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WELCOME TO OUR FIRST/FINAL BOOK CLUB!

The New Yorker

January 20, 2025

Thank you, everyone, for coming to our first/final book-club meeting. Apologies for how long it's taken us to settle on a date, but in between work, kids, and the pretense of joining adult recreational sports leagues, it seems that we all have incredibly busy schedules.

- ZOE PEARL

After months of deliberation and hundreds of messages in the group chat, the third Tuesday of the month, from 4:27 P.M. to 5:36 P.M. (non-gibbous moon), seems to be the only time that works for everyone.

Despite the hours of our lives lost to logistical planning, I'm so glad we're doing this book club and strengthening our bonds as friends by convening monthly to enrich our minds. Books are so great. They're like watching a movie with subtitles, except Billie Eilish doesn't record an original song for them, and there are no hot people to look at, unless you want to go through the effort of imagining them in your brain.

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I first encountered Mary McCarthy not through her novels or criticism but through her political reporting. A former editor recommended that I read “The Mask of State: Watergate Portraits” before covering Paul Manafort’s arraignment in 2017. (Were we ever so young?) I loved McCarthy’s witty cameos of malefactors—behold Maurice Stans, Nixon’s erstwhile Secretary of Commerce, “a silver-haired, sideburned super-accountant and magic fundraiser, who gave a day-and-a-half-long demonstration of the athletics of evasion, showing himself very fit for a man of his age.” McCarthy’s sentences were like mousetraps, snapping shut on both visual information and something deeper, the kind of quintessence that fictional characters possess and that we often long for real people to have, too.

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