An obituary is a perfect framing device: within it, every life is of consequence, treading a path of inevitability that brings the narrative to a close. It’s also a style of writing that has probably existed, in some form, since we began putting words on paper. This summer, someone very close to me died suddenly, and reading his obituary reminded me of how much obituaries express as a summary note on a life, and how they can satisfy our appetite for gazing into our people’s stories. For my new column, “Afterword,” I’ll be telling the stories of people, places, and things we’ve lost. As I write in my first obituary of the series, one of the most common names in the United States is still John Smith—but who are the John Smiths of today’s America? I’ve always been interested in journalistic templates that can be applied to the whole range of humanity; and, with “Afterword,” I’m excited to have a way to highlight how much we have in common—and how radically we differ. —Susan Orlean Read “The John Smiths of America.” If you’d like to propose a subject for an Afterword piece, write to us at afterword@newyorker.com. | | | |
| Find your weekend read with more by Susan Orlean: | | | |
A collection of this week’s best reads, hand-picked for you. | | | |
- P.S. Amazon released its first Kindle on this day in 2007. In 2009, Nicholson Baker reviewed the Kindle 2 for the magazine, and forced himself to read a book on the e-reader “out of a sense of duty.” After reading on his iPod and then switching to the Kindle, he writes, “It was like going from a Mini Cooper to a white 1982 Impala with blown shocks.”
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Today’s newsletter was written by Jessie Li. | | | |
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