Featured articles from The New Yorker.
Updated: 11 min 49 sec ago
8220;Write about what you know,” the creative-writing teachers advise, hoping to avoid twenty-five stories about robots in love on Mars. And what could you know better than the inside of your own head?
Almost anything. And almost anyone else is better positioned than you are to . . . (Subscription required.)
By the time I met Emily O’Brien, a twenty-eight-year-old actress, I had looked at the computer-generated version of her so many times that seeing her in person was at once anticlimactic and strange. Non-Digital Emily was instantly recognizable to me, from her gently . . . (Subscription required.)
On Christmas Day last year, Prime Minister Nuri al-Maliki appeared on Iraqi television to wish his country’s Christian minority—which has been fleeing by the thousand since the American invasion, in 2003—a happy holiday. Maliki, who is sixty-three, wore a dark-blue suit . . .
Although the Upper West Side, like every neighborhood in Manhattan, has lost a little of its distinctiveness over the past twenty soul-crushing, real-estate-lifting years, some specific, residual flavor of the place clings to its odd corners and company. Only a few decades ago, it was a gray . . . (Subscription required.)
In Eritrea, you turn eighteen and go into the Army, and you stay in the Army for many years, sometimes for the rest of your life. You work for a few dollars a day—in construction, farming, mining. Those who refuse are sent to prison. There is no other . . . (Subscription required.)
When we got off the bus, at around 6 A.M., it was pitch dark, and the fields of Salisbury Plain were sodden after a night of desultory rain. Most of the passengers—who included a retired physicist and his wife, and a pair of young lovers peering at their . . . (Subscription required.)
We were going to be flying to the U.S.S. George H. W. Bush from the Navy base in Bahrain on a Grumman C-2A Greyhound, an ungainly propeller plane. There was nothing sleek or speedy about it. The sky was doing what it always did at this time: waiting for . . . (Subscription required.)
Seven years ago, I flew business class on Qantas from Australia to California, a thirteen-hour trip. I hadn’t had much experience outside economy, but I didn’t want to look like a front-of-the-plane rookie, so I stowed my “amenity kit” without . . . (Subscription required.)
On his thirteenth day underground, when he’d come to the edge of the known world and was preparing to pass beyond it, Marcin Gala placed a call to the surface. He’d travelled more than three miles through the earth by then, over stalagmites and boulder fields . . .