It's never been easier to know what time it is. NIST broadcasts the time to points across the country. It's fed through computer networks and cell phone towers to our personal gadgets, which tick in perfect synchrony. Humanity's ever-improving agreement on the time smooths communication, transportation, and lubricates our economy.
But time has another side to it, one that the clocks don't show.
"A lot of us grow up being fed this idea of time as absolute," says Chanda Prescod-Weinstein, a theoretical physicist at the University of New Hampshire. But Prescod-Weinstein says the time we're experiencing is a social construct. Real time is actually something quite different. In some of the odder corners of the Universe, space and time can stretch and slow – and sometimes even break down completely.
In the decades that followed, totes have grown from a journeyman staple to a ubiquitous literary trophy on the streets of many major cities as well as on Instagram and TikTok. Concerns about single-use plastics over the past few years have undoubtedly fuelled the demand. But there’s also a mystique to the tote. It has gone on to inspire high-end designers: you can now own leather or cowhide versions by Prada, Hermès, or the Row. “The tote bag fits a larger trend of the democratization of fashion,” Dicky Yangzom, a cultural and economic sociologist at New York University, told Vox in 2022. “Similarly to utility wear in fashion with the rise of the jumpsuit, this wasn’t designed for mass fashion. It was more geared toward people who do more manual work, right? So all of these categories are shifting.” Yangzom says that tote bags, having moved past their humble origins, are here to stay.
There was only one office that appeared empty, with a company placard that was blank. The door to that office was emblazoned with the numbers 1233 in white. When I peered in, I saw no one, no furniture, nothing. It was a small room that might have been a reception area once, with brown carpet that appeared at least a decade old. There were two closed doors adjacent to each other, one of which had a sign that read employees only. An ominous white camera blinked on the floor in the far corner, likely a deterrent for grifters and interlopers.
“What’s the white stuff in the tea?” I asked.
“It’s popcorn. Brown rice popcorn. We call tea ‘cha.’ This is genmaicha. Brown rice tea.”
Just like that, I had learned my first new word of Japanese. The tea tasted mildly bitter, with a slightly gritty mouthfeel. The pleasant aroma was rich from the brown rice, and as I inhaled deeply, my hangover eased a little and I thought about the crazy 24 hours I had just been through.
The novels’ political concerns—power, class, money and gender—resound deeply, but differently, in China. The authoritarian climate inhibits discussion of such issues in social media or even in person. “The perspectives and views I have on social topics are often not shared by my friends,” says Haiyan Miao, another 20-something fan from Hangzhou. “I find it futile to start that kind of discussion.” She was introduced to Ms Rooney’s fiction on Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book), a lifestyle and social-networking app, and was soon hooked. Ms Zhong reckons the characters’ eloquent debates leave Chinese readers feeling both jealous and inspired.
As Alice de Sturler leafed through her used copy of Agatha Christie’s “The ABC Murders” last month, she was shocked to discover a compelling mystery not on the pages, but between them.
Tucked halfway through the novel was a piece of paper folded in two. In red marker, someone had sketched a well surrounded by flowers. A smattering of stains suggested the card was well loved.