Tuesday, January 03, 2017

I'll miss The New Yorker.

I've just unsubscribed from the magazine, after 20 years. Solely because of their inaccurate and downright idiotic coverage of Donald Trump --- a lapse in judgment and journalistic integrity that I'd never seen before and never thought possible. After 20 years, I trusted the magazine. I'm sad. The New Yorker was part of my adult intellectual life.

I expressed my displeasure to a a scientist where I work. He told me: "Well, you can always re-subscribe later..." :0  True.

I have a couple of weeks left. In the 1/2/17 issue, from an article by Yiyun Li:

Loneliness is the inability to speak with another in one's private language. That emptiness is filled with public language or romanticized connections....

I dread the moment when a thought trails off and a feeling starts, when one faces the eternal challenge of eluding the void for which one does not have words. To speak when one cannot is to blunder. I have spoken by having written -- this piece or any piece -- for myself and against myself. The solace is with the language I chose. The grief, to have spoken at all.

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