Stop, Thief
Did Uber steal Google’s intellectual property?
Great new articles, every day.
Did Uber steal Google’s intellectual property?
Charles Duhigg The New Yorker Oct 2018 30min Permalink
On returning to Britain, which is no longer home.
Rebecca Mead The New Yorker Aug 2018 20min Permalink
What a burgeoning movement says about science, solace, and how a theory becomes truth.
Alan Burdick The New Yorker May 2018 25min Permalink
The connections he made at a 2013 pageant in Russia may have helped give him the Presidency.
Jeffrey Toobin The New Yorker Feb 2018 25min Permalink
A team of researchers at Columbia believe that small changes to college life could make campuses safer.
Jia Tolentino The New Yorker Feb 2018 20min Permalink
A 13-year-old girl was declared brain-dead, but her family disagreed. Her case challenges the very nature of existence.
Rachel Aviv The New Yorker Jan 2018 35min Permalink
Why are we still involved?
Nicolas Niarchos The New Yorker Jan 2018 20min Permalink
Tech takes over the post-Soviet nation.
Nathan Heller The New Yorker Dec 2017 30min Permalink
The billionaire founder of Renaissance Technologies turns to science.
D.T. Max The New Yorker Dec 2017 35min Permalink
The film executive hired private investigators, including ex-Mossad agents, to track actresses and journalists.
Ronan Farrow The New Yorker Nov 2017 20min Permalink
A search for common ground.
Atul Gawande The New Yorker Sep 2017 30min Permalink
Under mysterious circumstances, two sisters are abandoned on an island.
Lauren Groff The New Yorker Aug 2017 25min Permalink
A search for meaning through academics, cultural studies, and terrorism.
Camille Bordas The New Yorker Dec 2016 30min Permalink
An Iraq War veteran, now a paramedic, runs into trouble.
"I rewarded the man with another hit of naloxone, which made him even more alive, even less happy. Karen was busy with the gear, and I thought for sure that the coast was clear. It wasn’t. As soon as I put the note in my pocket, I saw the boy. He stood in the doorway, watching me with a basically impassive expression. He chewed his gum. He blew a splendid bubble."
Luke Mogelson The New Yorker Apr 2015 20min Permalink
Strange beasts reenact scenes and memories from a woman's childhood.
"In the kitchen, the beast was pushing onions around in a pan. It glanced up, not minding me at all. I could hear a rustling sound just around the corner, where our kitchen table used to be, like the sound of my sister doing her homework or cutting pictures out of magazines. There was a small beast doing exactly that, holding a pair of red plastic scissors, snipping out pictures of animals. She was arranging the cutouts on the table: a cow, a giraffe, two dogs, and a bear."
Elizabeth McKenzie The New Yorker Dec 2014 20min Permalink
Rodeo bulls and the boys who ride them.
Burkhard Bilger The New Yorker Dec 2014 40min Permalink
A single mother and her children attend an Alaskan cruise ship magic show.
"The magician from Luxembourg did his tricks, which seemed more sophisticated than those of his predecessors. Maybe because they involved roses? Before him there had been merely carnations. The roses, this was a step up. Women holding roses appeared in boxes, boxes on wheels, and the man from Luxembourg turned these boxes around and around. Then he opened the boxes, and the women were not there; they were somewhere else. Behind screens! In the audience!"
Dave Eggers The New Yorker Nov 2014 20min Permalink
A divorcee attempts to get back on his feet.
"Ira had been a married man for fifteen years, a father for eight (poor little Bekka, now rudely transported between houses in a speedy, ritualistic manner resembling a hostage drop-off), only to find himself punished for an idle little nothing, nothing, nothing flirtation with a colleague, punished with his wife’s full-blown affair and false business trips (credit-union conventions that never took place) and finally a petition for divorce mailed from a motel. Observing others go through them, he used to admire midlife crises, the courage and shamelessness and existential daring of them, but after he’d watched his own wife produce and star in a fabulous one of her own he found the sufferers of such crises not only self-indulgent but greedy and demented, and he wished them all weird unnatural deaths with various contraptions easily found in garages."
Lorrie Moore The New Yorker Dec 2014 50min Permalink
Why a decades-long string of murders near the Mexican border has gone unsolved.
Alma Guillermoprieto The New Yorker Sep 2003 30min Permalink
On F. Scott Fitzgerald's birthday, a repost from 2012:In this previously-unpublished Fitzgerald story, a saleswoman wants a cigarette, and perhaps encounters something more profound.
"Smoking meant a lot to her sometimes. She worked very hard and it had some ability to rest and relax her psychologically. She was a widow and she had no close relatives to write to in the evenings, and more than one moving picture a week hurt her eyes, so smoking had come to be an important punctuation mark in the long sentence of a day on the road."
F. Scott Fitzgerald The New Yorker Aug 2012 Permalink
A revolution in full-figured fashion.
Lizzie Widdicombe The New Yorker Sep 2014 25min Permalink
On Wonder Woman’s feminist past.
Jill Lepore The New Yorker Sep 2014 30min Permalink
On Bill Cosby’s complicated family life.
Kelefa Sanneh The New Yorker Sep 2014 25min Permalink
A day in the life of a child in 1960s England.
"Carrie’s father was studying, in the evenings and on weekends, for a degree in politics, but on the day of a party he had to leave his books and submit to the different laws of the female domain, obeying the instructions that his wife rapped out, vacuuming and tidying, setting up the drinks tray. She followed impatiently after him, because he had no feeling for arranging the cushions or the flowers; he thought these things were not worth having a feeling for. The children exchanged sly looks and jokes with their father behind their mother’s back, conspiring against her remorselessness. But as soon as the guests arrived she relaxed into smiles, as if that other, sterner self had never existed."
Tessa Hadley The New Yorker Aug 2014 20min Permalink
A chance encounter with a movie star on an airplane.
"Roy Spivey shifted in his seat, waking. I quickly shut my own eyes, and then slowly opened them, as if I, too, had been sleeping. Oh, but he hadn’t quite opened his yet. I shut mine again and right away opened them, slowly, and he opened his, slowly, and our eyes met, and it seemed as if we had woken from a single sleep, from the dream of our entire lives. Me, a tall but otherwise undistinguished woman; he a distinguished spy, but not really, just an actor, but not really, just a man, maybe even just a boy."
Miranda July The New Yorker Jun 2007 10min Permalink