The conifer hedges in front of J. K. Rowling’s seventeenth-century house, in Edinburgh, are about twenty feet tall.
Yea, so The New Yorker goes deeeeeeeep with J.K. Rowling.
“Since this week’s issue assesses an array of feminist ideas and arguments,” the editors write of that garishly domineering shoe, “it made particular sense to commission illustrations from a woman.”
In other words, hire a girl to draw the pictures because it’s all girl stuff.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Readers don’t appear to want to be told what to read, still less when it makes them look like snobs or assholes. But this completely neglects to recognise what the prize is actually for.
Actually, readers do want help with what to read, some of them don’t even mind being snobs.