The Quest for the Best Amusement Park Is Ever-Changing and Never-Ending
On theme parks in America.
On theme parks in America.
On living in dark times.
After sitting alone in a forest and not moving for 24 hours, the author reflects on time, mortality, and turning 40.
I imagine my breath filling every part of my body: My little toe. My ankle. My calf. My knees. My thighs. My pelvis. When I get to my belly, I picture my breath filling the cavities in which my organs float, planets in space. I think about the planet of my uterus, which no longer carries an embryo. Tears slide into my ears as my teacher bends over me to press oil that smells like almonds into my third eye.
The difficult final year of a much-loved and legendarily difficult woman.
Confronting a body excluded from beauty amid Italy’s natural splendor.
How the #MeToo movement paved the way for a new era of food writing.
At the world’s largest gathering of psychics and mediums, two brothers confront a painful secret.
I sometimes miss believing, and look toward the days when I was satisfied by testimony—by the feeling that there were encounters everywhere, all seeming to attest to some great mystery.
How John, a father of 14, lost Christmas.
“I always said that when my time came I’d want to go fast. But where’s the fun in that?”
An essay on insomnia.
How social media, FaceTune, and plastic surgery created a single, cyborgian look.
He sawed out the bottom. Nailed the crate to the telephone pole out in front of the house. New hoop. ... I’d be out there shooting until 10 at night. That’s when I started getting really good. The pole was round so you couldn’t bank the ball in. And you weren’t getting a friendly bounce on a square rim. You had to hit it dead-on, wet.
Surviving a trip to see the family for Thanksgiving.
“How I envy people who enjoy the company of their parents without the aid of pharmaceuticals.”
Reprinted from Home for the Holidays and Other Calamities.
“Economic theory as it exists increasingly resembles a shed full of broken tools.”
There are two different tales we tell ourselves about houses. The primary story is not about ghosts or demons or red rooms or ghouls, but rather about bright futures, long lives, children, grandchildren, and hard-earned success. The second story, the darker story, is about the horror of being trapped.
Fred Rogers wasn’t just a brilliant educator and a profoundly moral person. He was an uncompromising artist.
A healthcare nightmare.
Strangers want their past relationships witnessed, and other strangers come to Zagreb to witness them.
My husband’s struggle with postpartum depression was my struggle, too.
In the normal universe, "to be" is annihilated by "not to be." But for reasons that are still a mystery to even the deepest math of physics, a bit of matter in a billion or so is not obliterated, it has no antimatter partner. It becomes a drop of experience.
An argument for trying.
An argument for working less.
The author recalls his time as a security guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
David Berman died Wednesday.