The New Yorker

Sequoias can live for thousands of years, but a single bristlecone in California’s White Mountains can live indefinitely. This gnarled tree species will outlive humanity.

In Raffi Khatchadourian’s New Yorker profile, N.K. Jemisin recounts the racism she witnessed as a child in Alabama in the ’80s, as well as racism — editorial and otherwise that she has lived through in her career.

For migrants who speak Mayan languages, a grassroots group of interpreters is often their only hope for receiving asylum.

In this long, kitchen-sink essay, long-time New Yorker writer and art critic Peter Schjeldahl reveals that he is dying of lung cancer. He poignantly looks back at his life and career, and his history as a smoker.

Jia Tolentino goes undercover into the world of plastic surgery, where everyone wants to look like an already-warped version of Kim Kardashian.

A look at performative motherhood, where stress and alcohol play proud roles, and identity and commodity blur.

It’s not the first piece written about the Park Slope Food Coop, but it is the most candid yet loving — an ode to the people who make it the combination oasis of equality and den of drama that it is.

In Brazil, indigenous people and illegal miners are engaged in a fight that may help decide the future of the planet.

Nick Paumgarten recounts what beer-league hockey has given him over the years: occasional bragging rights, countless happy sud-soaked memories, a feeling of camaraderie, and three concussions whose lingering after effects caused him to leave the game.

“Dimitrov and Lasky [the Astro Poets] think of the signs formally, as ‘poetic constraints,’ and imagine them interacting like characters in a novel.