Copyright The New Yorker
We shared today not even filthy weather John Berryman, Sonnet 13 1 Although we speak, now, to each other in new ways we can still meet here, I think. We always have. Rain outside, my sky all whites and grays; this week the leaves have started coming down. I’m not sure where—a sea away, one hour— you’ll be right now; outside, I’m sure, a hike. But I watch you, with a single, hedge-discovered flower fill the tiny brown clay vase you love, and move across my room, unspeaking, as I write, and bend, like you have done, to two candles standing in the fireplace, to give them light. 2 I don’t want to forget this current sense of being twinned, these two, concurrent, lives: in one I work and I remember. Once the other takes the wheel I’m by your window, in the blue room, which you’ve left—as always— open; a breeze for us to sleep through, wake to. Midsummer, with all its bonfires, the scent stays on the air long into morning, you told me, later. I’d dreamed of you that night, and woke as church bells rang for eight. A wood pigeon’s owl impression, incense in imaginary smoke. 3 We’re good at tables, dinners, meeting across little wooden spaces. I’m thinking of a lighthouse, our walk along the sand; foam dross where two seas met, and where we stood, our black trousers rolled up to the knees. Dinner after, Modern European, all locally sourced; line-caught; white strawberries in a blue bowl. A blanket round you, as wind started to pick up, disarranging blond hair into your eyes. The train back south, “home,” I almost said. Lifting an arm to trigger automatic doors, you parted air. 4 We’re starting to carve out rituals, or at least our places. The French café we can somehow never find, for a champagne; the Orchard, its southern-facing, sun-filled, mock beehive display. The barns which we could picture full of music, our friends, and fairy lights some evening. All our frequent visits to Louisiana, which start to blend together, except its Christmas restaurant fireplace, hours before a storm. The purple mirror-room we kissed in, to seem more part of eternity. Coffees at your swimming spot, purple in your costume. 5 Sunset’s getting earlier again. I’m sure you’ll be heading back soon from your day, whatever day it’s been. The flat will fill with the percussion of your sons, then bed- negotiations; an hour or two on the green sofa after, to yourself. Soon we’ll speak, and soon we’ll be in the same place, where sunset might mean watching you walk down along the Jutland strand, again, into the sea, dipping low to let a wave roll over you, then see you turn and walk back toward me, squeezing out the water from your hair. I take salt you’ll taste of from my shelf, and put on our favorite record. Shuffalo Shuffalo: Sunday, November 9, 2025 Can you make a longer word with each new letter? The Weekend Essay What Did Men Do to Deserve This? Changes in the economy and in the culture seem to have hit them hard. Scott Galloway believes they need an “aspirational vision of masculinity.” The New Yorker Interview Laura Dern Has the Spirit of Seventies Cinema The actor, who plays George Clooney’s publicist in “Jay Kelly” and Will Arnett’s estranged wife in “Is This Thing On?,” has spent her life surrounded by Hollywood luminaries. The Writer’s Voice Paul Yoon Reads “The New Coast” The author reads his story from the November, 17, 2025, issue of the magazine. Takes Hannah Goldfield on Anthony Bourdain’s “Don’t Eat Before Reading This” Bourdain was much more than a whistle-blower, even at the very beginning of what would become his second, incredibly significant career. The Sporting Scene Giannis Antetokounmpo Is a Man Apart The Milwaukee Bucks star has been tearing up the league so far this season. The Food Scene La Boca Is All Smoke, No Fire The Argentinean chef Francis Mallmann is notorious for his love of cooking over open flames. With his New York début, he fizzles out. This Week in Fiction Paul Yoon on the Danger of Hope The author discusses his story “The New Coast.” Fiction “The New Coast” I think it was at this moment, on the beach, that everything seemed the most possible. That our sister was alive and in that building somewhere. Photo Booth A Master of Fashion Photography Who Embraces Accidents Paolo Roversi’s studio portraits push the Polaroid process to its limits. Shuffalo Shuffalo: Saturday, November 8, 2025 Can you make a longer word with each new letter? Critic’s Notebook The Allure—and the Policing—of Subway Surfing Mayor Eric Adams’s administration has wrapped an expansion of invasive surveillance in the apolitical packaging of saving teen-agers from their addled selves.
