Nearly 60 years ago, John McPhee rafted the Colorado River with a longtime Sierra Club reader and his nemesis, taking notes as the men argued over the fate of the land, the future of Lake Powell. Today, McPhee is 95 years old and widely acknowledged as a singuler chronicler of place, people, and time. As David Schurman Wallace notes, he also has “a good chance of outlasting the lake.” In a stimulating review of Encounters with Wild America, a four-book collection by McPhee, Wallace sets a master’s time-intensive and famously lengthy projects against the contemporary attention economy and the media industry. Longform writing didn’t spring from a hashtag; it was a natural outcome of applying narrative frames to complex subjects, including nature itself. Now, writes Wallace, “this work of dedicated attention, so essential to thinking about, say, the environment, is at risk of becoming a relic.”

[McPhee’s] work is an artifact, one that aids reflection, but demands you stop first and take things slowly. It’s no accident that the books that Library of America have chosen to canonize first are about nature and the people who inhabit it. To appreciate, or even just think about an expanse—a nearly deserted forest, a glacier, a stretch of tundra—is difficult. You can look at an image, but you can just as quickly turn away or scroll past. His writing is a tool that helps us feel distance. You have to spend time on the page getting to know it, trying to imagine things you will most likely never experience yourself.

I’m not a fan of improv. I’ve even walked out of a class before—being told to pretend to give birth just wasn’t for me. But its popularity was once never in doubt: people were all too willing to shell out hard‑earned cash to watch performers fumble through impromptu sketches. Nowadays, the form has lost its shine, and Dennis M. Hogan traces whether it still has a place in today’s culture. The inspired title alone means this is a read you should say “yes” to.

During the boom years of the late 2000s and 2010s, improv persuaded many people that it was not just a wacky gimmick but, as I believed, an art in itself. The rise of stars like the improv-trained Steve Carell, Tina Fey, and Amy Poehler convinced casting directors and network executives that improvisers had graduated from sideshows to being bankable talents in their own rights. Performances were packed with newbies and aficionados alike. Major theaters added classes and facilities to meet growing demand, allowing many improvisers who never made it big to eke out livings as teachers and theater staff. The gospel of improv spread to those far outside the comedy world, from self-improvement seekers hoping to level up their interpersonal abilities to corporate suits eager to take advantage of the latest team-building and soft skill-optimization fad.

Showcasing stories from J.B. MacKinnon, Daniel Kolitz, Daniel Shailer, Justin Neuman, and Hanif Abdurraqib.

The most recent winner of the National Magazine Award for feature writing describes his turn to payday lending apps when AI gobbled up his livelihood (aka penning promotional web content for business clients). Sharp and darkly funny, the essay chronicles yet another nail in the coffin of the American dream:

Albert founder Yinon Ravid has said that he chose his app’s name for its suggestion of the kind of “smart, unassuming friend” you might come to for financial advice, but today, when I hear the name Albert, I am far more likely to picture an overwhelming force bent on my total destruction, a figure you might spot while being burned alive in a dream—black-robed, pale, teeth bared. When I first joined the app, about eighteen months ago, Albert offered me $25.00. To acquire this loan, I was required to pay an additional fee: A $6.99 instant deposit charge plus the cost of a $19.99-per-month subscription to Albert’s Standard plan, due in one week’s time alongside the full loan repayment. (If I really wanted to make the most of my $25.00, I also had the option of Albert’s $39.99-per-month Genius plan, which, among a very small handful of other talents, can “find restaurants based on your location, or in a specific area.”) On its own, this might’ve been manageable, but, true to the CRL’s findings, Albert’s offerings alone couldn’t keep me afloat, and so I soon signed up for the rest of the payday apps, each one toting its share of instant deposit and subscription fees. (Gallingly, Dave—the only publicly traded company of the bunch, valued at $4.72 billion as of this writing—has the nerve to ask for a tip after each transaction, a move that I suspect even the flintiest strip mall grift artists would dismiss as gauche.)