Issac turned eighteen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for him to marry , and matchmakers started getting in touch .
Normally , a person had only one shidduch—one match .
Eight of Issac ’ s nine siblings married the first person they met , but Issac met five girls , and five times he was rejected .
Part of the problem might have been that he wasn ’ t a yeshiva boy anymore—he worked in an office-supply store—and having a job was less prestigious .
One matchmaker told him that she ’ d fibbed on his behalf , saying that he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but it made no difference .
He was told that one girl rejected him because he talked too much .
By the time a matchmaker suggested a sixth girl , he no longer gave a shit .
He agreed to go through with the meeting only to pacify his father .
The matchmaker didn ’ t know him or the girl personally—presumably , she had picked a girl for her failings , to go with his .
His father mentioned the girl one day when he got home from work , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her .
He was done trying to make himself look good—he thought , Let ’ s just get through this and go home .
But he liked her .
She was devout , but not stiff or judgmental .
She was very attractive .
She had had a difficult childhood and wasn ’ t living with her family .
They talked for about an hour , and , fifteen minutes after Issac left , the matchmaker called both of them and told each that the other wanted to meet again , although in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They met the following afternoon , and then a third time .
At this point , Issac had begun to think that something might actually come of it , so they talked seriously for four or five hours .
He asked the girl , Faigy ( a pseudonym ) , if she had any questions for him , and she fetched a list she ’ d drawn up .
Faigy told him about her childhood , and he asked her if she was in therapy .
She admitted that she was .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ weren ’ t , there is no way I would consider this.
” She said , “ I want to marry you.
” The first year of their marriage was easy .
His wife was the opposite of his parents , he thought—she never told him what to do .
He felt that life with his parents had been a constant struggle , and now the struggle was over .
Nine and a half months after their wedding , he and Faigy had a daughter .
But being happily married to a religious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s feelings about religion , and , left to his own devices , his observance started to slip .
He still did the basics , showing his face in shul when he had to , but he wasn ’ t praying every day .
Everything changed when his daughter , the summer before preschool , was rejected by the Bobov yeshiva because , he and Faigy were told , Faigy , who had been brought up in a community with slightly different rules , drove a car .
He and Faigy had been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and finally they asked for a meeting with the grand rabbi in Borough Park .
The rabbi didn ’ t understand why Faigy insisted on driving .
Couldn ’ t she give it up for the sake of her children ?
Issac said that maybe the Bobov school was the best school , maybe it wasn ’ t , but he wasn ’ t willing to chain up his wife to find out .
Afterward , as he and Faigy walked away , down Fiftieth Street , he didn ’ t feel angry @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Faigy , “ It ’ s over—the book is closed on Bobov.
” The next day , he realized that he was done with more than the school .
He said to Faigy , “ If I don ’ t have to follow the rules for the yeshiva , then why do I need to follow them at all ?
” He told her , “ I think I can keep Shabbos , I think I can keep kosher , but beyond that I ’ m not sure.
” This was intensely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pious .
Issac had been untethered from religion inside his head for a long time , but to her it felt as though everything she knew about her family had suddenly exploded into pieces .
Up to this point , whatever Issac had done or not done at home was between him and Faigy .
Outside the house , he still looked and behaved more or less like a religious man .
But now he felt an urge to go to the barber and have his beard shaved and his payos—sidelocks—cut off .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ become irretrievably public .
He wanted to do it right away , but he decided to think about it , to make sure that he would have no regrets .
So he set a calendar reminder in his phone for four weeks from that day , to give himself a chance to change his mind .
Chavie had been afraid to talk to such a wild-sounding person as Chani Getter , but on the phone Chani was very friendly .
She invited Chavie to attend a retreat for L.G.B.T.Q .
Orthodox Jews .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to speak about herself , and she saw that people were moved by what she said , and she thought , This is real , this is actually who I am .
At the retreat , she met many queer parents who were there openly with their children , not hiding or lying to them .
She thought about how she had been behaving with her own children , putting them to bed and then locking herself in her bedroom and watching a movie .
Her children were four , six , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ too hard to keep them in the dark , but she thought that as they grew older it would be impossible to keep lying and be a good parent .
At another retreat , one of her new friends said to her , “ I dare you to take your wig off.
” Chavie was shocked—this felt even more exposing than being naked , especially since , unbeknownst to anyone , she had let her hair grow out into a Mohawk and dyed it in rainbow stripes—but she did it .
After that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A month later , she went to the friend ’ s house for the weekend and rode in a car on Shabbos and ate bacon , and it didn ’ t feel frightening or sacrilegious—it felt normal and right .
And she realized , I guess I never believed in any of this .
She began introducing her children to her new friends—a lesbian couple , a trans woman .
She felt that she and her kids were pushing open the door of their ghetto together , and it was both scary and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she was abandoning the values of the community , she should come up with alternatives , so she started a “ values wall ” in her house , and when she read a book with the kids they would extract a value from it and paste it up : kindness , inclusivity , social justice .
She believed that a family should have rituals , so for every ritual she abandoned she invented a new one to take its place .
She was worried that when the community saw what she was up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ children against her—she had seen that happen .
But the key was she had time .
Outwardly , they were still a good Hasidic family , so no one was paying attention .
For three years after the divorce , Chavie didn ’ t tell her children that she was queer .
But then , in 2012 , she thought that her older daughter suspected it , and Chavie told her that she was .
That fall , a transgender friend of hers had a fire in their apartment , and she invited @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her home in Borough Park .
They brought their cats ; pets were not exactly prohibited in the community , but they were a tell .
Chavie grew bolder .
She allowed the kids to eat non-kosher food a few times .
She let the girls wear pants inside the house .
She let the kids watch a movie called “ How the Toys Saved Christmas.
” She told them that certain Hasidic beliefs were sexist and homophobic , and that she was an atheist .
Finally , she thought , I am @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day , she impulsively went outside in her neighborhood wearing secular clothes , with her hair—now short and blond—uncovered for everyone to see .
She walked past a group of mothers waiting at a bus stop .
At first , they didn ’ t recognize her , and then they did , and grew very quiet , but she kept walking .
She decided to come out publicly as a lesbian , and was promptly fired from her job at the magazine .
The community was horrified that Rabbi Wolfson ’ s granddaughter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shocking person .
People wrote her letters telling her that she was disturbing the soul of her father , who had recently died .
But she never imagined that she would run into custody problems .
Her ex was busy with his new children .
She figured that , even if he did take her to a secular family court , the judge would side with her , because she was progressive and wanted her kids to get a good education .
It turned out that she was wrong about this .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ emergency order to show up in Kings County Supreme Court .
The judge told her that she was confusing and harming her children by making such drastic changes in their upbringing , and ordered them removed from her and sent to stay with their father that very day .
The judge summoned several experts to give testimony on the family .
A therapist testified that , ever since Chavie had begun openly flouting Hasidic rules , her older daughter said that she could not have normal friendships with her classmates in school , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afraid of being seen in the streets with their mother wearing secular clothing .
A psychologist testified that her son ’ s behavior in yeshiva had grown disruptive and defiant .
Both said that Chavie ’ s criticisms of Hasidism had left the children deeply confused .
A forensic psychologist testified that although Chavie was a loving mother who had a strong bond with her children , by disparaging the Hasidic way of life in front of them she had put her own needs ahead of theirs ; she should have shielded them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their father and his community .
The judge , appalled by what he felt was Chavie ’ s “ remorseless ” violation of her agreement to raise the kids religious , made his temporary ruling permanent .
Chavie appealed , and , two years later , the ruling was overturned , on the ground that a religious-upbringing agreement could be enforced only so long as it was in the best interests of the children .
The appeals court was more impressed by Chavie ’ s care of the kids , and by Naftali @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , than by Chavie ’ s rogue behavior .
The appeals judges accepted Chavie ’ s argument that it was not in the children ’ s interests for her to conceal her beliefs from them .
They pointed out that the plain language of the agreement required a Hasidic upbringing for the children , but did not specify any requirements as to the behavior of the parents ; nor was it acceptable for a court to compel an adult to practice a religion .
The solution was to split the difference : Chavie @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dressed and acted like Hasidic kids when visiting their father or attending school , but she could dress or act as she liked .
Chavie had been lucky , but she had also had help .
Around the time of her appeal , in 2017 , Footsteps hired Julie F. Kay , a human-rights lawyer , who began recruiting attorneys from top Manhattan firms to represent Footsteps members in custody cases pro bono .
For a long time , Footsteps members had been at a disadvantage in court because they couldn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ parents were also poor , but they could turn to the community for help , raising money in crowdfunding campaigns :

Not long after, Chavie decided she was done. She knew that husbands were often reluctant to give their wives a get—a religious divorce—so when Naftali agreed to give her one and they went to the beis din, the rabbinical court, she readily signed whatever papers she was given. She didn’t pay much attention to a clause requiring her to raise the children Hasidic. In March, 2009, they were officially divorced. Later that month, Naftali married again. After he remarried, he told Chavie that he needed to focus on his new wife, and he stopped seeing their children regularly. Sometimes he took them out for pizza, but he didn’t have them over to his new house. He didn’t pay child support. Soon he and his wife began having babies of their own.
It was at this point that Chavie allowed herself to think, If I am raising these children alone, how do I want to do it? And what do I actually want in my life? She consulted a Modern Orthodox rabbi, hoping he would tell her that she could be both gay and religious, but he said that if she was really a lesbian she had to be celibate. And so her choice slowly became clear to her: she could be celibate; she could live a secret life and lie to everyone; or she could leave the community. This last possibility was so extreme that it took several years to form in her mind.
Outwardly, she was still a good girl. She worked at a community magazine, she was involved with the PTA. But she must have had some kind of air about her, because people started confiding their own weird stuff. This one wished she could wear shorter skirts; that one wanted to go to the movies. Some women were meeting strangers they had found on Craigslist. One day, she heard her co-workers gossiping about a woman named Chani Getter. Chani was a little older, but Chavie knew who she was—she had grown up on the next block. Someone said, Did you hear? Chani is a lesbian now, and she’s running crazy wild retreats for lesbians, and she takes her kids there. The co-workers were horrified, but Chavie went home, Googled Chani Getter, and called her.
Marie was an Army brat—she grew up half in Germany, half in the U.S. (“Marie” is a pseudonym.) Her father was a Christian, an American soldier; her mother came from a Haredi German family. Neither was religious, and they celebrated holidays in an irregular fashion—a bit of Hanukkah, a bit of Christmas. When Marie was a child, her mother told her stories about growing up Haredi, and the one that stuck in her head was about how if she used the wrong fork and made it un-kosher she had to go outside and thrust it into the ground, and sometimes it was so cold and the ground so hard that it was difficult. At the time, Marie thought this sounded crazy—something that only bizarre, mean parents would force their children to do—and certainly her mother was very bitter about her religious upbringing. But, as Marie grew older, her mother’s stories piqued her interest. She was looking for a way of life that was more spiritual and structured than the way she’d grown up, and, after moving every three years from place to place and country to country, she wanted a community to belong to. By the time her parents settled in Killeen, Texas, near Fort Hood, when she was in high school, she had found herself wanting to become Orthodox.
She couldn’t force her family to keep kosher, so she ate vegetarian. She babysat and mowed lawns in order to earn money to buy an extra set of dishes, so they wouldn’t be tainted by her family’s non-kosher food. She stopped wearing pants. Her mother was appalled; she said that Marie was spitting on her family’s way of life. Eventually, this caused so much strain that Marie went to live with a religious friend she knew from her synagogue. After graduating from high school, she went to Baylor to study premed.
While she was in college, Marie met a rabbi from Monsey. He told her that in Monsey there were men who were a little older than she but still unmarried because for some reason they weren’t considered a catch. If she wanted to marry a Haredi man, he said, she should look for a man like that, because with her dubious religious background she wasn’t a catch, either. It took her a while to get used to the idea of marrying a man she didn’t know, but she believed that she should trust God without questioning, so she did. She met a twenty-seven-year-old man in a religious chat room, and left college to marry him in the fall of 2001.
When Marie first arrived in Monsey, it felt wonderful to her to be in a place where nobody thought she was strange for being religious. There were kosher stores everywhere, lots of people were modestly dressed. People in the community spoke Yiddish, but Marie understood them because she spoke German. Early on, a woman walking near her on the street grabbed her shirt and yanked her over to let a man pass by, so that he wouldn’t have to walk behind or between them, and that startled her, but she told herself that she was new to this, and there were bound to be customs she didn’t know about.
The marriage, though, was difficult from the start. She wanted to go back to college—she still hoped to become a doctor—but she was scolded for trying to overthrow her husband. (Marie’s husband, too, declined to be interviewed.) She saw that as a bride she had not received the same kinds of gifts as other daughters-in-law; her husband told her that she should be grateful that his family took her in after the way she had been raised, like an animal in a zoo.
When she and her husband had their first child, a daughter, she became absorbed in being a mother and felt happier. A couple of years later, they had a son. But the marriage grew worse. Her husband controlled the household money, and told her that in order for him to give her some, even to buy basic items such as sanitary napkins, she had to deserve it. He called her names, and when their daughter was around six or seven he started calling her names, too—ugly, fat, stupid. Finally, in 2012, they went to the beis din to get a divorce. She got custody of the children; he was to see them for dinner a couple of times a week and every other Shabbos.
After her husband moved out, Marie began seeking out family and old friends. Before she had kids, she had been estranged from her parents, but now they travelled from Texas to visit her. Her family knew that she hadn’t had a minute to herself during the more than ten years that she was married, so they gathered together some money and told her to take a vacation. One of the friends Marie reconnected with was an Indian-Jewish woman whom she’d met in college and who had moved back home afterward, and this friend invited her to visit. Marie arranged for the kids to stay with a family in Monsey for two weeks and bought a ticket to India.
Issac was born in Borough Park, Brooklyn, the ninth of ten children, in what would become the Bobov-45 group. (Issac is not the name he usually goes by.) His father was exceptionally devout and rigid about rule-keeping, but Issac was always getting into trouble. When a teacher hit him, he called the Fire Department. When one of the school principals made him angry, he squirted ketchup and mustard all over all the principals’ lunches. He was bullied by the other kids. When he prayed, he tried to feel a connection to God, but it never worked. Mostly, praying meant nothing to him. His father was always telling him stories about people burning in Hell, and those would frighten him for a while, but then it wore off. He didn’t doubt the existence of God, exactly; he didn’t have a strong belief one way or the other.
He was sent to sleepaway camp for the first time when he was nine or ten. On visiting day his father came to see him, and while the other parents played games, or took their kids out boating, Issac’s father took him into the empty shul and said, Let’s review what you have studied these past two weeks. The summer that Issac was fifteen, he had a rough week at camp and decided to kill himself. Luckily, he didn’t know how to do it—he took forty Benadryl pills and went to bed. The camp nurse gave him water the next day to flush his system, but apart from that no one did much; mental illness tended to be hushed up, because it could affect the marriage prospects of everyone in the family. Issac didn’t see a therapist until about six months later, and that was to deal with attention deficit disorder. He was advised to tell nobody about the therapy, not even his brothers and sisters.
When Issac turned eighteen, in 2006, it came time for him to marry, and matchmakers started getting in touch. Normally, a person had only one shidduch—one match. Eight of Issac’s nine siblings married the first person they met, but Issac met five girls, and five times he was rejected. Part of the problem might have been that he wasn’t a yeshiva boy anymore—he worked in an office-supply store—and having a job was less prestigious. One matchmaker told him that she’d fibbed on his behalf, saying that he learned with a study partner every night, but it made no difference. He was told that one girl rejected him because he talked too much. By the time a matchmaker suggested a sixth girl, he no longer gave a shit. He agreed to go through with the meeting only to pacify his father. The matchmaker didn’t know him or the girl personally—presumably, she had picked a girl for her failings, to go with his.
His father mentioned the girl one day when he got home from work, and Issac drove up to Monsey to meet her. He was done trying to make himself look good—he thought, Let’s just get through this and go home. But he liked her. She was devout, but not stiff or judgmental. She was very attractive. She had had a difficult childhood and wasn’t living with her family. They talked for about an hour, and, fifteen minutes after Issac left, the matchmaker called both of them and told each that the other wanted to meet again, although in fact neither had said anything about it. They met the following afternoon, and then a third time. At this point, Issac had begun to think that something might actually come of it, so they talked seriously for four or five hours. He asked the girl, Faigy (a pseudonym), if she had any questions for him, and she fetched a list she’d drawn up. Faigy told him about her childhood, and he asked her if she was in therapy. She admitted that she was. Issac told her, “If you weren’t, there is no way I would consider this.” She said, “I want to marry you.”
After her divorce, Marie felt hemmed in by scrutiny and gossip. She believed that her ex-husband was trying to find dirt on her, in order to get the kids back. He told people in the community that she didn’t keep kosher, that she didn’t keep Shabbos. People rammed their shopping carts into hers at Rockland Kosher. Her employers, who had heard that she was no longer Jewish, fired her. Photograph by Dawit N.M. for The New Yorker
The first year of their marriage was easy. His wife was the opposite of his parents, he thought—she never told him what to do. He felt that life with his parents had been a constant struggle, and now the struggle was over. Nine and a half months after their wedding, he and Faigy had a daughter. But being happily married to a religious woman didn’t change Issac’s feelings about religion, and, left to his own devices, his observance started to slip. He still did the basics, showing his face in shul when he had to, but he wasn’t praying every day.


newyorker--2020-11-30--Adrian Tomine’s “Love Life”

Adrian Tomine’s “Love Life”

These strange times have us seeking companionship in strange ways .
In his latest cover , Adrian Tomine , an astute observer of social mores , finds the humor in our increasingly digital search for love .
We recently talked to the artist about Zoom lighting , artistic technique , and more .
Your work tends toward concision , yet a big part of the pleasure in this cover is the accumulation of details .
Was that difficult to achieve ?
For better or worse , I ’ ve developed a fairly specific , detailed illustration style , and there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ messy room .
Once I realized that I would actually have to draw all the things that would telegraph that messiness , I got a little obsessive about cataloguing artifacts from daily pandemic life .
I have a feeling that , years from now , I might look back at this cover and have a kind of P.T.S.D .
reaction to something as insignificant as a bottle of hand sanitizer .
You have a distinctive palette of muted , neutral tones , yet you ’ ve still managed to highlight your subject against @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in your compositions ?
I ’ ve wasted an insane amount of time thinking about lighting in Zoom meetings , so it seemed fitting that it would be central to this image .
I ’ d love to be one of those effortlessly beautiful people who can just open their laptop in a dark room and look terrific , but , instead , I ’ m often rearranging entire rooms , running extension cords to various lighting sources , and scheduling meetings based on when I can get natural window light .
Also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as I was working on this , and light was probably the most consistent thread that ran through his work .
You recently published a book , “ The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Cartoonist , ” which makes a cameo on this cover .
The book was very well received .
Did the praise help you with the next project , or paralyze you ?
Everything paralyzes me , whether it ’ s praise or criticism .
Somehow I always find a way to carry on and to keep making things , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my work that I can ’ t twist into something to obsess over .
In your book , and in your New Yorker covers , you seem to home in on painful moments to find the humor in them .
Do you experience a eureka moment when you locate that contradiction ?
I think that ’ s a good way of putting it .
To be honest , I don ’ t know how someone could get through life without being able to bask in that contradiction .
In my personal life , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by that act of finding humor in pain .
If someone can authentically pull that off and be really funny , that ’ s worth more than a hundred words of earnest consolation to me .
I know you and your wife have been confined at home with two young children—but what ’ s with the cat ?
Is that from life or from your imagination ?
That ’ s my tribute to our cats , Dolly and Pepper .
Dolly passed away , unfortunately , but it felt nice to immortalize her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drawn every other member of our household on the cover at some point , so it seemed only fair .
( For the record , we keep the litter box in a much more socially distanced location . )
See below for more covers by Adrian Tomine :

These strange times have us seeking companionship in strange ways. In his latest cover, Adrian Tomine, an astute observer of social mores, finds the humor in our increasingly digital search for love. We recently talked to the artist about Zoom lighting, artistic technique, and more.
Your work tends toward concision, yet a big part of the pleasure in this cover is the accumulation of details. Was that difficult to achieve?
For better or worse, I’ve developed a fairly specific, detailed illustration style, and there’s no real shorthand for a messy room. Once I realized that I would actually have to draw all the things that would telegraph that messiness, I got a little obsessive about cataloguing artifacts from daily pandemic life. I have a feeling that, years from now, I might look back at this cover and have a kind of P.T.S.D. reaction to something as insignificant as a bottle of hand sanitizer.
You have a distinctive palette of muted, neutral tones, yet you’ve still managed to highlight your subject against the background. How important is light in your compositions?
I’ve wasted an insane amount of time thinking about lighting in Zoom meetings, so it seemed fitting that it would be central to this image. I’d love to be one of those effortlessly beautiful people who can just open their laptop in a dark room and look terrific, but, instead, I’m often rearranging entire rooms, running extension cords to various lighting sources, and scheduling meetings based on when I can get natural window light. Also, I was looking at Edward Hopper as I was working on this, and light was probably the most consistent thread that ran through his work.
You recently published a book, “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Cartoonist,” which makes a cameo on this cover. The book was very well received. Did the praise help you with the next project, or paralyze you?
Everything paralyzes me, whether it’s praise or criticism. Somehow I always find a way to carry on and to keep making things, but there’s literally no reaction to my work that I can’t twist into something to obsess over.
In your book, and in your New Yorker covers, you seem to home in on painful moments to find the humor in them. Do you experience a eureka moment when you locate that contradiction?
I think that’s a good way of putting it. To be honest, I don’t know how someone could get through life without being able to bask in that contradiction. In my personal life, I’ve often felt very moved by that act of finding humor in pain. If someone can authentically pull that off and be really funny, that’s worth more than a hundred words of earnest consolation to me.
I know you and your wife have been confined at home with two young children—but what’s with the cat? Is that from life or from your imagination?
That’s my tribute to our cats, Dolly and Pepper. Dolly passed away, unfortunately, but it felt nice to immortalize her in this way. I’ve drawn every other member of our household on the cover at some point, so it seemed only fair. (For the record, we keep the litter box in a much more socially distanced location.)
See below for more covers by Adrian Tomine: