“Of all the frantically acquired coping mechanisms from the past year, you are my favorite.”
“So working from home is no longer an option?”
“I do think it would speed things up if you followed my social media.”
“Ten! Nine! Eight! . . .”
“Bigger than Godzilla? Sir, it’s lighting its cigar with Godzilla.”
“Wait—how many gallons are in a pint?”
He identifies a cluster of non-medical drivers of deadly outbreaks—war, political instability, human migration, poverty, urbanization, anti-science and nationalist sentiment, and climate change—and maintains that advances in biomedicine must be accompanied by concerted action on these geopolitical matters.
War and Pestilence ride together as two of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and there is no shortage of historical precedent to demonstrate the aptness of the allegory. The great influenza pandemic that began in 1918 was propelled, in part, by troop movements and population shifts at the end of the First World War. Both the First and the Second World Wars produced typhus epidemics. Armed conflicts cause malnutrition, poor pest control, and sanitation problems; even the soil often becomes contaminated. Medical facilities are destroyed; doctors and nurses, diverted to combat duty, are unable to provide care, and vaccination and other mass-treatment programs usually falter.
Henry Chang, the unofficial O.G. of Chinatown, waxes nostalgic for his friend, the famed photographer Corky Lee, and the beauty of the neighborhood’s streets.
Vibrant Chinatown is a densely populated neighborhood that draws foodies and tourists to its many Chinese and Southeast Asian restaurants for dumplings, pork buns and hand-pulled noodles. The busy sidewalks are packed with souvenir stores, bubble tea shops, and markets selling everything from fresh and dried fish to herbs and spices. Locals hang out in leafy Columbus Park for Tai Chi, chess and mahjong.
For The New Yorker’s ninety-sixth anniversary, Sergio García Sánchez draws the magazine’s trademark dandy, Eustace Tilley, masked and with a vaccine dose in hand. We also see scenes of pandemic life, and the contours of a city waiting to reëmerge.
“With masks, social distancing, and vaccines, we’ll slowly recover life in the city,” Sánchez told us. “The chance encounters with people of all cultures; the thrill of eating outside at any hour. The city is a container for so many stories, and soon they’ll be out in the open again.”
This is Sánchez’s début cover, but he isn’t the first to reimagine our mascot. When Rea Irvin, the magazine’s inaugural art editor, drew a Regency dandy for the first issue, in February, 1925, he likely wanted readers to laugh—this self-serious gentleman was a caricature of the dour, bourgeois old guard. A year later, to celebrate The New Yorker still being afloat, Irvin and the magazine’s editor, Harold Ross, decided to republish the cover, establishing an anniversary tradition that endures to this day. Tilley, of course, has changed with the times, and we’ve collected, below, a few of the ways in which artists have remade him.
The New Yorker Cartoonist Amy Kurzweil will never read all three volumes and 1,928 pages of “On What Matters,” but she knows how to draw them.
In the animated short “Friends,” illustrated by Florian Grolig, a very tiny man and his giant pal face the ups and downs of their unlikely friendship.