Articles

  • 1 week ago | newyorker.com | Anthony Lane

    In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth. Before doing so, however, he sat around with the boys in the bar and thrashed out what exactly he meant to create. The same is true, pretty much, of Harold Wallace Ross, who begat The New Yorker. Until the first issue was published, on February 21, 1925, the magazine was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. Yet the spirit of Ross, aided by his wife and co-begetter, Jane Grant, had been busy.

  • 1 week ago | flipboard.com | Anthony Lane

    1 hour ago‘I'm one American story’: Author Kao Kalia Yang resists being ‘the Hmong voice’This year marks 50 years of Hmong refugee resettlement and immigration to Minnesota. In 1975, after the Vietnam War and after Communists took over …4 hours agoDon’t forget Bomber CommandThere were many tributes when John ‘Paddy’ Hemingway, the last surviving fighter pilot of the Battle of Britain, died in March.

  • 2 weeks ago | newyorker.com | Anthony Lane

    One of the strangest works of art in the Rijksmuseum, in Amsterdam, is a painting by Jan Jansz Mostaert, who was born in Haarlem. It dates from around 1535 and bears the title “Landscape with an Episode from the Conquest of America.” In the right of the picture, a platoon of soldiers, heavily armed and preceded by a pair of gun carriages, tramp through a defile. Evidently, it is not long since they came ashore; behind them, we can spy a strip of beach.

  • 1 month ago | newyorker.com | Anthony Lane

    The accidental inclusion of Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic, in a secret group chat of senior U.S. officials has been described as a breach of national security without historical precedent. This is not the case. 1252 B.C., eastern Mediterranean, Saturday nightOdysseus: O.K., we’re in. Diomedes: In where? Odysseus: Troy. We’re inside the walls. They bought it. Menelaus: By the golden toenails of Athena, we’re in Troy? In a freaking horse? Odysseus: Sh-h-h. Keep it down, dummy.

  • 1 month ago | newyorker.com | Anthony Lane

    Every age, we kid ourselves, gets the Shakespeare it deserves—or, with any luck, the Shakespeare it badly needs. Take a famous example: to read about the Federal Theatre Project’s production of “Macbeth” that opened at the Lafayette Theatre, in Harlem, in 1936, performed by an all-Black cast and directed by Orson Welles, is to be overwhelmed by a sense of something that had to happen. Any witch could see it coming. But what about eras of even greater distraction and disarray?

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