During the 1959 session of the Louisiana state legislature, Governor Earl Long, the less famous younger brother of Senator Huey Long, "went off his rocker," as the tickled writer A. J. Liebling recounted in this magazine, adding, "The papers reported that he had cursed and hollered at the legislators, saying things that so embarrassed his wife, Miz Blanche, and his relatives that they had packed him off to Texas in a National Guard plane to get his brains repaired in an asylum."
It wouldn't be mid-to-late December without a series of "best of" articles coming out from every outlet that covers culture-and who am I to buck that trend? I get to read dozens of books every year for Jezebel, and I'm here to put all that reading to use by doing one of my favorite things: recommending books. But there are too many books-and I am but one, part-time reader-for me to do a broader "best of" list,
I think Malcolm is unreliable only in the sense that he's trapped in his own perspective and, partly as a result of his depression, not especially sensitive to the feelings of the other people around him (namely, the woman he's marrying). I think the clarity and the self-awareness with which he recounts the crisis, though, indicates that he's a fundamentally trustworthy narrator.
A famous poet once observed that it is difficult to get the news from poems. The weather is a different story. April showers, summer sunshine and maybe especially the chill of winter provide an endless supply of moods and metaphors. Poets like to practice a double meteorology, looking out at the water and up at the sky for evidence of interior conditions of feeling. The inner and outer forecasts don't always match up.
As is always the case when I write anything, I didn't know what problems the story would pose until it started posing them. I truly believed that "Understanding the Science" would focus on Maria, and that we would get to know more about her brush with death and get access to her wisdom (or her disappointment at not having gained more of it, maybe), but then her character kept resisting me.
I was also thinking - another event that happens a lot when people have to say goodbye are temporary gigs, like television or theater or putting together something like that, camp. And so it's an interesting challenge, because so often, the farewell cards you get are things like, it was great working with you. We'll see you again, you know, I'm looking forward to - but they all seemed to miss -
Over the past year, we have been working closely with colleagues here at Boston College to develop a psychologically rich, humanities-informed Creative Writing Master's Program oriented toward professionals and clinicians who want to hone their craft as writers while deepening their understanding of the human psyche. The idea behind this undertaking is simple: Great writing and great thinking go hand in hand, and creative writing is a fundamentally psychological endeavor.
"So if you use them in January," LaMantia recalls being told, "you better hope there's nothing to exclaim for the rest of the year." The rule stuck. LaMantia still thinks about that rigid quota today. "I use exclamation points all the time in texts and emails. If you don't, the message sounds more stern," he says. "But I can't remember the last time I used one in a business article."
This year's slate largely centers on digital life. But rather than reflecting the unbridled optimism about the internet of the early aughts - when words like " w00t," " blog," " tweet" and even " face with tears of joy " emoji (😂) were chosen - this year's selections reflect a growing unease over how the internet has become a hotbed of artifice, manipulation and fake relationships.
I didn't set out to be poetic. I set out to ride. But somewhere between mile 30 and mile 70, between sunrise and sunset, I started hearing the road differently. Not just as terrain, but as verse. The hum of my tires was meter. The climbs and descents, line breaks. The miles, stanzas. Sometimes the words come on the ride itself. Sometimes they come when I'm lying in my tent or sipping juice the next morning. But they always come. Because long rides strip the noise away. What's left is what matters.
It was nobody's fault, but here I am, lying on the damp floor of a wood, half a mile from the road. Drifting down with the falling leaves are the voices of two women, too easily accepting of blame. I reassure them and try to sit up, but the high singing in my ears turns to static, the edges of the wood begin to pixelate, and I lie down again before I faint.
When I started grad school, I didn't realize how quickly self-doubt could take root in a room full of writers. Everyone seemed so certain of their talent, so fluent in the language of ambition. I, on the other hand, was still figuring out what I even wanted my voice to sound like. Every workshop felt like an audition for something I wasn't sure I wanted.
Blue baby, of the first generationwhose hole in the heart could be closed in an operating theatrewhere the show must and did go on, you thought yourself lucky as a sicklychild, who got to spend whole days reading long books in bed.An early obsession with Louis Seize and the costume drama of Versaillesmade you the director you were, blocking actors in your head.Or so we believed; you told good stories.
When Gay Talese's landmark profile, "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold," appeared in Esquire in April 1966, it marked a pivotal moment in the evolution of journalism. This was the birth of what came to be known as New Journalism - a narrative-driven style that blended rigorous reporting with literary techniques, placing the reporter's voice and observations at the heart of the story.
Faith Ringgold did not simply paint historyshe broke it open. She reached into the marrow of America's most violent foundations, pulled forth the bones, and demanded that we look. Her Slave Rape Seriesraw, spiritual, brutal, and incandescentremains one of the most courageous achievements in American art, a portal through which the full seismic force of her career becomes legible. Through these paintings, she forged a new language for Black womanhood, a new architecture for Black truth, and an entirely new horizon for artistic liberation.
For me, it is a presence. A nudge. A gentle hand slowly turning my chin towards the windows, where their white trunks reach skywards and their golden leaves glow in the three-sun dawn. I find myself pressing my fingers to the tempered glass when I'm supposed to be conducting experiments or tidying up the mess hall. My feet work their way into the airlock without conscious reason.
What's in a name? As people such as Peach, Riot and Aquaman have found, it can change your life for the better, or worse. With this in mind, we would like to hear from people with unusual names about how it affects others' perceptions of you. How has your name shaped your life? Share your experience You can tell us about how your name has shaped your life using this form.
Hail Thor! The priestess and her heathens, standing in a circle, raised their mead-filled horns. We were gathered in an unassuming spot in a pine forest outside Stockholm. This was our temple, and the large, mossy stone before us was our altar. I was relieved to see that the animal-based sacrificial offerings were long-dead and highly processed. A bearded man reached his tattooed arms into his backpack and raised a red, horseshoe-shaped sausage to the sky.
The kayaker who went missing-and stayed missing for so long that rescue teams were at a loss. The seemingly perfect man who conned women-and was brought to justice by his own victims. The following stories pack a double punch, starting with a mysterious circumstance and tracing the story to places unknown and unexpected. Today, sit back and explore five gripping reads that aren't what they seem.
On October 26, 2025, the New Yorker staff writers Larissa MacFarquhar, Rebecca Mead, Ian Parker, Kelefa Sanneh, and Michael Schulman joined the executive editor Daniel Zalewski onstage at the 26th annual New Yorker Festival, a weekend of conversations, screenings, performances, and more. The Festival, which is the magazine's signature event, was held in New York City and brought together leading voices in literature, film, comedy, television, politics, and medicine.
Once they came down only at dark from the canyons. Now they trot out bold in daylight on sunlit pavement. Still, if you move close, they vanish fast into shadows under the freeway, blocks from the ocean. Up beyond the flammable mansions on over- built lots, where they once burrowed safe, gave birth to ravenous young. Now they watch under scaffolding swinging above sliding foundations. Near the homeless tarps, scattered fires.
