![]() Summer, I discovered a young British singer named Nilüfer Yanya, whose I wrote an awful lot of goodbyes.įor me, 2017 was mostly about survival, or figuring out how to balance aįear of the future with continued existence in the present. I listened to the same John Mayer song on repeat, during a very long car ride across Cuba. I watched the poet Morgan Parker get a tattoo. I heard Bruce Springsteen sing on Broadway. I reconsidered Dave Matthews Band and Phish. I found another person who resembles the same celebrity I resemble. ![]() I slept (poorly) in Donald Trump’s childhood home. I shared a carton of lo mein with the photographer William Eggleston. Pleasure to write about music and culture for The New Yorker in 2017,Īnd especially to share that work with a readership so intelligent and ![]() ![]() I would like to say-without irony, and perhaps at the risk of soundingĪs if I’m drafting a suicide note-that it has been a true and remarkable
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