Affairs at the Jupiter hotel

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

A weekly look at the world of little magazines. The Paris Review Prints the Memoir of a Criminal Tween When pondering exile, we tend to think of Siberia as a destination, but back in the…Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Sometimes the day light winces behind you and it is a great treasure in this case today a man on a horse in calm full gallop on Omaha over my left shoulder coming on fast but calm not audible to me at all until I turned back my head for . . .Read the whole article at The [...]

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

Upstairs, he stops for a moment, just to let the tension build, and then he begins again, softer at first, going east to west and then east again, heading toward the Fifth Avenue side of the building, pausing to get his bearings, to look out at the view, to taunt . . .Read the whole article at The [...]

round your wrist bore a number your name and D.O.B. two weeks after two stone less the day you came home it slipped off no need to snip . . .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