Postscript

The late director’s unique vision and the love that his persona inspires make it easy to forget how winding his path to greatness was.

The critic, professor, producer, and author was a pugilistic champion of the stage.

In his novels, action and description were everything.

Falconer won a Caldecott medal in 2001 and contributed more than thirty New Yorker covers.

The personal archive of Gus Lobrano, a longtime editor at The New Yorker, provides a glimpse of a vanished literary past.

Her juxtapositions of documentation and seeming randomness made her a part of what she was observing.

Eugene DeLeon liked that he was doing something helpful in town.

For fifty years, on college campuses across the country, he preached what is known as confrontational evangelism.

A New Yorker staff member for thirty-six years, he never lost the perspective of an awestruck outsider.

As Secretary of State, she foresaw the danger of Putin’s rule even as she campaigned for NATO’s expansion to Russia’s borders.

Her writing and thinking captured momentous change in American life—and in her own.

The feminist writer and activist bell hooks as the photographer Eli Reed saw her, in his contact sheets from a 1996 shoot.

What it was like to write comedy for the late visionary.

The pioneering female jazz drummer played with Charles Mingus, Benny Goodman, and many others—and still had a regular gig, at the age of ninety, until the pandemic struck.

The bluegrass musician had a towering technique and a severe and idiosyncratic ear.

Edward Stringham was a collator at The New Yorker for forty years. Was he trying to collate the world?

The influential journalist and editor died on Wednesday, at the age of ninety-two.

In performances of great composure, the actor, who died on Friday, at the age of eighty-eight, showed audiences how to study the world.

The poet’s latest contribution to the magazine was, coincidentally, published on the day of her death.

At Trash & Vaudeville, the St. Marks Place clothing store where he worked for fifteen years, Webb was more than a salesman; he was a mascot, a time capsule, a preening peacock from a more colorful era.