The death of Elijah McClain prompted a flood of more than 8,500 letters from outside the state of Colorado—all begging Governor Jared Polis for justice. The author opens every one.

“I think you are asking me, in the most tactful way possible, about my own ­aggression and malice. What can I do but plead guilty? I don’t know ­whether journalists are more aggressive and malicious than people in other professions. We are certainly not a ‘helping profession.’ If we help anyone, it is ourselves, to what our subjects don’t realize they are letting us take. I am hardly the first writer to have noticed the not-niceness of journalists. Tocqueville wrote about the despicableness of American journalists in Democracy in America. In Henry James’s satiric novel The Reverberator, a wonderful rascally journalist named George M. Flack appears. I am only one of many contributors to this critique. I am also not the only journalist contributor. Tom Wolfe and Joan Didion, for instance, have written on the subject. Of course, being aware of your rascality doesn’t excuse it.”

“While its source remains something of a mystery, Stuxnet is the new face of 21st-century warfare: invisible, anonymous, and devastating.”

What the great romantic novels of history can tell us about “seduction theory” and the cult of the pickup artist.

Thoughts on an emerging brand of feminism and the ridiculousness of claiming that Tina Fey is unattractive.

On the assassination of a half-Palestinian, half-Jewish cultural revolutionary.

A profile of former Bosnia Serb military commander Ratko Mladic, whose war crimes trial began, and was abruptly suspended, this week.

Looking back on the making of Sam, Bill, and Neal.

Vignettes of the residents of South Elliot Place.

Rojava becomes the Spanish Civil War of modern times for a ragtag group of leftists revolutionaries.

A profile of England’s pre-eminent scholar of race, culture, and nationalism.

“And yet we live still in Cheney’s world. All around us are the consequences of those decisions.”

How LA-style gang life migrated to the slums of San Salvador.

On Los Angeles’s 1985 declaration of “sanctuary status.”

On the tragic flood of elder death in the wake of COVID-19.

And as time arcs and stops and speeds and slows now, I watch myself ride the agony of the death. It’s not out of resistance, exactly, but a need to inquire into both time’s speed and the callous logic, basically eugenicist, that on bad days, the rest of the world seems to hold: that she was old enough to die this way.

Three interviews with John Gardner, author of Grendel and The Art of Fiction, conducted over the last decade of his life.

For a century, Anglos from cold corners of the country have been lured here by the promise that this was a place where they could live among their own, in communities with nary a brown person in sight.

How the media and law enforcement fingered the wrong man for the 1996 Olympic Park bombing.

An essay drawn from the introduction of Davidson’s iconic book Subway, first published in 1986:

To prepare myself for the subway, I started a crash diet, a military fitness exercise program, and early every morning I jogged in the park. I knew I would need to train like an athlete to be physically able to carry my heavy camera equipment around in the subway for hours every day. Also, I thought that if anything was going to happen to me down there I wanted to be in good shape, or at least to believe that I was. Each morning I carefully packed my cameras, lenses, strobe light, filters, and accessories in a small, canvas camera bag. In my green safari jacket with its large pockets, I placed my police and subway passes, a few rolls of film, a subway map, a notebook, and a small, white, gold-trimmed wedding album containing pictures of people I’d already photographed in the subway. In my pants pocket I carried quarters for the people in the subway asking for money, change for the phone, and several tokens. I also carried a key case with additional identification and a few dollars tucked inside, a whistle, and a small Swiss Army knife that gave me a little added confidence. I had a clean handkerchief and a few Band-Aids in case I found myself bleeding.

A Philadelphia neighborhood is the largest open-air narcotics market for heroin on the East Coast. Addicts come from all over, and many never leave.

A profile of Florida legend—and pardoned killer—Charlie Driver.

Tracing the steps of migrants from the Middle East and Africa to the Kent countryside.

The man behind the craze for fermented alcoholic tea likes to tell the story of his own conception.

A voyage to North Sentinel island, home to one of the last entirely isolated populations on Earth.