On the president’s campaign to crack down on campus rape.

An essay on the pitcher, friendship and death.

The mystery of a death in Dallas.

The comic failings of a Kickstarter project that promised a “Netflix for vinyl.”

Falling into the black hole of literary journalism’s most famous eccentic

The struggle to build a wine industry in rural China.

Observations at the dawn of an epidemic.

The discovery of a new human ancestor, hidden in a hard-to-access cave.

Inside the Nairobi Westgate Mall massacre.

A second act for the former head of McSweeney’s.

A former staffer on how the company failed its female employees.

Inside a movement.

On the false narratives of anorexia.

Life as the most famous children’s musician on earth.

An investigation of the infamous alleged assault.

Inside the world of 10-and-under competitive cheerleading.

The life and death of Anna Nicole Smith.

An oral history of The Simpsons.

The surreal existence of an AOL content writer:

I was given eight to ten article assignments a night, writing about television shows that I had never seen before. AOL would send me short video clips, ranging from one-to-two minutes in length — clips from “Law & Order,” “Family Guy,” “Dancing With the Stars,” the Grammys, and so on and so forth… My job was then to write about them. But really, my job was to lie.

On the prosecution of former hedge fund star Raj Rajaratnam.

A profile of the late singer.

On the writer and his impact on his subjects.

On the life and afterlife of Che Guevara.

A profile of the art world’s most notorious dealer dynasty.

Thomas Pynchon walks down a New York City street in the middle of the morning. He has a light gait. He floats along. He looks canny and whimsical, like he'd be fun to talk to; but, of course, he's not talking. It's a drizzling day, and the writer doesn't have an umbrella. He's carrying his own shopping bag, a canvas tote like one of those giveaways from public radio. He makes a quick stop in a health-food store, buys some health foods. He leaves the store, but just outside, as if something had just occurred to him, he turns around slowly and walks to the window. Then, he peers in, frankly observing the person who may be observing him. It's raining harder now. He hurries home. For the past half-dozen years, Thomas Pynchon, the most famous literary recluse of our time, has been living openly in a city of 8 million people and going unnoticed, like the rest of us.