Jacques P. Jacques, a marine biologist who set out to photograph every sea urchin in the Aegean Sea—an effort that took seventeen years and culminated in the 1978 coffee-table book “Take Me to Urch,” which our reviewer called “disturbingly erotic”—died on Thursday. He was ninety-two.
Doris E. Doris, an entrepreneurial drum majorette who shot to fame for her distinctive baton work in the 1968 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade—but whose subsequent attempt to launch the Ross Dress for Less Arbor Day Parade met an ignominious end when a Snoopy balloon collided with a stoplight, cementing Macy’s monopoly on department-store holiday pageantry—died on Wednesday. She was seventy-nine.
Esta historia es de la edición September 09, 2024 de The New Yorker.
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Esta historia es de la edición September 09, 2024 de The New Yorker.
Comience su prueba gratuita de Magzter GOLD de 7 días para acceder a miles de historias premium seleccionadas y a más de 9,000 revistas y periódicos.
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YULE RULES
“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”
COLLISION COURSE
In Devika Rege’ first novel, India enters a troubling new era.
NEW CHAPTER
Is the twentieth-century novel a genre unto itself?
STUCK ON YOU
Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
REPRISE
Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?
Whether you’re horrifying your teen with nauseating sex-ed analogies or watching TikToks while your toddler eats a bagel from the subway floor, face it: you’re flailing in the vast chasm of your child’s relentless needs.
COLOR INSTINCT
Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
THE FAMILY PLAN
The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
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.
