On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President. Loose pamphlets were scattered over the ground. Behind a screen door on a side street, I saw a Sharpied message scribbled with evident irritation: "NO Political Flier."
I was looking for a sports bar, both to watch the Eagles play the Browns-when in Rome and to look out for any ads that might be running with the swing-state crowd in mind. The current political season, dense with incident and overcast with grim premonitions, feels more difficult than usual to take in at just a glance. Too much is happening. No admaker in the world could be expected to keep up with the waterfall of events: assassination attempts, abrupt abrogations, morbid rallies with ominous lighting foreshadowing a future in which the nation is one big L.E.D.-lit Death Star. And the rapid fracturing of what we're still straining to call mass media makes it so that you can't really be sure whether what you're seeing on TV is the story your fellowcitizens are also following.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة November 11, 2024 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة November 11, 2024 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
MING HAN ONG
Thadeus had never offered to take Johnny Mac out for a meal before. This is new, Johnny Mac says, grinning. For twenty-five years, Johnny Mac worked as a tenant-rights lawyer. He is a fount of varied and surprising knowledge.
ZORA NEALE HURSTON'S CHOSEN PEOPLE
What a long-unpublished novel reveals about her magnificent obsession.
FEAR AND LOATHING
Are all our arguments really over who's harmed?
ODD JOBS
\"Severance,\" on Apple TV+.
ON A MISSION FROM GOD
Inside the movement to redirect billions of taxpayer dollars to private religious schools.
MAKE HIM LAUGH
How Lorne Michaels's sensibility governs \"Saturday Night Live.\"
TABULA RASA
“Bleb” is worth eight points in Scrabble. Thought you might like to know. I have known the word since Wednesday, June 11, 1958, when I learned it from a company physician at Time Incorporated, in Rockefeller Center. He said I should have been hospitalized four days ago, but there was nothing much to do about it now, go back to work.
WELCOME TO OUR FIRST/FINAL BOOK CLUB!
Thank you, everyone, for coming to our first/final book-club meeting. Apologies for how long it's taken us to settle on a date, but in between work, kids, and the pretense of joining adult recreational sports leagues, it seems that we all have incredibly busy schedules.
THE POISON MACHINE
The talk-show host Yinon Magal's hard-line tactics.
MEAN TIME
“Hard Truths.”