The New Yorker

4 days ago | newyorker.com | Jonathan Blitzer

The chaos of Donald Trump’s Presidency often obscures its rank consistency. Only a few hours into his second term, Trump signed an executive order suspending the admission of refugees to the United States, something that he’d tried to do his first time in office. Twelve thousand people who had been cleared to come were stranded, their flights cancelled. A hundred and eighteen thousand others had been approved but didn’t yet have plane tickets.

4 days ago | newyorker.com | Elif Batuman

Eleven chapters of Vladimir Nabokov’s autobiography, “Speak, Memory,” initially appeared, out of order, in The New Yorker. “Portrait of My Uncle,” one of his first prose pieces in the magazine, became Chapter 3. Chapter 1, originally titled “The Perfect Past,” came out last. Its opening line—“The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness”—has, by now, been seared into numberless brains.

4 days ago | newyorker.com | Sarah Larson

This month, the beloved British pop band Pulp will release “More,” its first new album in twenty-four years. Jarvis Cocker, the band’s founder, lyricist, and front man, has engaged in innumerable interesting projects in the meantime—an album with his band Jarv Is, collaborations with Wes Anderson and Chilly Gonzales, a BBC radio program, an excellent memoir, “Good Pop Bad Pop”—but the new Pulp record feels like a significant return, triumphant and humble at once.

5 days ago | newyorker.com | Chris Wiley

Last year, on the occasion of Taschen’s reissue of “Workers” (originally published in 1993), I had the chance to interview Salgado over video chat. He was in Paris, sitting in his studio, with a mural-size print of one of his photographs behind him. Salgado had a smooth shaved head and wild white eyebrows. In conversation, he was charming and genial, but he is well practiced in sparring with his critics. “People criticize me that what I do is the beauty of the misery,” Salgado told me.

6 days ago | newyorker.com | Rachel Syme

I couldn’t help but wonder . . . can you even have summer in New York City without Carrie Bradshaw? A reflection on the queen of the season, and the return of “And Just Like That . . .” Plus:• Susan B. Glasser on the vicious obits for Elon Musk• Are the best flour tortillas made in Kansas City? Rachel SymeSyme, a staff writer, has been covering culture for The New Yorker since 2012.