As our faith in the future plummets and the present blends with the past, we doomscroll and catastrophize and feel certain that we’ve reached the point where history has fallen apart.
Bradley Cooper stars in his own film about the great conductor-composer, but it is Carey Mulligan, as Bernstein’s wife, Felicia, who walks away with the movie.
In his new book, “Marr’s Guitars,” the co-founder of the Smiths describes how each of his hundred and thirty-two instruments turned his daydreams into sound.
The Kinfolk Foundation tests the rollout of its new, more diverse city “monuments”—which are only viewable digitally, like a game of Pokémon Go, but woke.
For fifty years, Peter Blegvad, a musician and an illustrator, has tracked down anecdotes and quotes (Roth, Hitchcock, Cobain) for an inquiry into the mammalian liquid.
Letters should be sent with the writer’s name, address, and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail@newyorker.com. Letters may be edited for length and clarity, and may be published in any medium. We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we cannot reply to every letter.