The beauty of novel writing is that you never know what your story truly is until it is read and absorbed by strangers. Until there is a human mirror to reflect the meaning of your words, the author lives in a state of naiveté. Only a reader can navigate the unconscious force of your words, and come to private conclusions you will, for the most part, never know about. The writer must surrender to the reality of this gap in connection. And that’s not a bad thing because there are infinite stories to tell, and, interpretations we never imagined.
The problem with Paul Varjak syndrome, of course, is that humans are inconsistent. It would take a combination of rare talent, extreme self-editing, and a trust fund for someone to only publish truly brilliant books. (And they’d probably still produce some mediocre stuff—they would just have the option not to sell it.) Yet while reading book coverage, browsing bookstores, and having conversations with friends, it becomes clear that there is a halo around certain faces. Why?
On a recent Sunday, I got up around 8 o’clock, made some coffee, and got into the car to drive 25 miles for bread. The bread was sold out, so I got tacos nearby instead, served on thick and soft corn tortillas. I accompanied them with a too-chunky green juice and a creamily soft cheese flan, scooping up the bitter caramelized sugar beneath with a plastic spoon. Because I live in Los Angeles, trying this food at any other time of the week could mean spending an hour and 15 minutes in traffic one way — likely both.
On Sunday morning, the freeways worked like they were supposed to, speeding me from one dot in the city’s amoeba sprawl to another. We pay for our most memorable dining experiences in either money or time, and for most of us, time is the more viable option. When no one else is awake, you can score a sort of temporal discount. My move: Knowing that weekend mornings are the best time to go really far, really fast, for the specific goal of eating something new.
At Rothera, the population of more than 100 Antarctic researchers and support staff plummets to around 20 when winter hits and cuts the base off from the outside world. Sunlight is a fleeting and peripheral commodity. For about two months each year, the sun never comes above the horizon. Working at Rothera means total isolation from family, friends, and normalcy.
It also means no local produce, no easy delivery of fresh meat, and no trips to the market to purchase herbs, garnishes, or trending ingredients. But that doesn’t stop seasoned chefs from spending anywhere from six months to many years in an Antarctic kitchen. Why? Because cheffing at Rothera gets to the core of why they cook.
The corner of Prince Street and Broadway, in the SoHo neighborhood of Manhattan, is one of the busiest pedestrian walkways in New York City. Dean & DeLuca, the upscale grocer, is on the southeast corner, while the Prada flagship anchors the northwest, and the two shopping meccas, along with the Apple store farther west on Prince, keep the foot traffic high.
Roaming there for the past six years, stalwart through the relentless rise of iPhones and Instagram, has been a street photographer named Jean Andre Antoine.
Like a fisherman working a tributary to a great river, Mr. Antoine sets up shop just outside the bustle, halfway down the block on Prince. On all but the days of harshest weather, he is out there leaning against the pinkish brick wall of the Dean & DeLuca building, which he uses as a backdrop in many of his photos. He sets his cameras and film on the fifth window ledge in. He calls the spot “the office.”
A recent report hardly painted a rosy picture of the gender balance in Hollywood: Just 4 percent of the top 1,200 movies from the last 12 years had been directed by women. Deep in the report, another jarring figure leapt out at me. Looking at the most lucrative films from 2016 to 2018, researchers found that just four of the 276 key grips working on those films were women.
A few questions popped to mind. Who were these women? What are their work lives like? And what exactly are key grips?
Normal People is a nuanced and flinty love story about two young people who "get" each other, despite class differences and the interference of their own vigorous personal demons. But honestly, Sally Rooney could write a novel about bath mats and I'd still read it. She's that good and that singular a writer.
Spoiled for choice, Ruth Reichl frets over a major career choice. Should she accept her dream job as editor in chief of a magazine she has loved since childhood and risk becoming a corporate creature? Or stay put in her imperial post as restaurant critic for The New York Times?
We know the ending to this foodie fairy tale, but it’s still fun to read “Save Me the Plums,” Reichl’s poignant and hilarious account of what it took to bring the dusty food bible back to life with artistic and literary flair through the glory days of magazine-making — from 1999 to the day in the fall of 2009 when she was informed that Condé Nast had decided to close Gourmet’s pantry for good.
Small and charming at about 200 pages, a quick spritz instead of a deep dive, “Working” is like the antithesis of Caro’s labor-intensive oeuvre, making it strangely reassuring proof that he is, well, working.
This is a matter of life or death, probably death.
Your bullet is very close to my heart.
You're way off base, darling.
Let's put some ice on our fingers.
By ice, I mean diamonds.