Affairs at the Jupiter hotel

June 1, Rome. Lucky diary! Undeserving diary! From this day forward, you will travel on the greatest adventure yet undertaken by a nervous, average man sixty-nine inches in height, a hundred and sixty pounds in heft, with a slightly dangerous body-mass index of 23.6. From this day forward . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Great images of books from around the world and the Web. Decisions, decisions. A reader, Anuradha Raja, snapped this photo, and writes: I have been using the Kindle since October, the iPad for one month,…Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Great images of books from around the world and the Web. A poster created toward the end of the First World War by Charles Buckles Falls. According to the Boston Public library, which has an…Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Cardinal, goldfinch, titmouse, turkey buzzard— dear companions of my afternoons— above this field, high clouds dream of blizzards to snow me in till spring ends my solitude. Sober’s my binge now, nature my saloon. Wren, mourning dove, house finch, turkey buzzard— for your entertainment, I . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Great images of books from around the world and the Web. There’s something gently amusing about this vintage photo of Mitchell’s Book Corner in Nantucket. From the Nantucket Historical Association: Interior of Mitchell’s Book Corner,…Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Around here, commercialized, non-denominational Easter may be our favorite holiday, thanks, in part, to the superiority of its candy, though mostly because of its cute-critter iconography. And at the center of it all is the…Read the whole article at The Newyorker

8220;For an eiii-dee,” they were saying. “We need to see Lisette Mulvey.” This was unexpected. In second-period class, at 9:40 A.M., on some damn Monday in some damn winter month she’d lost track of, when even the year—a “new . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

8220;For an eiii-dee,” they were saying. “We need to see Lisette Mulvey.” This was unexpected. In second-period class, at 9:40 A.M., on some damn Monday in some damn winter month she’d lost track of, when even the year—a “new . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Lately—and who knows why only lately—several of my friends, some male, some female, all of them currently in crawl position in the dating trenches, and all of them writers, have suffered cruelly from what I’ll…Read the whole article at The Newyorker