The self-help author kicks off her presidential campaign.

A very Florida investigation.

A tale of missing money, heated lunchroom arguments, and flaxseed pizza crusts.

After two officers came to a Pacific Northwest community, longtime residents began to disappear.

Cycling through relapse and recovery, and the industry that enables both.

Whenever the black dress came out, Jessica Weisman’s mother knew she was “going after the Jewish people again.”

On the bohemian poet’s hidden career as a prolific copywriter.

“I wanted to be prepared for the worst nature could throw at me. But the real threat turned out to be human.”

An investigation into how the Church moves its money.

It wasn’t until death rates began to soar that society began to take the outbreak seriously enough.

To understand the state’s urban-rural divide, start by looking at Yamhill County’s proposed walking trail.

A profile of the comedian, who died Tuesday.

The story of imprisoned boxer James Scott, who contended for the light heavyweight title by staging fights inside Rahway prison.

“When I’m in Nigeria, I find myself looking at the passive, placid faces of the people standing at the bus stops. They are tired after a day’s work, and thinking perhaps of the long commute back home, or of what to make for dinner. I wonder to myself how these people, who surely love life, who surely love their own families, their own children, could be ready in an instant to exact a fatal violence on strangers.”

Few men have acquired so scandalous a reputation as did Basil Zaharoff, alias Count Zacharoff, alias Prince Zacharias Basileus Zacharoff, known to his intimates as “Zedzed.” Born in Anatolia, then part of the Ottoman Empire, perhaps in 1849, Zaharoff was a brothel tout, bigamist and arsonist, a benefactor of great universities and an intimate of royalty who reached his peak of infamy as an international arms dealer -- a “merchant of death,” as his many enemies preferred it.

Transcript of the 1969 Montreal “bed-in.”

JOHN: How long have you been there, in the teepee? I mean, before you sussed the wind and everything, and you know, got your senses back? ROSEMARY: We had to put the teepee up three times before it was right. It’s like you can touch it, and it resounds like a drone, and then it’s perfect, the canvas. It’s a wind instrument that plays like a drone.

This isn't an essay or simply a woe-is-we narrative about how hard it is to be a black boy in America. This is a lame attempt at remembering the contours of slow death and life in America for one black American teenager under Central Mississippi skies. I wish I could get my Yoda on right now and surmise all this shit into a clean sociopolitical pull-quote that shows supreme knowledge and absolute emotional transformation, but I don't want to lie.

Rosie grew up in a succession of decrepit houses in South London with one man and a rotating cast of women, who claimed that they had found her on the streets as an infant. The man, Aravindan Balakrishnan—Comrade Bala, as he wanted to be called—was the head of the household. He instructed the women to deny Rosie’s existence to outsiders, and forbade them from comforting her when she cried.

As the snow tires rumbled on the highway beneath us, a neo-Nazi "troll army" was several days into attacking the Jewish people of Whitefish on Spencer's behalf, based on a belief that some Whitefish Jews had recently tried to run Spencer and his mother out of town. Details about what actually happened between the town and the Spencers were in short supply, and, among the neo-Nazi troll brigades, anti-Semitism was in abundance.

On a childhood fascination with the mid-18th century battle.

When jobs vanish, Southern men find new ways to contribute.

A profile of the D.O.C., the rapper’s rapper, who ghostwrote for Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg.

Why almost everything we think we know about the iconic photo from Robinson’s first game is wrong.