More than a few readers may squirm as they nibble their way through Sophie Haigney’s latest, about eaters who are rejecting “the usual sources of authority” and tinkering with optimization through unconventional diets—upping their intake of raw buffalo brain, for instance, or swearing off vegetables. But Haigney’s not in it for the disgust or the judgment. Instead, she moves among “dark nutrition” practitioners with a deep curiosity for how they try to manage uncertainty through appetite.
It was like any other absorbing pastime: You could tunnel deep into nutrition, endlessly studying and adjusting your diet, treating your body as an ongoing experiment. When traditional researchers do experiments, they use n to represent the sample size, like the number of individuals tested. Dark-nutrition circles were constantly talking about the “n of one” — the idea that the only way to learn what is good for you is by ignoring broad samples and experimenting on your unique self.
Jim Morrison has endured almost unimaginable loss—first his wife and two young children in a plane crash, then his partner and climbing companion Hilaree Nelson in a Himalayan avalanche. But rather than stepping back from danger, he kept pursuing ever more risky objectives, culminating in the first ski descent of Everest’s nearly unclimbable north face via the Super Direct route. This profile explores Morrison’s perseverance and shows how, for some people, a life defined by extreme risk can never be retreated from.
“It was a profound, transformational moment for me to know that when I found Hilaree, she wasn’t in her body,” Morrison told me. “I dug her out of the snow. I held her in my arms. I screamed, and I cried, but it was just her dead body. She was no longer there, and it was as clear as anything has been in my entire lifetime. I had been haunted so much by my wife and my children, and what state they were in when the plane crashed, and how they were recovered. I had been haunted by these visions of their half-burned corpses. Then contrast that with what I went through with Hilaree. There was so much more finality to it.” Morrison had her body cremated in Kathmandu, at a Buddhist temple.
In 1993, an audience member at the Citizen Cup tennis tournament stabbed Monica Seles, then a 19-year-old phenom who was then dethroned from the top of the world tennis rankings. The attack, writes Terrence Doyle, “was a physical manifestation of a logic that has since become our default: the idea that an athlete is not a human to be witnessed, but a data point to be managed, edited, or deleted.” I briefly mentioned Doyle’s disturbing essay a week ago, but it has stayed with me since: a worrying meditation on the ease with which athletes are abstracted into mere data sets. It deserves your deeper consideration.
Perhaps the most profound shift is the collapse of our ability to trust what we see. In 1993, we had the tape. We saw Parche reach over the rail and thrust his blade into Seles’ back. We agreed on the wound. Today, that on-the-ground truth is being eroded. We’re being told by powerful forces to disregard the evidence of our own senses—to see every physical trauma as a narrative threat or a potential deepfake.
Leo Kim’s piece is an ambitious mix of race‑track reportage, personal reflection, and theory‑driven critique. It braids together one night at a small Indiana speedway, the rise and collapse of Anderson’s auto industry and unions, and an abstract meditation on tech, AI, and “speed.” It poses a compelling central question—whether every technology invents its own kind of disaster—but does demand close attention to follow its dense imagery.
The dust doesn’t bother me much. By this point in the night, the round-and-round whirling of cars, combined with the alchemical mixture of exhaust, burnt rubber, and patriotic beer, has lulled me into a Midwestern trance. It must be the flatness that makes this region such a perfect catalyst for this kind of delirium. When Baudrillard drove through the expanse of the US, he wrote about speed as an erasing force whose “only rule is to leave no trace behind.” He was right to sense speed as a primal impulse in this unfurling stretch of country. Movement in the Old World is slowed by its narrow roads, latticed cities, and contested borders; it struggles to overcome the glacial pace of History. Drive a hundred miles and you’re bound to run into something. Not so in the Midwest. Nothing here interrupts the flow. There are no mountains to break the wind, no densities of skyscrapers to bisect the sky, no ravines to stop the sprawl. Everything moves towards terminal velocity. It is a landscape built for vortices and accelerating feedback loops: for flows of capital, weather, ideology, and machinery to intersect and (r)evolve into novel forms.
Editor’s Note: Passages is a members-only monthly newsletter about life-changing encounters with stories. Each edition of Passages features a short essay in which one of our favorite writers explores their own life as a reader. Our first contributor, Maggie Shipstead, is an accomplished travel writer whose most recent novel, Great Circle, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize for Fiction.Join Longreads today to receive Passages in your inbox, along with our weekly Top 5 story recommendations and other member perks.
When I was a kid, my mom called the stack of books on my nightstand a “smorgasbord.” People use a lot of food language when they talk about reading. We devour; we gulp. I like to “graze” as a reader, moving through multiple books simultaneously, dipping in and out according to my mood. Romantic metaphors, too, come in handy, alluding to the vagaries of appetite and compatibility and taste. I would say that I’m still not a monogamous reader. I play the field; I read around.
The current count of books I’m partway through is eighteen: eight print books, eight e-books, and two audiobooks. There’s some nonfiction in there: Into the Ice by Mark Synnott, Boom by Michael Shnayerson, and the audiobook of Entitled by Andrew Lownie, which, if you need to be convinced that Prince Andrew is one of the most odious people on the planet, boy do I have the book for you. The majority of my docket is taken up by novels, though. A galley of Emily St. John Mandel’s new book Exit Party is on my nightstand, as is Ian McEwan’s What We Can Know. (Bad title! I hate titles that are unmemorable strings of nonspecific words!) I’m in a race to finish Venetian Vespers by John Banville before Libby, the public library app, takes it back for maybe the fourth time. The Banville is short and enjoyable but has been a victim of the smorgasbord approach, never quite seizing priority. Also on my Libby shelf are, among others, Lovers XXX by Allie Rowbottom, The Original by Nell Stevens, and Villa Coco by Andrew Sean Greer. On my Bookshop.org app, I have The Remembered Soldier, a magnificent novel by the Dutch writer Anjet Daanje that is very long and that I ended up (happily) buying because I didn’t want to race Libby’s loan period.
I wasn’t an early adopter of e-books, partly because my first novel was published in 2012, at the height of e-book doomerism, when everyone was saying print books were soon to be a thing of the past and e-books were the enemy. (Interestingly—at least to me—the ratio of print copies to digital has gone up for each of my three successive books, with only that first one selling more e-books than physical.) The Kindle launched in 2007, but I didn’t have an e-reader until 2013, when I got a Kobo in a gift bag. I liked it, but the process of acquiring e-books and getting them on the device was cumbersome, and, anyway, within a year I left it on an airplane.
During the pandemic, I found myself meandering back toward e-books. I’d had an iPad for a while but didn’t really know what to do with it until a friend told me about Libby. Somehow I’d forgotten libraries existed, and I didn’t have a card for the Los Angeles system, even though I’d lived in the city for six years by then. I signed up for one online, downloaded the app, and everything changed. I didn’t even have to leave my house, which I wasn’t supposed to do anyway.
That feeling of absorption is one I crave, and I’ve experienced it many, many times, courtesy of books of all different genres and the whole spectrum of high- to low-browness.
I’d never lost the habit of reading in bed at night, but my intake of books had slowed dramatically over the years, probably starting in college. I was an English lit major, so reading was work. Then writing became my job in my mid-20s, and that professionalism wore away any playfulness that was left in reading. I’d gotten timid and precious in my choices, only buying books I felt confident I would enjoy but then often not enjoying them after all, at which point they would linger, stubbornly material, in my house until I rounded up a box or two to donate. With Libby, I could be capricious again. Every time I came across an intriguing mention of a book or someone recommended one, I placed a hold. I would then immediately and completely forget about the hold until, days, weeks, or months later, some vaguely recalled title appeared on my iPad, a gift from my past self. Something about the convenience and low stakes of Libby got me reading like I hadn’t in years. I became a filter-feeder, opening my maw to take in books indiscriminately, unbothered by the ones that must be spat out. In 2020 I read 60 books; last year I read 92. I started but didn’t finish dozens more.
The dream, though, even for a nonmonogamist like myself, is The One, the book that makes all others disappear, that enchants you completely and exclusively until the last page boots you back out into the world. That feeling of absorption is one I crave, and I’ve experienced it many, many times, courtesy of books of all different genres and the whole spectrum of high- to low-browness. Last week it was the audiobook of Patrick Radden Keefe’s London Falling. In January it was a re-read of Ariel Levy’s memoir The Rules Do Not Apply. Lately I’ve been immersed in Michelle Huneven’s back catalog. Possibly the most delicious experiences of The One emerge from a perfect alchemy of time, place, and book, like when I found an orange and white Penguin edition of The Secret History in a used bookshop in Bali in 2011 and, having somehow never heard of it, bought it on the basis of the title alone. Or when I read Persuasion on my phone in a tent in the Swedish Arctic. Or when, traveling alone in New Zealand, I read all the Twilight books in rapid succession, and upon finishing the last one, felt like I’d woken up in a bus stop, disheveled and hungover and utterly mystified as to how I’d gotten there.
The One is not singular but takes infinite forms. There is no heartbreak when you move on. In fact, the pleasure is additive. A writer friend reminded me of this once when I was expressing disgruntled envy about the reception of someone else’s book. “No one ever finishes a good book and says, ‘Now I’ll never read another book again,’” she said.
Free love prevails at the smorgasbord. And, I mean, there’s a title.
Three Reading Recommendations
In 2017, before a total solar eclipse made a nice long arc over the continental US, I read “Total Eclipse” by Annie Dillard for the first time. I’d had no plans to bestir myself to go see the eclipse, but I pretty much finished the last paragraph, bought a tent and some welder’s glass to look through, got in the car and drove from LA to Oregon. The eclipse—and you have to be in the path of totality—remains the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen. Conveying the power of natural phenomena is extremely difficult, and Dillard’s writing elicits both the visceral shock of seeing a total eclipse and the necessity to witness one with your own eyes.
Look, call me unexciting, but I would be pretending to be someone I’m not if I didn’t include a New Yorker piece. How to choose, though? I love an unsolved/unsolvable mystery, so should I pick Douglas Preston’s piece about the Dyatlov Pass incident? Or pretty much anything by PatrickRaddenKeefe? Or perhaps the 2009 profile of Caster Semenya by Ariel Levy that changed my understanding of gender and biological sex? I think because I can only pick one, I’ll go with Levy’s “Thanksgiving in Mongolia,” which you’ve either already read and been undone by or everyone you know has already told you to read and for some reason you haven’t. Her alchemy of experience into writing is somehow both raw and polished and hits with the force of a train.
Recently I was reminded of this piece by Alexandra Paul, “Stalked: A Baywatch star’s 13-Year Nightmare,” when I happened to interview her twin sister, Caroline. It’s a harrowing personal account of being stalked for many years, and also includes meaningful practical advice for how to protect ourselves in this age of frightening access. I’d always had deep ambivalence about not responding to a horrible poison pen DM I got on my wedding day, and Paul’s essay granted me total certainty that not engaging had been the right move all along.
Maggie Shipstead is the New York Times-bestselling author of three novels and a short story collection. Her novel Great Circle was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the winner of the Dylan Thomas Prize and the L.A. Times Book Prize for First Fiction. Her travel writing and essays have appeared lots of places. She lives in Los Angeles.
If there’s a Wikipedia page about yourself, you must be famous—some kind of celebrity—or an expert in your field, or a figure who’s made a prominent contribution to human history or culture. But what happens when that page is nominated by Wikipedia editors for deletion? In a quirky tech story for Wired, Duncan Fyfe reports on the strange experience of being told you’re just not notable enough.
There is, when you look for it, a careless and cocky tone that can creep into the verdicts of Wikipedia editors who have been doing the job for a long time. “This guy is a nobody. Delete him.” “I’ve got more followers on Instagram than he does.” “All we have here are stand-up comedy, opinion columns, being a guest or collaborator on some non-notable podcasts … This is more or less every twentieth person who lives in NYC.”
When Snigdha Poonam received a strange email from an organization seemingly interested in discussing a book she published seven years ago, she was intrigued, but apprehensive. As it turns out, her suspicions were well-founded. Poonam, after investigating, discovered she’d been the target of an author scam. Little did the grifter know, that Poonam has spent the last 10 years reporting on fraud. Game on!
This was undoubtedly a scam. Genuine book clubs don’t ask for money from authors. But who was behind it?
Had these individuals actually read my work, they would have wanted to stay away from me. I have spent the last 10 years reporting on transnational fraud. My first book, Dreamers, closed with a chapter on fake call centers in India; my second, Scamlands, traveled to other low-income countries in Asia to portray an invisible empire that thrives on inequality, technological change and the erosion of trust.
Along the way, I met and interviewed the scammers whose labor keeps this empire running. For some, fraud was a route to upward mobility; for others, an act of revenge against the privileged. Though I have formally emerged from this underworld, I can never delete a scam email without wanting to know more.
For Emergence Magazine, James Bridle writes about artificial intelligence; carpentry and chair-making with ChatGPT; and Enzo Mari, a famed Italian furniture designer from the 1950s and ’60s. Bridle asks: “What if we used AI for something actually useful?” They offer an interesting take on AI, and why the extractive way we’re using it is far from satisfying.
What we have here is, quite literally, a chair designed by someone who has read a lot about chairs but never actually sat in one. They know what a chair should look like, what it should do, the mechanics of how one is put together, the physics of holding you up. But they have no embodied experience of the world, no history with chairs or any other object, no physical memory. They don’t know how it feels, not merely to sit in a chair, but to encounter one in the world, to place it among other things in a home, to live with it, to be around it every day as one goes about the mundane business of life. This is the idea of a chair brought to life; but things—objects, beings, relationships—are not mere ideas, and you certainly can’t get every aspect of them from books. The chair is low stakes, but, once again, you wouldn’t want to run a society, or a culture, or a planet this way.
When Russia invaded Ukraine, it was summarily booted from one of the world’s greatest—or worst, depending on your taste—pop-culture celebrations: Eurovision. When Israel launched its genocidal campaign in Gaza, it was allowed to keep competing. And it’s done very well. Lisa Borst goes into the pulsing belly of the gaudy Eurovision beast to interrogate the competition’s politics:
One word that comes up a lot in attempts to describe the Eurovision aesthetic is “camp.” In a blog post for the London Review of Books, Andrew O’Hagan pronounced that Eurovision 2009 was “the biggest, campest carnival yet.” The following year, Anthony Lane, in The New Yorker, characterized the contest by its “reliable deployment of camp, whether sly or unwitting.” I’d brushed up on my Sontag before heading to Vienna and thought I’d prepared for artifice, for schlock, for the pileup of off-kilter theatricality and post-disco schmaltz that inspired Carl Wilson, in Let’s Talk About Love, to label Eurovision the “Cheeseball Olympics.”
But as the hook to “Ferto” lodged itself further in my head and Eurovision’s physical presence continued to intrude, it was becoming harder to see all this as properly winking, witty, and “disengaged, depoliticized—or at least apolitical,” as Sontag puts it in her second Note on Camp. What was emanating from the Stadthalle seemed closer to “kitsch,” that nice German loanword for camp without wit. Kitsch is politicized and shaped by residual history; its precondition, Clement Greenberg wrote in 1939, is “the availability close at hand of a fully matured cultural tradition” whose familiar formulas could be recycled by reactionary regimes toward the aim of mass appeal.
Gus Garcia-Roberts follows Belfi Rivera, a Major League Baseball prospect from the Dominican Republic, through an unregulated recruitment system that exposes young athletes to a network of predatory figures (and at least one former World Series MVP and prominent Fox Sports analyst). It’s a system that operates in plain sight and has for years, but Garcia-Roberts’s superbly reported narrative, which centers on Rivera and his vulnerable family, make those operations positively harrowing.
As a child, Belfi never cared for baseball. He started playing at 7, he told me, because a local coach would drag him from his house and cuff him on the head if he tried to escape to a nearby river to be with his friends. But even as a young boy, he understood the sport likely represented his family’s one shot out of grinding poverty. During that video call in 2021, it seemed that he had clinched it.
But in two and a half years, the $1.8 million Belfi was promised would be almost all gone. Carmona received $630,000, which represented his 35% commission. But more than $950,000 went to someone who had no hand in teaching Belfi how to play baseball. His name is Santo Caraballo, one of the most notorious moneylenders profiting from Dominican baseball. His business partner is a national hero and, 10 years after his retirement, still a commanding figure within Major League Baseball: David Ortiz, known universally as “Big Papi.”
Leave it to Arundhati Roy to deliver a scorching, dizzying essay on the perils of artificial intelligence that references Greek mythology, Francis Ford Coppola, the Bible, India’s industrial history, and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Plus, Emily Dickinson features in the lede:
The auguries are raining down hard. Think or Sink. Comply or Die. Look Up or be Left Out. And so, with these not-so-gentle threats, it has come to pass that the Age of AI—Actual Idiocy, Actual Super Idiocy, Recursive Snowballing-Idiocy—is upon us. Heck, I’ve already used two dashes in this opening paragraph. That, as they say, is a tell. So, perhaps I haven’t written this essay at all. You’d have to use an AI app to check if it’s actually AI, and whether I’m really, or not really, or only partially me. You can no longer use your instincts. You have to use the App. Now that AI owns the em dash, what will future generations make of Emily Dickinson and her love of them? Has she been fed to the machine, too? Will they love her less? Are we being gradually locked out of language? Does it matter anymore?
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Kristin Idaszak | Longreads | October 22, 2026 | 3,741 words (13 minutes)
The city of the dead is the obverse of the society of the living, or rather than the obverse, it is its image, its intemporal image. For the dead have gone through the moment of change, and their monuments are the visible sign of the permanence of their city.
—Philippe Ariès, Western Attitudes Toward Death
Shortly after I graduated from college, my best friend sent me a postcard from the Sedlec Ossuary, a Catholic chapel formally named the Cemetery Church of All Saints in Kutná Hora, a town about an hour east of Prague. The postcard depicted the chapel’s interior: a chandelier of bones flanked by two towers of skulls. On the back she wrote, “The chandelier alone contains all the bones in the human body. Thanks to the plague, we have this work of totally weird art!”
Immediately I started planning my own trip to Kutná Hora—a place made prosperous by silver mining but famous for its bone church—and arrived with the zeal of a pilgrim. Today the town has 20,000 residents, but in its 14th-century heyday it boasted almost four times as many souls. The late Middle Ages was a tough time to be alive, between the Black Death, various crusades and holy wars, and famine—not to mention the labor conditions of silver mining. Kutná Hora was also a popular place to die, and all the villagers wanted to spend eternity at the medieval Sedlec Abbey. After one of the crusades, an abbot had brought back a handful of soil, supposedly from Golgotha, and strewn it on the abbey grounds. Burial in that soil was believed to grant quicker access to heaven, which led to an overcrowded cemetery. The solution? Build a subterranean chapel to house the remains. And then a half-blind monk, in the wake of a terrible plague, exhumed the victims and used them to redecorate.
An ossuary is any repository for human remains, but it’s also the term for a holy site that serves this function. Another name for this kind of church is charnel house, which to me evokes the image of an abattoir. Death historian Philippe Ariès connects the term to the French idiom une vieille carne, translated as an old nag or a tough piece of meat. It’s apropos: These buildings enshrine human remains as décor in macabre, otherworldly, electrifying memento mori.
Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude.
Four months later, I found myself in the Czech Republic. A coat of arms made out of bones greeted me when I arrived at the bone church. Upon closer inspection, the heraldry included a skeletal bird, its slender beak playfully pecking out a long-disintegrated eye from an empty socket. As I descended the stygian steps from the ticket kiosk, I took in the pyramid of bones that guarded the four corners of the room.
The chapel seemed to exist in a perpetual gloaming, the air hushed and cool. The sheer presence of so many human remains disoriented me; they surrounded me on every side. Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude. The remains took on an animated quality—not in a Halloween-y, top hat–wearing, dancing skeleton sense; nor in an eerie, horror movie sense; but in the sense that each one radiated a life force.
I loved it. I loved being surrounded by skeletons and weird art and death.
Death and the afterlife fascinated me. I devoured stories of women who visited the underworld and returned—Alcestis, Eurydice, Persephone—and philosophers and poets who broached the subject—Nietzsche, Camus, Dante. Thanatos, my favorite philosophy professor called it. The death drive. But I had no sense of the fragility of my own body. My knees did not yet make those alarming soft pops; the permanent ache had not settled into my shoulder; my heart wouldn’t sputter erratically in my chest for another decade. The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.
I’d like to tell you that my visit to the Sedlec Ossuary changed everything, that after my trip I appreciated life’s transitory nature. Or that it gave me a premonition of what lay in store for me, my own brushes with death that were to come.
It did not.
While I was underground, I felt temporarily transported and transformed—or at least, I had a flicker of understanding: I sauntered into the chapel with the hubristic notion of a young artist that my words would become immortal. The bones confronted me with the truth. My legacy would be deposits of calcium and protein and collagen. My art wouldn’t endure, but these nameless victims of plague and famine and war—they did. It humbled me.
But I left the ossuary’s insights with the dead. In my early 20s, I didn’t need the bone church to convince me to suck the marrow out of each day. I went to grad school, became a playwright, got married, traveled to all seven continents. Somewhere in there, I relegated the bone chapel to memory.
In the summer of 2020, I got sick with a life-threatening cardiac arrhythmia called ventricular tachycardia. I had so many episodes of VT I lost count, and any one of them could have ended in cardiac arrest. These events were indescribably painful and frightening. They enervated me, sapping me of my strength, vitality—eventually my will to persevere. My life became very small.
Mortality was no longer an abstraction: I was scared of what would happen to me when I died. Of how much it hurt. Of the nothingness of bones.
In the years that followed my initial descent into illness, I rarely left home. At the time I lived in a two-bedroom apartment, a third-floor walk-up. Climbing the stairs could, unpredictably, trigger a cardiac event, and so unless I had to leave for work, I spent most of the time in my living room. I can close my eyes now and return to that place. I’d painted the walls a shade of cornflower blue I grew to loathe. The television tottered precariously on an ancient table. Cherry-stained bookcases lined the wall. The top of the bookcase displayed a golden Japanese fan with a cloud tree painted on it. Next to it stood a penguin pitcher I bought on my honeymoon in Tierra del Fuego. Three vintage-style travel posters advertised Antarctic destinations: Beagle Channel, Lemaire Channel, Paradise Harbor.
That room was the real ossuary.
One of my favorite Greek tragedies is Euripides’ Alcestis, in which the eponymous heroine journeys to Hades in her dying husband’s stead. The god Apollo tricks the Fates so that her husband, the king, can live if he can find someone to take his place in the underworld. There’s an exchange I think about a lot: “Possible to say she is both alive and dead,” her servant reports, and the chorus leader, understandably confused, asks, “How could someone die and keep on living?” This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.
The play takes a strange turn when Heracles arrives amid his twelve labors. During a supremely awkward evening of drunken revelry at the palace, he figures out what’s going on and hustles to the graveyard to wrestle death and bring Alcestis back.
I didn’t have a demigod to save me. But I didn’t want to be lost and gone.
The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.
Sitting in my apartment day after day, surrounded by artifacts from the world I used to inhabit, was slowly killing me. I was afraid of things that had caused my VT, which meant I was afraid to go to the grocery store. I was afraid of taking a yoga class. I was afraid to simply be outside if it was really hot out. Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.
I formulated a drastic plan to return to the land of the living. I took time off teaching and planned a sabbatical to travel and write. I couldn’t hide in my house if I rented it to someone else, if I jetted to the other side of the world. Instead of crossing the River Styx I ferried myself across the Pacific Ocean, and then the Atlantic. The final stop on my sabbatical was leading a study abroad in the Czech Republic, to attend an international scenography and performance festival. The ossuary didn’t really fit into the rest of the itinerary, but I wanted to give my students the experience I’d had all those years ago.
Though contemporary visitors can experience ossuaries as disturbing or revolting, they didn’t start out that way. In The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses, Paul Koudounaris traces their proliferation in Europe during the 13th century as a storage solution to the medieval Christian problem of where to keep the dead safe for their resurrection. There were more bodies than places to put them. Death preoccupied the medieval imagination. After the Bubonic plague, medieval artists began portraying its grotesque physicality: images of rotting corpses, poetic descriptions of worm fodder. You get the sense they would’ve painted the stench if they could. Is it any wonder that these decomposed cadavers eventually became the artistic medium itself?
Dozens of bone chapels sprang up across Europe by the 17th century, in a confluence of theology and aesthetics that seems morbidly inevitable. During the Counter-Reformation, Catholicism leaned into opulent and lavish Baroque art. It also leaned into corporal mortification, the kind that now shows up in mass-market thrillers as a fetishization of pain and suffering.
The appetite for gaudy-verging-on-gauche bone art swelled when the Romantics arrived on the scene in the 19th century. Gothic literature supplanted the medieval Ars Moriendi; a secular touchstone of this cultural moment is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, the Sedlec Ossuary has benefitted—or suffered from—the kitschification of gothic art, popping up in surprising places like The Young and the Restless and the “uninvolving and cliché-ridden” vampire B movie Blood and Chocolate.
Romanticism also marked the rise of a phenomenon now known as “dark tourism,” which refers to the practice of visiting sites associated with disaster, war, atrocity. Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon coined the term in 1996, in reference to tourism spawned by John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Scholars often point to concentration camps and Chernobyl as the field’s quintessential sites. Yet it’s a concept as old as tourism itself, dating back to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which a group of pilgrims travel to the site of Thomas Becket’s murder. During the Grand Tours of the Romantic era, visits to places like the Paris catacombs (an underground labyrinth containing the bones of some six million people) and Pompeii (mass grave by way of volcano) came into vogue as a way to cultivate the Sublime.
It can’t be an accident that this coincided with the proliferation of ossuaries. I have to believe not everyone went to charnel houses for the sake of holy contemplation. Prurience is not an invention of the digital age, even if we have elevated it to new heights (or denigrated it to new social media-inflected nadirs). I imagine gentlewomen in whalebone corsets and dilettantish young men titillating their companions with stories of the macabre.
The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity. Before I got sick, I went to Auschwitz as well as Hiroshima. The power of these sites is undeniable. They serve as monuments to some of modern history’s darkest moments and have been carefully transformed into vehicles for education, reflection, and solemn commemoration. I went because it felt important to bear witness to the horrific crimes against humanity that occurred there. But I’ve also participated in dark tourism less consciously, and perhaps you have, too. I’ve seen an Ai Weiwei art installation at Alcatraz, toured the Colosseum where murder was a matinée, peeked into the bakeries and brothels of Pompeii, strolled through Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. I skipped Hell’s Museum, which a friend recommended in Singapore, and wish I’d skipped a ghost tour of Savannah, Georgia—what made it haunting was the way the city’s bloody history of enslavement and oppression was repurposed as entertainment for partiers carrying to-go cups of watered-down vodka.
The counterargument is self-evident: It leaves these sensitive sites vulnerable to exploitation. The suffering of one group commodified as a cocktail party anecdote for another. The exit through the gift shop.
This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.
It would be a neat narrative if the newest wave of dark tourism had gained traction after the pandemic, when there was a momentary reintegration of death in our day-to-day. In actuality, it flourished before COVID spread, before ambulances drove through empty city streets and bodies piled up in overcrowded mortuaries, before corpses were stashed in refrigerated trucks in New York City because the morgues were beyond capacity. And now, when those months and years have receded like a bad dream and no lessons were learned, it’s hard to attribute a newfound reverence for mortality to this renewed appetite for dark tourism.
I never thought about what I was doing as morbid. I gravitated to many of these attractions unconsciously, often because I wanted to understand history—and history is littered with corpses. But I think back uneasily to the casual way these sites were slotted into my itineraries. I remember the okonomiyaki place I went to after the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, the hole-in-the-wall with the cheerfully ursine line cook, but not how I possibly could’ve been hungry.
The impetus for this flavor of tourism isn’t monolithic. Some dark tourists are processing their personal or ancestral experiences, some are genuinely curious, some don’t even realize they’re doing it, and some are rubberneckers. Regardless of motivation, one effect of present-day dark tourism under global capitalism is the Disneyfication of death.
The first months of my sabbatical were rocky. Fear dogged me through the streets of Sydney, Mumbai, Athens. A few weeks before I went back to the Czech Republic to lead my study abroad, I went to another bone chapel, in a small town east of Lisbon called Évora. Visitors flock to Évora for its prehistoric megaliths and Roman temple to Diana, but I’d driven across Portugal to see the charnel house. My GPS misled me through the hot, dusty town, and I circled around the temple and its remaining Corinthian columns—which seemed dropped into the town square like an abandoned film set—until I found the Capela dos Ossos.
The 17th-century Capela has more bling than Sedlec, from azulejo tiles to ceiling frescoes, with skulls where cherubs might usually repose. (Other charnel houses put the Capela to shame in their ostentation, such as the skeletons at the German Basilica of Waldsassen wearing jewel-encrusted gold costumes, which were originally posed with chalices with dried blood at their feet.) The chapel is crammed, floor to illustrious ceiling, with bones stacked horizontally, so only the knobs show. Lined with osteological columns, the architecture echoes the ruined temple to the pagan goddess in the town beyond. Before you even enter there’s a Dantean inscription: Nos ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos.
We bones that are here await yours.
I found the inscription strangely comforting as I entered the inner chamber. The first interpretive sign explained the function of a bone chapel as a memento mori: “It is expected to serve as a consolation to some and news to others.”
Lucky them, I thought.
I appreciated the aesthetics of the Capela dos Ossos, but it lacked the Hadean quality that engendered my near-mystic experience at the Sedlec Ossuary. Afterward, I continued on my sabbatical still mistrustful of my body, still afraid to move through the world.
Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.
But when I got to Prague, something shifted. It didn’t happen all at once. I didn’t walk into the bone chapel and have an epiphany. A logjam loosened in my psyche. Shepherding a group of young adults in a foreign country, I couldn’t hide in the hotel or confine myself to strictly prescribed routes and routines. For many of them it was their first trip overseas, and overwhelmed, they looked to me for guidance.
At 7 a.m. one morning, 20 students piled onto a bus to Kutná Hora. On the drive, I strove to impart my love of bone churches: Ossuaries aren’t morbid (okay, well, they are, but they’re not only morbid); they highlight the brevity of our lives to help us live more intentionally. But in a kind of punk rock way. Carpe fucking diem. The students were curious but respectful. Some found it moving, others creepy.
When we arrived, the bone chapel was different than I remembered. Tentatively, I descended into the brightly lit space below. In the open area of the chapel, monitors now played a video of renovators handling the bones. The video explained a restoration project to shore up the building’s structural integrity and preserve the skeletons. The foundation is unstable and has started sinking since it was built sometime in the 14th century. In the Baroque period the Czech-Italian architect Jan Blažej Santini-Aichel redesigned the ossuary as it exists today, and it wasn’t until the 1860s that a carpenter named František Rint created the bone art, including the famous chandelier and the Schwarzenberg coat of arms that reproduced the heraldry of the local aristocrats.
That wasn’t the origin story I’d learned years ago, about the monk and the plague—was the monk even real? The crepuscular lighting and gloom were gone. Where was the ambience? How could you commune with the dead like this?
Behind me, another busload of tourists arrived, and another, and another. Tourists overran the chapel, their guides speaking into little microphones in various languages while they snapped photo after photo. At the entrance, the lone employee said in English, no photos allowed. Everybody ignored her.
Snap.
Desensitized, they gawked without seeing.
Snap.
No photos, repeated the ticket taker.
Snap.
The scores of tour groups weren’t part of my memory.
The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity.
Through a side door I climbed the stairs into an outdoor cemetery. The videos of the restorers kept replaying in my mind. It’s one thing to envision an apocryphal monk constructing pyramids of bones, it’s another to watch footage of archaeologists cleaning them and then putting them back in the pile. One of my students was minoring in archaeology and, as we strolled through the cemetery, she told me that ethical and legal restrictions governed archaeologists’ handling of human remains. It was obvious once she said it, but I hadn’t thought about it. The videos had close-ups of hands in nitrile gloves cleaning the dirt off the bones. Afterward, the bones were soaked in lime solution, which is also how Rint first prepared them in the 1860s. His chlorinated lime solution is the reason the Sedlec Ossuary’s decorations have remained relatively white over the years, while bones in other ossuaries have browned with age. The archaeologists also have the benefit of video mapping to help them rebuild the pyramids once the bones are cleaned and restored.
It must take incredible dedication for these archaeologists to put themselves in this proximity with death. To sustain that intimacy day after day—I know the cost.
I resented the crowd of tourists I’d left thronging the chapel. More than that, I felt a sense of superiority. Now that I was ready for the ossuary to transform me, I’d found an atmosphere that was more carnivalesque than sacred.
But as I meandered among the headstones in the fresh air, it occurred to me: Did I really think that none of those tourists had ever lost a parent or child or partner, ever grieved, ever had a near-death experience of their own? Did I really think my proximity to death, my awareness of its phalanges drumming on my shoulder, had given me some privileged access to the charnel house’s true meaning? To the contrary, after I got sick, I guarded my life like a dragon hoarding a treasure pile in a dark cave, and it moldered away, unspent. Those bones had more vivacity than I did.
For the medieval peasants whose skeletons limned the walls, death was a prolonged nap until everyone woke up during the rapture. There was a fluidity between death and the afterlife. These days it seems so much more final. (Per Ariès, once it was tame and now it is wild.) Much has been made of the deathbed’s move in modern society from the home to the hospital: out of sight, out of mind. Ossuaries thrust mortality squarely in your line of vision. They ask that you regard death as a transition, not a terminus. Not something to guard against hyper-vigilantly, but a natural part of a cosmic continuum.
It was time to live again.
Going back to the Sedlec Ossuary was not some purifying rite. It was an ordinary day. The tourists streamed past me, discussing where they were going for lunch. The students had moved on, browsing for trinkets at the shop across the street. I recoiled at the kitschy skull mugs and shot glasses, but when I got home, I wished I had a memento mori to put next to the penguin.
After Heracles brings Alcestis back from the underworld, she’s silent for the remainder of the play. Still sacred to the god of the dead, she cannot speak until three days have gone by, Heracles explains. I think there might be other reasons she stays silent. Maybe she preferred it down there. Maybe she left some irretrievable part of herself behind. Maybe she found the light above a little too harsh, the music too loud, the colors too saturated; found herself attracted to dusk, to intertidal zones, lintels, liminal spaces. Or maybe she has nothing left to say.
When I got home, I went through my old photos. I couldn’t figure out if my memories of Sedlec were real until I found a photo of myself, painfully young, standing in the semi-dark underneath the chandelier, its bones glowing white—either from the camera flash or an out-of-frame light source. I look half-happy, half-haunted, like I’m about to say something, but I can’t remember what.
Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced and award-winning playwright and essayist whose recent work explores the intersection of ecology and chronic illness. She is a 3Arts Awardee, two-time Playwrights’ Center Jerome Fellow, and the former Shank Playwriting Fellow at the Goodman Theatre. She received the Kennedy Center ACTF Paula Vogel Playwriting Award and the Jean Kennedy Smith Playwriting Award. Her essays appear in The American Scholar, Fourth Genre, HowlRound, and elsewhere.
Since transitioning, Lane Michael Stanley has struggled with his interactions with straight men—especially the classic ‘man-hug’: brief, side-angled, all back slaps and no stomach touching. As he navigates this new territory, he reflects on his other relationships and forms of physical intimacy, examining his life and gender norms from both sides of his transition.
Straight men are generally more standoffish with me than I remember them being before. They make less eye contact, they touch less, they smile less. Do I not know how to read their friendship cues? Maybe straight men befriend other men differently from how they befriend women: no more touch of the arm that they swear is innocent, no more questions they feel entitled to ask or basic facts they appoint themselves to explain. Maybe I should learn to read a curt nod as a sign of camaraderie from men now, replacing whatever a straight man’s sly smile was supposed to convey before.
Or are they more standoffish because they can tell I’m gay? Maybe straight men want to keep me at a distance. Maybe there is a reality to the coldness I read from them, a hostility they throw my way unconsciously. Most of the gay men I know are friends with other gay men, so I’m not sure how gay/straight male friendships function, or if they really exist. My partner (a cis gay man) did have a close straight male friend, but they went barhopping and ended up trading blow jobs, so that doesn’t really count anymore.
Palmeros harvest medjool dates by hand by leaping into the crown of a tree “full of thorns sharp enough to puncture a tire—or, say, a human limb.” For Offrange, Ashley Stimpson introduces us to the workers who carry on a proud, 6,000-year-old farming tradition that’s in danger of dying out, just as date sales take off in the United States. (Photos by Siri Kaur.)
As far as harrowing job descriptions go, the palmero is up there with trapeze artist and surgeon. Must like heights, must work well in punishing heat, must feel comfortable yielding lethally sharp hand tools. In addition to brute labor, the job also requires an aptitude for botanical minutiae: the pungency of a ripening spadix, the dusky translucency of a perfectly ready date.
Palmeros spend most of their year in the top of the palm trees, which are dioecious plants, meaning male and female reproductive organs grow on separate trees. While the wind can carry pollen from tree to tree, it results in an unpredictable and uneven yield. Around 4000 BC in the Persian Gulf, our ancestors got wise and started cultivating the date palm by hand, kicking off a tradition Medina and Patino still carry out today.
There is virtually no way I could have resisted Sylvie McNamara’s dispatch from her journey to a disreputable McDonald’s in Stafford, Virginia. I’ve listened to my share of the Doughboys podcast, and regularly debate burger rankings with my son. What’s more, I went to high school just two miles down the road from this particular location, whose aggregated Google reviews won it dubious distinction in a nation of interchangeable fast-food franchises. Thankfully, McNamara’s lighthearted investigation, which invites readers to consider Robert Caro and teenage commitments to the social contract, will satisfy you no matter your relationship with the Golden Arches. It reminded me of tongue-in-cheek alt-weekly features, a few pleasurableParis Reviewweb essays, and that episode of Mystery Show where Starlee Kine goes deep with a Ticketmaster employee. Ba-da-ba-ba-ba, I loved it.
I asked the employee for an explanation. “I think I can give you real insight,” he said. “It be the certain workers we got.” He himself is a high schooler, but he said that “we’re starting to get more younger managers. As soon as they turn 18, they’re getting a manager spot. I think my general manager’s 20. It’s a lot of kids getting these manager titles and positions, but they’re not really managers.”
I told him that to be honest, that environment sounded kind of fun.
Forrest Welborn had nothing to do with the Yogurt Shop Murders, the grisly killing of four young women in Austin, Texas, in 1991. His buddy, Maurice Pierce, had been under pressure to confess by investigators who wanted a collar for the crime. Eventually, Pierce caved under questioning. He implicated himself and his best friend, Forrest, along with two others, in a crime they did not commit. For Texas Monthly, Michael Hall covers the case and its horrific aftermath.
Both boys were taken to a juvenile detention center, and at around midnight, Maurice was transferred to the police station. A couple of hours later, his questioning began, directed by Senior Sergeant Hector Polanco, a fifteen-year veteran with a reputation for getting confessions. Polanco was known to walk into an interrogation room and announce that his nickname was “El Diablo”; he would threaten the death penalty and grab a man’s arm and show just where the needle would go.
Maurice was terrified. He later told his girlfriend, Kim, that Polanco had claimed that his pistol was the murder weapon—and showed him graphic photos of the dead girls. “They were throwing them in his face, saying, ‘This is how the girls look now,’ ” Kim told me. (Polanco later denied doing either of these things.) In a statement Maurice wrote later that afternoon, after several hours of questioning by Polanco, he admitted to having the gun the night of the murders but insisted he didn’t have anything to do with the crime. Instead, he claimed that Forrest had borrowed the gun, had been acting oddly (“I think he was on some kind of drugs. . . . He was jumping around and acting crazy”), and had boasted that he and a friend had shot the girls in the back of the store and started a fire with their bodies. Maurice said Forrest told him, “I enjoyed watching them burn.”
John Berger spent a meaningful portion of his life thinking, with precision and care, about how to look at the world—an effort he detailed in numerous essays and books, among them Ways of Seeing and About Looking. “Reading them, you often feel you’re standing next to him in the museum or even looking through his eyes at a painting or a sculpture,” writes A.O. Scott. “You pay attention to his attention.” Scott, an attentive reader himself, brings Berger’s lifelong project into our famously distractable era; his consideration of Berger is a primer for observation and study, a gentle nudge to focus, lest we lose sight of something essential.
Right now, we’re in the midst of an attention crisis, individually and collectively snared in an infinite scroll of disruption and distraction. Berger saw this crisis coming and foresaw its consequences. In 1978, writing about photography and its impact on the modern world, he argued that the dominance of images “creates an eternal present of immediate expectation: Memory ceases to be necessary or desirable. With the loss of memory, the continuities of meaning and judgment are also lost to us.” That diagnosis seems even truer today, as the functions of remembering, judging and interpreting are increasingly offloaded from human minds and communities into the ether of social media feeds and artificial intelligence. We’re in danger of forgetting how to look.
Thousands of small, often obsolete dams are blocking fish migrations across the United States. In this piece, Ben Goldfarb explores the growing movement to remove these barriers—despite political, economic, and emotional obstacles. He asks, “Can government agencies and conservation groups pick up the pace of dam removal while fish are still around to benefit?”
The Eastern Seaboard’s most enthusiastic purger of dams has long been Plymouth, Massachusetts, and one weekend I visited during its Herring Festival, a celebration of the resurgent alewife population that annually runs up Town Brook, the stream at Plymouth’s heart. The day was cool and damp, and I followed a posse of dads in Red Sox sweatshirts and kids in rainboots up the path that paralleled the creek. Someone had chalked “LOOK FISH” on the asphalt, and I glanced streamward to find alewives holding in small pods, weaving around each other in their effortless way.
Earlier this year, during an appearance on Kareem Rahma’s popular Subway Takes show, Jasper Craven explained line-crossing ceremonies, in which sailors celebrate first crossings of the equator. In US naval history, line-crossing ceremonies have at times involved violent hazing. But they have also involved pageantry, ritualistic performances of masculinity and femininity that tip over into drag. “Young men want love, support, community,” Craven said. “The military provides a permission structure to show love, often in very pure ways.”
It’s a characteristic insight from Craven, a freelance reporter who has made a singular beat from the intersection of masculinity and the American military. In his magazine features, Craven has scrutinized Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s opposition to women in the armed forces via Hegseth’s undergraduate fits over The Vagina Monologues, and profiled Bernarr McFadden, a bodybuilder and publisher who oversaw two military schools “to impose his love of physical strength onto American children, the War Department, and the world.” Craven’s recent book, God Forgives, Brothers Don’t, follows some of our most insidious models of masculinity back to the military education programs that have shaped them for centuries.
Craven is a dynamic counterexample to the men he writes about, less interested in bulking up the boundaries of his identity than testing their limits. For a memorable Harper’s feature, he spent six months undercover as an employee of the world’s largest private-security firm. (During his first shift, a supervisor criticized Craven for his non-detachable necktie, which could be used to strangle him.) He is at once stridently critical and deeply compassionate. (He is also, as you’ll learn, deeply and truly funny.)
“There are myriad other ways to prove your manhood, and they’re not simply being emotionally vulnerable or non-violent,” Craven told an interviewer earlier this year. “You can actually fight for things: fight for peace, be a little risky, be a little reckless, break the law, put your body on the line. If it’s around a morally sound mission, that can feel incredibly validating.” I don’t take a lot of heart from the men Craven writes about, but I take some heart from his work.
—Brendan Fitzgerald
Where did you grow up?
Peacham, Vermont.
What places feel like home?
The sluiceway at Gull Pond in Wellfleet, Massachusetts; Tom’s Diner in Brooklyn, New York; The St. Johnsbury Athenaeum in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.
Other than family members, who or what has shaped you the most?
My folks, both filmmakers, shielded me from television and other mainstream entertainment as a child. Much as I resented their restrictions at the time, they forced me to troubleshoot my taste through the physical media available in our home, a beautiful process of discovery tinged by family lineage that I wish was still widely practiced. Nothing got me more excited than the films of Charlie Chaplin. I’ve consumed all his films, and The Great Dictator is my favorite. It is what much of my journalism aspires to be: narratively compelling, funny, and unflinching.
What is your favorite time of day?
I’ll take any time on the weekend. On workdays: I like the mornings for research and making calls, and evenings for writing. To me, the midafternoon is almost always a slog.
What are you really good at?
Guessing what time it is without a watch.
What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?
I love Cold War ephemera. My two favorite gifts are a vintage poster of Dr. Strangelove and a Vietnam-era Snoopy Zippo.
Describe your favorite meal.
Negroni and a cheeseburger at Long Island Bar.
Sound or silence? (And if sound, what sound?)
Sound. Ideally jazz or a film score. I wrote my book about military masculinity mostly to the work of Bill Evans, Pharaoh Sanders, and the soundtracks from Jackie, Do the Right Thing, One Battle After Another, and Ken Burns’s The Vietnam War.
Where do you do your best thinking?
On bike rides.
What journey—physical, creative, intellectual, or otherwise—has meant the most to you?
Hauling a golden gorilla statute across America for a crypto concern during COVID.
Where do you like to read?
New York City’s Prospect Park, my clawfoot tub, the bed.
What’s the last rabbit hole you disappeared into?
Disney Adult YouTube vlogs. Still haven’t emerged.
Name three publications you enjoy reading these days.
What piece of nonfiction are you most proud of writing?
Probably my Harper’s dispatch on my six months undercover as a security guard.
What’s your most reliable way to get creatively unstuck?
Watching a movie or schvitzing at The Wall Street Bath & Spa.
Who’s a writer you turn to when you need some inspiration?
Right now, Don DeLillo.
What words do you overuse?
Tenacious. Hyperaggressive. Amped.
What’s your favorite guilty pleasure?
90 Day Fiancé.
What superpower would you like to have?
Like any good reporter, I’m very nosey, so probably superhuman eavesdropping. Lost about 20 percent of hearing in my right ear when a speaker blew out at a college party. Would love that back, and then some.
What animal or nonhuman being do you most identify with?
I’ve got the curiosity of a cat, but I often don’t land on my feet.
If you have a free solitary hour in your day, what do you typically do?
I’ll either go on a bike ride or veg out on YouTube. The duality of man.
What five items would you place in a time capsule?
A hanging chad ballot. The EV Hummer. Some Trump steaks. An AR-15. My medical bills after I fell off my bike.
What does your writing space look like?
I am someone who writes anywhere and everywhere. Amtrak. Delta. Starbucks. My bed. The Wertheim Room at the New York Public Library has been the best of them all.
Jasper Craven is a freelance reporter covering men and the military for outlets including Harper’s, The New Yorker, New York, Wired, The Baffler, and The New York Times. He’s also the author of a new book for Simon & Schuster about the military’s influence on masculinity, entitled God Forgives, Brothers Don’t.
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