David Foster Wallace: journalist or novelist?

Who are the best practitioners of long-form magazine journalism?

Here's an interesting exercise designed to while away the dog days of August. Kevin Kelly at the Cool Tools website has assembled a list of the "best magazine articles ever" (by which he means "long-form" pieces), and is soliciting suggestions from readers. Though Kelly's list goes all the way back to Hazlitt, who more or less invented the form, and includes pieces by English writers such as James Fenton and Louis de Bernières, it is preponderantly American in focus. Parochialism is no doubt partly to blame for that, but it is also true that the Americans do the long form so much better than anyone else -- or at least that they have more opportunities to practice it, for there are simply more venues available in the US for this sort of thing than anywhere else.

Kelly has settled on a top seven, based on the number of times articles have been recommended.

1. David Foster Wallace, "Federer as Religious Experience." The New York Times, Play magazine, 20 August, 2006.

2. David Foster Wallace, "Consider the Lobster." Gourmet Magazine, August 2004.

3. Neal Stephenson, "Mother Earth, Mother Board: Wiring the Planet." Wired, December 1996.

4. Gay Talese, "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold." Esquire, April 1966.

5. Ron Rosenbaum, "Secrets of the Little Blue Box." Esquire, October 1971.

6. Jon Krakauer, "Death of an Innocent: How Christopher McCandless Lost his Way in the Wilds." Outside Magazine, January 1993.

7. Edward Jay Epstein, "Have You Ever Tried to Sell a Diamond?" Atlantic Magazine, February 1982.

No surprise to see David Foster Wallace well-represented in that list. Indeed, much of his journalism -- most of it collected in two essential volumes (A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again and Consider the Lobster) -- will probably outlast his novels (if not his short stories).

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

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Brexit… Leg-sit

A new poem by Jo-Ella Sarich. 

Forgot Brexit. An ostrich just walked into the room. Actually,
forget ostriches too. Armadillos also have legs, and shoulder plates
like a Kardashian.  Then I walked in, the other version of me, the one
with legs like wilding pines, when all of them

are the lumberjacks. Forget forests. Carbon sinks are down
this month; Switzerland is the neutral territory
that carved out an island for itself. My body
is the battleground you sketch. My body is
the greenfield development, and you
are the heavy earthmoving equipment. Forget
the artillery in the hills
and the rooftops opening up like nesting boxes. Forget about

the arms race. Cheekbones are the new upper arms
since Michelle lost out to Melania. My cheekbones
are the Horsehead Nebula and you are the Russians
at warp speed. Race you to the finish. North Korea

will go away if you stop thinking
about it. South Korea will, too. Stop thinking
about my sternum. Stop thinking about
the intricacy of my mitochondria. Thigh gaps
are the new wage gaps, and mine is like
the space between the redwood stand
and the plane headed for the mountains. Look,

I’ve pulled up a presentation
with seven different eschatologies
you might like to try. Forget that my arms
are the yellow tape around the heritage tree. Forget
about my exoskeleton. Forget
that the hermit crab
has no shell of its own. Forget that the crab ever
walked sideways into the room.
Pay attention, people.

Jo-Ella Sarich is a New Zealand-based lawyer and poet. Her poems have appeared in the Galway Review and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear