By David Remnick
One among art's purest demanding situations is to translate a individual into phrases. The New Yorker has met this problem extra effectively and extra initially than the other glossy American magazine. It has indelibly formed the style referred to as the Profile. beginning with light-fantastic evocations of glamorous and idiosyncratic figures of the twenties and thirties, akin to Henry Luce and Isadora Duncan, and carrying on with to the current, with advanced photographs of such contemporaries as Mikhail Baryshnikov and Richard Pryor, this choice of New Yorker Profiles provides readers with a portrait gallery of a few of the main sought after figures of the 20th century. those Profiles are literary-journalistic investigations into personality and accomplishment, intent and insanity, good looks and ugliness, and are unrivalled of their diversity, their number of sort, and their include of humanity.
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Extra info for Life Stories: Profiles from The New Yorker
I was a fishing-boat cook for a year and a half, and then I quit and took up a different line of work altogether. I’ll be through with this cake in just a minute. I make my icing thicker than most people do, and I put more on. Frosting. ” “Yes,” I said. ” “No,” I said. ” “It’s the root that’s poisonous, the root and the berries. In the spring, when it first comes up, the young shoots above the root are good to eat. They taste like asparagus. The old women in Sandy Ground used to believe in eating pokeweed shoots, the old Southern women.
In recent generations, the Sandy Grounders have had a tendency to kind of let things slip, and one of the things they’ve let slip is the cemetery. They haven’t cleaned it off for years and years, and it’s choked with weeds and scrub. Most of the gravestones are hidden. It’s surrounded by woods and old fields, and you can’t always tell where the cemetery ends and the woods begin. Part of it is sandy and part of it is loamy, part of it is dry and part of it is damp, some of it is shady and some of it gets the sun all day, and I’m pretty sure you can find just about every wild flower that grows on the South Shore somewhere in it.
Peppergrass,” he said. ” “To tell you the truth,” I said, “I like to look at wild flowers, and I’ve been studying them off and on for years, but I don’t know much about them. I’m only just beginning to be able to identify them. ” “I’ve seen you from a distance several times wandering around over here in the cemetery,” Mr. Brock said. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said. ” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Brock, “I’m aware of that. In fact, I’ll give you a tip. ” I said that I had walked through it many times, and had often wondered about it.