I live in a tower named for a square named for a newspaper. My building is called Journal Squared, three glass sections rising beside the Journal Square PATH station in Jersey City, one of the busiest stations in the system. The square below is Journal Square, which the city created in 1923. The newspaper was the Jersey Journal, which ceased publication on February 1, 2025, at the age of 157. Two of those three things still exist. The paper is not one of them.
Traumatized: The New Politics of Public Suffering, new from Verso. The book argues that trauma has been commodified into a politics of permanent victimhood, and that its loudest merchants trade in something other than the true suffering of people. Midway through the conversation with Ash Sarkar on Novara Media’s Downstream, Liu, a cultural critic and professor of film and , swerved into Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey
The Sunday death notices all carry the same sentence. She died peacefully at home, surrounded by her loving family, after a courageous battle with cancer. He passed away peacefully, surrounded by family, after a courageous battle with Alzheimer’s. The names change. The sentence does not. It makes three claims. The death was peaceful. The family was present. The dying person fought. A reporter would have to verify all three. Nobody verifies them now, because nobody is paid to.
Columbia’s journalism school paused its midcareer degree three months after Washington capped what America will lend a journalist. The timing is the story. The email went out on a Thursday afternoon. On October 1, 2026, Dean Jelani Cobb told alumni of the Columbia Journalism School’s Master of Arts program that admissions were paused for the coming cycle. The message landed in the inboxes of people who had paid six figures for the degree it described. The school, Cobb wrote, had begun “a critical evaluation” of the M.A. curriculum, and the pause would give the review “the focus it deserves.” The school’s admissions page now carries the same message and dangles a future “relaunch” for anyone willing to wait.
The comment arrived yesterday morning under my August article about Ord, Nebraska, and it opened like a neighbor at the fence. “The other end of that geography: I walked Monowi, in Boyd County, on street view. Population one. Elsie Eiler is the mayor, the tavern keeper, and the librarian. She writes the town’s tax levy and pays it to herself. A town that stayed after everyone left.” Then the whole performance in four words: “Wrote the walk up:” and a link.
Ask a room of readers which of Shakespeare’s sonnets is the greatest and the same three answers come back every time: Sonnet 18, the summer’s day; Sonnet 116, the marriage of true minds; Sonnet 73, the yellow leaves. Those answers are accurate the way election returns are accurate. Ask which sonnet is the most beautiful and the most honest at once, and the room goes quiet, because that question is a confession booth. What comes back tells you what the reader wants and what the reader is willing to admit. Mine now is Sonnet 138, the one that begins with a woman swearing and a man pretending. I say now because it was not always so, and I would not trust a reader whose answer never changes. The road here runs through changes in tone and taste, in wants and abilities, in hopes I no longer have, and the road is the subject of this essay. A reader’s favorite sonnet is a diary entry with the lock broken off.
Continue reading → Love’s Best Habit: On Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138
In the spring of 2018, schools in England started taking analog clocks down from the walls of their examination halls. The reason arrived in the education press without a trace of shame: teenagers sitting their exams could no longer read a dial, they grew anxious watching a circle that told them nothing, and the schools judged it kinder to remove the clock than to teach the child. A deputy leader of the head teachers’ association explained that students were more accurate with digital displays. So the ladders went up, the hands came down, and an instrument that had governed rooms of learning for two centuries was carried to the storage closet as a courtesy to the people it once served. I have kept that ladder in my head ever since, because it shows the modern school system performing its signature move in a single gesture: confronted with an untaught skill, remove the evidence.
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