Pliny’s eyewitness account of the 79 A.D. Vesuvius eruption tells us what happened, but the archeological remains conjure with agonizing intimacy the lives of those who perished.
The Speaker’s willingness to get in the President’s face has made many a meme, but their conflict has more to say about our constitutional checks and balances.
London Kaye has yarn-bombed a school bus and a Starbucks. Now she’s put fuzzy koalas near the SoHo Chanel store to raise awareness about Australia’s wildfires.
If you are reading this, I am dead. Please have me cremated. Then form the ashes into the shape of me. Then deep-fry me. Then bury me with full military honors.
Fiction by Haruki Murakami: “Had she vanished, like smoke? Or, on that early-autumn afternoon, had I seen not a real person but a vision of some kind?”
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.
