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A pandemic's worth of neighborhood walks turned into a question: why has the law almost everywhere made the property owner next door responsible for the public walkway out front? Where property law, local government, and the First and Fourth Amendments all meet the pavement, most of what happens turns out to be a policy choice we get to make.
One of the wealthiest and most racially diverse suburbs in the country tells itself three things: that it is harmonious, that it has no racial inequality, and that these facts make it superior to everywhere else. Two years and 150 interviews later, the harmony turns out to be real — and to rest on an unspoken bargain about which racial realities may be named out loud. Diversity, it turns out, is not the same thing as equity.
It changed how we write about war, got banned and burned, inspired rock bands, and put phrases into the language—yet the story behind the novel is as gripping as the book itself. A POW digging corpses from the ruins of firebombed Dresden, a discredited historian, and a strange leap into alien abduction: how a masterpiece took twenty-four years to find its shape.
History doesn't repeat, but it rhymes. A long-ago election, held as the country tore itself apart over slavery, speaks uncomfortably to our own moment of fragile institutions and contested democracy—and to what it means when voters have to choose in the middle of a crisis.
What does it actually mean to say baseball "means" something? A case for dropping the tired clichés about national character and instead treating the game as an object of inquiry—one whose meanings accumulated over time, across North America, East Asia, and the Caribbean, and alongside every other form of modern mass entertainment.
How does a humble crop, scraped by hand in the fields of central India, connect overdose deaths in America to the development dreams of newly independent states? Following the poppy across the century between empire and epidemic, a historian of agriculture uncovers the people and systems that quietly supplied the world’s pain relief—and the pride of families still producing a drug the world has almost stopped buying.
The lives of statues then can take unexpected twists. While some are ready to write the obituary of the public statue, the appearance in many places of new monuments to honour modern-day heroes, whether the leaders of independence struggles or top-flight football players, demonstrates that the genre continues to thrive.
It's beyond the scope of any single book to provide a framework for preemptively stopping reactionary activity. But through analyzing the affective economies — the emotions circulating in these controversies — I demonstrate the various ways that looking to the interactions of fans of speculative fiction can enable us, be it scholars or the general public, to really understand these reactionary groups' formation, their communication, and their continuation.
A celebrated civil-rights drama and the family that grew wealthy from the very apartments it depicts turn out to be tangled together in surprising ways. This close reading resists easy heroes and villains, showing how people working within unjust systems can fund real change while remaining caught in those systems' contradictions.
We walk over it every day without a second thought, yet this thin strip of public space is where fights over commerce, protest, policing, homelessness, free speech, and accessibility all collide. A case for treating an overlooked civic resource as the contested, high-stakes ground it actually is—and for rethinking who should be responsible for it.
We treat some outcomes as inevitable—of course the log-cabin boy became president at the nation's hour of crisis. But what if we took the sheer contingency of the past seriously? A case for narrative history that restores human agency, chance, and the sense that things could have gone very differently.
For a few decades in the seventeenth century, Rome was flooded with an astonishing amount of meat—at times a pound of it per person, per day. Why did feeding a city so much lamb and pork become a statement of religious and political power in the age of the Reformation? A story of faith, appetite, and the artisans who moved meat from pasture to table.
What are the ways to produce new models and prototypes within the computational imaginary of politics? Mainstream games rarely reflect alternatives. As Jim Gasperini noted when making Hidden Agenda, discussed in the last chapter, "No matter how fantastic the fantasy, no matter how simulated the simulation, the outlines of our familiar reality will always be discernible underneath."
America's biggest startups are raising trillions in private markets while sidestepping the disclosure rules that once protected investors and the public. This conversation traces how four decades of deregulation shrank the public markets, let companies stay private for decades, and handed founders nearly unchecked power. It asks what that shift means for ordinary people locked out of an insular, network-driven financing system.
The opioid crisis is almost always told as a uniquely American tale of corporate greed. But what if it was really the wreckage of a global system, built over more than a century to supply the world with morphine, codeine, and pain pills? This is the hidden history of legal opium—the crop that moved from hand-scored poppy fields through treaties and monopolies into the medicine cabinets of the West.
Excepting the wondrous creations of the Greek god Hephaestus, and the statue of the murdered Commendatore in Mozart's opera Don Giovanni, statues are themselves passive and emotionless participants in their biographies. The lives of statues are really the lives of the humans who interact with them. The book tells their stories.
Why compare fine dining across three continents? Because zooming out reveals that no celebrated chef is truly exceptional — each one recycles the same nostalgic dreams of primitiveness and wildness that writers have leaned on for centuries. Seen from this vantage, even "the local" turns out to be a thoroughly global idea, and the plate becomes a way to think through the entangled political, ecological, and cultural crises of the Anthropocene.
Is it a good idea to think like a statistician? A confident Yes here, admittedly by someone who earns his living doing so. We live in a random universe, where truth most often lies hidden beneath a fog of noise. Statistics is the science of peering through the fog and learning from experience, especially experience that arrives in sometimes contradictory pieces: Did the COVID vaccines save or cost lives? Is sugar good or bad for you?
What I hope people take away is both a skepticism that computers can fix politics, and better demands for claims that it will. Especially in the next election cycle, how can we assess accurately the hype. My book helps readers distinguish between what's new and what's just someone who knows the rules of the game, trying to oversell the new tool or piece of software.
What starts as a literary curiosity turns into an archival scavenger hunt across sociology, public-housing records, and — improbably — a health-sciences library. This is the story of chasing a nearly invisible housing form through the archive, and of what history's cycles of segregation, migration, and neglect can teach us about the housing pressures of our own moment.
Nineteenth-century theatre thus operated as a densely social and often unruly space, where attention was dispersed and porous. Contemporary "social theatre" extends this condition into a more open and continuous field of exchange, where gestures of approval and disapproval circulate instantaneously. This raises questions of temporality and agency: what is seasonal—the act, the incident, or its reception?
One of the best authors to do this kind of storytelling is Ted Chiang, who writes short stories where there's this technology, this novum, this thing dropped into the world. The story isn't really about that — it's about people interacting with it. He'll present people who are very positive about it and people who are very negative. So they're really these sociological takes on how the world is different because of this technology.
Told in eight scenes, this close-up follows macaroni and cheese from Juliette Corson's 1877 fifteen-cent dinners for the poor through the anti-Italian cholera panic of the 1880s and the tariff fights of the 1890s. The resolution is pure irony: Americans planted durum wheat at home and, by World War I, were exporting it back to the very countries whose "imported" macaroni still filled their shelves.
That small, brilliant joke encapsulates an entire debate that had been raging for years about the "readability" of modern architecture, about the relationship between museums and artworks, and between museums and the city itself. Dunn distilled all of it into a single drawing and a single line.
Culinary "heritage" isn't really the past — it's a product, something bought, sold, and traded on in the present. Comparing food revivals from the American South to the New Nordic kitchens of Noma to the traditional ingredients of India, this is a polemical argument that our nostalgia for old foods is bound up with regressive politics and a looming ecological reckoning. What if the truest way to honor the past is to go back more honestly?
The genesis of Voices in Stone lay in the realisation that this debate on the destruction of monuments is an unsatisfactory starting point to understand them. It recalls G. K. Chesterton's caution that before deciding to remove a fence, it would be well to ensure that you understand why it was put up in the first place.
Every election night, the experts ask the same question: what will the voters do? Listen to the grammar. Millions of people, treated as a system you can predict, model, run. Politics was supposed to be the one thing we insisted stayed irreducibly human. Somewhere it quietly became a computation.
He wrote me this lovely letter, an actual letter, answering all my questions, and I'm sure he got many letters from kids. I wrote him back, and we had this correspondence that went on for a couple of years. Eventually he would write the answers in the margins of my letters
You have to have a big brain for sleep to really matter. Circadian rhythms, though — the first eukaryotes and prokaryotic life on the planet — had to time their behaviors adaptively. So the framing of the book is: why do we do what we do? Why do we experience the kinds of symptoms we do in the modern world? And the answer is a 1.5-billion-year-old answer. It goes back to the first life on this planet
From a historical and transnational viewpoint, Ozu's ambiguous and mysterious camera movements allow us multi-directional reading, which I think is an example of the ethics of indeterminacy. By way of discussing Ozu films, I want to foster readers' historical awareness and political consciousness.
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