Volodymyr Zelensky built a mythic reputation as a lonely bulwark against global tyranny. On Tuesday, the president of Ukraine signed that reputation away, enacting a law that gutted the independence of his country’s anti-corruption agencies just as they closed in on his closest political allies, reportedly including one of his longtime business partners and a former deputy prime minister. To justify the decision, he cloaked it in an invented conspiracy, insinuating that Russian moles had implanted themselves in the machinery of justice. This is a scoundrel’s playbook.

Despite the ongoing war, Ukrainians swamped the streets of Kyiv in protest of their president’s betrayal of democracy, forcing Zelensky to introduce new legislation reversing the bill he had just signed into law. It was a concession of error—and possibly an empty gesture, because the new bill is hardly a lock to pass the legislature. That Zelensky brazenly weakened Ukraine’s anti-corruption guardrails in the first place shouldn’t come as a shock. They were erected only under sustained pressure from the Obama administration as part of an explicit bargain: In exchange for military and financial support, Ukraine would rein in its oligarchs and reform its public institutions. Over time, the country drifted, however unevenly, toward a system that was more transparent, less captive to hidden hands.

But in the Trump era, the United States has grown proudly tolerant of global corruption. In fact, it actively encourages its proliferation. Beyond the president’s own venal example, this is deliberate policy. Brick by brick, Donald Trump has dismantled the apparatus that his predecessors built to constrain global kleptocracy, and leaders around the world have absorbed the fact that the pressure for open, democratic governance is off.

[Anne Applebaum: Kleptocracy, Inc.]

Three weeks into his current term, Trump paused enforcement of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act—loudly declaring that the United States wasn’t going to police foreign bribery. Weeks later, America skipped a meeting of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development’s anti-bribery working group for the first time since its founding 30 years ago. As the head of the anti-corruption group Transparency International warned, Trump was sending “a dangerous signal that bribery is back on the table.”

For decades, the U.S.did more than prosecute bribery cases; it tried to cultivate civil-society organizations that helped emerging democracies combat corruption themselves. But upon returning to the presidency, Trump destroyed USAID, the National Endowment for Democracy, and the U.S. Institute of Peace, dismantling the constellation of government agencies that had quietly tutored investigative journalists, trained judges, and funded watchdogs.

These groups weren’t incidental casualties in DOGE’s seemingly scattershot demolition of the American state. Trump long loathed the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, which he described as a “horrible law,” an animus stoked by the fact that some of his closest associates have been accused of murky dealings abroad. Crushing programs and organizations that fight kleptocracy meshed with the “America First” instincts of his base; the likes of Tucker Carlson and Steve Bannon abhor the export of liberal values to the world.

From the wreckage of these institutions, a Trump Doctrine has taken shape, one that uses American economic and political power to shield corrupt autocrats from accountability. Benjamin Netanyahu, on trial for bribery, fraud, and breach of trust, has been a prime beneficiary. Just as he was preparing to testify under oath, Trump denounced the prosecution as a “political witch hunt” and threatened to withhold U.S. aid if the trial moved forward. Given Israel’s reliance on American support, the threat had bite. Not long after Trump’s outburst, the court postponed Netanyahu’s testimony, citing national-security concerns.

Trump acts as if justice for strongmen is a moral imperative. No retaliatory measure is apparently off limits. To defend his populist ally in Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro, who faces charges related to an attempted coup, Trump revoked the visa of Alexandre de Moraes, the Supreme Court justice overseeing the case. Last month, Trump threatened to impose 50 percent tariffs on Brazilian steel, aluminum, and agricultural exports to punish the country for Bolsonaro’s prosecution.

This is hard-nosed realism, not just ideological kinship. To protect himself, Trump must defend the rights of populist kleptocrats everywhere. He must discredit the sort of prosecution that he might someday face. That requires recasting malfeasance as perfectly acceptable statesmanship.

[Listen: The kleptocracy club]

By stripping anti-corruption from the moral vocabulary of American foreign policy, Trump is reengineering the global order. He’s laying the foundation for a new world in which kleptocracy flourishes unfettered, because there’s no longer a superpower that, even rhetorically, aspires to purge the world of corruption. Of course, the United States has never pushed as hard as it could, and ill-gotten gains have been smuggled into its bank accounts, cloaked in shell companies. Still, oligarchs were forced to disguise their thievery, because there was at least the threat of legal consequence. In the world that Trump is building, there’s no need for disguise—corruption is a credential, not a liability.

Zelensky is evidence of the new paradigm. Although his initial campaign for president in 2019 was backed by an oligarch, he could never be confused for Bolsonaro or Netanyahu. He didn’t  enrich himself by plundering the state. But now that Trump has given the world permission to turn away from the ideals of good governance, even the sainted Zelensky has seized the opportunity to protect the illicit profiteering of his friends and allies.

Yet there’s a legacy of the old system that Trump hasn’t wholly eliminated: the institutions and civil societies that the United States spent a generation helping build. In Ukraine, those organizations and activists have refused to accept a retreat into oligarchy, and they might still preserve their governmental guardians against corruption. For now, they are all that remain between the world and a new golden age of impunity.

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

Can’t lick the witch wind that carries rumors over shining aurora-lit prairies:

horror of what comes to light at the dawn of the mind. Will you permit me to rise

from my sinkhole, to draw in the dirt the garnet ring my grandmother sold for gas

just to survive? Arrive anonymous, starved on hardtack and shame,

in this place where she was erased? How will you animate this forgotten history?

Pepper the disarray with white-hooded prairie schooners filled with calico-clothed

divas gathering their brood alongside militant fathers donning wide-brimmed hats?

It’s natural to want to lie when you look in the mirror, see you are naked

down to the crimes. Let me tell you, honey, truth is the harmony your song has been

missing. Set down a soapbox and let me step up and sing out about the naked

and the dead. The ghosts we’ve not yet seen clothe the woods of your stories. Let your candy

apple cowboys die in their own desert until my grandmother’s name is spoken

like the emergency it has become.

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

In the 1980s, the world’s largest producer of shoes was the Communist Soviet Union. In his 1994 book, Dismantling Utopia, Scott Shane reported that the U.S.S.R. “was turning out 800 million pairs of shoes a year—twice as many as Italy, three times as many as the United States, four times as many as China. Production amounted to more than three pairs of shoes per year for every Soviet man, woman, and child.”

And yet, despite this colossal output of Soviet-socialist footwear, queues formed around the block at the mere rumor that a shop might have foreign shoes for sale: “The comfort, the fit, the design, and the size mix of Soviet shoes were so out of sync with what people needed and wanted that they were willing to stand in line for hours to buy the occasional pair, usually imported, that they liked,” Shane continued.

The Soviet economic system put millions of people to work converting useful raw materials into unwanted final products. When released from the factory or the office, those workers then consumed their leisure hours scavenging for the few available non-useless goods. The whole system represented a colossal cycle of waste.

For a younger generation of Americans, the concept of “socialism” is an empty box into which all manner of hopes and dreams may be placed. But once upon a time, some humans took very seriously the project to build an economy without private property and without such market rewards as profits. What they got instead was unwearable shoes. But memories fade; hopes and dreams endure.

[Read: Start budgeting now]

Growing numbers of Americans feel that the economy does not work for them. Donald Trump’s stewardship of the economy has blatantly favored insiders and cronies. And so, in the 2020s, Americans find themselves debating ideas that once seemed dead and dusty, and in some cases, electing politicians who champion them. The new socialism addresses the problems that wrecked the old socialism only by denying or ignoring them. But if socialism is to be beaten back, and if market economics are to uphold themselves in democratic competition, exposing the unworkability of proposed alternatives won’t be enough. It will be necessary to reform and cleanse the market economics indispensable to sustaining Americans’ standard of living.

During socialism’s heyday, the world’s leading minds hailed the superior potential of a planned socialist economy. Albert Einstein wrote in 1949:

The profit motive, in conjunction with competition among capitalists, is responsible for an instability in the accumulation and utilization of capital which leads to increasingly severe depressions. Unlimited competition leads to a huge waste of labor, and to that crippling of the social consciousness of individuals … A planned economy, which adjusts production to the needs of the community, would distribute the work to be done among all those able to work and would guarantee a livelihood to every man, woman, and child.

In 1960, the Harvard economist Abram Bergson predicted that the Soviet economy was on a trajectory to overtake the U.S. economy. Bergson’s was not a crank opinion at all. Similar estimates underlay CIA analysis of the Soviet economy well into the ’60s. Americans might reject socialism for themselves as oppressive but, the theory held, as unlovely as Soviet socialism was, it could produce positive results.

The same overestimation of the U.S.S.R.’s productive capacity was also applied to Communist China. On the U.S. Senate floor in 1959, the future president John F. Kennedy gave a speech in which he accepted almost completely at face value China’s claims of a “Great Leap Forward”: “The mobilization of the unemployed mass of Chinese rural workers through economic communes, cottage industry, small pig-iron schemes, and all the rest is an achievement whose political and intellectual impact in less developed areas is bound to be immense.”

In actuality, the Great Leap Forward amounted to perhaps the deadliest self-inflicted calamity in human history. Mao Zedong’s forced industrialization program caused a famine that killed at least 23 million people, and perhaps as many as 55 million.

The Soviet economic statistics that so impressed the CIA were faked or meaningless. It did not matter how many pairs of shoes a Soviet factory made if nobody wanted to wear them. To escape Soviet sclerosis, Communist China began, in 1978, to open up first its farm economy, then its industry, to private management, market competition, and foreign investment. Communist Vietnam and other formerly closed and controlled economies followed the Chinese example.

Across the democratic West, socialist ideas went into eclipse. In 1995, under the new leadership of Tony Blair, the British Labour Party amended its party constitution to delete venerable language pledging “common ownership of the means of production, distribution, and exchange.” In Germany in the early 2000s, Gerhard Schroeder’s Social Democratic coalition government introduced the most dramatic reductions in decades to social benefits to push the long-term unemployed back to work. In the United States, Democratic President Bill Clinton declared in 1996, “The era of big government is over.”

The seeming triumph of market economics was not welcomed by all, of course. Those disgruntled by the seeming triumph rejected Margaret Thatcher’s taunt that “there is no alternative,” yet they could not articulate in any concise or coherent way what that alternative might be.

The anti-corporate activist Ralph Nader ran for president in part to challenge the Clinton-era pro-market consensus. In his 2000 campaign as the nominee of the Green Party, Nader assembled an array of grievances: over-lengthy commutes to work; unhealthy meals at fast-food chains; excessive CEO pay; young people getting too much screen time; the criminalization of narcotics; the demise of urban electric-trolley systems. He could not have been more specific about what he opposed. But what was he for? Nader could not say.

And so it went for one project after another to imagine an anti-capitalist future. Some who belonged to the era’s left glumly quoted a saying attributed to the American Marxist literary critic Fredric Jameson: “It’s easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism.”

Over the quarter century from early 1983 to late 2007, the United States suffered just two brief, mild recessions: one in 1990–91, and a second that lasted only from spring to fall of 2001. From the beginning of Ronald Reagan’s second administration to the end of George W. Bush’s first, the U.S. unemployment rate never once reached 8 percent. Over that same period, inflation was low and interest rates steadily declined.

[Read: The world economy is on the brink of epochal change]

Economists call this era “the Great Moderation.” The moderating influence was felt on politics too. For nearly 50 years, Gallup has surveyed Americans’ mood with a consistent series of questions about the general condition of the country. From 1983 to 2007, the proportion of Americans satisfied with “the way things are going in the U.S.” reached peaks of about 70 percent, and was often above 50 percent.

Then the long period of stability abruptly ended. Over the 15 years from 2007 to 2022, the U.S. economy suffered the Great Recession, the coronavirus pandemic, and post-pandemic inflation: a sequence of bewildering shocks.

You can see the effects in the Gallup polling. Over this period, the percentage of Americans who described themselves as generally satisfied rarely exceeded one-third and often hovered at about a quarter.

The era of moderation yielded to a time of radicalism: Occupy Wall Street, the Tea Party movement, “birtherism,” the wave of militant ideology that acquired the shorthand “woke.” In 2015, in the throes of this radicalism, Hillary Clinton announced her second campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination. In a stump speech some weeks later, she listed categories that described the American electorate as she saw it, offering a fascinating portrait of the politics of the 1990s meeting the realities of the 2010s. She dedicated her candidacy equally to “the successful and the struggling,” to “innovators and inventors” as well as “factory workers and food servers.” In other words, she addressed herself to Americans for whom the world was working more or less well, and to familiar and long-established blue-collar categories. She made no specific mention of gig workers, downwardly mobile credentialed professionals, or any of the other restless social categories that multiplied after the shock of 2008–09.

A few weeks after Clinton’s announcement, Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont declared his campaign for the same Democratic nomination. Sanders was an odd messiah. He had spent a lifetime in politics with little to show for it. No major piece of legislation bore his name, and precious few minor pieces either. An independent socialist, he had stayed aloof from the Democratic Party without building a movement of his own. Few had considered him an inspiring personality or a compelling orator. Yet amid this new radical temper, he quickly gathered a cultlike following—and won 13 million votes, to carry 23 caucuses and primaries. When he ultimately lost to Clinton, the defeat left many of his supporters with resentments that divided leftists from liberals in ways that may have helped Donald Trump win the Electoral College in the general election in November 2016.

In 2002, toward the end of her public career, Thatcher was asked to name her greatest achievement. “Tony Blair and New Labour,” she replied. “We forced our opponents to change their minds.”

Sanders might say the same about Trump and his Republican Party. Goodbye to Reagan-era enthusiasm for markets and trade: Trump vowed much more aggressive and intrusive government action to protect American businesses and workers from global competition. He also offered a bleak diagnosis of America’s condition, for which the only way forward was to return to the past.

At the same time, Trump’s persona vindicated every critique Sanders might advance about the decadence of late capitalism. Here was a putative billionaire whose business methods involved cheating customers and bilking suppliers. His private life was one scandal after another, and he spent his money on garish and gimcrack displays. He staffed his administration with plutocrats who were flagrantly disdainful of the travails of ordinary people, and with grifters who liked to live high on public expense.

Then, beginning in 2020, the coronavirus pandemic intensified the anti-market feeling. The economic effects enriched those who possessed assets, especially real estate: The median house price in the U.S. had jumped from $317,000 in the spring of 2020 to $443,000 by the end of 2022. The federal pandemic response could also be gamed by business owners; the U.S. government estimates that as much as $200 billion of COVID-relief funds may have been fraudulently pocketed. But if you were a person who rented his or her home and lived on wages, you were almost certainly worse off in 2022 than you had been in 2019. Your wages bought less; your rent cost more.

The outlook was especially bleak for young college graduates. The average new graduate owes more than $28,000 a year in student debt. Hopes of repaying that debt were dimmed by the weak post-COVID job market for new graduates. Joe Biden’s presidential administration did relieve some student debt, but its most ambitious plans to help new graduates were struck down by the Supreme Court as exceeding executive authority.

In some respects, people born since 1990 are more conservative than their elders. Academic surveys find that Americans, male and female, who attended high school in the 2010s express more traditional views about gender roles than those who attended high school in the 1990s. But on economic questions specifically, an observable shift of attitude against markets and capitalism has occurred. Only 40 percent of adults younger than 30 expressed a positive view of capitalism in a 2022 Pew survey, a drop from 52 percent pre-pandemic. Older groups lost faith too, but not so steeply: Among over 65s, a positive view of capitalism dipped from 76 percent pre-pandemic to 73 percent post-pandemic.

This disillusionment has opened the door to self-described socialists in the 2020s. The most recent and most spectacular of this new cohort is Zohran Mamdani, who earlier this month won the Democratic nomination for mayor of New York City in an upset election.

Mamdani campaigned on promises to raise taxes on New York’s richest inhabitants to finance a bold new program of state enterprise: free bus service, government-owned grocery stores, a rent freeze for the 1 million apartments under city jurisdiction, and a vow to build 200,000 affordable-housing units over the next decade. After the tallies were boosted by New York’s ranked-choice voting system, Mamdani won 56 percent of the vote. He now tops polls for the general election in November. His agenda already is influencing Democrats nationwide.

Few if any of the Americans who use the term socialist would today defend Communist central planning. But as they criticize the many failings of contemporary American society, they tend to shirk the obvious counter-question: If not central planning, then what do they want? Liberals such as Bill and Hillary Clinton proposed to let markets create wealth, which governments would then tax to support social programs. If that’s out of style, if something more radical is sought, then what might that something be? Merely Clintonism with higher taxes? Or a genuine alternative? How can a society that aspires to socialism produce the wealth it wants to redistribute if not by the same old capitalist methods of property, prices, and profits?

The socialists of a century ago promised both a new way to create wealth and a new way to share it. The preeminent American socialist of the early 20th century, Eugene V. Debs, outlined that new system in speeches such as the one he delivered in Girard, Kansas, in 1908:

We Socialists propose that society in its collective capacity shall produce, not for profit but in abundance to satisfy human wants … Every man and woman will then be economically free. They can, without let or hindrance, apply their labor, with the best machinery that can be devised, to all the natural resources, do the work of society and produce for all; and then receive in exchange a certificate of value equivalent to that of their production. Then society will improve its institutions in proportion to the progress of invention. Whether in the city or on the farm, all things productive will be carried forward on a gigantic scale.

As soon as it was attempted, this breathtaking utopian vision bumped into a daunting challenge: Without market prices, how can any of those gigantic socialist enterprises know what to make or how to commit their resources? And without market institutions, including the profit motive, how can we have market prices? Socialist enterprises would blunder about in the dark, unable to communicate with one another, unable to respond to changing circumstances, because they severed the lines of communication that connect economic actors.

Much brainpower was invested over many decades to solve this riddle. Francis Spufford’s novel Red Plenty makes improbably poignant literature out of the desperate hopes of Soviet economists that the new technology of the computer might somehow rescue socialism from its own impossibility.

But there was no escape. There is no socialist way to create wealth. There is only a socialist way to spend wealth. The socialist revival of the past half decade no longer even pretends to worry about wealth production. It exists purely as a new set of claims on existing modes of production: socialist apartments funded in effect by taxes on nonsocialist apartments, socialist grocery stores that do not have to pay the taxes or rent paid by nonsocialist grocery stores.

The beneficiaries of these claims will not necessarily be society’s poorest. New York City distributes affordable-housing units through a process that begins with a lottery but rapidly transforms into a test of skill, savvy, and connections. In the first place, New York favors applicants who work for the city, in itself a step that advantages middle-class people over the truly needy. Then, once the lucky lottery winners get their good news, they must assemble a mass of documents to prove their desirability as tenants—pay stubs, lease records, birth certificates. As an expert on the process explained to a real-estate website: “Once you’ve been selected, it’s all about being organized and efficient.” The people most at risk of homelessness are those least likely to navigate New York’s system of nonmarket and submarket rents.

In 2022, Mayor Eric Adams—elected as a Democrat, though now running for reelection as an independent—cut the ribbon on a $120 million project in Far Rockaway. This outer-borough development offered studios starting at $522 a month, two-bedroom apartments for $809 a month. But the building contained only 224 units. For all the excitement of the lucky beneficiaries, this is the faintest replica of a housing solution—as well as a reality check to Mamdani’s grandiose vision of government-led housing abundance.

Given this disappointing record, why are so many New Yorkers signing up for more and bigger? The short answer is that the debate about socialism is scarcely about socialism at all. Socialism’s catastrophes are today obscure, relegated to a poorly remembered past. Dissatisfaction with the present-day economic system is felt urgently in the here and now.

[Read: Zohran Mamdani’s lesson for the left]

The progressive economist Joseph Stiglitz recently remarked, “Trumponomics is ersatz capitalism.” The president and those around him are accumulating huge fortunes by unashamedly preying on the credulity of their followers. Trump insiders have used political power to harass regulatory agencies and cripple tax enforcement. Trump’s big policy moves are accompanied by an avalanche of suspicious trades. “Of the stock and stock fund sales administration officials reported between Jan. 20 and April 30, 90% fell within 10 days of the tariff announcements,” USA Today reported last week. The New York Times suggested in April that if Trump seems to care little about crashing the stock market but a lot about the bond market, that may be explained by his own holdings: few stocks, many bonds. (Unlike most past presidents, Trump has not put his holdings in a blind trust.)

While Trump’s behavior discredits markets, his rhetoric vilifies markets. In April, the Trump administration imposed the most crushing tariffs on international commerce since the Smoot-Hawley Act’s regime of 1930. The Trump adviser Stephen Miller explained to Fox News the administration’s reasons: “Our leaders allowed foreign countries to rig the rules of the game, to cheat, to steal, to rob, to plunder,” he said. “That has cost America trillions of dollars in wealth.” Echoing his boss’s grievance-laden language, he said, “They’ve stolen our industries.” It’s not always phrased so vituperatively, but the message is consistent: free exchange is an illusion; there is nothing but exploitation. The only way to protect Americans from this exploitation is for the nation’s political leaders to subject more and more of the U.S. economy to state control. If this way of thinking is true, then the severest critics of capitalism are right.

Happily, this way of thinking is not true. Free exchange is a system of cooperation and mutual benefit, the most effective that humanity has yet discovered. But who in the Trump-led United States is arguing the case for free exchange? The most influential intellectuals of the left reject markets as too inequitable; those on the right reject them as too cosmopolitan. On one side, the professional politicians are intimidated by their most radical supporters; on the other, the politicians are under the sway of crooks and con artists, whose idea of capitalism is unregulated permission to bilk and defraud.

Marxists condemn capitalism as “organized robbery.” They could not be more wrong. But who will refute them when the government of the world’s largest capitalist democracy is in the hands of organized robbers?

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

About a year and a half ago, I was scheduled to play a concert in Vermont when word came that the gig would be canceled due to an approaching nor’easter. I checked out of the hotel early, lobbed my suitcase into the rental car, and hightailed it to New York as menacing clouds darkened the rearview mirror. Brooklyn had been home for the better part of two decades, but after a move to the Pacific Northwest, I was returning as a tourist, and the show’s cancellation augured a rare free evening in the city. There was just one problem: How was I going to figure out what to do with my night on the town?

This used to be easy. You grabbed The New Yorker, The New York Times, Time Out New York, or The Village Voice and checked out the event listings. When I graduated from college and moved to the city in 2003, Time Out quickly became my bible, syllabus, and road map. The listings guided me through the cobwebbed bowels of St. Mark’s Church and into the Ontological-Hysteric Theater hidden within, where Richard Foreman’s mind-bending plays made an indelible impression on me. The listings brought me to Southpaw to hear Neko Case’s bloodshot voice; to the Village Vanguard for Jason Moran or Paul Motian; and to a tin-ceilinged basement bar in Park Slope, where I saw a baby-faced Sharon Van Etten sing her earliest songs, and then bashfully hand out CDs burned with her demos, rich with high-frequency hiss from the tape deck onto which she’d recorded them.

But over the past decade, event listings have all but disappeared. The New York Times killed its weekly arts listings at the end of 2016, and its online arts-and-entertainment guide remains frozen, like a butterfly pinned and dried, in March 2020: “New York Arts Institutions Closed Because of Coronavirus” reads the top headline. The Village Voice folded in 2018. (It has recently been revived but has no listings section to speak of.) The New Yorker’s Goings On About Town section was slashed in 2023 to just a page or two, now offering one recommendation per discipline. And Time Out, that veritable doorstop of weekly listings, now previews one or two concerts a month.

[From the June 2025 issue: Is this the worst-ever era of American pop culture?]

This is, in part, a familiar story about declining ad revenue, about changing pressures and priorities in the journalism business. When listings began to disappear, many imagined that the internet would simply fill the void—that artists and their fans (as well as nonprofit institutions and their audiences) would find new ways to connect. But a world in which clicks are dollars has led to an ouroboros of cultural journalism in which what is already popular must be written about—which increases its popularity, which means it must be written about, which increases its popularity—and a social-media ecosystem in which artists, no longer able to rely on legacy media for visibility, must create content to please an algorithm instead of their fans or themselves.

As mainstream culture grows ever narrower, once-robust subcultures are struggling for survival. Perhaps social-media influencers are today’s critics and curators, but even as our feeds promise “discovery,” they mostly serve us what we already like. We have no idea what we’re missing.

The listings were my lodestar. And that star’s orbit was maintained, at least in part, by a journalist named Steve Smith.

Smith was a music editor at Time Out New York from 2001 to 2014. He’d gotten his start at a classical radio station in Houston, introducing Brahms symphonies by day and playing in a rock band in biker bars—he was the drummer—by night. This stylistic mishmash would become a trademark of his sensibility. When we spoke last month, Smith mentioned Karlheinz Stockhausen; the Clash; Billy Idol; John Zorn; John Coltrane; Scandinavian metal; Kronos Quartet; Kiss; Steve Reich; Emerson, Lake & Palmer; and Beethoven—all within the first 10 minutes of our conversation.

Time Out “was a magazine that was basically nothing but the listings,” Smith told me*.* “Nobody said, ‘Oh, that obscure thing that’s happening on a loading dock in Tribeca? No, that’s too weird.’ I was basically told, ‘List what’s interesting; list what people will want to know about.’” A coveted red asterisk denoted a critic’s pick. “I had the privilege,” he said, “of making a difference in the lives of a number of composers and performers. And that, to me, was the most gratifying piece of the job.”

One of the lives he changed was mine. The first review I ever received as a singer-songwriter, for a set at Tonic, was written by Smith, for his blog Night After Night. A 33-word listing in Time Out came soon after—a blurb that would remain in my press kit for years. In 2009, he interviewed me for a New York Times Sunday Arts & Leisure profile. The morning after the story ran, Lincoln Center called my manager and offered me a debut on its American Songbook performance series. Who reviewed that concert for the Times? None other than Steve Smith.

These listings weren’t just a boon for artists like me—they were also a teeth-cutting opportunity for cub journalists, one that demanded brutal concision. Smith, a master of the miniature, stood on the shoulders of those such as Robert Christgau, a longtime Village Voice music editor and the self-proclaimed dean of American rock critics. About a Patti Smith show, from the April 7, 1975, issue: “Funny, frightening, and just polished enough, Smith shifts from rock and roll to poetry reading like someone who really believes in street literature.”

In its heyday, the Voice’s newsroom reverberated with the chaotic counterpoint of freaky choristers, all covering New York City with an obsessive commitment to hyperlocalism: Scenesters haunted hardcore shows at warehouses in Brooklyn; theater nerds ventured to East Village basements for experimental one-acts; dance lovers frequented Lower East Side nightclubs to cover bawdy performance art and contortionist spectacles. Here was a newspaper that, through dogged documentation of small and sometimes-fragile artistic microclimates, came to wield wide-reaching influence over national aesthetic trends as it championed unknown artists like Smith, the Talking Heads, Philip Glass, and so many others. That New York media have turned away from the local in favor of established celebrities may ultimately result in its irrelevance.

Sixteen years after that first profile in the Times, I am fortunate to still be making a living playing music. But mine was a transitional generation: I came of age just in time to benefit from the old models and media apparatuses, only to watch them crumble around me. Few emerging musicians today could dream of a two-sentence blurb previewing a Monday-night set at a small club on the Lower East Side, let alone a thousand-word profile.

The demise of listings is “tangled up with the erosion of review coverage,” the jazz critic Nate Chinen told me, while stressing that “the fundamental utility of a publication is bringing people out” to see a gig: “The immediate danger is that artists play and people don’t know about it.”

Chinen would know. He wrote the jazz listings at The New York Times from 2005 until 2016. Those blurbs, he understood, could mean the difference between a standing-room-only show and one where the musicians outnumbered the audience. Today, it’s harder than ever for aesthetically adventurous artists to make ends meet. Some have left the business, and others limp along, subsidizing their income with teaching gigs and odd jobs. Meanwhile, pop stars are doing great.

The decline of listings followed the broader trend toward “poptimism,” a critical movement that began as a corrective to the white-male-dominated popular-music journalism of the late 20th century. In a now-canonic broadside published in 2004, the critic Kelefa Sanneh argued that the snobbery of those white-male critics was bathed in racism and sexism, and often resulted in the neglect of music by women and people of color. Poptimists believed that music that was actually popular—the guilty-pleasure radio hits we wail in the car, many of them performed by nonwhite, nonmale artists—ought to be treated with the same reverence granted to the art rockers. Fair enough!

But what Sanneh and like-minded critics could not have anticipated was the extent to which their goal would collide with the economic imperatives of internet-based journalism*.* In the 21 years since Sanneh’s essay was published, poptimism has become the status quo in mainstream music criticism, reaching its apotheosis in 2023 with USA Today’s hiring of a full-time Taylor Swift reporter, Bryan West, who would go on to file—you may want to sit down—501 articles about Swift during her Eras Tour. In such a climate, it’s easy to forget that poptimism was once driven by the impulse to lift up marginalized voices.

Indeed, much of today’s cultural coverage reflects a different societal more, one in which, as the political philosopher Michael J. Sandel has written, we measure the value of people’s contributions to the common good solely by “the market value of the goods or services they sell.” In other words, covering what’s popular doesn’t just serve journalism’s economic bottom line; it also expresses our beliefs. In a society in which dignity and status accrue to the powerful, it’s no wonder that outlets once dedicated to nurturing subcultures now publish endless paeans to celebrities.

A reader might object: Aren’t you just complaining about the cultural version of natural selection? If niche genres can’t hack it in today’s algorithm-driven world, maybe they deserve extinction. But if they are allowed to die, popular music will also suffer. The terms highbrow and lowbrow conceal a broader ecology in which the raw materials of art move easily from one genre to another. Classical composers have long ransacked folk music to furnish their symphonies with great tunes. Similarly, there would be no Beatles’ White Album without Karlheinz Stockhausen’s tape music, no Rosalía’s Motomami without the vocal arrangements of the Pulitzer Prize–winning composer Caroline Shaw. If we want the next Billie Eilish to be able to work with the next Attacca Quartet, we should ensure that lesser-known artists enjoy a bare minimum of support.

To look at a page of event previews was to understand how a collection of artists related to one another. This, according to the opera critic Olivia Giovetti, was one of Smith’s great gifts as an editor. “He crafted listings,” Giovetti told me, “in such a way that drew out and illuminated the connections between artists, so that the reader came to understand that if they enjoyed that Victoire show at Le Poisson Rouge, they might also dig a yMusic concert at Rockwood Music Hall.” You may not have heard of either group, but you likely know the Metropolitan Opera, where Victoire’s founder, Missy Mazzoli, is headed with her adaptation of George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo, and you’ve probably heard of Paul Simon, who tapped yMusic to join him on his farewell tour in 2018.

The loss of listings is, in this sense, the loss of a whole world, which historians, too, will have to contend with. Take any issue of The New Yorker from the first 98 years of its existence, and the Goings On About Town section offers a rich snapshot of the city and its subcultures. The same was true of the Times. “On any given day,” Chinen told me, “there would be a review of a New York–based dance company at the Joyce Theater, a Ben Ratliff review about a koto player at Issue Project Room, Jon Pareles reviewing an indie-folk artist at Joe’s Pub. It was this incredibly robust account of a thriving arts community in a city that, right or wrong, considers itself to be the center of the universe. That’s the garden. That’s the plant mix that existed.” How will historians write the story of a city that no longer maintains a record of its own cultural life?

In this new paradigm, I, like so many others, feel shackled to my Instagram account, resentful that it has become my personal marketing and public-relations departments, yet resigned to its relative efficacy as a mouthpiece. (I tried to opt out, taking a full year off from the internet and another six months away from social media, returning only when my manager begged me to do so. “The phone has stopped ringing,” he said bluntly.) So yes, amid the gallimaufry of links, photos, and screen caps, I post bite-size songs: here, a William Carlos Williams–inspired lament for the tariff-burdened penguins of Heard Island; there, a setting of a Craigslist ad for free reptiles. A lot of my work is sober and politically minded, but I think it’s important to hold on to laughter and absurdity too.

Still, those miniature tunes, delivered algorithmically, often bypass my own Instagram followers, landing instead in the feeds of total strangers. For them, these songs are divorced from the broader footprint of my work, which has included oratorios about homelessness and railway travelogues documenting a divided America. Cultural journalism once created that context.

[Spencer Kornhaber: Taylor Swift is having quality-control issues]

What’s to be done? Performing-arts institutions could work together to underwrite their own weekly listings website or print publication, with their financial contributions scaled according to their budget so that small operations aren’t left out. Sure, there would be challenges, namely a blurring of the line between advertising and editorial. Ideally, a group of writers and editors would produce listings with total independence, shielded from pressure by funders.

The other solution—plausible or not—is for outlets such as the Times and The New Yorker to reverse course: to recognize that their listings were a public good serving artists, audiences, and arts presenters alike. The societal benefit of a comprehensive guide to the cultural sector can’t be readily calculated on a balance sheet.

For now, Smith is still serving as the secretary, the minute keeper, the town historian for the creative-music community in New York. After Time Out, he spent two years at The Boston Globe as an arts editor, and then bounced between various jobs covering music back in the city, including a five-year stint writing listings for The New Yorker. He’s now a copywriter at an arts institution. Still, he maintains a Substack newsletter, Night After Night, which shares the name of his old blog, the one on which he gave me my first review. Each week, Smith compiles a roundup of notable events in music that lives beyond that narrow mainstream. When I asked him when he returned to writing listings, he said, “I never really stopped.”

Although a comprehensive digital archive of Time Out does not exist, The New Yorker is searchable back to its inaugural issue, published in February 1925. Like any good elder-Millennial narcissist, I did a quick search of my name to look for its first mention in Goings On About Town. There it was, in the issue for April 27, 2009. What else was happening? That week, Nathan Lane and Bill Irwin were starring in a production of Waiting for Godot; Steve Wilson was at the Village Vanguard; Judy Collins was at Café Carlyle; Carnegie Hall featured appearances by Zakir Hussain, Kronos Quartet (playing the compositions of Terry Riley, Philip Glass, and Osvaldo Golijov), and the soon-to-be opera superstar Eric Owens; Chick Corea was leading an all-star band at Lincoln Center; and Lou Reed was holding court at the Gramercy Theatre.

Hell of a city, no?

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This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.

Welcome back to The Daily’s Sunday culture edition, in which one Atlantic writer or editor reveals what’s keeping them entertained. Today’s special guest is Luis Parrales, an assistant editor who has written about what the border-hawk Catholics get wrong and why the papacy is no ordinary succession.

Luis is a new fan of the author Mario Vargas Llosa and a longtime listener of the singer-songwriter Jorge Drexler. His other recommendations include “Femininomenon,” by Chappell Roan; The Bear; and anything by Conan O’Brien—whom he deems “the king of American comedy.”

The Culture Survey: Luis Parrales

Best novel I’ve recently read, and the best work of nonfiction: I was embarrassingly unfamiliar with the Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa before his death, in April, besides some high-level lore—his role in the Latin American Boom, his failed presidential bid, the time he socked Gabriel García Márquez in the face. Soon after, I decided enough was enough and picked up his historical novel The Feast of the Goat, published in 2000. Through the brutal regime of Rafael Trujillo, who ruled the Dominican Republic until his assassination at the hands of revolutionaries, in 1961, Vargas Llosa explores how the wounds inflicted by a dictatorship remain long after it officially ends. But as gritty and dark as the novel gets—and it gets dark—The Feast of the Goat is one of the most readable books I’ve ever encountered. That’s both because Vargas Llosa’s crisp prose makes the 400 or so pages fly by and, more important, because his novel never loses sight of the power of human resilience.

I was a bit more familiar with the moral philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre, who also passed away earlier this year. Although best known for his 1981 book, After Virtue (if you haven’t already, read David Brooks’s reflections on how its arguments help explain President Donald Trump’s appeal), MacIntyre also wrote Dependent Rational Animals. The book offers one of the most persuasive cases I’ve read against treating individual autonomy as the highest ideal, as well as a plea to view our limitations—aging, illness—and dependence on one another not as failings but as constitutive elements of human nature. Oh, and MacIntyre dedicates long stretches of his book to the intelligence of dolphins. Which is great.

A quiet song that I love, and a loud song that I love: Quiet: “If I Don’t Hear From You Tonight,” by Courtney Barnett. Loud: “Femininomenon,” by Chappell Roan.

Something I recently rewatched: Before earning box-office cachet with the Dune series, Denis Villeneuve directed Incendies, a modern Sophoclean tragedy set during a civil war in the Middle East. Nearly 15 years after its release, the film remains one of the most sobering portrayals of familial ties on-screen—of how they can at once inflict unspeakable pain and inspire courage and selflessness.

The television show I’m most enjoying right now: The latest season of FX’s exquisite The Bear.

The last thing that made me snort with laughter: For my money, Conan O’Brien is the king of American comedy, though part of his greatness is that he’s always reveled in playing the fool. He doesn’t have the commanding swagger of a Dave Chappelle or Bill Burr, opting instead for a style that my colleague David Sims has described as a “mix of silly surrealism with an old-timey flair.” I’ve been keeping up with O’Brien since his Late Night days, when I would get home from school and play the previous night’s episode, so watching him get the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor earlier this year felt plenty nostalgic. The full ceremony is on Netflix now, and it’s a comedic cornucopia for any Team Coco stans.

The last thing that made me cry: A few weeks before Independence Day, while visiting New York City, I ended up going to mass at Ascension Church, which has a jazz liturgy on Sunday evenings. Most of my favorite church music leans traditional, yet to my surprise, I felt incredibly moved by the unconventional reverence of melodies with echoes of Art Blakey and Miles Davis. One highlight: the jazz mass’s version of the hymn “This Is My Song.” These lines in particular felt providentially relevant for anybody searching for a more warmhearted patriotism:

This is my home, the country where my heart is; here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine; but other hearts in other lands are beating with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

The last museum or gallery show that I loved: Museo Nacional de Historia, in Mexico City.

A musical artist who means a lot to me: The Uruguayan singer-songwriter Jorge Drexler isn’t super well known in America—though he did write the first Spanish-language song to win an Oscar for Best Original Song—but he’s pretty acclaimed in Latin America and Spain, especially for his lyricism. He can use scientific principles (the law of conservation or the evolution of cells, for example) as metaphors for love, or meditate on weighty political questions (migration, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict) without coming off as preachy. No musician means more to me than Drexler, whose art teems with the wonder of a wide-eyed humanist.

A poem, or line of poetry, that I return to: “Two in the Campagna,” by Robert Browning:

Only I discern— Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

Here are three Sunday reads from The Atlantic:

The first survivors of CECOT tell their stories.The one book everyone should readChasing le Carré in Corfu

The Week Ahead

The Naked Gun, an action-comedy film starring Liam Neeson as a hapless yet determined detective (in theaters Friday)Season 2 of Twisted Metal, a postapocalyptic action-comedy series with murderous clowns and a deadly demolition tournament (premiering Thursday on Peacock)Black Genius, an essay collection by Tre Johnson that identifies overlooked examples of genius in the Black community (out Tuesday)

Essay

Eero Jarnefelt / Heritage Images / Getty

The Mistake Parents Make With Chores

By Christine Carrig

Each September at the Montessori school I run, the preschoolers engage in an elaborate after-lunch cleanup routine. They bustle through the room with sweepers and tiny dustpans, spreading crumbs all over the floor and making a bigger mess than they started with …

Contrast this with my own house—where, in a half-hearted effort to encourage my children to take responsibility for our home, I’ve been known to say, “You live here!” as they ignore the pile of dishes in the sink. After years in Montessori classrooms, I assumed that a culture of taking responsibility would develop spontaneously in my family. And it might have, had I not made some early mistakes.

Read the full article.

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Jade Rick Verdillo and Jamaica Aguilar kiss during their wedding in the flooded Barasoain Church, in the Philippines. (Aaron Favila / AP)

Despite flooding caused by heavy monsoon rains in the Philippines, Jade Rick Verdillo and Jamaica Aguilar decided to stick to their planned wedding date.

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All the comforts of a Waldorf Astoria city-view suite did not, at that moment, seem to cheer Jasmine Crockett. The 44-year-old Texas Democrat known for her viral comebacks was frowning as she walked into her hotel room in Atlanta last month. She glanced around before pulling an aide into the bathroom, where I could hear them whispering. Minutes later, she reemerged, ready to unload.

She was losing her race to serve as the top Democrat on the House Oversight Committee, she told me, a job she felt well suited for. Members of the Congressional Black Caucus were planning to vote for the senior-most person in the race, even though that person wasn’t actually a Black Caucus member, Crockett complained. California members were siding with the California candidate. One member was supporting someone else in the race, she said, even though “that person did the worst” in their pitch to the caucus. Crockett was starting to feel a little used. Some of her colleagues were “reaching out and asking for donations,” she said, but those same colleagues “won’t even send me a text back” about the Oversight job.

To Crockett, the race had become a small-scale version of the Democratic Party’s bigger predicament. Her colleagues still haven’t learned what, to her, is obvious: Democrats need sharper, fiercer communicators. “It’s like, there’s one clear person in the race that has the largest social-media following,” Crockett told me.

In poll after poll since Donald Trump’s reelection, Democratic voters have said they want a fighter, and Crockett, a former attorney who represents the Dallas area, has spent two and a half years in Congress trying to be one. Through her hearing-room quips and social-media insults, she’s become known, at least in MSNBC-watching households, as a leading general in the battle against Trump. The president is aware of this. He has repeatedly called Crockett a “low-IQ” individual; she has dubbed him a “buffoon” and “Putin’s hoe.” Perhaps the best-known Crockett clapback came last year during a hearing, after Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia made fun of Crockett’s fake eyelashes. Crockett, seeming to relish the moment, leaned into the mic and blasted Greene’s “bleach-blond, bad-built, butch body.” Crockett trademarked the phrase—which she now refers to as “B6”—and started selling T-shirts.

At the time, I wrote that the episode was embarrassing for everyone involved. But clearly it resonated. Crockett has become a national figure. Last year, she gave a keynote speech at the Democratic National Convention and was a national co-chair of Kamala Harris’s campaign. This year, she has been a fixture on cable news and talk shows as well as a top party fundraiser; she was in Atlanta, in part, for a meet and greet with local donors. At an anti-Trump protest on the National Mall in April, I saw several demonstrators wearing B6 shirts. Others carried signs with Crockett’s face on them.

Crockett is testing out the coarser, insult-comedy-style attacks that the GOP has embraced under Trump, the general idea being that when the Republicans go low, the Democrats should meet them there. That approach, her supporters say, appeals to people who drifted away from the Democrats in 2024, including many young and Black voters. “What establishment Democrats see as undignified,” Max Burns, a progressive political strategist, told me, “disillusioned Democrats see that as a small victory.” Republicans understand this, Crockett said: “Marjorie is not liked by her caucus, but they get her value, and so they gave her a committee chairmanship.”

Perhaps inadvertently, Crockett seemed to be acknowledging something I heard from others in my reporting: that the forthrightness her supporters love might undermine her relationships within the party. Some of Crockett’s fellow Democrats worry that her rhetoric could alienate the more moderate voters the party needs to win back. In the same week that Democratic leadership had instructed members to focus on Medicaid cuts and tax breaks for billionaires, Crockett referred to Texas Governor Greg Abbott, who uses a wheelchair, as “Governor Hot Wheels.” (Crockett claimed that she was referring to Abbott’s busing of migrants.) In an interview with Vanity Fair after the 2024 election, Crockett said that Hispanic Trump supporters had “almost like a slave mentality.” She later told a CNN host that she was tired of “white tears” and the “mediocre white boys” who are upset by DEI.

Unsurprisingly, Trump himself seems eager to elevate Crockett. “They say she’s the face of the party,” the president told my Atlantic colleagues recently. “If she’s what they have to offer, they don’t have a chance.” Some of the Republican targeting of Crockett is clearly rooted in racism; online, Trump’s supporters constantly refer to her as “ghetto” and make fun of her hair.

[From the June 2025 issue: ‘I run the country and the world’]

None of this appears to be giving Crockett any pause. The first time I met her, a month before our conversation in Atlanta, she was accepting a Webby Award, in part for a viral exchange in which she’d referred to Representative Nancy Mace of South Carolina as “child” and Mace suggested they “take it outside.” Backstage, in a downtown-Manhattan ballroom, I asked Crockett whether she ever had regrets about her public comments. She raised her eyebrows and replied, “I don’t second-guess shit.”

This spring, I watched Crockett test her theory of politics in a series of public appearances. At the Webbys, most of her fellow award winners were celebrities and influencers, but only Crockett received a standing ovation. A week later, Crockett flamed Republicans and the Trump administration during a House Judiciary subcommittee hearing about Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A 15-minute clip of her upbraiding ICE agents—“These people are out of control!”—has racked up more than 797,000 views on YouTube; I know this because she told me. On TikTok and Instagram, Crockett has one of the highest follower counts of any House member, and she monitors social-media engagement like a day trader checks her portfolio. She is highly conscious, too, of her self-presentation. During many of our conversations, Crockett wore acrylic nails painted with the word RESIST, and a set of heavy lashes over her brown eyes. The lock screen on her phone is a headshot of herself.

Representative Jasmine Crockett rides in a vehicle after attending events in the Atlanta area last month. (Photograph by Melissa Golden for The Atlantic)

Behind the scenes, the congresswoman speaks casually. At the Waldorf, I watched her deliver a quick Oversight-campaign pitch via Zoom. It was a virtual meeting of the Congressional Asian Pacific American Caucus, she’d explained to me beforehand. But then, after the call, she wasn’t sure. “CAPAC is the Asian caucus, right?” she asked. “Yes,” the aide confirmed. “That would’ve been bad,” Crockett said with a laugh. She can also be brusque. During our interview at the Waldorf, she dialed up a staffer in D.C. in front of me and scolded him for an unclear note on her schedule. Another time, in the car, after an aide brought Crockett a paper bag full of food from a fundraiser, she peered inside, scrunched her nose, and said, “This looks like crap.”

Still, Crockett is often more thoughtful in person than she might appear in clips. Once, after a hearing, I watched as she responded to a request for comment with a tight 90-second answer about faith and service. Another time, a reporter who was filming her tried to provoke her by asking what she would say to people who think she is “mentally ill.” “They can think whatever they want to, because as of now, we live in a democracy,” Crockett answered calmly, before taking another question. “I don’t want people to lose sight of the fact that this is someone with a very fine, legally trained mind,” Representative Ayanna Pressley of Massachusetts, a mentor of Crockett’s, told me.

Crockett’s Republican critics like to say that she’s a private-school girl playing a plainspoken Texas brawler for social-media clout. They’re not wrong about her background. Crockett grew up an only child in St. Louis, not Dallas, and attended private high school before enrolling at Rhodes College, a small liberal-arts school in Tennessee. When Crockett was young, her father was a life-insurance salesman and a teacher, she told me, and she has talked often about his work as a preacher; her mother, she said, still works for the IRS. Crockett’s stage presence precedes her political career. At Rhodes, from which she graduated in 2003, she was recruited to the mock-trial program after a team leader watched her enthusiastic performance as the narrator Ronnette in Little Shop of Horrors, her former coach, Marcus Pohlmann, told me. She won a national award during her first and only year in the program.

As Crockett tells it, she became interested in the law after she and a few other Black students at Rhodes received anonymous letters containing racist threats. The school hired a Black female attorney from the Cochran Firm, a national personal-injury-law group, to handle the case, Crockett told me. The attorney became Crockett’s “shero,” she said, and inspired her to attend law school herself. When I asked for the name of her shero so that I could interview her, Crockett told me that she did not remember. I reached out to a former Cochran Firm attorney in Tennessee who fit Crockett’s description; she remembered the incident in broad terms but was not sure if she had worked on the case or with Crockett. Although Rhodes College had no specific records of the incident, two people who worked at the college at the time told me that they recalled it.

Crockett worked for a few years as a public defender in deep-red Bowie County, Texas, before starting her own law firm, where she drew attention for defending Black Lives Matter demonstrators. She was sworn in to the Texas state House in 2021 and became the body’s third-most progressive member, according to the Texas Tribune, authoring dozens of bills, with an emphasis on criminal-justice reform. (None of the legislation for which she was the main author ever passed the Republican-dominated legislature.) “Most freshmen come, they are just trying to learn where the restrooms are,” but Crockett “came with a fight in her,” Texas Representative Toni Rose, a former Democratic colleague of Crockett’s, told me.

[Read: The real problem with Democrats’ ground game]

Having defeated an incumbent Democrat to win her seat, Crockett was already viewed as an agitator by some of her new colleagues. Then, in 2021, she became the unofficial spokesperson for a group of more than 50 Texas Democrats who fled to D.C. in a high-profile effort to stall Republican legislation. Her dealings with the press built up “real resentment” with Democratic leaders, one Texas-based party strategist, who was familiar with caucus actions at the time, told me. (This person, like some others interviewed for this story, was granted anonymity to speak candidly.) “When they broke quorum and it was important that everything be secret, she was on the phone to the press talking about what they were getting ready to do,” the strategist said. Both Crockett and her chief of staff at the time, Karrol Rimal, denied this version of events and told me that she had not given an interview before arriving in D.C. Rimal said that Crockett had agreed to do press only if the story would not be published until the Texas lawmakers crossed state lines. He added that state Democrats were sometimes jealous because Crockett “outshined them.”

Crockett attends a conference at New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Stonecrest, Georgia, in June. (Photograph by Melissa Golden for The Atlantic)

The state-House drama was short-lived: After one term, Crockett became the handpicked replacement for 15-term U.S. Representative Eddie Bernice Johnson. Crockett sailed to victory, and less than a year later, her breakthrough moment arrived: While questioning a witness in a committee hearing, Crockett held up a photograph of several boxes in a Mar-a-Lago bathroom. The classified documents, she said, looked like they were “in the shitter to me!” Trump critics  praised her as an “absolute star” and their “new favorite Congresswoman.”

Not everyone agreed. Johnson felt that the freshman congresswoman was dismissive of her experience and advice, according to two sources familiar with the relationship. “I don’t think it was a secret” that by the time Johnson died, in December 2023, “she had had second thoughts about Jasmine,” the Texas-based Democratic strategist said. Crockett strongly denied this characterization and said that she had never heard it from those close to Johnson. I reached out to Johnson’s son for his view, but he didn’t respond.

The race to replace the Oversight Committee’s top Democrat, the late Representative Gerry Connolly, presented a multipurpose opportunity. Democrats could preview their resistance strategy for a second Trump administration. And Crockett, who’d run an unsuccessful, last-minute bid for a leadership position the previous year, could test her own viability as a party leader.

In late May, Crockett brought me along to a private meeting in the green-walled office of a freshman member—Maxine Dexter of Oregon—where she made her pitch: The Democrats have a communication problem, Crockett said. “The biggest issue” with Joe Biden’s presidency wasn’t “that he wasn’t a great president,” she explained. “It was that no one knew what the fuck he did.” (Crockett acknowledged to Dexter that the former president is “old as shit,” but said, “He’s an old man that gets shit done.”) Crockett highlighted her own emphasis on social media, and the hundreds of thousands of views she had received on a recent YouTube video. “The base is thirsty. The base right now is not very happy with us,” Crockett continued, and if any lawmaker could make them feel heard, “it’s me.”

Crockett told Dexter that she had big plans for Oversight. She wanted to take hearings on the road, and to show voters that “these motherfuckers”—Republicans—are all “complicit” in Trump’s wrongdoing. She wasn’t worried about her own reelection. “I guess it’s my fearlessness,” she told Dexter.

Dexter asked Crockett about her relationship with leadership. Another young firebrand, Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, had bumped up against then-Speaker Nancy Pelosi when she arrived in Congress, Dexter noted. Crockett dismissed that concern, explaining that she had never wanted to “burn it down” and prefers to be seen as working on behalf of the party. The national “Fighting Oligarchy” tour featuring Senator Bernie Sanders and Ocasio-Cortez is a good idea, Crockett said, but it “kind of makes people be like, Oh, it’s about them, right? Instead of the team.” (Through a spokesperson, Ocasio-Cortez declined to comment. Crockett told me that the two have a positive relationship.)

[Read: Can you really fight populism with populism?]

By the end of the meeting, Dexter was ready to vote for Crockett. But she would never get the chance. Five days after Crockett’s fundraiser in Atlanta, Punchbowl News reported that she had “leaned into the idea of impeaching President Donald Trump,” which spooked swing-district members. Representative Robert Garcia of California was quickly becoming the caucus favorite. Like Crockett, he was relatively young and outspoken. But he had spent his campaign making a “subtle” case for generational change, Punchbowl said, and he’d told members that the Oversight panel shouldn’t “function solely as an anti-Trump entity.”

The same day the Punchbowl report was published, 62 Democratic leaders met to decide which of the four Oversight candidates they’d recommend to the caucus. The vote was decisive: Garcia, with 33 votes, was the winner. Crockett placed last, with only six. Around midnight, she went live on Instagram to announce that she was withdrawing her name from the race; Garcia would be elected the next morning. In the end, “recent questions about something that just wasn’t true” had tanked her support, Crockett told her Instagram viewers. She hadn’t campaigned on impeaching Trump, she told me later; she’d simply told a reporter that, if Democrats held a majority in the House, she would support an impeachment inquiry. And why not? She was just being transparent, Crockett told me, “and frankly, I may not get a lot of places because I am very transparent.”

Some of Crockett’s fellow Democrats find that candor refreshing. “People don’t necessarily agree with her aggressive communication style,” Representative Julie Johnson of Texas told me. “I’m thrilled she’s doing it, because we need it all.” Garcia, in a statement from his office, told me that Crockett is “one of the strongest fighters we have,” and that, “as a party, we should be taking notes on the kinds of skills she exemplifies.” But several other Democrats I reached out to about the race seemed uninterested in weighing in. Thirteen of her colleagues on the Oversight and Judiciary committees, along with 20 other Democratic members I contacted for this story, either declined to talk with me on the record or didn’t respond to my interview requests. Senior staffers for three Democratic members told me that some of Crockett’s colleagues see her as undisciplined but are reluctant to criticize her publicly. “She likes to talk,” one of the staffers said. “Is she a loose cannon? Sometimes. Does that cause headaches for other members? 100 percent.”

Crockett said that people are free to disagree with her communication style, but that she “was elected to speak up for the people that I represent.” As for her colleagues, four days before this story was published, Crockett called me to express frustration that I had reached out to so many House members without telling her first. She was, she told me, “shutting down the profile and revoking all permissions.”

Crockett does not have supporters so much as she has admirers. Everywhere she goes, young people ask for selfies, and groups of her red-clad Delta Sigma Theta sorority sisters pop up to cheer her on. A few days before she dropped out of the Oversight race, a congregation outside of Atlanta full of middle-aged Black Georgians was giddy to host her: Here was Jasmine Crockett, recounting her feud with Marjorie Taylor Greene.

“She thought she could play with me,” Crockett told Pastor Jamal Bryant, the leader of the New Birth Missionary Baptist Church and a progressive activist. There were a few “oh no”s in the crowd. “The average, maybe, person in my party potentially would have just let it go,” Crockett went on. “I wasn’t the one.” There were claps and whoops. “I was steaming, and I was ready,” she said. “I was like, ‘Well, two wrongs gonna make a right today, baby, cause I ain’t gonna let it go!’” The righteous anger in Crockett’s voice was audible; people applauded for it, probably because it sounded a lot like their own.

Audience members react to Crockett during a live recording of Pastor Jamal Bryant’s podcast at New Birth Missionary Baptist Church. (Photograph by Melissa Golden for The Atlantic)

Crockett’s fans are rooting for her to go bigger. And when I asked if she was considering running for Senate in the future—John Cornyn is up for reelection next year—Crockett didn’t wave me off. “My philosophy is: Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready,” she said. Crockett imagines a world in which Democrats are associated with lofty ideals and monosyllabic slogans, like Barack Obama once was. When I asked her what the party should stand for beyond being against Trump, and what she stands for, she explained, “For me, I always just say ‘the people,’” adding that her campaigns have always been associated with “fire.”

[Read: Where is Obama?]

Plenty of other Democrats believe that Crockett’s approach comes dangerously close to arson. Her critics argue that it’s easy to be outspoken in a safe Democratic seat; they might also point out that Crockett received 7,000 fewer votes in 2024 than Johnson, her predecessor, had in 2020. You can see James Carville coming from a mile away. “I don’t think we need a Marjorie Taylor Greene,” the longtime Democratic consultant told me. Crockett is “passionate. She has an instinct for making headlines. But does that help us at the end of the day?” he said. “You’re trying to win the election. That’s the overall goal.”

Crockett is not Marjorie Taylor Greene; for one, she is not peddling space-laser, weather-control conspiracy theories. Yet Crockett’s combative style could be a misreading of the moment, Lakshya Jain, an analyst at the political-forecasting site Split Ticket, told me. “People think the brand issue that Democrats have is they don’t fight enough and that they’re not mean enough,” Jain said, but “those are all just proxies for saying that they can’t get stuff done for people.” In Congress, Crockett has championed progressive causes and introduced plenty of legislation, but none of the bills she’s been the lead sponsor of has become law.

Clearly, though, lots of real-life voters want Jasmine Crockett. At the church outside Atlanta, Pastor Bryant triggered a standing ovation when he declared, “Jasmine Crockett for president” and “2028 is coming, y’all!” Outside, in the parking lot, someone shouted at Crockett, “First Black-woman president!” June was a disheartening month for Crockett. She was soundly rejected by her own colleagues and shut out of a chance at institutional power. But when we talked in her hotel room in Atlanta, she’d framed the situation differently: If Americans on the outside could vote, she’d insisted, “I absolutely feel like I know where it would go.”

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Aufort Jerome / GettyAn aerial view of Guédelon Castle in Treigny, France, in 2023Jacky Naegelen / Hans Lucas / ReutersStonecutters work at the construction site of the Chateau de Guédelon on June 25, 2005.Xavier Rossi / Gamma-Rapho / GettyA person in medieval-style clothing observes the building site of Guédelon Castle in June 2002.Thierry Perrin / Gamma-Rapho / GettyA blacksmith in period attire works at the Guédelon Castle site on April 12, 2018.Godong / Universal Images Group / GettyTwo people walk inside the “squirrel cage,” a medieval treadwheel crane, to lift material at the construction site in 2011.Aufort Jerome / GettyA view of the castle, under construction, as seen in 2023.Philippe Desmazes / AFP / GettyA person prepares a medieval dish for tourists visiting the construction site of Guédelon Castle on July 15, 2014.Jacky Naegelen / Hans Lucas / ReutersOn June 25, 2005, a carpenter prepares a log to be used for the construction of the castle.Jacky Naegelen / Hans Lucas / ReutersA stoneworker pours water onto stones and mortar being placed on September 13, 2016.Godong / Universal Images Group / GettyTimbers support the roof of the Great Hall inside of Guédelon Castle.Jacky Naegelen / Hans Lucas / ReutersA woman plays with geese at the construction site on September 13, 2016.Arnaud Finistre / AFP / GettyA visitor enters the castle from the courtyard on June 23, 2025.Xavier Rossi / Gamma-Rapho / GettyA carpenter works on support timbers for a rounded roof in June 2002.Albert Ceolan / De Agostini / GettyYoung women work on a shingled roof at the castle construction site in 2019.Godong / Universal Images Group / GettyA close view of stonework and an arched opening in the castle wall.Arnaud Finistre / AFP / GettyVisitors tour the construction site of Guédelon Castle on June 23, 2025.Stephane Mouchmouche / Hans Lucas / ReutersChildren and adults attend a construction workshop led by a worker at the castle on April 29, 2023.Arnaud Finistre / AFP via GettyA school group tours the Guédelon construction site in Treigny, France, on June 23, 2025.

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Editor’s Note: Washington Week With The Atlantic is a partnership between NewsHour Productions, WETA, and The Atlantic airing every Friday on PBS stations nationwide. Check your local listings, watch full episodes here, or listen to the weekly podcast here.

Lingering questions over the Epstein case are consuming the White House and paralyzing Congress. Panelists on Washington Week With The Atlantic joined to discuss how a once-fringe conspiracy theory became a spiraling controversy.

One of the reasons Donald Trump cannot manage to deny or deflect attention over the Epstein investigation is that the case centers on “what the MAGA base is about, which is powerful people doing things behind closed doors,” Eugene Daniels, a senior Washington correspondent at MSNBC, argued last night.

The president tends to talk to his base about “how the lowly man and woman are losing out to these interests in Washington,” Daniels continued. “But now they are seeing Donald Trump seemingly being one of the people doing the defending and the protecting of the powerful people,” and “that’s why I think he can’t shake it.”

Joining the Atlantic staff writer Franklin Foer to discuss this and more: Peter Baker, the chief White House correspondent at The New York Times; Eugene Daniels, a co-host of The Weekend at MSNBC; Susan Glasser, a staff writer at The New Yorker; and Jonathan Karl, the chief Washington correspondent at ABC News.

Watch the full episode here.

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This is an edition of The Wonder Reader, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a set of stories to spark your curiosity and fill you with delight. Sign up here to get it every Saturday morning.

“Reading has been unfairly maligned as an indoor activity for far too long,” Bekah Waalkes wrote this past spring. “As a child, when nice weather came around, I was told to put down my book and go play outside.” But why can’t reading a book be a form of outdoor play? Reading outside can also be a practice in sustained attention, Waalkes writes: The act of focus can actually sharpen “one’s perception of the trees, the soil, the friends chattering at the next table in the beer garden.”

Today’s newsletter offers a guide to reading outdoors—how to make the most of it, and which books to take with you on your adventure.

Six Books You’ll Want to Read Outdoors

By Bekah Waalkes

Reading has been unfairly maligned as an indoor activity for far too long.

Read the article.

24 Books to Get Lost in This Summer

By The Atlantic Culture Desk

The Atlantic’s writers and editors have chosen fiction and nonfiction to match all sorts of moods.

Read the article.

The One Book Everyone Should Read

By The Atlantic Culture Desk

The Atlantic’s staffers on the books they share—again and again

Read the article.

Still Curious?

Take your book outside: Reading al fresco isn’t always idyllic, but it can be sublime, Emma Sarappo writes.The unbearable smugness of walking: Literary walking has long been celebrated, Michael LaPointe writes. Is it really worth the hype?

Other Diversions

How Justin Bieber finally gave us the song of the summerAlexandra Petri: “How I came to be in the Epstein files”The psychological secret to longevity

P.S.

Courtesy of Tim Tumlin

I recently asked readers to share a photo of something that sparked their sense of awe in the world. “I had awakened early on this morning in July 2016 and tiptoed out of the hikers' dorms at Rifugio Lagazuoi, which is perched at 9,000 feet in the Italian Dolomites,” Tim Tumlin, 74, in Darien, Illinois, writes. “As I hoped, the silent overwhelming beauty made the climb the day before more than worthwhile.”

I’ll continue to feature your responses in the coming weeks.

— Isabel

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Can this really be the song of the summer? For seven weeks now, the most popular tune in the country has been Alex Warren’s “Ordinary”—a solemn ballad that has all of the warm-weather appropriateness of a fur coat. Ideally, the song of the summer is a buoyant one, giving you a beat to bob a flamingo floatie to. “Ordinary,” instead, is made for stomping, moping, and forgetting.

The top reaches of the Billboard Hot 100 have otherwise mostly been stale and flukey, filled with songs that were popular last summer (Teddy Swims’s “Lose Control”), replacement-level efforts by the streaming behemoths Drake and Morgan Wallen, and tie-ins from the Netflix cartoon show KPop Demon Hunters. Then, just last week, a welcome bit of warmth and novelty emerged at No. 2—“Daisies” by Justin Bieber, the unlikely emblem of our obviously fragile national mood.

Perhaps you aren’t inclined to check out new music by a formerly chirpy child star who lately has been best known for his surreal interactions with paparazzi. But earlier this month, the 31-year-old Bieber suddenly released a new album, Swag, that made headlines for being rather good. Not “good for Bieber”; good for a modern pop release. Swag filled a void in the summer-listening landscape by meeting listeners where they so clearly seem to be—less in need of a party-fueling energy drink than a soothing slather of aloe.

The album is Bieber’s first since parting ways with manager Scooter Braun, the record-business kingpin who recently seemed to suffer a catastrophic collapse in support from the celebrity class. The music departs from the pert poppiness of Bieber’s past to indulge the singer’s well-documented fascination with hip-hop and R&B. In one interlude, the comedian Druski tells Bieber “your soul is Black”; the assertion is cringey, but the album’s music is significantly more subtle than that. Bieber never really raps. Rather, he uses his ever-yearning, creamy-soft voice to do what great rappers and R&B singers often do: find a pocket within a beat, and then let emotions be his guide.

What’s really fascinating about the album, though, is that it sounds like it’s wrapped in gauze. The production is aqueous and rippling, rather than shiny and laminated as one might expect from Bieber. Swag is heavily influenced by the indie producer-artists Dijon (who collaborated on a few of the album’s songs) and Mk.gee (a producer on “Daisies”). They have risen to prominence by swirling bygone rock and pop signifiers into a comforting yet complex stew of sound. Swag’s songs similarly hit the listener with a sense of gentle intrigue, like a minor recovered memory.

The instant hit “Daisies” exemplifies the approach. Its twanging guitars and pounding drums scan as countrified classic rock, but every element seems muffled, as if emanating from an iPhone lost in a couch. The verses steadily build energy and excitement—but then disperse in a gentle puff of feeling. In a lullaby whisper, Bieber sings of pining for his girl and sticking with her through good times and bad. “Hold on, hold on,” goes one refrain: a statement of desire for safety and stability, not passion and heat.

But my personal song-of-the-summer nomination would be Swag’s opening track, “All I Can Take.” It opens in a tenor of pure cheese, with keyboard tones that were last fashionable when Steve Winwood and Boyz II Men were soundtracking school dances. A lightly pumping beat comes to the fore, setting the stage for a parade of different-sounding Biebers to perform. In one moment, he’s a panting Michael Jackson impersonator. In another, he’s an electronically distorted hyperpop sprite. The song is serene, and pretty, and ever so sad—yet it’s also wiggling with details that suggest there’s more to the story than initially meets the ear. The lyrics thread together sex talk with hints of stresses that must be escaped; “It’s all I can take in this moment,” Bieber sings, hinting at a burnout whose cause the listener is left to imagine.

Swag’s approach—downtempo yet bustling, melancholic yet awake—is on trend emotionally as much as it is musically. Though the year has brought no shortage of bright, upbeat pop albums from the likes of Lady Gaga and Kesha, the music that’s sticking around has a reserved, simmering quality. The biggest Wallen song of the moment is “What I Want,” a collaboration with the whisper-singing diva Tate McRae; it builds suspense for a full minute before any percussion enters. One rising hit, Ravyn Lenae’s “Love Me Not,” has a neo-soul arrangement that fidgets enough to keep the ear occupied without demanding active attention.

A dreary technological reason probably explains why this kind of music is popular: Streaming rewards background fare more than it rewards jolting dynamism. But even looking at my own recent playlists, downtempo seems in. The best song by Addison Rae, the TikTok phenom turned pop mastermind, is “Headphones On,” a chill-out track laden with tolling bells and jazz keyboards. I have kept returning to the album Choke Enough by Oklou, a French singer who makes electronic pop that’s so skeletal and frail-seeming, you worry you’re despoiling the songs merely by listening to them. Other recent highlights: the mumbled and dreamy indie rock of Alex G’s Headlights, the depressive easy listening of Haim’s I quit, and “Shapeshifter,” the wintry-sounding standout from Lorde’s Virgin.

It’s hard to avoid psychoanalyzing this season’s musical offerings and concluding that the culture is suffering from malaise, or at least a hangover. After all, just a year ago we had “Brat summer,” named for the hedonistic Charli XCX album. The songs of that summer were irrepressible: Sabrina Carpenter’s sarcastic “Espresso,” Kendrick Lamar’s taunting “Not Like Us,” and Shaboozey’s thumping “A Bar Song (Tipsy).” But this year, Charli XCX’s biggest song is “Party 4 U”—a pandemic-doldrums ballad released in 2020 that recently blew up thanks to a TikTok trend of people sharing emo stories about their lives. The track captures a bleary feeling of trying to have fun but getting pulled into melancholy.

That’s a feeling lots of Americans surely can relate to. Every era brings its own reasons to fret about the state of the world, but the headline-news topics of late—wars, deportations, layoffs—are upending lives in profound ways at mass scale. Swag isn’t about any of that, but great pop always works to make small and personal emotions echo broad, communal ones.

Bieber’s highly publicized experiences navigating mental health, drug use, and physical maladies have long served up a cautionary tale about life in the internet era. In the months leading up to Swag’s release, he posted angry, inscrutable messages online and confronted reporters on the streets. Pundits have taken to asking Is he okay? The cooling, noncommittal, lightly distressed sound of Swag is an answer of sorts. Like many of us, he’s doing as well as can be, given the circumstances.

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Americans have a long history of enduring heat waves by going outside. In a 1998 essay for The New Yorker, the author Arthur Miller described urbanites’ Depression-era coping mechanisms: People caught the breeze on open-air trolleys, climbed onto the back of ice trucks, and flocked to the beach. In the evenings, they slept in parks or dragged their mattresses onto fire escapes.

But since air conditioning went mainstream, in the 1960s, the easiest way to beat the heat has been by staying indoors—at home, the office, the mall—where cool air is a constant and blinds are often drawn to prevent homes from overheating (and electric bills from skyrocketing). For this convenience, Americans sacrifice the benefits of sunshine and the opportunities for fun it creates. As climate change turns up the temperature, summers in America are coming down to a choice between enduring the heat and avoiding it—both of which might, in their own ways, be making people sick.

In cities across the country, summers are, on average, 2.6 degrees hotter than they were some 50 years ago. In Phoenix, where a 95-degree day is a relief, schedules are arranged around the darkness; Jeffrey Gibson, an accountant who works from home, takes his eight-month-old daughter out for walks before 6:30 a.m.; after that, it’s so hot that she flushes bright red if they venture outside. He spends the rest of his day indoors unless leaving is absolutely necessary. It’s like this from April to October. Gibson recently told his wife, “Man, I think I’m a little depressed.”

Josef A. Von Isser, a therapist in Tucson, Arizona, told me that feeling low in the summer comes up a lot with his clients. Some feel that the heat affects them directly; others struggle with its indirect effects, such as fewer opportunities to socialize and be somewhere other than home or the office. All of them, he suspects, might be experiencing seasonal affective disorder.

The DSM-5 categorizes SAD as a type of major depression with a seasonal pattern, with symptoms such as sadness, feelings of worthlessness, and low energy. Usually, it presents in the winter, though scientists don’t agree on why. Some suspect that it’s because a lack of sun exposure may contribute to decreased levels of serotonin, a hormone that regulates mood, as well as vitamin D, which helps stimulate serotonin activity. Another theory links low exposure to sunlight with unusually high levels of melatonin, a hormone that helps regulate sleep.

[Read: The surprising truth about seasonal depression]

Summer SAD is generally accepted as a variety of the disorder, but it’s much rarer than the winter form; one study from earlier this year puts its prevalence at about 0.6 percent. That makes summer SAD especially hard to study. “It’s clearly a different kind of illness,” Paul Desan, a psychiatry professor at Yale, told me, but “it’s not in their imagination.” Unlike the winter form, which comes with a tendency to overeat, oversleep, and withdraw from society, summer SAD involves reduced appetite, insomnia, and restlessness—all of which can also be effects of heat. The scientific literature shows that heat is associated with mood disorders, anxiety, aggression, and reduced cognitive abilities. Uncomfortably hot nights, longer periods of daylight, and extended stretches of time spent indoors all disrupt sleep, which can in turn fuel mood disorders, Amruta Nori-Sarma, an environmental-health professor at Harvard, told me. Extreme heat can also be an obstacle to exercising, spending time in nature, and socializing, all of which can make people feel good and also double as important coping mechanisms for emotional distress.

Taking comfort in air conditioning when it’s too hot out is a natural human response. But air-conditioned spaces can be stifling in their own way. Staying home where it’s cool also means socializing less; some offices and homes hardly let in a wink of sunlight all day. It’s plausible that in the summer, people experience SAD symptoms not only from excessive heat but also because they spend all of their time avoiding the sun, Kim Meidenbauer, a psychology professor at Washington State University, told me. “It does make sense to me that you’d have, potentially, an analogous pattern of effects” to winter SAD, she said. The link between indoor time and summer SAD hasn’t been studied, but plenty of Americans, even if they don’t meet the DSM-5 criteria, are noticing that summer is starting to feel a lot like winter. Reddit abounds with users who lament that being forced indoors by the heat gives them “summer depression.”

America’s summer quandary—suffer inside or out?—will become only more persistent as climate change intensifies. In the United States, heat waves have grown more frequent and intense every decade since the 1960s. During a single heat wave last month, people in 29 states were warned to stay inside to avoid dangerously high temperatures. All of the experts I spoke with expressed concerns about the impacts of escalating heat on mental health. “I am not optimistic,” Ayman Fanous, a psychiatry professor at the University of Arizona, told me, noting that heat also has a well-established link with suicide risk and can exacerbate mental-health conditions such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, and substance abuse. Many Americans don’t have access to air conditioning, or they work jobs that require them to be outside in the heat. Those who can stay cool inside may avoid the most severe consequences but still end up miserable for half of the year.

[Read: Earth’s new gilded era]

As long as summer SAD remains poorly understood, the options for addressing it will be limited. Treatment for winter SAD usually involves exposure to light boxes that mimic sunlight, but these aren’t recommended for summer SAD, because it might have a different neurobiological basis, Fanous said. For now, the first-line treatments are SSRIs such as Prozac—which can make people even more sensitive to heat.

For those with the means, the best strategy for beating summer SAD might be to move somewhere cooler. After eight years in Phoenix, Gibson has had enough of hiding from the heat for six months at a time and is ready to leave behind what he believes is his own summer SAD. Later this year, he plans to move his family to Colorado, where he hopes to be able to bring his daughter out during daylight hours. Yet Colorado summers, too, are becoming uncomfortably hot—and the same goes around the country. Last month, Alaska issued its first-ever heat advisory. As summer temperatures continue to rise, perhaps Americans will start to look back with envy on the ways our forebears beat the heat. The hotter summer nights get, the more sleeping on the fire escape starts to sound like a luxury.

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

Black cool is one of America’s great innovations, right up there with basketball, blue jeans, and the internet. It blends several forms—music, sports, fashion, speech, ways of cutting through space—into a wholly distinctive, globally influential aesthetic. There are French fashion houses in thrall to silhouettes first spotted in Harlem, Japanese men who have devoted their lives to spinning jazz records in Shibuya, and lavish murals of Tupac Shakur as far apart as Sydney and Sierra Leone.

Sean Combs, the disgraced record mogul, certainly did not invent Black cool. But like Miles Davis, Muhammad Ali, and Michael Jordan before him—and like Jay-Z, Kanye West, and many others who followed—for a flicker of time he was its most formidable ambassador.

That moment coincided with my adolescence, which is why the revelation of Combs’s extravagant cruelties—the depravity with which he used all that he’d gained—has left my childhood friends and me feeling so betrayed. We had looked up to Diddy, whom I will always think of as Puff Daddy or Puffy. When we were at our most impressionable, he taught us what to want and gave us a model for how to behave and succeed. Seeing him fall apart in our middle age feels like a kind of heartbreak. The verve and swagger he injected into our childhood dreams have curdled into something rancid.

[Read: The disturbing implications of the Diddy verdict]

Certain photographs of Puffy are permanently etched into my memory. In 1995, dipped in a flowing black-and-gold Versace Barocco silk chemise, liberally unbuttoned to flex a thick Cuban link anchored by a diamond-encrusted Jesus piece—the definitive signifier of inner-city affluence. September ’96, on the cover of Vibe magazine: head peering from behind his greatest protégé, the Notorious B.I.G.; signature blackout shades; a perfect S-curl relaxing the weft of his fade. The cool he exuded in these moments was inspirational, even masterful. My friends and I had never seen anything like it so fully pervade the culture, certainly not from someone we felt we could relate to.

I have not admired Combs for decades now, since well before his trial this year. But I will always be partial to the Puff Daddy of the ’90s: from 1993, when he founded his record label, Bad Boy Entertainment, through the spectacular rise and death of the Notorious B.I.G., and peaking around 1998 during hip-hop’s “shiny-suit era,” which he pioneered with Ma$e and the Lox.

By the time I got to college, Puffy was even wealthier, and my cultural references had begun to change. I vaguely remember the preposterous images of him strolling beneath a blazing Mediterranean sun while his valet spread a parasol over his head. He was mainly in the news because of a shooting at Club New York, which resulted in bribery and gun-possession charges against him and a highly publicized trial (he was acquitted). For my friends and me, his shocking newness had begun to fade.

Back in his prime, though, Puffy conveyed a sense of youthful ambition that we revered. He was able to transition from sidekick and hype man to dealmaker and multiplatinum performer. Before turning 25, he had founded his own culture-defining business—soon-to-be empire—and knew precisely how to leverage his growing fortune into social capital.

More than his success, we were struck by two qualities that seemed novel to us. The first was the amount of effort he openly displayed, which counterintuitively amplified his cool. Puffy made no pretense of obscuring the maniacal work required to achieve his goals. When he closed a million-dollar deal, he slammed the phone down and screamed. (Years later, he would become one of the original hustle-culture influencers on Twitter.) He showed us that flourishing was not a condition one had to be born into—that luxury and labor were connected.

The second quality was his ability to make Black people and Black culture—even its less compromising, more street-inflected iteration—feel at home in places, such as the Hamptons, that had not previously welcomed them. Puffy’s motto “I’ma make you love me” felt innocent and aspirational to us, not least because he actually achieved it. We were still many years away from realizing just what he would do with all the love he was given.

[Helen Lewis: The non-exoneration of Diddy]

Puff Daddy seemed to us then like a Black man utterly free in a moment of expanding opportunity. Before the age of social media, before we’d ever stepped on a plane, Puffy represented our first intimation of an unrestricted way of being-for-self in the world. On the one hand, he was the antidote to the soul-crushing squareness of upwardly mobile middle-class life that we so feared—degrees, office jobs, bills. On the other hand, he was perfectly assimilated into the good life of the American mainstream, to which we desperately craved access.

This made him dramatically unlike his peers. Tupac and Biggie were confrontational, and look where it got them. Rap entrepreneurs such as Master P and Brian “Baby” Williams were rich but ghettoized; any number of establishments wouldn’t seat them. Puffy, by contrast, looked like a marvelous solution to the problem of success and authenticity that my friends and I had been struggling to solve.

Yet we were suffering from a kind of myopia. And it wasn’t unique to us. The generation after us put their faith in Kanye West, whose most recent contribution to the culture is a single titled “Heil Hitler.” Role models are like seasons. One passes irretrievably into the next, but for a moment they might reveal possibilities that outlast and surpass them.

*Illustration Sources: Jeff Kravitz / FilmMagic, Inc / Getty; Nitro / Getty; Steve Eichner / Getty Images; Al Pereira / Getty Images / Michael Ochs Archives; Richard Corkery / NY Daily News Archive via Getty.

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed

This month, the Ukrainian government made an unusual choice for its new prime minister. In a rare move for the country—and indeed for most of Eastern Europe—it picked a woman. Yulia Svyrydenko, a 39-year-old selected by President Volodymyr Zelensky and approved by Parliament, will lead the government in a period of intense uncertainty, as Russia escalates its offensive, Europe revamps its security commitments, and the Trump administration waffles on the war.

Some Ukrainian and Western observers have suggested that Svyrydenko isn’t up to the task, in part because they characterize her as a mere “loyalist” to Zelensky. She “would do everything saluting, without fail,” an anonymous source in Zelensky’s party told New Voice, a Ukrainian magazine. “I don’t believe she can reform our country,” Oleksiy Goncharenko, a member of Parliament, told me as he left a legislative session last week where he’d voted against her candidacy. “If she tries to criticize the president, she will end up like General Zaluzhny,” he continued, referring to Ukraine’s former army chief, whom Zelensky had dismissed after their differences became public.

The new prime minister is also facing overtly sexist criticism. “Svyrydenko is exactly the girl who all of you, dear students, are familiar with from school: She always sits at the front desk” and “carefully writes down the teacher’s notes,” Oleh Posternak, a Ukrainian political strategist, wrote in a Facebook post that a national media site republished.

Very few women have led former Soviet states, and they have virtually all received this kind of disparagement from men. In 2018, Georgia elected its first female president, Salome Zourabichvili, who’d run as an independent. Before she even took office, political observers called her a “finger puppet” of the billionaire leader of the ruling party, which had endorsed her. Today, many in Georgia credit Zourabichvili with uniting the opposition, and she condemned as “totally falsified” a recent election won by the party of her former patron.

In Moldova, many discounted Maia Sandu, who became the country’s first female president in 2020. Sandu’s rival in the race, the pro-Russian incumbent, Igor Dodon, criticized her for not having children—a line of attack that MAGA would later take up against Kamala Harris in the 2024 U.S. presidential race. In Dodon’s view, Sandu’s lack of offspring meant that she was “not interested in what is happening in the country.” Her opponents launched a misinformation campaign about her, much of which centered on the coronavirus pandemic. “The fake news scared people that I would close schools, hospitals, and even churches,” Sandu told me at the time. Instead, Sandu invested in the country’s medical and educational sectors, recruited European Union support for her agenda, and oversaw funding for the restoration of Orthodox churches. She has also been an effective reformer, working to root out the country’s extensive corruption.

[Anne Applebaum: The country that suffers whenever Russia schemes]

Svyrydenko has a chance to leave a similar legacy in Ukraine. She has ample experience working with foreign governments, whose support is now existentially important to Ukraine. Early in her career, she served as the country’s only permanent representative in China, bringing investment to her hometown of Chernihiv. As deputy prime minister, Svyrydenko negotiated billion-dollar reconstruction projects and trade agreements with the European Commission and Emirati leaders, as well as a $400 million investment from Turkish business interests. She also helped broker a natural-resources agreement with U.S. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent to create a joint investment fund to rebuild Ukraine.

Her appointment last week was part of a larger government reshuffle by Zelensky, who reassigned the previous prime minister, Denys Shmyhal, to the role of defense minister. In her new role, Svyrydenko will be tasked with rehabilitating the economy, boosting the domestic production of weapons, and strengthening Ukraine’s armed forces, in part by securing financing from allies and the International Monetary Fund. One of her first actions as prime minister was to advance talks with the United States about a major potential investment in Ukraine’s drone industry.

Nevertheless, and despite her strong résumé, Svyrydenko will have to contend with broad reservations in Ukraine about female leadership. According to a 2020 study conducted by the research group Rating, Ukrainians are more likely to prefer male political executives. Sometimes bad actors take advantage of this trust gap. Katerina Sergatskova, the executive director of the 2402 Foundation, which supports and trains Ukrainian journalists, has seen many Ukrainian women in public life become the target of harassment. “It is political sexism. The attacks are well-organized campaigns,” Sergatskova told me. She has experienced such a campaign herself, which included death threats that forced her to stay out of Ukraine for a time.

Sergatskova noted that many in Ukraine are comparing Svyrydenko to the country’s first female prime minister, Yulia Tymoshenko, who took office in 2005 and faced several corruption charges. One case resulted in a criminal conviction against her and two and a half years in prison, which the U.S. condemned as politically motivated. After the 2014 revolution, which ousted Ukraine’s pro-Russian regime, the supreme court overruled Tymoshenko’s conviction and ordered her release. Nevertheless, a large majority of the Ukrainian public still don’t trust her.

Zelensky has fought against Ukraine’s abiding suspicion of female politicians by promoting a new generation of them into leadership positions. In addition to picking Svyrydenko as prime minister, he also announced the appointment of Olha Stefanishyna as Ukraine’s new special representative to the United States. The approach sets him apart from Vladimir Putin. Valentina Matviyenko, one of two women who serve on the Russian president’s permanent security council, put on a Barbie-pink suit last year and derided feminism as “an anti-male, anti-traditional-values movement.” Meanwhile, Russia bans and prosecutes feminist groups, and Putin tells Russian women to have “minimum two children.”

[Read: Putin’s deal with wife killers]

For those who fear that Svyrydenko will be no more than a Zelensky loyalist, she is already facing her first test. This week, Zelensky tightened the administration’s control over two independent agencies tasked with fighting government corruption. Sevgil Musayeva, the editor in chief of the newspaper Ukrainska Pravda, described the move as a step toward authoritarianism. “Svyrydenko has a chance to act now and speak against this decision that is undermining democracy, which our soldiers are dying for,” Musayeva told me. “But such action would require a lot of her courage.”

Two days after Zelensky reined in the government watchdogs, Svyrydenko met with G7 ambassadors in Kyiv to discuss anti-corruption policy—a subtle acknowledgment, perhaps, that the president had gone too far. But not everyone is convinced that Svyrydenko will be able to stand up to Zelensky. “Officially, we are a parliamentary-presidential republic,” Goncharenko, the legislator, told me last week. “I wish that were true. But we live in wartime; the decisions are made by the president.” Goncharenko isn’t holding out hope that Svyrdrydenko will be able to make her own choices: “If she contradicts his policy, he will simply fire her.”

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The world of professional wrestling includes many types of characters: the tough guy; the masked acrobat; the silent killer; the undersize underdog; the wild man; the high-flying heartthrob; the sex god. Over the course of a pro-wrestling event, which may last a few hours and feature several matches, these roles work in tandem as a type of variety show, giving fans many flavors of entertainment. But over the past half century, the headlining star—the one whose name tops the marquee, and who is paid the most money—has usually been someone like Hulk Hogan. Hogan himself was uncommonly tall, blessed with biceps bigger than a baby’s head, a booming voice, dozens of repeatable catchphases, and a 1,000-watt personality that could be felt from the cheap seats. Both visually and in his affectations, he was what you might come up with if you were to ask 100 strangers on the street, or ChatGPT, to draw the prototypical “pro wrestler.”

Hogan, who died yesterday at the age of 71, is by many objective metrics the most famous pro wrestler of all time. Pro wrestling, as entertainment, has existed since at least the early 20th century. But in the 1980s, Hogan popularized a brash and cartoonish style that became swiftly synonymous with the form, at least in America. When the promoter Vince McMahon built up the company now known as World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), which transformed the business by becoming the first to broadcast its wrestling show across the country, Hogan was his agent of change—a muscle-bound pitchman who sold a patriotic vision of strength, heroism, and integrity. (As his theme song went: “I am a real American / Fight for the rights of every man.”) Hogan’s superpower was his pure conviction; he embodied outlandishness without a trace of irony, imprinting himself onto the hearts and minds of millions of people, many of them children who would carry their adoration into adulthood.

Most pro-wrestling fans will freely admit that the entertainment is at least a little ridiculous. We’re talking about half-naked men and women in leather underwear and fake tans who pretend to fight one another, their beefs based on storylines as simplistic as I don’t like you. But the unbelievability is part of the point. Pro wrestling offers a digestible fantasy in which good guys usually triumph and villains get their comeuppance. The bad guys aren’t acquitted on technicalities or rewarded for their deviousness; they’re punched in the mouth, before a roaring crowd of thousands. When Hogan became wrestling’s brightest star, this was his essential promise—he was not just a do-gooder who said the right things about loving God and eating your vitamins; he also almost always won. He was like a one-man Harlem Globetrotters, a dazzling showman guaranteed to come out on top. He remained beloved even when he became a bad guy, in the 1990s, popularizing a new archetype of “cool scoundrel” that upended the entire business by making it unclear which side of the good-versus-evil conflict fans should root for. In his case, it was obvious: You rooted for Hulk Hogan.

This success brought millions of dollars, worldwide fame, acting roles, a few restaurants—even as Hogan himself remained something of a cipher. Today, WWE produces hours of behind-the-scenes documentary programming in which its wrestlers speak as themselves. But in that earlier era, when it was not yet publicly acknowledged that the entertainment was predetermined, men like Hogan were careful to stay in character, lest they be judged as phonies. The WWE admitted that the wrestling wasn’t “real” as far back as 1989, but still, Hogan never quite shed the role of  “Hulk Hogan”—never casually transitioned into being known by his birth name, Terry Bollea. Even his reality show, which purported to depict his everyday family life, was called Hogan Knows Best. (His ex-wife Linda; his son, Nick; and his daughter, Brooke, all adopted “Hogan” as their public surname, too.)

Hogan generally seemed to be living out some version of his wrestling identity. In a courtroom, he might admit that “Hogan” was a character he played for a living; still, he would say this while wearing his trademark bandanna and bleached-blond goatee. As the years went on and he spent more time out of the wrestling ring—his last match was in 2012, but he hadn’t been a regular performer since 2002—he extended the logic of his character into real life. When in 2013 he sued Gawker for publishing a tape that showed him having sex with his friend’s wife (with the friend’s consent), and eventually won a $140 million judgment, he dominated the court of public opinion by portraying the website as just his latest adversary to overcome. (That the behind-the-scenes circumstances of his lawsuit were more complicated didn’t matter much.) When audio of Hogan using wildly racist invective, from that same tape, was leaked in 2015, he was excommunicated from WWE—“It was unacceptable for me to have used that offensive language; there is no excuse for it; and I apologize for having done it,” he said in a statement—but negotiated a triumphant return to its programming just a few years later. He was sometimes down, but never out; he behaved as though the fans would always be there for him, and they usually were.

This ability to wave away the past and shamelessly present himself for renewed applause was an especially American trait. Like a carnival barker or a veteran televangelist, Hogan wielded his charisma as a cudgel against all criticism. The sordid, tasteless incidents never dinged him for long. Whatever happened then did not matter as much as what was happening now. If he could present as the Hulkster, his muscles rippling and his bandanna tightly strapped on, he could pretend to be the conquering hero even when the truth was more troublesome, more dreary, more human.

In pro wrestling, the ability to stay in character is highly valuable; in real life, it’s sort of obnoxious. (Try affecting the loudest version of your personality, all of the time, and see how many of your loved ones stick around.) But if your paying customers don’t care, there’s little downside to maintaining the illusion for as long as possible. Today, America is inundated with public figures who loudly insist they are one thing when they’re really something else, who stick around mostly because they refuse to go away. We are surrounded by Hulk Hogans, boisterous personalities who commit to their bit as they try to sell something and unabashedly ignore the truth.

Even by the standards of his wrestling peers, Hogan’s ability to stretch the truth was something else. And his belief in himself was rarely shaken; no matter the occasion, he could always snap into character and launch into a bravura monologue. Slowly, though, the covenant between Hogan and those paying customers began to crack. The racist tapes were a major blow, even after WWE brought him back; several Black wrestlers refused to accept his apology, calling him insincere. The ugliness of his remarks is still shocking to revisit today—for many fans, they will be his enduring legacy. And his public alliance with President Donald Trump, which included an absurd pro-wrestling-style speech at last year’s Republican National Convention (“I know tough guys but let me tell you something, brother, Donald Trump is the toughest of them all”), was just as polarizing.

When Hogan made his last WWE appearance earlier this year, on the Netflix debut of the company’s Monday Night Raw, he was resoundingly booed by the Los Angeles crowd. It was an ignoble final interaction with an audience he had helped create, though hardly surprising, given his recent reputation. Even so, he was willing to bet on being forgiven: This year he co-founded the wrestling company Real American Freestyle, whose first show is scheduled for August. Ticket sales were soft, and many pro-wrestling fans derided the concept; still, he was going for it one more time, committing to a character who was no longer believable to anyone but himself.

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Earlier this summer, I spent one blissful week on vacation doing some of the best vacation things: lying in the sun with a book until my skin was slightly crisp, making full meals out of cheese and rosé. Of course, when I returned, I felt very, very sad. Real life is rarely as sunny and sparkly and juicy as vacation life. Right away, I found myself wishing that I could somehow preserve those delicious vacation morsels and store them in my cheeks like a chipmunk preparing for winter. Which is when I remembered something important: my own free will. What was stopping me from replicating the joy of vacation in my regular life?

So began my quest to do things differently. Call it “romanticizing my life,” if you want. Or call it self-care—actually, please don’t. But soon after returning from my trip, I was living more intentionally than I had before. I was searching for things to savor. I woke up early(ish) and started my day with a slow, luxurious stretch. In the evenings, rather than melting into the couch with the remote, I turned off my phone, made a lime-and-bitters mocktail, and read physical books—only fiction allowed. Less virtuously, I bought things: a towel that promised to cradle me in soft fibers, a new Sharpie gel pen, a funny little French plate that said Fromage in red cursive.

The effort was not a complete success. Replicating the exact feeling of holiday weightlessness is impossible; the demands of work and life always tend to interfere. But I did discover that these small changes were making my daily life, on average, a teensy bit happier. Someone once said that you should do something every day that scares you, and I’m sure those words  have galvanized many powerful people to action. But regular life is frightening enough. What if we sought out daily moments of joy instead?

I asked some of my colleagues how they create their own tiny moments of delight. Here are a few of their answers:

Staff writer Elizabeth Bruenig wakes up and starts working the group chats, sending a “Rise n’ grind” to her girlfriends and a “Goooooood morning lads” to her passel of politics-chat guys. “It’s like starting the day by going to a party with all my friends,” she told me. “Instantly puts me in a good mood.” On the flip side, Ellen Cushing is working on texting less and calling more. She now talks with her oldest friend, who lives far away, almost every weekday—sometimes for an hour, other times for five minutes. Their conversations, which aren’t scheduled, involve two simple rules: You pick up the call if you can, and you hang up whenever you need to.Senior editor Vann Newkirk tends to his many indoor plants: a fiddle-leaf fig, a proliferation of spider plants, a pothos, a monstera, a couple of peace lilies, some different calatheas, an African violet, a peperomia, and a ponytail palm. “Even on no-water days, I like to check on them,” he told me, and “write little notes about how they are growing or where they grow best.”For a while, Shane Harris, a staff writer on the Politics team, began each day by reading a poem from David Whyte’s Everything Is Waiting for You. The purpose “was to gently wake up my mind and my imagination, before I started writing,” he told me. “It’s such a better ritual than reading the news.”Staff writer Annie Lowrey decompresses her spine(!) at night, which, she told me, involves bending over to hang like a rag doll, or dead-hanging from a pull-up bar: “It’s the best.” She also journals every morning about the things that she’s thankful for, and prays in gratitude for achieving difficult feats. “Maybe you accepted a vulnerability and your ability to handle it? Maybe you realized you could celebrate someone else’s success rather than wishing it were your own?” she said. It’s annoying when the “obvious advice,” such as drinking more water and getting more sleep, is right, she said. But gratitude is, unsurprisingly, good for your mood and mental health.Isabel Fattal, my lovely editor for this newsletter, curates playlists for her morning and evening commutes—which are based less on genre or Spotify’s suggestions than on the kind of mood she’d like to be in at that point in the day. “When I was a college intern in New York, I once managed to go seven stops in the wrong direction on the subway because I was listening to the National (I had a lot of feelings in that era),” she told me. “I’ve since improved my spatial awareness, but I maintain that the right music can elevate any experience.”

If you have kids, you can include them in your happiness project, as many of my staff-writer friends do. Ross Andersen, for example, has enlisted his kids to make him a cappuccino every morning, which is genius and perhaps also a violation of child-labor laws. Clint Smith and his son spent a summer watching highlights from a different World Cup every day, which, he told me, was “a fun way to grow together in our joint fandom and also was a pretty fun geography lesson.” And McKay Coppins told me he loves his 2-year-old’s bedtime routine, which involves a monster-robot game, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, and a good-night prayer. “Bedtime can be notoriously stressful for parents of young kids—and it often is for me too!” McKay told me. “But I always end up looking forward to this little slice of my day.”

Related:

The quiet profundity of everyday aweWhat it would take to see the world completely differently

Today’s News

A shooting at a University of New Mexico dorm left one person dead and another wounded. Law enforcement is searching for the suspect.Office of Management and Budget Director Russell Vought criticized Federal Reserve Chair Jerome Powell over the “largesse” of the Fed’s headquarters renovations, just a day after President Donald Trump appeared to ease tensions during a visit to the Federal Reserve.The Trump administration will release $5.5 billion in frozen education funds to support teacher training and recruitment, English-language learners, and arts programs ahead of the new school year.

More From The Atlantic

Trump’s Ukraine policy deserves a reassessment.Food aid in Gaza has become a horror.Why is airplane Wi-Fi still so bad?

Evening Read

Photo-illustration by The Atlantic. Sources: Edward Bottomley / Getty; Dario Belingheri / Getty.

Science Is Winning the Tour de France

By Matt Seaton

For fans of the Tour de France, the word extraterrestrial has a special resonance—and not a fun, Spielbergian one. In 1999 the French sports newspaper L’Équipe ran a photo of Lance Armstrong on its front page, accompanied by the headline “On Another Planet.” This was not, in fact, complimenting the American athlete for an out-of-this-world performance in cycling’s premier race, but was code for “he’s cheating.”

At that point, L’Équipe’s dog-whistling accusation of doping was based on mere rumor. More than a decade passed before the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency declared Armstrong guilty of doping. His remarkable streak of seven Tour wins was wiped from the record, but misgivings about extraterrestrial performances have never left the event.

Read the full article.

Culture Break

See. Check out these photos of the week from an animal shelter in Colombia, a mountain church service in Germany, a memorial to Ozzy Osbourne in England, the World Aquatics Championships in Singapore, and much more.

Examine. Hulk Hogan embodied the role of larger-than-life pro-wrestling hero with unwavering showmanship, even as controversy and complexity shadowed his legacy, Jeremy Gordon writes.

Play our daily crossword.

Rafaela Jinich contributed to this newsletter.

When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic*.*

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I was taking soup to the orphans, as usual, when a young man I’d never before met seized me by the arm. “Donald,” he said. “My name is Barack Obama, although that’s not important right now. In fact, you’ve already forgotten it. Before I matriculate at Harvard Law School, I must introduce you to someone who’s going to change your life.”

I looked at my watch. It was 1987.

“Who?” I asked.

“A man with whom you have nothing in common,” the mysterious figure went on. “Not one single thing. Not even enigmas. His name is Jeffrey.”

“Great!” I said. I loved to be introduced to people, in case they could help me with the orphans or connect me to a good sackcloth dealer. I was wearing a lot of sackcloth at that time, out of humility. I put down the biography of William McKinley that I had been reading in order to learn whether tariffs were good or bad. I had hoped that I could read it to the orphans, after we finished with the soup. But that could wait. “Please, introduce me.”

Thus began almost two decades of association that were nothing but miserable for me. I don’t know if you have any friends with whom you have nothing in common, but that was how it was with me and this guy. I assume! I never found out what he did, or how exactly he made his money, or even what his interests were. I would look at him and think, What a head of hair! “Even better than William McKinley’s!” I would mouth silently to myself. Then I would notice that, below the hair, his mouth was moving, and I’d try to guess what he had been saying, so that I could answer appropriately. Usually, I would just laugh and say, “You know that’s right!”

“You’re a pal,” Jeffrey would tell me. I wondered if I really was a pal. I spent so little time understanding what he had to say, and so much time lost in my own world, thinking about William McKinley and wondering what tariffs were. Tariffs—what a beautiful sound that word has. Tariff: the tip of the tongue taking a trip from the glorious Ta to the explosion of riff!

Again and again, my new friend would drag me to parties that I had no interest in attending. I was miserable. I sat in the front row at the Victoria’s Secret fashion show with my biography of William McKinley open on my lap. But it was hard to read in the dark room, and I was not getting to the part that explained what tariffs were as fast as I would have liked.

“I don’t want to go to another of Jeffrey’s island soirees,” I complained at one point. “I just want to stay in and read up about tariffs. I don’t feel that I understand them yet.” Everybody knows how much I love reading and how zealously I guard my reading time.

“No,” the mysterious man said. “It’s very important that you attend these parties. We need you in pictures. It’s for the conspiracy.”

I could tell the conspiracy was very important to him, so I always wound up going.

“Come on the plane,” Jeffrey said once. “It’s called the Lolita Express.”

“Sure,” I said. This was the most excited I had been in some time. I had no idea that Jeffrey also loved Nabokov. “I love a literary classic with an unreliable narrator.”

On the plane, I was disappointed. I searched it up and down for books to read but did not find any. Not even The Art of Translation!

“You should call your next plane the Ada, or Ardor: A Family-Chronicle Express,” I suggested. Jeffrey didn’t laugh. Now that I think back, I am beginning to doubt that Jeffrey had even read Lolita!

Jeffrey claims I met Melania on his plane, but I am certain I was with the orphans that week. Once I asked Melania about it.

“Have you ever been on that plane?” I asked. “Is that where we met? I don’t think that would have been how.”

She shrugged. “Could be. I do a lot of conspiracy things, what with all the body doubles. What do you remember?”

“I remember approaching you. I said, ‘I respect women too much to have any sense of what you look like physically, but there is something about your soul that makes me think of tariffs.’ And then you said, ‘Oh, no.’ And I said, ‘No, it’s good. Tariff is the most beautiful word in the English language.’”

“That does sound more like you,” she said.

Jeffrey kept inviting me to parties or, worse, urging me to throw parties of my own with themes that he suggested. I didn’t want to, but never told him so. That would have been impolite.

“I’m having a party,” I told Jeffrey once. “The theme is respect for women. I respect women so much that I feel bad even singling them out to say that I respect them, because really they’re just people. It’s a party about that, and I’d like you to be there.”

“That’s not a good theme,” he said. “Do a different theme instead.” So we did Jeffrey’s theme. I was very unhappy about it. We were the only two people there. I spent the whole party in the corner with my book about William McKinley, trying to get to the tariff part. I didn’t, though. It was too loud.

The mysterious man who introduced me to Jeffrey in the first place came back in roughly 2002. He had a book for Jeffrey that he wanted me to sign. “Do a picture,” he suggested.

“But,” I said, “I never write a picture.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He had an autopen with him. “I always carry this, for conspiracy reasons.” He used the pen to make a very obscene doodle and then pointed for me to sign my name to it. There was text above it.

“What does the text say?” I asked. “It doesn’t imply I share a creepy secret with this man, does it? I am beginning to think that he is not on the level, and I wouldn’t like to have it in writing that we had shared a creepy secret if, say, he were later revealed to be a terrible pedophile.”

“It says, ‘I love tariffs!’” the man said.

“Great,” I said. I signed it enthusiastically.

Over the years, the man kept coming to me and asking me to pose for pictures or make incriminating videotapes “for the files.” I should have asked more about the files, now that I think about it. “What are the files for?” I should have said. But he was clearly so passionate about them that I did not want to rain on his parade. When pressed, he said, “Conspiracies to do with the 2016 election,” or, “Conspiracies to do with the 2020 election,” or, “Conspiracies generally,” or, “Ask Dan Bongino.”

“We’re going to put all of this into files,” he explained. “Reams and reams of really damning stuff. And then we’re going to keep them secret. And you need to keep asking for them. Don’t take no for an answer.”

“This conspiracy confuses me,” I said. “You have spent decades painstakingly assembling this file, but you also will hide it from everyone, and I have to ask for it to be released?”

“Yes,” he said. “But then you have to stop asking for it to be released. Abruptly, and as suspiciously as you can. Indeed, if Congress shows any interest in having it released, have the speaker of the House shut them down for the summer.”

“But,” I said, “why would Congress listen to me?”

“He’ll listen,” the man said, and winked. “You’ll be the president, although many of the people who voted for you will be people who have felt for a long time that there is a secret conspiracy of elite pedophiles and that you are the one to help them blow it wide open. So they might not be happy when you start calling the files ‘boring.’”

“Why would they care so much?”

“The idea that there are secretly elite cabals of pedophiles wherever you look has been the stuff of conspiracy theories for years. Your supporters will be particularly interested in such things.” He paused. “But this time there’s an actual man preying on actual girls. That’ll be the horrible thing about this: a lurid conspiracy theory wrapped around real horrors that happened to real girls.” He got quiet for a moment.

I was thinking about something else. “You said I would be president,” I said, my voice hushed with wonder. “Can I do tariffs, as president? Like William McKinley did?”

He shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Is that really your only question about this?”

I nodded. “Tariffs are all I think about.” I halted for a moment. “And they’re—they’re a good idea, right? Tariffs?”

“Are they a good idea? Are they a good idea?” He laughed. “Why, you might as well ask if there is reason to cast doubt on the legitimacy of my birth certificate!”

I frowned. “Is there?” He didn’t answer. “Is there?”

But he had already vanished into the parking lot, clutching his precious files.

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This was supposed to be the summer superhero movies became fun again. At first, that appeared to be true: Superman, released earlier this month, relaunched DC’s previously dour cinematic universe as a brighter and bouncier affair; the film zips from one encounter to the next with sincere aplomb. Now, two weeks later, comes Marvel’s The Fantastic Four: First Steps—which, coincidentally or not, seems similarly positioned as an injection of Technicolor fizz into a progressively more leaden franchise. Dispensing with continuity from previous installments, the film is set on a retro-futuristic version of Earth where everything looks as if it were designed by Eero Saarinen. As an effort to breathe new life into a particularly moribund title—there have been four prior takes on these characters, all of them bad—First Steps is essentially successful. What it somehow can’t manage to do is have much of a good time in the process.

First Steps, directed by Matt Shakman, has several things working in its favor. It’s quite handsome to look at, and features an elegant ensemble of actors who are capable of the big, dramatic moments thrown at them. Its action sequences also achieve a true sense of scale, something chintzier Marvel entries often struggle with. But First Steps zooms past the Fantastic Four’s origins and, more detrimentally, their odd family dynamic. Instead, it dives headfirst into a portentous, celestial story in which Earth’s apocalypse is almost immediately at hand. There’s no time for the characters to engage in era-appropriate diversions (such as, perhaps, kicking back with martinis) or match wits with colorfully costumed adversaries. This adventure is all end-of-the-world menace, all the time.

The lack of breathing room is striking. After all, these characters come from one of comic books’ richest texts: The Fantastic Fourare the original Marvel superhero team, created by the legendary writer-illustrator team of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby. The comic kicked off the company’s 1960s revival and redefined the medium for an entire generation. Mr. Fantastic, a.k.a. Reed Richards (here played by Pedro Pascal), is the irritable, busy father figure; he’s also a genius scientist who can stretch like rubber. (He mostly uses his power in this adaptation to fill many wide chalkboards with math equations.) His wife, Susan Storm, also known as the Invisible Woman (Vanessa Kirby), is able to vanish and throw force fields around everything; her brother, Johnny (Joseph Quinn), is the Human Torch, who can burst into flame and take to the skies. The trio’s best pal is Ben Grimm (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), a human turned orange, rocky beast known as the Thing.

[Read: Will there ever be a great Fantastic Four film?]

First Steps begins a few years after the foursome’s brush with a cosmic radiation storm, which transformed them into superhumans. The crew now keeps New York City safe from costumed villains and subterranean monsters, while enjoying their status as chummy celebrities; they’re cheered by teeming audiences holding pennants everywhere they go. Shakman whisks us past all of this information, perhaps assuming that viewers have picked up the gist from past cinematic efforts and wouldn’t want to sit through all that backstory again. (Maybe the director was also hell-bent on keeping the run time under two hours—an impulse I do approve of.)

But Shakman’s endeavor to pick up the pace means the movie loses its grasp of what makes the source material so special: the genuine, sometimes fraught chemistry of this found family. Johnny and Ben are usually depicted as bickering surrogate brothers, the hotheaded youngster and the curmudgeonly elder; Susan is a pragmatic force, with Reed often lost in his own world. In First Steps,however, the characters felt flattened out to me, while all four performances are muted and somewhat excessively grounded. An early scene sees Ben cooking tomato sauce with the group’s helper robot, H.E.R.B.I.E., crushing garlic gloves with his gigantic fists “to add a little bit of zip.” It’s a cute moment, but an oddly underplayed one; in scene after scene like this, I kept wondering—where’s the extra zip?

Instead of playful banter, First Steps serves up deep, emotional conversations about the meaning of parenthood and the heroes’ deepest fears. The plot kicks off with the reveal that after years of trying, Susan is pregnant, a joyful realization that, for Reed, quickly turns into worry that their child will also be superpowered. Soon after that, the Silver Surfer (Julia Garner)—a shiny interstellar being riding a big surfboard—appears, zooming from the clouds and proclaiming Earth’s doom. She heralds Galactus (Ralph Ineson), a skyscraper-size villain from space who cruises around the universe eating planets whole; his arrival immediately plunges the Fantastic Four into a crisis that they spend the rest of the film trying to untangle.

[Read: Marvel doesn’t have to try so hard]

The Galactus saga is the most famous in Fantastic Four lore, but it’s also a conflict the comic built up to in the 1960s, churning through sillier villains before introducing a more impassive, terrifying force. He’s a tough first challenge for this new on-screen team to take on, one that drives Reed into instant misery as he struggles to fathom how to confront an enemy who cannot be bargained with. Pascal is smart casting for the role—he has the right air of sophistication and maturity—but the script engulfs his character in such a dark crisis of confidence that the actor’s charisma can’t shine through.

The same goes for Kirby as the joyless Susan, who impressively handles all the steeliness required of her. Quinn, who charmed me in recent blockbusters such as A Quiet Place: Day One and Gladiator II, feels too tightly woundas Johnny. Moss-Bachrach does quite lovely work as Ben, but the movie is perhaps overly focused on the hardened fella’s softer side; it largely ignores the character’s more tormented feelings about his physical transformation. First Steps is also shockingly comfortable to go long stretches without big action; the centerpiece is a space mission with shades of Interstellar that is genuinely thrilling, but some members of the team (particularly Mr. Fantastic) get few chances to really show off their superpowers.

As surprisingly downbeat as it is, I appreciated the fundamental message of the film, which is set in a more hopeful world. When a crisis arises, Reed and company are actually capable of rallying the world to help save itself. Multiple times in First Steps, Shakman emphasizes the power of a global community, the kind he’s clearly longing for in our world. Those are the zippiest ingredients he tosses into the sauce; I just wish he’d allowed the heroes to loosen up.

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Adolf Hitler’s first weeks as chancellor were filled with so many excesses and outrages—crushing states’ rights, curtailing civil liberties, intimidating opponents, rewriting election laws, raising tariffs—that it was easy to overlook one of his prime targets: the German central bank.

The Reichsbank president was a man named Hans Luther, a fiscal conservative who subscribed to the “golden rule” of banking, which stipulated that a country’s indebtedness should never exceed its obligations. In his adherence to protocol and policy, Luther could be “holier than the Pope,” according to Lutz Schwerin von Krosigk, who served as the German finance minister from 1932 to 1945.

On the afternoon of Monday, January 30, 1933, just hours after Hitler’s appointment as chancellor, Luther stood in Hitler’s office with a complaint. Nazi storm troopers, known as the SA, had forced their way into the Reichsbank building in central Berlin, despite what Luther described as “emphatic protests” by bank personnel, and hoisted a swastika flag over the bank.

“I pointed out to Hitler that the SA actions were against the law,” Luther recalled, “to which Hitler immediately answered that this was a revolution.” Luther informed Hitler in no uncertain terms that the Reichsbank was not part of his revolution. It was an independent fiscal entity with an international board of directors. If any flag were to be flying over the bank, it would be the national colors, not the banner of his political party. The next morning, the swastika flag was gone.

On Hitler’s first full day in office, rumors circulated that he wanted Luther gone. Alfred Kliefoth, the chargé d’affaires at the United States embassy in Berlin, dispatched a memorandum to the State Department: “I have been informed, in confidence, by Dr. Ritter, the Chief Economist in the Foreign Office, that the new Government intends to exert pressure on Dr. Luther to resign.”

Hitler’s rumored plans to oust the Reichsbank chief came amid a massive purge of the Weimar Republic’s civil service. Senior officials who had served for decades were fired. Hitler assigned his chief lieutenant, Hermann Göring, to clean house in Prussia, the largest of Germany’s 17 federated states. When Göring entered the Prussian government offices in central Berlin, he told Rudolf Diels, the head of the Prussian political police, “I want nothing to do with the scoundrels sitting here in this building.” When Diels tried to defend one senior colleague, Göring responded by firing the colleague on the spot.

[Timothy W. Ryback: How Hitler dismantled a democracy in 53 days]

A memorandum was circulated to all state civil servants demanding blind loyalty to the Hitler government. Anyone who did not feel they could support Hitler and his policies, Göring added, should do the “honorable” thing and resign. The Berliner Morgenpost observed that Hitler was clearly working to “transform the state bureaucracy from the most senior positions down to the administrative levels to align with his political positions.” In a speech on March 11, Göring compared the Nazi’s draconian measures to cutting wood: “When you chop, chips fly.”

Despite Hitler’s heavy-handed assault on the government bureaucracy,  he could not touch Hans Luther. According to a 1924 law, the Reichsbank was independent of the elected government; the Reichsbank president served at the discretion of a 14-member board, which included seven international bankers and economists. Even Reich President Paul von Hindenburg, the ultimate constitutional authority, possessed the power only to confirm the appointment of the Reichsbank president, not to dismiss him. The Reich president headed the state and commanded the military, and the Reich chancellor ran the government, but the Reichsbank controlled the currency and the economy.

Luther brandished his independence and power with confidence and control. He had already served as finance minister and had also done a stint as chancellor. He understood both politics and economics. In 1923, Luther had designed the rescue plan that saved Germany from the inflation crisis that saw Germans pushing wheelbarrows full of cash through the streets to buy a loaf of bread. After the global market crash of 1929, he had guided Germany back to employment stability and production growth by the spring of 1932. Great Britain emerged from the crisis with twice the national debt of Germany. France’s was fourfold. The New York Times reported that Luther had “stood like a rock” amid the global financial turmoil. The newspaper Vossische Zeitung described Luther as “equal to any storm.”

Finance Minister Krosigk attributed the Reichsbank president’s success in stabilizing the economy to Luther’s “intelligence, his clear-sightedness, his extraordinary work ethic, his common sense and his energy.” Luther was firm in his principles and policies, and he believed in meeting international obligations. But he was cautious with his pronouncements. As a central banker, Luther knew that a single word, or even a smirk or smile, could send markets tumbling.

On Wednesday, November 23, 1932, Luther had been invited to address a group of industrialists and businessmen in the city of Düsseldorf, in the country’s industrial heartland, along with the jurist and political philosopher Carl Schmitt. Schmitt was already renowned as the the most eloquent political theorist and advocate of authoritarianism in Germany. (Known as the “crown jurist of the Third Reich,” Schmitt would later supply legal justification for Hitler’s Night of the Long Knives, in 1934, and for the anti-Semitic Nürnberg Laws of 1935.) On that November Wednesday in 1932, Luther listened in dismay as Schmitt laid out his arguments for the “Hitler system” of authoritarian rule, which included ending representative government and parliamentary rule, as well as the eradication of political parties, press freedoms, due process, and rule of law in favor of “totale Diktatur.” Luther was appalled.

For the first and only time in his career as Reichsbank president, Luther took a public political stance. Speaking after Schmitt, he argued that a functioning economy required democratic structures and processes, and that industrialists and businessmen were duty bound to support constitutional democracy. “We all bear the responsibility,” Luther said, arguing that it was in everyone’s interest—financial, social, and political—to support the Weimar Republic’s constitutional democracy and the rule of law. “I believe that the private sector in particular has a tremendous interest in emphasizing the necessity of legal security across the board,” Luther said, “because legal stability is the foundation of all economic life.”

[Timothy W. Ryback: The oligarchs who came to regret supporting Hitler]

That same month, Luther cautioned Chancellor Franz von Papen against “experiments” with the recovering German economy. “I told Dr. Luther that if he was not prepared to accept the risks involved,” Papen later recalled, “the government would be obliged to disregard his advice.” Within a month, Papen was out as chancellor. Papen’s successor, Kurt von Schleicher, encountered similar resistance. When Schleicher informed his cabinet that his government would seek a 2.7 billion reichsmark credit line, he received a chastening reply, as recorded in the cabinet minutes: “The Reich Minister of Economics, who had also participated in the meeting with the President of the Reichsbank, declared that, based on all experiences in negotiations with the Reichsbank, further commitments would probably not be possible.” Schleicher’s government fell within the month. By the time Hitler assumed the chancellorship, Luther had already outlasted three chancellors, and there was reason to believe that Hitler could be the fourth. However much Hitler might want to remove Luther from his post, Vossische Zeitung reported, “existing legal frameworks make this hardly possible.”

But that still left extralegal frameworks. Luther knew all too well about these. Months earlier, on the evening of April 9, 1932, Luther had been shot by two assailants in the Potsdam Train Station in central Berlin. According to the court record, the attackers intended to “slightly wound” Luther—which they succeeded in doing—as a “protest” against currency policies they believed “were wrong and damaging to the German people.” Although the court said it could not rule on Luther’s currency policies, it did sentence the two assailants to 10 months in prison for their “choice of means” in expressing their policy objections.

Following the meeting about the swastika banner on his first day as chancellor, Hitler did not see Luther for six weeks. Instead, Hitler turned for economic guidance to Luther’s predecessor at the Reichsbank, Hjalmar Schacht. The former central banker had become a key Hitler ally in the financial world, seeking to rally bankers and industrialists behind the Nazi government. Kliefoth, the U.S. embassy chargé, dined with Schacht shortly after Hitler ascended to the chancellorship. “Schacht took pains to impress me with the fact that he is Hitler’s financial and economic adviser and that he is constantly in consultation with the new chancellor,” Kliefoth reported. Kliefoth further noted that Schacht had told him German industrialists were backing Hitler and his program. “I have good reason to believe, however, that this statement is an exaggeration,” Kliefoth reported in a subsequent memo to the State Department. “A leading executive official of the Reichsverband der Deutschen Industrie told me only this morning that the four-year plan announced by Hitler last night was an absurdity and that this organization viewed the latest political developments with skepticism and reserve.”

Only after national elections on March 5, when National Socialists secured 44 percent of the electorate and a mandate to move forward with a major rearmament program, did Hitler again summon Luther to the chancellery. Hitler admitted that he’d been compelled to meet with Luther because, given that the government was already running significant budget deficits, it would have been “completely impossible to begin the work of rearmament” without substantial funds from the Reichsbank. After spending two hours explaining to Luther the need for expanded military capacities, Hitler asked him how much financing the Reichsbank would be able to make available. In response, Luther assured Hitler that, as a “nationally minded man,” he appreciated Hitler’s intentions, and would be willing to provide 100 million reichsmarks—not even one-20th of the billions Hitler had requested. Hitler was stunned. He thought he had misheard, so he repeated his question. Luther gave the same answer. He later observed that, beyond the gross violation of Germany’s international debt obligations the chancellor was calling for, Hitler’s preparations for the “mass-murderous poison of war” were not in Luther’s medicine cabinet of remedies for the German economy.

Hitler informed President Hindenburg that he wanted Luther removed as head of the Reichsbank. Hindenburg reminded Hitler that the Reichsbank was an internationally governed institution and thus beyond the reach of German authority. So once again, Hitler summoned Luther to the Reich chancellery. At his first meeting with Hitler, back in January, Luther had been struck by Hitler’s apparent moderation. The chancellor was not the ranting, raging fanatic—“the abnormal man”—depicted in press accounts. Six weeks later, that moderation was gone.

Although it was becoming ever clearer to Luther that Hitler was going to make it impossible for him to carry out his fiduciary duties to the government, Luther used the occasion to remind Hitler of the Reichsbank’s independence and his own immunity from dismissal.

Hitler acknowledged that, as chancellor, he did not have the legal power to remove Luther as central banker. But, he told Luther bluntly, as the new “boss” of the country, he had access to considerable alternative sources of power that he would not hesitate to employ “ruthlessly” against Luther “if the interest of the state demanded it.” The nature of Hitler’s threats was unmistakable. Luther—who had already been shot once before in protest of his monetary policies—did not need to be warned again.

On March 16, Luther submitted his resignation to the Reichsbank board. In an extended letter to Hindenburg, Luther explained his reasons for stepping down. Luther reminded Hindenburg “that the leadership of the Reichsbank must be stable and independent of partisan political currents, that a change in political parties, directions, and majorities must not in itself result in a change in the leadership of the Reichsbank.” Luther also reminded Hindenburg that he had served as Reichsbank president alongside three previous governments. Nevertheless, Luther continued, it had become clear to him that the strained relationship between the Reichsbank and the current government was not sustainable and would only damage the country and its economy. But Luther insisted to Hindenburg that his resignation was contingent on the assurance that “an independent Reichsbank be preserved for the sake of the German state, its people and its economy.”

[Timothy W. Ryback: What the press got wrong about Hitler]

The Berliner Morgenpost, like many mainstream newspapers, lamented the departure of the man whose “strict fiscal policy” had twice rescued Germany from economic ruin. The New York Times observed that regulatory safeguards designed to secure the independence of the Reichsbank proved to be “wholly illusory” with the current administration. “Under the pressure of the kind in which the National Socialists are adept at applying,” the Times wrote, “even high government officials in Germany do not now try to retain their posts.”

Amid the turmoil of his wrangling with Luther, Hitler had summoned Hjalmar Schacht to the Reich chancellery, where he posed to Schacht the same question he had asked Luther: How much did Schacht think the Reichsbank could provide in helping finance the Hitler government’s plans? Schacht dodged the question. Giving a precise amount was impossible, Schacht said.

“You must be able to tell me to what degree the Reichsbank can or should provide assistance,” Hitler pressed.

“Herr Reich Chancellor,” Schacht said, “I really cannot give you a specific amount.” Too many factors existed when it came to a massive rearmament program. But Schacht assured Hitler of one thing: that the Reichsbank would provide Hitler with as much money as he needed. Hitler paused. He studied Schacht in silence, then asked, “Would you be willing to resume the leadership of the Reichsbank?”

Schacht assumed office the same day Luther departed.

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“Wi-Fi is available on this flight,” the flight attendant announced on a recent trip I took from New York City to St. Louis. She recited her routine by rote, and Wi-Fi is among the details that now need to be conveyed, along with explaining how to use a seatbelt and enjoining passengers not to smoke e-cigarettes on board.

But when the time came to use the Wi-Fi, the service didn’t work. Eventually, enough people noticed this that the crew “rebooted” it, after which it still didn’t work. A new announcement acknowledged that Wi-Fi was, in fact, not available on this flight (and offered an apology). This was the can’t even access the portal kind of failure, but I’ve frequently encountered others, including can log in but not connect and so slow as to be worse than nothing. And then, at other times, the internet works great—as reliably as it does in an office building.

For two decades now, in-flight Wi-Fi has occupied this limbo between miracle and catastrophe. Way back in 2008, on Conan O’Brien’s late-night show, Louis C.K. told the story of a man who was complaining about the in-flight Wi-Fi not working mere moments after learning of its existence. “Everything is amazing right now and nobody’s happy,” the comedian joked. The bit was never quite right—nobody was happy, because services such as in-flight Wi-Fi were not yet amazing, actually. A chasm separated the service’s promise and its reality.

Today, 17 years later, I sense that same distance when I try to go online in the air. The matter feels more urgent now that more airlines, including JetBlue, Delta, and soon American and United, are offering free, purportedly better in-flight Wi-Fi (mainly to loyalty members so far). Air travel is neither a haven for offline delight nor a reliable place to carry out normal online life. Either option would be welcome, because each would be definitive. Instead, one is left to wonder if the hours about to be spent in flight can be filled with scrolling, shopping, Slacking, and tapping at Google Docs—or not.

I set out to learn why. Is the issue technological? Are the airlines promising more service than they can deliver? Most of all, I wanted to know if this situation will ever be fixed, making airplane Wi-Fi feel as brisk and reliable as it does elsewhere. The answer, it turns out, is familiar: soon, any day now, probably next year.

* * *

Because it’s the thing they use most often and turn on directly, people use Wi-Fi as a nickname for internet access in general. (“The Wi-Fi is down,” your spouse or child might say.) But the Wi-Fi part of airplane Wi-Fi—the access points in the plane that appear as “Delta Wi-Fi” or whatever on your computer or smartphone—is almost never part of the problem. Instead, the problem is the pipe to which the Wi-Fi connects—the in-flight equivalent of the cable or fiber that delivers internet service to your house.

An airplane flies in the air, and there are two ways to get the internet to connect to such a place: from above or below. At first, the only option was down. If you’re old enough to remember the September 11 attacks, you might also recall the Airfone service on some airlines—a phone handset stuffed into the seatback. These phones used air-to-ground communication, meaning that the signal was sent from the plane to a relay on the ground. Airfone (and its competitors) were expensive, didn’t work well, and few people used them. But that technology would be repurposed for early in-flight internet, offered via providers such as Gogo Inflight.

Jack Mandala, the CEO of Seamless Air Alliance, a standards organization for in-flight connectivity, told me that air-to-ground works like your cellphone—the bottom of the plane needs a view (metaphorically speaking) of base stations from the air. That’s why, for a time, you could use in-flight internet only over 10,000 feet. It’s also why the service is unreliable. Just like your cellphone might hit a dead spot, so can your airplane. Air-to-ground bandwidth was limited, meaning that the service would get worse as more people on a plane used it. And finally, air-to-ground service operates extremely slowly when it sends data down to the ground—this is why sending an email attachment or texting an image from a plane can take an eternity, before possibly failing completely.

Going up instead of down mostly solved these issues. Around the time of Louis C.K.’s Conan bit, airlines began offering internet service to planes via satellite communication. The improved speed and reliability allowed JetBlue to provide the industry’s first free in-flight internet to commercial passengers, in 2013. According to Mandala, satellite services are easier to scale as more planes adopt them and more passengers use them. Satellite also has the benefit of being usable over water, in bad weather, and on the ground.

The problem is that having viable technology is different from rolling it out seamlessly everywhere. Doing so requires investing in the equipment and service, and that requires time and money. In 2019, Delta, for instance, made a commitment to roll out free Wi-Fi across its entire fleet. Joseph Eddy, the airline’s director of cabin and in-flight entertainment and connectivity, told me that Delta’s effort is still ongoing. Unlike hotels or convention centers, Eddy reminded me, aircraft are highly regulated. Each type of aircraft needs to be configured differently, and a big airline such as Delta—or American, which told me it will also soon have 1,500 aircraft of its own with Wi-Fi service—requires some planning. “We need to make software upgrades. We need to make sure we have all the satellite coverage that we need to ensure that we have enough capacity and the experience is as good as possible,” Heather Garboden, American Airlines’ chief customer officer, told me.

But, hold up: American is the carrier I fly most these days, and I keep finding myself unable to use the internet. Garboden confirmed that American is still transitioning its regional jets to satellite service—many are still using air-to-ground. And that’s exactly the kind of plane I was on from New York. Delta’s Eddy told me that its regional jets and some short-haul planes, including the Boeing 717, are also still operating on air-to-ground service.

In both cases, the airlines made a deliberate choice to invest first in the routes and planes that carry the most passengers—big, mainline jets. That means that if you’re flying on a long flight across or between continents, or on an airline with fewer types of planes, such as JetBlue or Southwest, you might have a better shot at reliable internet. And if you’re on a small or regional jet, chances are greater that the Wi-Fi won’t work, or won’t work well. Eddy told me that Bombardier CRJ regional jets have proved more troubling to certify for the satellite antennas that sit on top of the fuselage, because of the aircraft’s rear-mounted engines. “You can’t allow any form of debris to fly off the antenna at all,” he said. If you board a plane and Wi-Fi isn’t available on the ground, that’s a sign that your aircraft is still using air-to-ground service. Good luck.

* * *

Beyond the technology itself, the expectation of always being connected is also driving flier perceptions of in-flight internet performance. Fliers are only now starting to take in-flight internet access as a given, rather than viewing it as a surcharged luxury.

Eddy thinks the tide started to turn during COVID. Even though people weren’t flying as much, everyone became more familiar with digital tools—Zoom, but also Slack, Teams, Google Docs—that might once have been lesser known. When travel resumed, those expectations made in-flight Wi-Fi “significantly more important,” Eddy said. American Airlines’ Garboden added that a younger, always-online generation is buying tickets now—26 percent of the airline’s customers are Gen Z and younger, she told me. For both airlines, the evolution of in-flight entertainment has reinforced the need for internet service. American delivers its movies and shows directly to its passengers’ devices; once those people are already staring at their phones, habit makes them expect to be able to switch to email or a social-media app. But Delta, which offers seatback screens on most of its planes, believes that having a television in front of you also now implies the need for internet. “If you look at the younger generations, they’re at home watching Netflix and they’re playing on their phone. They’re doing both almost constantly,” Eddy said, adding that 20 percent of Delta’s Wi-Fi customers use more than one device at a time.

Competition and passenger expectations may be the key to making in-flight internet work for good. After 9/11, the domestic airline industry devolved into pure carriage, stripping away all comforts in the name of safety—and profit. That appears to be changing. Nomadix, the company that invented the enter-your-name-and-room-number hotel internet service more than 25 years ago, told me that the quality of Wi-Fi is one of the top three factors in customer satisfaction at every hotel property. That’s because hotels are in the hospitality business, and catering to customer comfort (not to mention facilitating work for business travelers) is core to their success. Airlines haven’t been as concerned with making flyers content in the cabin, but both Delta and American admitted that in-flight internet service is transitioning from an amenity into part of the hard product. “You would expect that your seat is there, right? Wi-Fi has become that for us,” Eddy said. Almost overnight, he told me, Wi-Fi went from having no impact on people choosing Delta to being “more important than flight times and airports.”

For now, consistency is the missing ingredient. This is what Louis C.K. failed to grasp: The issue has never been the flying public’s unwillingness to marvel at the miracles of human invention, but rather, the fact that carriers appear to make promises and then fail to deliver on them. Now that customer expectations, technological feasibility, and airline investments all align, it should just be a matter of time before the air is as well connected as the ground. But how much time? Delta initially promised “fast, free Wi-Fi” across its global fleet by the end of 2024, but now the airline thinks reaching that milestone will take until the first half of 2026. Garboden said American is on track for early 2026. United also plans to offer free satellite Wi-Fi across its entire fleet, but offered no projected date for full rollout.

Like cabin safety or timely arrival, until every passenger on every flight feels confident that the internet will take off along with their bodies and their luggage, the service doesn’t really exist, because it can’t be relied upon. Internet in the air is both a concrete advancement that’s mature and widespread, and a conceptual one frequently deferred into the future. That future may come, and perhaps even soon. Or it might not. Just like the Wi-Fi on your next flight.

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This is an edition of the Books Briefing, our editors’ weekly guide to the best in books. Sign up for it here.

Many of my most memorable reading experiences are conflated with incongruous settings. I first picked up Slaughterhouse-Five in Venice, on the recommendation of a fellow backpacker. I read Death in Venice, however, in Amsterdam, where the canals thinly evoked Thomas Mann’s pestilent waterways. And if you ask me about San Sebastián, the lovely Basque seaside town, I’ll flash back to the mind-blowing middle section of Cloud Atlas, which is set in postapocalyptic Hawaii. For authors, too, a place can serve as more of a catalyst than a setting. They go somewhere on holiday and end up learning something about their characters—or themselves. This is what happened to John le Carré in Corfu, and it’s why, for this week’s installment of The Atlantic’s literary-travel series, “The Writer’s Way,” Honor Jones chose to investigate le Carré’s 600-page masterpiece, A Perfect Spy, by traveling to a place that takes up only a few pages in the novel.

First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic’s Books section:

Eight books that explain the university crisisThe most dangerous kind of friendshipThe one book everyone should read“Your Horses,” a poem by Jodie Hollander

“If you wanted to write about le Carré and travel, you could go almost anywhere,” Jones explains: “Vienna or Bern or Kenya or Cornwall would make the list long before Corfu.” But consider the predicament of le Carré’s protagonist, Magnus, an MI6 agent who has betrayed his country to the Communist Czechs and is lying low in Greece under cover of a family vacation. “If you’re trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, you don’t go to the obvious places,” Jones writes. “You ignore the booked flight to Washington and the train ticket to Paris because you know they’re false leads. You look where the trail is colder.”

Le Carré himself had a chance encounter in Corfu that made its way into A Perfect Spy, in a scene that opens up a central theme of the novel—the legacy of a father (Magnus’s but also le Carré’s) who was a monstrous, charismatic narcissist. It was on the Greek island that le Carré ran into a man who’d worked for his father, a globe-trotting con artist. “We was all bent, son,” the former henchman told him. “But your dad was very, very bent.”

Because great novels are rarely on the nose, le Carré sets a fictionalized version of this encounter in England. Corfu instead becomes the place where Magnus’s Czech contact, the mysterious Axel, tries to entice the Brit to join him behind the Iron Curtain. The island, for centuries beset by repeated invasions and then an onslaught of tourism, holds broader thematic significance for Jones: “Corfu is a good place to think about influence and identity, about how so many disparate fragments can cohere into a whole.”

As it happens, I’m going to stop in Bern next week on a European rail vacation. The Swiss city takes up many more pages in A Perfect Spy than Corfu does; it’s where Magnus, as a very young man, first meets Axel. But I’ve already read the novel, so I’ll pack a different one. Inspired by The Atlantic’s new list of staffers’ recommendations for must-read books, I’m going to finally dig into Hernan Diaz’s Trust, which is set primarily in New York. So although I’ll be in Europe, I’ll probably be thinking of home.

A narrow street in Corfu’s Old Town Alice Zoo for The Atlantic

Chasing le Carré in Corfu

By Honor Jones

If you’re trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, you don’t go to the obvious places.

Read the full article.

What to Read

Ravelstein, by Saul Bellow

Bellow’s thinly veiled 2000 roman à clef about his friendship with the star academic Allan Bloom—the philosopher who wrote the best-selling jeremiad The Closing of the American Mind—is a tender portrait of its subject. But Bellow’s novel is as much about the institutional culture that shaped Bloom. It is a paean to academia as an enterprise that works to sort ideas that are base and quotidian from those that are noble and timeless, and its titular character embodies this faith in the professoriate as a kind of secular priesthood. Abe Ravelstein is a study in contradictions. Devoted to a life of the mind, he approaches reading the classics as a kind of soul-craft, and he’s preoccupied with the wisdom of ancient philosophers, poets, and statesmen; yet he also nurtures an irrepressible fondness for modern luxuries such as Armani suits, Cuban cigars, and “solid-gold Montblanc pens.” The irony of Ravelstein is that its protagonist’s celebrity is a symptom of the same commodification of knowledge that is eroding the things he most holds dear. Read 25 years later, the novel is an artifact of its time: The diminishment of the university’s purpose that Bellow witnessed feels much more advanced today.  — Tyler Austin Harper

From our list: Eight books that explain the university crisis

Out Next Week

📚 Flashout, by Alexis Soloski

📚 Kicking the Hornet’s Nest: U.S. Foreign Policy in the Middle East From Truman to Trump, by Daniel E. Zoughbie

📚 The Trembling Hand: Reflections of a Black Woman in the Romantic Archive, by Mathelinda Nabugodi

Your Weekend Read

A24

When It Feels Good to Root for a Bad Guy

By David Sims

The local sheriff in Eddington, Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix), is the film’s Bickle, though his final showdown is a far more absurd spectacle than the one in Taxi Driver. Aster’s film is frightening, yes—but it’s a dark and lacerating comedy first and foremost, playing out the power fantasies that fueled many an online conspiracy theory in the pandemic’s early days (and still do now). And although Cross may not be as crushingly lonely as Bickle, he does share the character’s escalating sense of paranoia. By plunging the viewer into this chaotic inner world, Aster illustrates the dissonant appeal of being enmeshed in the perspective of, and maybe even rooting for, an individual committed to their belief in justice—even if that commitment can border on sordid.

Read the full article.

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Today The Atlantic is announcing two new staff on the editorial team: Jake Lundberg, a staff writer who is The Atlantic’s first in-house historian and archivist; and Drew Goins as a senior editor. Jake joins The Atlantic from the University of Notre Dame, where he was a director of the undergraduate history program and an associate teaching professor since 2016. Drew comes from The Washington Post, where he was most recently the creator and writer of the Today’s Opinions newsletter and host of the Impromptu podcast. At The Atlantic, Drew will help think through strategies to develop and strengthen relationships with readers.

Below is editor in chief Jeffrey Goldberg’s note to staff announcing Jake Lundberg:

For the first time, The Atlantic will have an in-house historian and archivist. This dream job is being filled by a brilliant academic and writer named Jake Lundberg, who comes to us from the University of Notre Dame, where he has been director of the undergraduate history program and an associate teaching professor since 2016.

The creation of a special staff writer role for an Atlantic historian has been a goal of mine for many years. One reason this role took so long to fill is that we were inundated with interest, and we were forced to plough through an enormous number of candidates (though it would also be fair to say that Jake stood out as soon as he came to our attention).

A little background. A friend of mine, a former Pakistani ambassador to the U.S., says that America is the only place on Earth where the expression “That’s history” means, “That’s irrelevant.” He is, unfortunately, correct. We suffer as a nation and as a culture because we don’t know where we come from or how we got here. It’s extraordinarily important, particularly now, to fight against the forces of willed amnesia and pernicious propaganda, and ammunition for this fight can be found in The Atlantic’s 168-year-old archives.

Jake is a great person to unearth the riches of our history, and history generally, and to contextualize what he finds. He has a PhD in History from Yale with an emphasis on American culture, ideas, and media, and is the author of Horace Greeley: Print, Politics, and the Failure of American Nationhood. (Here’s a delightful 1930 accounting of Greeley’s life, with an emphasis on his Civil War years, written by William Augustus Croffut, who died in 1915. Why this piece appeared 15 years after the author’s death is a mystery for Jake to solve.)

Jake has already written for us; here’s his excellent piece about the 11-year-old girl who was most likely responsible for Abraham Lincoln’s iconic facial hair.

Our effort to bring the archives to life that has already achieved excellent results, thanks in good measure to the work of Shan Wang. Her perpetual digging uncovered A Century-Old Byline Mystery, about the unknown writer who foreshadowed the Titanic disaster. She is a key leader in our newsroom who helps connect our work, old and new, to Atlantic readers. Shan will continue her archives work, of course, in addition to fulfilling her many other leadership responsibilities.

Below is an announcement about Drew Goins, from managing editor Bhumika Tharoor:

We’re thrilled to welcome Drew Goins as a senior editor!

Drew joins us from The Washington Post, where he was most recently the creator and writer of the Today’s Opinions newsletter and host of the Impromptu podcast. He will report to me, and will be helping think through strategies to develop and strengthen relationships with readers. To start, he will be focused on how we can use trivia to create new and engaging experiences for our audience—something he is well positioned for as a Jeopardy! champion.

Drew is from North Carolina and graduated from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he studied journalism, music, and Hispanic linguistics, the latter of which has resulted in a lot of strong thoughts on vowel placement, if you ever have a spare hour and a half.

I’m sure Drew will feel right at home here at The Atlantic, and not only because he’s in good company with fellow Jeopardy! stars. We’re excited for him to bring his talents, and fun facts, to our team.

The Atlantic has welcomed a number of editors and writers this year, including managing editor Griff Witte; staff writers Tom Bartlett, Isaac Stanley-Becker, Idrees Kahloon, Tyler Austin Harper, Quinta Jurecic, Nick Miroff, Toulouse Olorunnipa, Ashley Parker, Alexandra Petri, Missy Ryan, Michael Scherer, Jamie Thompson, Josh Tyrangiel, Caity Weaver, and Nancy Youssef; andsenior editors Jenna Johnson and Dan Zak. Please reach out with any questions or requests.

Press Contacts: Anna Bross and Paul Jackson, The Atlantic | press@theatlantic.com

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Capping off all the other horrors in wartime Gaza is the food-distribution situation that has prevailed since late May. Famished Palestinian civilians must approach one of very few aid-distribution locations under the auspices of the Israeli and United States governments. A shocking number of civilians seeking aid have reportedly been shot dead by Israeli soldiers or shot at by U.S. contractors on their way to these sites. According to the United Nations, more than 1,000 Palestinians have been killed in this scramble for sustenance since May 26.

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu broke the last cease-fire in the Gaza war on March 18 by launching air strikes that killed more than 400 Palestinians in 36 hours, a reported 183 of them children. He had also imposed a total blockade on March 2, allowing no aid whatsoever into the Strip from March until late May. The resulting situation was untenable. But the Israeli government did not trust any of the international institutions with experience in humanitarian-aid distribution, so together with its U.S. backers, it cooked up an alternative: the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation, a nonprofit registered in Delaware and funded with $30 million from the Trump administration. According to one report, GHF has billed itself as seeking, among other aims, to “facilitate President Trump’s vision” for the Gaza Strip. Trump has said a variety of things about that vision, but one prospect he has articulated includes the forced removal of all Palestinians from the territory and its transformation into a “Riviera” for “international people.”

According to The Washington Post, some for-profit companies are behind GHF, including McNally Capital, a Chicago private-equity firm. Among the entities initially involved with the group, some have since withdrawn, including the Boston Consulting Group. The foundation’s initial head, Jake Wood, resigned on account of humanitarian concerns. GHF is now run by Johnnie Moore Jr., a pro-Israel evangelical activist and former aide to Jerry Falwell, and John Acree, a former USAID official.

[Read: The worst-kept secret of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict]

GHF began operations on May 26 in the south of Gaza, near Rafah. Since then, it has operated four main aid-distribution centers (compare this to the more than 400 that the UN and other traditional aid agencies once ran). The aid boxes themselves have been described by Palestinians as woefully inadequate as Gaza continues its slide toward outright famine.

The food-distribution points have practically become shooting galleries. Israeli troops told reporters from the newspaper Haaretz that they had been ordered to open fire on Palestinians with live ammunition as a means of crowd control. The newspaper quoted one soldier as describing the zones as a “killing field.” The report singled out Brigadier General Yehuda Vach, commander of Division 252, which operates in northern Gaza. Vach reportedly told his men that “there are no innocents in Gaza.” Some suggested that using live fire to disperse crowds in northern Gaza, for fear they would rush UN aid trucks, was Vach’s policy more than that of the Israeli military command or government. But reports have also circulated about U.S. contractors deliberately shooting Palestinians and boasting about direct hits. Israel refuses to allow outside journalists into Gaza, making these and other related accounts difficult to confirm or disprove.

What is indisputable is that GHF has an effective monopoly on delivering humanitarian aid into an ever more desperate Gaza Strip. Virtually all of the traditional distributors of aid have been barred by the Israeli authorities. And by most accounts, the results are ghastly. The UN relays that a third of the more than 2 million Palestinians in Gaza go days without eating, and credible reports suggest that infants and the elderly are dying of malnutrition and dehydration—according to one issued by a group of international nonprofits, more than 100 people have died of hunger, including 80 children. Agence France-Presse says that its local journalists are now in danger of imminent death from starvation. Israel claims that it is allowing ample food, water, and medicine into the Strip, but if that’s the case, the supplies are apparently not reaching those who need them most.

Much of the world is appalled by these conditions. On Monday, 30 governments, many friendly to Israel, plus the European Union, demanded an end to the war and condemned “the drip feeding of aid” to the Palestinians in Gaza whose suffering, the group noted, had “reached new depths.” More than 100 aid agencies have signed a letter demanding that Israel allow additional food, water, medicine, and other supplies into Gaza immediately.

[Read: No rational aid-distribution system should work this way]

Far from ameliorating Gazans’ suffering, GHF has instead established a system that presents them with an impossible dilemma. Palestinians are drawn in desperation to four centers, where they must risk their lives in order to gain the supplies they need to live. Many also walk away disappointed but uninjured. There is no evidence that GHF, its founders, or its backers intended to create death traps rather than alternative distribution centers. But for many weeks, this is how the sites have functioned, and GHF’s response has been to simply carry on as before.

What GHF may have begun inadvertently, it now perpetuates without correction and with full awareness. Palestinians face a Hobson’s choice between starvation and the real possibility of being shot down for no intelligible reason. For that there is no excuse—and quite possibly criminal culpability.

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Donald Trump is an easy man to loathe—his lies, cruelty, vindictiveness, corruption, disregard for constitutional norms, and sheer recklessness are unprecedented in an American president. These qualities infect both his subordinates, many of whom are palpably unfit for their positions, and the congressional party composed largely of cowards and sycophants over which he presides. Both he and they are truly awful.

Focusing on all of those characteristics, however, is the wrong way to understand him, or even assess what he is doing. He is easy to caricature, and many have done so, turning him into a storybook villain reminiscent of J. K. Rowling’s Lord Voldemort or J. R. R. Tolkien’s Sauron. The truth is more complicated and more interesting.

You can see the tendency to caricature Trump at work in the reactions to his evolving Ukraine policy. Plenty of thoughtful, normally moderate observers have insisted that the president is, wittingly or not, a Russian agent, and that his hatred of Ukraine and its president, Volodymyr Zelensky, is so bitter that he wants Russian President Vladimir Putin to win. They insist that his policy is, in fact, shaped not merely by respect for Putin but also by a kind of gangsterish affection for the Russian dictator, leading to the de facto alignment of American policy with that of Russia. Yet this view simply does not square with the facts.

The transfers of American arms to Ukraine that were authorized during Biden’s administration have continued, with two brief interruptions: one in March, following the Oval Office visit during which Vice President J. D. Vance and Trump himself berated a startled Zelensky, and another in June, when the Pentagon suspended those shipments. The first suspension lasted a week, and the latter a few days. In June, the Pentagon acted without Trump’s authorization, a testament to the absence of an orderly foreign-policy process. The White House quickly reversed that decision, and the arms continue to flow.

The United States has also hammered out a deal with NATO countries to purchase American hardware—particularly Patriot air-defense missiles and supporting radar and control units—to either transfer to Ukraine or replace their own systems, which the Europeans will then send to Ukraine. Trump has publicly committed to this arrangement, and even hinted at the transfer of more-advanced offensive weaponry. By all accounts, the process for doing this is under way, to the point that Ukraine has been moved ahead of Switzerland in the queue for Patriot sales.

As far as we know, intelligence cooperation between the United States and Ukraine continues. Meanwhile, the policy making on Ukraine seems to be more and more in the hands of Secretary of State and Acting National Security Adviser Marco Rubio, along with the reengagement of retired Lieutenant General Keith Kellogg as special envoy, both supporters of Kyiv. At the same time, Steve Witkoff, the erstwhile negotiator for everything, has been moved to the Israel-Palestine-Qatar account. Witkoff, a foreign-policy naïf, was notoriously, even inanely, accommodating of Russian views.

This is not the kind of robust yet imperfect support that Ukraine received from the Biden administration, but it is most definitely not consistent with the Trump-as-Russian-agent narrative. It is not consistent either with the depiction of Trump as simply a malevolent actor. Instead, one should treat his behavior as a kind of puzzle to be examined. And there are clues to untangle it.

One place to start is with what Trump says, which is the first place one should always go in looking to understand a politician’s views, even one who is a serial liar and fabulist. Trump has made it clear that he does not like war, even though he exults in having military strength at his disposal. The destruction of Ukrainian cities, which he has referenced in several press conferences and meetings, seems to bother him. Perhaps it is merely the natural response of a man whose business experience lies chiefly in erecting buildings to dislike seeing them in ruins. No matter—it is real.

Trump also does not like being a chump. His ever more annoyed references to Putin suggest that although he cannot bring himself to say as much, he knows that he has been played by the Russian leader, who has no desire to come to terms with Kyiv on anything other than the surrender of Ukrainian sovereignty. In parallel, Trump thinks that giving away arms to Ukraine, rather than having someone buy them, is a bad deal for the United States. If someone else pays for them, well, that is a different story.

We know, moreover, that Trump wants to be a peacemaker. His idea of a good peace deal is no doubt different from that of his critics, partaking more of The Art of the Deal than the Sermon on the Mount. Still, his various pronouncements and diplomatic initiatives, now and in the past—regarding the Middle East, with regard to North Korea and China, as well as on Russia and Ukraine—suggest that he conceives of peacemaking as central to his legacy. Besides, he has made abundantly clear his thirst for a Nobel Peace Prize.

None of this makes Trump a humanitarian (although the sight of certain kinds of suffering evidently bothers him), a friend of Ukraine, or a great leader. But it means that his motives, and the resulting policy regarding Ukraine, are more complicated and less damaging than many believe.

There is something to the argument that Trump’s second term, particularly its first 18 months, will be uniquely dangerous (thereafter, the midterms and a lame-duck period set in). He no longer feels hemmed in by old-guard Republicans, and his subordinates are slavishly deferential—he and they understand better than they once did how to operate the federal government.

Although that is true, Trump has also, in some respects, changed and is defining his policies in ways that are not entirely arbitrary. For example, in his first term, he mused about withdrawing from NATO; the mood music is very different now. That is in part because European leaders know how to butter him up and flatter him effectively. It is also because—and, again, this runs counter to the Voldemort theory of Trump—his policy broadsides have sometimes produced desirable results.

Trump has bullied most of America’s European allies into committing to a spending target of 5 percent of GDP: 3.5 percent for defense, and 1.5 percent for anything related to defense. They will not deliver fully, of course, but European defense spending is indeed on the upswing. His wild talk and people’s fear of his mercurial behavior, as well as a gradual European sobering up about the long-term Russia threat, have helped bump up their defense spending. The method is awful, the ultimate consequences of the rhetoric are pernicious, the damage to America’s reputation is unfortunate—but the results are the results. And they are not bad.

This is a better situation than many predicted. It could all go badly, of course, because Trump is nothing if not unstable and unpredictable. His strange coalition includes internationalists such as Rubio and nativist isolationists such as Vance (who, nonetheless, has chosen to vacation in the swanky English Cotswolds). Trump is subject to fits of pique and self-delusion. And the underlying problem of how to break Putin’s belief that he can continue to prosecute the war without endangering his own position remains. Still, although  Trump has some demonic qualities, in the case of Ukraine, at least, they are not in charge.

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For fans of the Tour de France, the word extraterrestrial has a special resonance—and not a fun, Spielbergian one. In 1999 the French sports newspaper L’Équipe ran a photo of Lance Armstrong on its front page, accompanied by the headline “On Another Planet.” This was not, in fact, complimenting the American athlete for an out-of-this-world performance in cycling’s premier race, but was code for “he’s cheating.”

At that point, L’Équipe’s dog-whistling accusation of doping was based on mere rumor. More than a decade passed before the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency declared Armstrong guilty of doping. His remarkable streak of seven Tour wins was wiped from the record, but misgivings about extraterrestrial performances have never left the event.

L’Équipe was back at it in 2023 when it used the headline “From Another Planet,” this time for the Danish cyclist Jonas Vingegaard, who won that year’s Tour. And earlier this year, the U.S. magazine Velo reported on the “other worldly” performances of Tadej Pogačar, the Slovenian favorite to win this year’s race, which will wind up in Paris on Sunday. Despite the astronomical language, no evidence at all suggests that Vingegaard and Pogačar are doping—which makes their recent dominance of the Tour all the more striking.

This year Pogačar is in a class of his own: Earlier this week, he surpassed his 100th career win and could be on target to beat his astonishing 2024 record of winning nearly half the races he started in. “The conversations I hear are: How is Tadej Pogačar better than rocket-fueled Lance Armstrong?” Alex Hutchinson, the “Sweat Science” columnist for Outside magazine, told me. “What is it that has changed?” This was precisely my curiosity because—by all the available data, and there are a lot—the current crop of contestants for the Tour de France podium are faster and better than ever before, and that includes the bad old days of systematic doping.

[Travis T. Tygart: Bad regimes are winning at sport’s expense]

The sport’s problem was once so endemic that it reached beyond the pro peloton and down even to the humble amateur ranks in which I used to compete. We would shake our heads when occasionally someone got busted for taking an illegal substance—just to try to win 50 bucks in a park race.

Yet the story of the past decade has been a reversal of the old vicious cycle. That alone was notable enough, but what’s truly remarkable is the sport’s virtuous cycle, which I wanted to understand better: not just being clean but having attained an entirely new level of human performance.

For a century, the sheer rigor of a bicycle race lasting three weeks and covering thousands of kilometers, up and down mountain passes, lent itself to artificial stimulants. Riders were always looking for a little help, but the big change came in the 1990s with abuse of a medical drug named erythropoietin, which increases red-blood-cell production. That led to years of extraterrestrial performances, fueled—as Armstrong confessed to Oprah Winfrey—by a sophisticated blood-doping scheme.

Travis T. Tygart, the chief executive of the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, led the investigation of Armstrong and his co-conspirators, which was crucial to ending that dire era and setting the sport on a better path. “What we’re hearing—and we have good sources in the peloton and the community—is that the bias is in favor of clean athletes: that you can be clean and win,” he told me. This was a strong statement from the ultimate clean-sport cop. “In anti-doping, my job is to be skeptical but not cynical,” he went on. “All athletes deserve sports fans’ trust and belief in them, even if they’re doing amazing things that we’ve never before seen.” No one I spoke with for this article, including riders past and present, dissented from this view or raised suspicions about performance-enhancing drug use.

The gold standard of cycling performance—which boils down to a rider’s ability to push against the wind and go uphill fast—is a high power-to-weight ratio, given in watts per kilogram. The benchmark figure is how many watts per kilo a cyclist can sustain for a one-hour effort. Every rider now has a power meter fitted to their bike, so they know their numbers in a constant, real-time way (together with heart rate, speed, and other measurements).

“Cycling is more quantifiable than any other sport,” said Hutchinson, who is also the author of Endure: Mind, Body, and the Curiously Elastic Limits of Human Performance. “The power meter really gives you a window into the soul of the cyclist.”

The riders now train with the data, they race with the data, they publish their data on Strava and similar training apps, they probably dream about their data. So we know that during a crucial mountain stage in last year’s Tour de France—won convincingly by Pogačar on his way to overall victory—he produced approximately 7 watts per kilo for nearly 40 minutes. His main rival, Vingegaard again, actually tried an attack that failed, despite an estimated output of more than 7 watts per kilo for nearly 15 minutes. These were efforts in the Pyrenees; at sea level, the numbers would be even higher. (This all gets geeky quickly.)

Within living memory, a figure of 5 watts per kilo would have been enough to make a professional rider competitive in a multistage race such as the Tour; and at his blood-doped peak, two decades ago, Armstrong was averaging an estimated 6 watts per kilo. In 2004, on that same climb in the Pyrenees, he took nearly six minutes longer than Pogačar did last year. In other words, Armstrong on dope then would be an also-ran next to Pogačar today.

[From the May 2018 issue: The man who brought down Lance Armstrong]

For Hutchinson, this realization of human potential is a triumph of sports science. “Pogačar’s getting better every year because the technology, the ability to control his training and racing, is getting better,” he told me. His hypothesis is that all of these data, gathered and processed, are helping an athlete not only maximize their output but also optimize it. Data are “allowing people to live on the edge of their capacities more effectively than they used to,” he said. To make a mechanical analogy—endurance athletes love to talk about their “engine”—a pro cyclist knows exactly where their red line is and how to live right on it.

“Every sport sees evolution to a certain extent,” Sean Quinn, a professional cyclist who was the 2024 U.S. national road-race champion, told me from his altitude-training camp in Europe. “But the reason cycling has seen such an accelerated evolution in the last 20 years is because of the evolution of science across so many different dimensions.”

Measuring riders’ wattage is only the beginning of optimizing their performance. Inevitably, there’s an app for that: A premium subscription to VeloViewer means that “nine out of 10 guys in the peloton have seen a large part of the course before riding it,” Quinn explained. Highly accurate long-range weather forecasting can predict the wind speed and direction for a given race and course, Quinn said. That information helps cycling teams decide when to use aerodynamic but heavier wheels over lighter ones that produce more wind resistance.

The improvement in equipment is relentless. A bike is limited to a minimum weight (about 15 pounds), but as long as it meets certain regulations of dimension and geometry, its drag coefficient can be wind tunnel–tested to the nth degree. And not just the bike itself—everything is subject to this aerodynamic imperative: the rider’s helmet, jersey, shoes, even socks. Less drag means more speed, and fewer wasted watts maintaining that speed.

Much of this technological advance can be attributed to the philosophy of “marginal gains,” pioneered by the British Olympic cycling team in the early 2000s. At the time, short-distance events held in the Olympics’ velodrome were regarded as a sideshow by the pro peloton, whose riders mostly showed up only for the more prestigious road races. By that happenstance, the Olympic velodrome became an arena for clean sport—and a laboratory for technical innovation. “They made incremental improvements,” Phil Gaimon, a former U.S. pro, now an author and podcaster, told me. “You make 100 of them and they add up in a big way.” As the doping culture waned, steady advances in equipment and training ultimately led U.K. riders to a string of Tour de France victories in the 2010s. Soon, the whole peloton had to get with the program: Everyone is an incrementalist now.

“Equipment’s improved,” Gaimon said, but “probably the main thing in the last couple of years would just be nutrition.” Tygart, the anti-doping chief, agreed: “The nutrition is significantly different. Riders are fueling way more and in different ways from what they did in the past.”

Eating more marks a big change from past custom, which Gaimon summed up as: “Here’s your apple, go ride for six hours.” Cyclists have always responded to the obvious logic that when the road goes uphill, the lighter you are, the better. In the years before he turned professional, Quinn was aware of a “big movement toward weight loss and high-volume training, a lot of hours on the bike, and being as skinny as possible.” Until the 2020s, many riders still believed that fasted training—or, as Quinn says, “functional starvation”—was the way to go. “Especially in the past five years, it’s become public knowledge that that is the opposite of what you want to do.”

Racers are now constantly replenishing calories as they ride, in a highly calibrated way: They know exactly how many grams of food to eat and how often. This all adds up to an awful lot of energy bars and gels, as another former pro rider, George Hincapie, a co-host (with Armstrong and others) of the cycling podcast The Move, attested. Although he retired in 2012, his 17-year-old son Enzo now races on a development squad affiliated with Quinn’s team. “The amount of nutrition that shows up at my house for his training rides is mind-boggling,” Hincapie told me. “It drives my wife nuts: boxes and boxes of nutrition.”

But in the race to eat, not all calories are equal. Off the bike, quality meals are now a priority at all times—during training periods, in hotels at races, in the off-season. I spoke with Hannah Grant, a Danish TV chef and author who spent several seasons preparing food for the Saxo Bank pro-cycling team in the 2010s. At first, she encountered stiff resistance to the dietary changes she was trying to introduce: more vegetables, whole grains, no white pasta, no refined sugars when not on the bike. “I was called ‘the spawn of Satan’ for taking the ketchup off the table,” she told me. A turning point came when one rider on the team was found to be gluten-intolerant, and Grant was able to change his diet in a way that hugely helped his performance. “He was, like, ‘This is working!’” she said. “And then the other riders were, like, ‘What’s he doing that we need to do?’”

Grant follows the latest practices because she now provides recipes to Vingegaard’s team. “Each rider will have the day’s menu on their app,” she said, “and it will tell the rider: You can have 37.5 grams of lentils; you can have 92.8 grams of chicken; and so on. You see them standing with their phones at the buffet.”

[Read: A classic childhood pastime is fading]

Fueling the engine properly might seem blindingly obvious for participation in a race that will require a cyclist to burn 4,000 to 8,000 calories a day. But because riders tend to be conservative, even superstitious, in their loyalty to tried routines, shifting the culture took some time. Today’s generation of rising stars are digital natives for whom ignoring the data and the apps is unthinkable: You can’t win without them.

To those of us who love the sport of cycling, the notion that intelligence has proved stronger than even the most fiendish cheating is terribly appealing. In today’s Tour de France, I’m tempted to see not just a redemption narrative but an arc toward human perfectibility—and need to remind myself that, back in the worst doping years, fans were routinely fed supposedly technical reasons for the extraterrestrial performances: For instance, Armstrong was said to be more efficient because he pedaled at a higher cadence than other riders and had great “ankling” technique in his pedal stroke. So that history does make one legitimately skeptical of claims about magical technical gains.

No one I spoke with would rule out that doping still exists in the sport. Occasionally, athletes are still caught at it—but that now seems to happen more at lower levels of competition where the monitoring is less comprehensive. One permitted practice that offers some performance benefit is sodium-bicarbonate loading. You read that right: Chowing down baking soda helps aerobic performance in some circumstances by buffering lactic acid, a by-product of intense exercise. But eating an extra muffin won’t do it, and the gastric distress associated with eating a lot seems a natural limiter. Another, more alarming method involves microdosing with carbon monoxide—a deadly gas—to mimic the effect of altitude training. Cycling’s governing body has moved to ban the practice.

But these are small matters compared with the rampant cheating that used to pervade the sport. Tygart’s dictum—“be skeptical but not cynical”—makes ample sense. Assuming that Pogačar rolls over the finish line on the Champs-Élysées on Sunday with his lead intact and claims a fourth Tour victory, cycling fans seem safe to celebrate a clean, fair win for him and a victory for applied science. True, the Slovenian’s preeminence has turned this year’s race into something of a formality—a spectacle that can encourage a nostalgia for when the competition seemed to turn on other human factors such as race craft and guile, a capacity to suffer, and the will to overcome, rather than on data analysis and physiological optimization. Yet cycling never truly had a golden age. From a clean-sport perspective, it was bad old days all the way.

Let’s call it: No extraterrestrial is winning the Tour de France. If Pogačar’s performance is approaching perfection, that seems pretty good.

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