Sublime

The best paragraph in the whole issue was a story told by Ben Shahn, one of the most fascinating photographers to have worked for the Farm Security Administration during the Dust Bowl years of the 1930s. In search of a loan, a farmer was coldly rejected by a banker. In the face of the farmer’s pleas, the banker made him a “sporting offer,” recalled

The air outside rumbles as planes lift into the sky, while inside garbled announcements blare over the loudspeaker. Somewhere behind me, an older woman speaks in sharp, staccato Italian. But I don’t look away from the curb, my eyes trained on the crowded sidewalk outside the terminal, searching for her, anchoring my belief—and my entire future—on t

I started by volunteering in the palliative care department at Mercy Hospital in my hometown. I was still trying cases, and I usually made time to visit the hospital on Fridays. The director of the program would give me a list of patients who’d asked for a visit, most of whom were at the end of life in some stage of dying. The patients were all ove

Bill and Hillary Clinton were policy wonks who mashed together idealism with business-friendly ideas for economic growth. Instead of speaking for the working class, the Clintons spoke about equipping workers to rise into the professional class through education and training. Their assumption was that all Americans could do what they did and be like

“I have this quote above my desk,” she added. “‘Our job is to move a case towards justice. . . . We aren’t the court of justice, but we can be part of reaching for justice.’[3] . . . How do you use this coverage to talk about how predators operate? If we don’t do that, we failed. Anybody can take notes in court or tweet or point a camera.”