Let's write about enjoying our creative passions like starting a band regardless of age or talent

This opinion in the New York Times seems appropriate for  "boomers of all ages". The author Hugo Lindgren gives us permission to continue our interesting passions even if we are not good at what we want to do!  Have fun reading! Mr. Lindgren is editor of the zine (aka "zeen") "Let’s Start a Band". 

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/03/22/opinion/band-music-community.html

In the spring of 1982, six friends got together in an East Village New York City apartment to start a country-punk band. They had a guitar, a bass and some sticks and spoons to bang on. 

“We tried Hank Williams and Tammy Wynette songs and our voices wrapped around each other as everybody found their natural level,” wrote Amy Rigby in “Girl to City,” her 2019, memoir. “We wailed through a version of ‘Hey Good Lookin’ that lasted long enough to cook an entire spaghetti dinner. It was the most fun I’d had in my life.” That band was called Last Roundup. 

You’re forgiven for not knowing the name. Though the group had a relatively brief existence and never had anything close to a hit, Ms. Rigby’s memoir — a lucid, unguarded account of band life — is one of the best I’ve read. And I’ve read tons.
In fact, I’ve spent the last year plundering music biographies, memoirs, magazine profiles, documentaries and podcasts for stories of start-up bands.

I did this after Chris Scianni, an old friend, got in touch and asked for my help in writing about his decades of hustling in the music business. In high school, Chris and I had both been in bands — we shared a drummer — but mine was a bunch of goofballs burdened with too many opinions and too little patience for rehearsing. He was truly talented and dedicated, the best guitar player any of us knew, obsessed with Buddy Guy, Keith Richards and Joe Strummer.

While we caught up over lunch, I recognized that Chris has another exceptional gift: He is a band builder. That thing we both did as kids❓ He kept doing it — he’s had a band that was signed to Sony; he played in the tennis star John McEnroe’s band; and he has jammed with Bruce Springsteen at the Stone Pony. He has also spent his adult life keeping an eye out for collaborators to help him go places he wouldn’t be able to reach on his own.

The more we talked about it, the more I came to understand that Chris’s band-joining impulse is the perfect resistance to these stupefying times. Chris and I decided to create a zine about starting a band, dedicated to a simple message: Life’s problems, big and small, recede when you get in a room and play music with a few friends or friends of frids or, why not, complete strangers. 

Make it up as you go along. If nobody else wants to sing, you sing. 

Be a zealot about keeping your instrument in tune but nothing else. Force yourself to write one new song a week, no matter how dreadful the first ones come out. Reach out across the divide of awkwardness to the closet geniuses in your life, like that ex-co-worker who has a thing for modular synths. Be especially kind to your drummer, if you have one, because drummers are impossible to find. Or maybe you’ll have to learn the drums. Book a gig. Make stickers and hand them out on the subway. Stop chasing what everybody else is chasing. Create your own center of gravity.

I told myself I was doing all this for my teenage daughters, both of whom are musically inclined but have been tentative about forming their own bands. It’s not something teenagers do as naturally as Chris and I once did.

For one thing, live music, once ubiquitous, is now almost quaint. And kids who can sing or play an instrument start professional training today around age 3. We’re inundated with evidence of other people’s superior talents and superhuman work habits.

On YouTube, you’ll discover you can’t play guitar half as well as a teenager who does a multilayered rendition of “There She Goes” with a delay pedal while skateboarding down her street. Sticking your neck out as an inspired beginner takes courage. Yet that’s also how the best stuff always starts.

I know what some of you are thinking. What if I’m old? What if the last time I picked up my guitar, my kids marched out of the house? These are reasonable concerns. If making music will never be your thing, find co-conspirators for something else. Your band could be a book club, a knitting collective, a pop-up theater, a game night, or a pinball laundromat mahjong club in Gowanus (which does not yet exist, as far as I know, but act fast). It could even be starting a zine (pronounced "zeen" as in "magazine".).

Even after we published our zine, I couldn’t stop collecting stories about the origins of bands. I’ll go to the music section of a bookstore and flip right to the part of each book where they start their first band. It rarely fails to be inspiring — the coolest bands were ridiculously uncool in their early incarnations.

At its first paid gig, for high schoolers in Summit, N.J., the Velvet Underground literally fell to pieces: “Our set was only about 15 minutes at the most,” the drummer Maureen Tucker has recalled, “and in each song something of mine broke.” Robert Smith of the Cure was mortified at first by his own voice, and when he tried being lead vocalist at a gig, he sang the words to “Suffragette City” while the band played “Foxy Lady.” At early rehearsals for the band that would become Radiohead, Thom Yorke, the singer, told the keyboardist Jonny Greenwood, “I can’t quite hear what you’re doing, but I think you’re adding a really interesting texture.” It turned out Mr. Greenwood had switched off the power on his keyboard because he didn’t know how to play the chords.

What made these kids push through such cringe-inducing incompetence and keep going? The safety net of having other kids on their side. It inspired them to not only persevere and get better but also to keep taking risks in pursuit of their own distinctive sound.
If there’s one thing that digital technology is exceptional at, it’s fueling the ambition of the solo practitioner. We barely need anybody for anything these days. A practically infinite (and utterly obedient) orchestra lives in our iPhones. But relying too much on these tools keeps us in creative silos. It denies us the connection we all crave, which is the real meaning of music and the best reason to start a band. People want to connect.

A band is not just a mechanism for doing that, it’s a model. It can also be a path to a deeper creative life. That’s how it worked out for Amy Rigby. Since Last Roundup split up, she has made a career as a solo artist; the critic Robert Christgau called her “one of the great unknown American songwriters.” Connecting with those original collaborators had turned Ms. Rigby, a self-described “goofy amateur,” into an artist.

“Certain people let you feel free to be a true part of yourself,” Ms Rigby wrote. “Not the only part, but one facet that lies dormant until somebody else says: ‘Come on out, it’s OK.’”

Let's Write about antisemitism history and the Jews of New Orleans

This essay describes Jewish experiences I am unfamiliar with.

Although I am Roman Catholic, I have followed the evils of antisemitism and Holocaust denialism for decades. The Pittsburg Platform of 1885* is new information to me.

Nicholas Lemann is a professor of journalism at Columbia University, a staff writer at The New Yorker, and the author of “Returning: A Search for Home Across Three Centuries.”

Echo essay published in the Boston Globe:

In a golden age for many American Jews, my family was uncertain about its identity. How our story resonates in this difficult moment.

I grew up in a highly particular corner of the American Jewish world in New Orleans: among the descendants of Jewish immigrants from Alsace and southwestern Germany who had come here in the early 19th century, usually alone, and had started out as backpack peddlers in the rural Deep South. 

By the time I was born, just past the midpoint of the 20th century, we were established and prosperous. We belonged to one of two grand, vaguely Moorish sand-colored Reform temples on St. Charles Avenue. We were brokers and owners of medium-scale department stores, intergenerationally headed out of business into the professions.

But there was something distinctly provisional about our place in the world. We were cautiously liberal, more so than most native-born white people in the South, but we knew the location of the political boundaries that we would be unwise to cross. We were barred from full membership in the local social elite. Mainstream American Jews — descended from Eastern European immigrants who had come here later than us, and who were more proudly ethnic and tribal — made us nervous. They wouldn’t have fit in as Southerners, and their visibility, we thought, made it harder for us to fit in.

When I left the South, I encountered a version of American Jewishness that was far less cautious. Many of my new friends in New York and Boston felt they had achieved full acceptance. 

In New Orleans, we followed the precepts of the Pittsburgh Platform of 1885, the founding document of American Reform Judaism, which was meant to scrub the separateness and strangeness from Judaism: no bar mitzvahs, no dietary laws, no Zionism. But now, at least on the East Coast, Jews could be proudly Jewish without sacrificing either their status as real Americans or their identity as Jews.

In the long sweep of Jewish history, this was quite an unfamiliar place for Jews to be. The 19th-century Germany that we left was full of debates about “the Jewish question”: How much of the completely separate and self-contained world we inhabited would we have to renounce in order to be fully emancipated from the many restrictions that others had always imposed on us❓✡️

It’s worth remembering, for example, that as the 19th century began most of us, including my own family, didn’t have last names.

Non-Jews battled over these questions — “the Jewish question” wound up being resolved by the Nazis — and so did Jews. 

In pre-Nazi Germany and then in the United States, we split into subtribes defined by how observant to be and how strongly to embrace or resist assimilation. Had it now become possible that these quandaries no longer presented themselves❓ That Jews ✡️could live anywhere, work anywhere, and not have to think about the need to dial down the way they presented themselves, lest it be too culturally Jewish, and therefore limiting❓

I was raised to believe the answers to those questions would never be yes, and I now see many of my friends who had more mainstream Jewish upbringings wrestling with them, painfully, in ways they never expected. What set this off was Hamas’s attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, and Israel’s brutal military retaliation in Gaza. The psychological package of confident and untroubled American Jewish identity included the idea that Israel was broadly admired, for being a liberal, democratic, remarkably successful new nation built with miraculous speed by refugees from oppression. Believing this always required a degree of willed unawareness of the attitude toward Israel in the overlapping Arab, Muslim, and post-colonial worlds. Now, unawareness is impossible. The Gaza war, and now the Iran war, have brought into view a fierce hatred of Israel, first on the left and then on the right. Around the world, the Jewish state is despised — not, it has become clear, just for its behavior and its policies but for the basic terms of its existence.

This is a painful time for American Jews. In many places, it’s officially OK to be Jewish, but it is definitely not OK to be “Zionist.” What had seemed like a comfortable fit between Jewishness and Zionism isn’t comfortable any longer. Many congregations, many individual families, are in a state of deep internal, often intergenerational, conflict over Israel, between defenders, reformers, and renouncers. And because outside the Jewish world it has become difficult to avoid being asked whether you’re a Zionist, in a way that makes clear what the acceptable answer is, it’s no longer even theoretically unproblematic to be Jewish.

The distinctly German-Jewish world I grew up in is gone now — assimilated out of existence. One of our core precepts, essential to our anti-Zionist stance, was that we were Americans who happened to have a lightly held ethno-religious identity; we were most definitely not members of a Jewish people who collectively longed for and deserved a homeland. I see a resurgence of this attitude all around me, as identification with Israel has gone from being something easy to something highly charged for American Jews.

In my own life, I have embraced peoplehood**. Nearly half of us Jews live in Israel — a proportion that is likely to increase. Saying that Israel has nothing to do with me isn’t an option. Israel’s challenges, internal and external, are my challenges, too.

* Pittsburg Platform of 1885:  a pivotal 1885 document in the history of the American Jewish Reform Movement that called for Jews to adopt a modern approach to the practice of their faith. While it was never formally adopted by the Union of American Hebrew Congregations (UAHC) or the Central Conference of American Rabbis founded four years after its release, and several rabbis who remained associated with Reform in its wake attempted to distance themselves from it, the platform exerted great influence over the movement in the next fifty years, and still influences some Reform Jews who hold classicist views to this day.

** Peoplehood: Used to describe the feeling of belonging to a specific group, such as "Jewish peoplehood" which connects diverse individuals through shared history and destiny.

Let's write about evil Holocaust denial and how quickly some people are blinded to it

This excerpt is transcribed from "No Road Leading Back", by Chris Heath.  An improbable Escape from the Nazi and the Tangled Way We Tell the story about the Holocaust" .

Thank you Ms. Heath.

 A WASHINGTON POST BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR • NATIONAL JEWISH BOOK AWARD FINALIST • CHAUTAUQUA PRIZE FINALIST • This by turns shattering and hope-giving account of prisoners who dug their way to freedom from the Nazis is both a stunning escape narrative and an object lesson in the ways we remember and continually forget the particulars of the Holocaust.

No Road Leading Back is the remarkable story of a dozen prisoners who escaped from the site where more than 70,000 Jews were shot in the Lithuanian forest of Ponar after the Nazi invasion of Eastern Europe in 1941. Anxious to hide the incriminating evidence of the murders, the S.S. later in the war enslaved a group of Jews to exhume every one of the bodies and incinerate them all in a months-long labor—an episode whose specifics are staggering and disturbing, even within the context of the Holocaust.

From within that dire circumstance emerges the improbable escape made by some of the men, who dug a tunnel with bare hands and spoons while they were trapped and guarded day and night—an act not just of bravery and desperation but of awesome imagination. Based on first-person accounts of the escapees and on each scrap of evidence that has been documented, repressed, or amplified since, this book resurrects their lives, while also providing a complex, urgent analysis of why their story has rarely

August 2017 - Ponar (the Nazi killing field in Lithuania) and its story remain half hidden in all kinds of ways, not least literally. Though this place is only a few miles from Lithuania’s capital Vilnius, and though its designated twenty or so acres are currently maintained as a Holocaust memorial, it is fiendishly difficult to find. Occasional signposts do feign to indicate where the site is, but they do not link up in any connected sequence that might actually lead you there. When you do finally arrive, unless you have decided to make arrangement in advance, the small on-site museum will most likely be closed. You may see another car or two in the expansive parking lot, but just as likely you will have the place to yourself.

Today, I am not traveling there alone. In the care with me is Abe Gol, a Florida resident who has retired from his job in the fire industry, shuttling between the United States and Japan.

This is his first visit to Lithuania. The last couple of miles take us along winding roads in which the surrounding forest is broken by industrial buildings and then by the old apartment blocks and houses on Paneriai- an indistinct settlement radiating from the railway junction that doesn’t feel appropriate to describe either as a village or as a small town.

As we drive, Abe mutters quietly to himself, “I pictured this totally differently,”

Getting out of the car, he looks around. Where are the pits?”, he asks.

We are the first of a larger party, who are expected here today, and the museum is open. Abe Gol looks af the list of escapees I had written down on my first visit, the twelve whose stories I am trying to recover.

These are the names:

Josef Gielic

Abraham Blazer

Yitzhak Dogin

Yuli Farber

Shlomo Giol

David Kantorovich

Zulman Matzkin

Leizer Owsiejczyk

Konstantin Potanin

Matke Seidel

Adam Zinger

Peter Zinin* (The names are written as they will be generally used in writing their stories. This list is actually printed in the museum as the names in Lithuanian.)

The fifth name on this list is the reason Abe is here. Shlomo Gol was his father.

We are the first to arrive, but the others- among them Richard Freund and some of the team who found the tunnel, now back in Lithuania to work on other projects- eventually gather.

Freund speaks to Mantas Siksnianas, the guide who works for the museum. “I want the official story,” Freund requests. Mantas begins, “Paneriai is the biggest mass killing space in Lithuania, but Lithuania is just filled with similar places like this one….

Officially in Paneriai they killed about a hundred thousand people, but now historians say it was probably about fifty or seventy thousand, of course we are not sure.”

After a while, Siksnianas leades us over to a pit. Present-day visitors to Ponar can visit a number of these circular pits, all the others are identified as murder sites, but the pit we now approach is different. It has vertical, stone-clad walls and looks like (a picture) – my intrepetation, a flattened labyrinth. Abe stands on the pit edge, taking photographs on his iPad as the guide explains that about eighty Jews, including Abe’s father, lived inside this pit and then dug an escape tunnel. It can be confusing being here, hearing this story, because- as I’ll come to explain- almost nothing in this photo is exactly what it appears to be. Almost nothing helps a visitor to understand what once happened here. Even with all the research I had done, the first time I cam ehere, much of what I thought I understood as I looked into the pit I would later come to realize I had not understood at all.

After Aber and the rest of the party leave the pit area, we walk down a shallow slope and gather next to an imposing memorial. First Richard Freund, then two of the geophysicists who found the tunnel, Paul Bauman and Alastair McClymont, speak. Freund asks Abe Gol whether he would like to share some words.

Abe would. He explains that when he was growing up, his father Shlomo was reluctant to tell him about what had happened here. “But, bit by bit,” Abe says. “I did learn.” Once his father did explain, he continues, it was had for a son to understand how anyone could have gone through that horror, yet come out the other side and appear to be living a normal life. Abe will finish his words this afternoon by saying, “I really appreciate the opportunity to be here. And physically seeing what they had gone through.” And then, he will pause, his voice breaking before continuing. “From my point of view, there is a lot of ache, a lot of emotion…..and maybe closure.”

Before that, though, he refers to a particularly poignant moment in his, and by extension his father’s life. It happened when Abe was a teenager in Florida in the early 1960s. It is a moment that might stand as a stark preview, just off one way that the story about this place might go adrift and tumble through the gaps of history.

Why Did It Take Three Days For X To Remove Holocaust Denial Post?

Abe Gol attended Andrew Jackson High School in Jacksonville, Florida. The year after the Gol family arrived in the United States, when Abe was fifteen the teacher of the English class, Mr. Kelly, assigned the students to write a story in their own words. That gave Abe an idea. He explained to Mr. Kelly about a document of his father’s written in Hebrew in which his father had detailed his wartime experience. Could Abe translate that for this assignment? Would that be okay? Mr. Kelly said that should be fine.

When Abe told his father, Shlomo neither encouraged nor discouraged him. On the allotted day, Abe read out his translation in front of the class, telling his father’s story in his father’s own words.

“We were tasked now to construct living quarters for our own use, and those quarters were to be constructed in one of the bunkers that was not yet used as a mass grave.”

One Abe finished laying out the whole awful truth, Mr. Kelly had a question for the rest of the class.”Does Abe’s story sound believable to you?”. Then he called for a vote. Those who believed the story should raise their hands.

Abe looked around his class mates awaiting their validation for what he had just shared. For what his father, Shlomo Gol, had by proxy also just shared.

Just four hands were raised.

Naturally, Abe protested. “I said this is a true story, a story that had been corroborated by the courts in Nuremberg when the people responsible were put on trial. Do you still not believe me?”

The vote remained the same.

“They thought,” Abe will tell me, “there was no one in the world who could do something like that.”

That evening, Abe will tell his father what had happened at school that day. Shlomo wasn’t surprised. “Not many people believe what happened,” he told his son.

One time- Abe isn’t sure whether it was that evening or another day- his father’s frustration did bubble over, just for a moment. To have lived through such torment only to find that your specific kind of suffering doesn’t match contemporary expectations! To have survived as experience so intense and brutal only to realize that you’d escaped into a world in which your story somehow didn’t seem to fit!

“I guess they would have believed you if you’d brought me to school and I’d shown off the number on my arm,” Shlomo told his son. “I guess I should have gone to ✡️😥Auschwitz or something like that. Maybe then, they would have believed it.”

Let's write about Jeffrey Epstein's twisted life. The more we know the worse his legacy gets and drags down Donald Trump with him

In my opinion, Jeffrey Epstein died a convenient death on August 110, 2019, in a Manhattan jail cell.  I will never be completely convinced about his death being a suicide by hanging.  Nevertheless, he died before being forced, under oath, to tell the truth about his dealing with Donald Trump.

Although I heard the seamy stories about Jeffrey Epstein, it wasn't until I read the excellent Geffrey Berman's book, Holding the Line: Inside the Nation's Preeminent US Attorney's Office and Its Battle with the Trump Justice Department (2022) a memoir by former SDNY Attorney, that I paid serious attention to this sex monster. 

In two chapters, Berman describes the experience trying to prosecute Jeffrey Epstein before Trump's Attorney General Bill Barr fired him while the case was being investigated to go to trial.

Jeffrey Epstein and his good friend Donald J. Trump

To Mr. Berman's credit, I recall the summary paragraph he wrote about losing his chance to prosecute Epstein.  He reached out to the victims, the young girls who were recruited for sex trafficking by Epstein and his network. Berman hoped they would eventually find justice.

Then I tried to read "The Spider: Inside the Tangled Web of Jeffrey Epstein", by Barry Levine. Frankly, when I got to the abuse stories told by the victims in their recorded public testimonies, I simply could not continue reading, because the pornographic content described was sickening.

Then I read The Atlantic essay by Graeme Wood, "What Jeffrey Epstein Didn't Understand about Lolita".  In a round about way, Wood describes how Jeffrey Epstein created his own myth, personalizing or internalizing the practice of lusting after young girls, like the main character in the novel Lolita. But, in reality, Graeme Wood reveals, the character in the novel was not anyone Epstein would want to be associated with. But, Epstein and the book's protagonist Humbert Humbert, created by author Vladimir Nabokov, had one thing in common. They both lived a life of lies and died as a result of their vile behaviors. 

In the essay, "The Devil Himself", pulished in the New York Review of Books, the life of Epstein is exposed like he was just another New York business tycoon doing deals and charity work. Epstein's pornographic behavior become normalized in the course of his daily life. In fact, I suspect Epstein and his network with Ghislaine Maxwell, became completely oblivious to their sinful dealings. Nevertheless, Epstein seemed to used thinly veiled code words for his sexual experiences. In fact, the pseudonyms for certain activities, like using "toys" and slightly off color comments might have appeared harmless, unless a researcher like Anne Enright knew what to look for. So, what was a day in the life of sex offender and child trafficker Jeffrey Epstein really like❓

"The Devil Himself" by Anne Enright is an article in the March 26, 2026, issue of The New York Review of Books. It analyzes a single day of Jeffrey Epstein’s emails to reveal details about his enablers, social circle, and the mundane yet disturbing nature of his, and his associates', daily interactions.

At first I am afraid to enter the library. I have arrived at the US Department of Justice website because my attention got snagged by a random post on Bluesky, or possibly X, and I want to see whether it is real. The post showed an email thread between Jeffrey Epstein and a correspondent whose name has been redacted, which Epstein begins:

[redacted] said that she felt gods presence next to her when she was in bed.. she knows that jesus watches over her. and he helped save her life. Whoops.

The reply reads, “You should dress up as him when you see her.” “Of course,” Epstein quips. “The OH jesus Im coming trick.”

If Epstein were an ordinarily unpleasant man, this fragment would have been read once by the two people involved and abandoned as not worth deleting. No one would post it online so I could look at it in revulsion, wondering whether the person discussed had been one of his victims. Nor would anyone notice how a woman mocked for her naiveté is immediately described as a faker and purveyor of “tricks.” There is, on deeper scrutiny, very little about the exchange that is not odd. The woman’s belief that she was watched over brings to mind the rumor of Epstein’s surveillance cameras. God’s presence “next to her when she was in bed” makes us think of Epstein in the same position and of Steve Bannon asking him, in a taped interview, “Do you think you’re the Devil himself❓” The image of a woman’s life saved by faith is replaced by one of a life destroyed.

While I stare at the disordered capitalization of “OH” and the blank space before “Whoops,” other people arrive at the library in order to cross-reference and make legible the black oblongs of the two redacted names. It is not publicly known how many people have used the search function here. We can assume the FBI, or its AI, has “read” all 3.5 million files the library holds, but since their release, compassing them has become the work of some maddened hive mind.

The website feels both official and illicit. I click to say that I am over eighteen. I can’t remember what I wanted to find out, consider the white gap of the search bar, and type in the word “girl.” The second item in the search is a legal brief written by the Manhattan district attorney that seems to be about Epstein’s status as a sex offender. It contains fifteen pages of statements from girls who provided massages to Epstein in Palm Beach. “Defendant asked if [redacted] liked that, and she said she did not.” The girls’ ages were fourteen, fifteen, sixteen; they were served dinner by his personal chef, driven by his “houseman,” and “on some occasions” paid to have sex with his “female friend.” Epstein often masturbated in the presence of girls; like Harvey Weinstein, he was described as having an oddly shaped penis, one that was “deformed” when erect.

In an email thread on March 2 and 3, 2015, two women, Lesley and Amanda, discuss a request made by another, Eva (I later see this was Eva Dubin, a former girlfriend of Epstein’s), for an apartment needed by a “swedish girl” for ten days. Lesley says they can “accommodate this girl” in 11B, but “she will need to move to 8A…after the girl currently in there moves in the morning.” I wonder at the women’s cheery competency and how they sound so willing and nice.

On the second page of results for “girl” is an undated, context-free series of one hundred screenshots from pornography sites, one of which is called “Dirty Teen Clips.” Despite the black squares and rectangles placed over their faces, genitals, and chests, the girls’ lack of sexual development can be seen and assessed. The viewer’s focus is so skewed and intensified by the blocky redactions that I wonder whether they make the images not just seedier but also more pornographic. I have no idea how to answer this question but have no doubt that there are men in the same online space as me who are reading these files in order to become aroused. I feel it was a mistake to search for the word “girl.”

Most of the pages in the library are oddly dull, but even the most banal of Epstein’s communications seem to contain the whole story, now that we know what that story was. I wonder if I focus on a single day of Epstein’s life, perhaps the day he wrote the “OH jesus Im coming” email, I might capture the feeling of normalized perversion that I sense in his demotic, automated “Sorry for all the typos” tone. I decide to spend one day with him, to look at twenty-four hours of his correspondence, and then go offline.

On Tuesday, July 19, 2011, Epstein flew to his island Little St. James, in the Caribbean, with plans to return late on Wednesday the 20th. From first-class commercial flights booked the previous day we can guess that he traveled with an assistant, Sarah Kellen, who brought “fabric samples” for the house décor. 

It was two years since his release from jail in Florida, and five months after the Daily Mail published a widely read interview with Virginia Giuffre, who said that Epstein had introduced her to the then Prince Andrew when she was seventeen.

In the files, July 19, 2011, starts at midnight. Epstein is in his New York mansion, dealing with the builders on Little St. James who had made him furious the day before with a bad wall. (“We have discussed this over and over„ it is crazy.”) He asks for photos that he finds “even more confusing” when they arrive. There is a problem with night-lights. His island manager Brice Gordon suggests they focus them “more downward,” but Epstein snaps back, “not even close.” An invoice for plants from a landscape gardener is rejected because it is higher than a quote received in February: “Give her 25k for these.”

Epstein peppers his construction woes with quick, bleating inquiries to two or perhaps three redacted recipients: “Where are you two,” “call me,” “where are you?” At 12:55 AM he sends a cozy invitation to Jes Staley, then a chief executive at JP Morgan, of which he was a major client: “terje , will download his entire un security council presentation on the middle east to me one night next week,, want to come?” He is referring to the Norwegian diplomat Terje Rød-Larsen, who along with his wife, Mona Juul, was instrumental in negotiating the 1993 Oslo Accords. These people have since withdrawn from public life, though only Staley has had allegations of rape (which he denies) aired in the press. At this point, I pause to consider that July 19, 2011, was not a special day in Epstein’s life, and that it is still not yet 1:00 AM.

Epstein’s personal plane will leave Teterboro Airport in New Jersey at 7:30 AM. Two hours before dawn, at 3:40 AM, his swatch-wielding assistant confirms that their commercial flights have been canceled. He is in the air when his brother replies to a picture sent the previous day: “Do I have to bail you out again?” The photo sent by Epstein is not available in the library, but from the response we can guess that it shows a woman who is, or looks, underage. Mark Epstein will joke about his brother’s conviction again the following March when Jeffrey tells him he is in “Paris with woody allen.” Mark quips, “For les pedophile convention?” Jeffrey counters, “i think pedophilee is the plural,” to which his brother responds, “Lol.”

Epstein may see his brother’s bail joke as the plane lands at St. Thomas Airport. At 11:17 AM he sends his first email of the office day: “Get a schmooze time from woodys asst.”

These bantering, randomly selected emails seem to show that Epstein wasn’t depraved, corrupt, or dodgy some of the time. He was depraved, corrupt, and proud of it all day long.

While he is in the air and throughout the day Epstein’s brightly facilitating female staff, Lesley, Sarah, Ann, and Lyn, among others, sort out his busy schedule. The correspondence weaves back and forth: “Will there be coffee❓” “He will most definitely have coffee.” (Yuk❗....so bizarrely normal..... these guys were all up to no good.)

Given the reputational damage people suffer from even a glancing association with Epstein, it seems unfair to list all the names mentioned on one day in July 2011, so I search elsewhere in the library to see who meets him multiple times. A computer scientist and writer sought out by Epstein and invited to breakfast on Thursday is rescheduled twice and ends up in Teterboro Airport the next evening, in part because Epstein wants to wait till after midnight to cross into New York. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they do not appear to meet again. A woman introduced to Epstein by the hedge fund manager Tancredi Marchiolo (who also sends a photo of “irina, valeria and masha”) finds that she has to fly unexpectedly to LA. Despite a nervy, jet-setting series of messages, they connect only fleetingly and her name disappears from the library.

“Heidi” will bring her father along on Thursday at 11:00, which makes me pause to consider the role of family relationships in Epstein’s social circle; to outsiders they may look disordered, but perhaps they felt dynastic and protective to those involved. Epstein left a lot of money in his will to his friends’ children, and it is possible they made him feel sentimental. An early August dinner is penciled in with Woody Allen and his wife, Soon-Yi; the billionaire Leon Black wants a phone call. Sunday dinner will be with David Mitchell, a real estate investor who in 2019, offered, along with Mark Epstein, to post a bond for Jeffrey after his arrest.

Personal emails happen in a cluster at lunchtime. Epstein sends a YouTube video (the link long dead) and is answered, “Haha You and your little butter spray!!” Ghislaine Maxwell forwards him details of a Hawker jet for sale in case it catches his interest at $950,000. He considers a bill for plastering the island’s pool.

Epstein also chats by email with a female academic who has thanked him for “the lift.” (The subject heading is “727.”) She sends a YouTube video and writes, “Even if you can’t (and shouldn’t) live out all your fantasies, you’ll always have this one.” The word “fantasies” and the idea that the lost video might have been obscene stops me (and possibly Epstein, at the time) from seeing that “shouldn’t” is the key word in this flirt-and-run line. Epstein promptly chases with the offer of a haircut at Frédéric Fekkai (no less), “my treat, call my sec if you feel comfortable to accept.” Epstein was skillful at faintly criticizing a beautiful woman’s looks and then offering to fix the flaw with surgery or, in this case, a haircut. (What I linger over is his almost therapeutic use of the word “comfortable” here.) His canny target is neither insecure nor vain enough to accept, though she frames the rejection as self-criticism. Her problem, she writes, isn’t getting a haircut but “maintaining it. I am a hopeless investment in that sense.”

Midafternoon a woman sends a lovely note to thank Epstein for his donation to the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation of America, whose help researching the TNF-alpha blocking medicine “helps me so much today.” There are a few bits and pieces with his financial people. “Did we give Mthe laptop” he asks his accountant, Richard Kahn, who has been chasing receipts on Epstein’s behalf earlier in the day. At 4:39 Epstein responds to a request to call a man named James Condren, and they agree to speak at 5:15. Nine minutes later Jes Staley wants Epstein to know that “He is available on his cell for the next hour and then off to Asia.”

The “then off to Asia” line makes me irritated for no reason. There are forty-eight countries in Asia. Is he talking about a market or a place? Is Staley going rubber-tubing in Laos, or has he been tempted back to tiffin in Raffles of Singapore? In fact, this sequence of calls is part of a move within JP Morgan to “exit” Epstein as a client. James Condren is one of their company lawyers, and he will report the content of the call to a circle of his colleagues, which includes Epstein’s friend Staley (perhaps tucking his passport into a jacket pocket as his email arrives): “I just conveyed to Mr. Epstein our response to his proposal to settle his High Grade Fund and Bear stock claims together for $21 million.” After midnight Stephen Cutler, the firm’s general counsel, sends a group reply: “This is not an honorable person in any way. He should not be a client.”

The next email Epstein writes is the one that first set me looking at this single day in July: “[redacted] said that she felt gods presence next to her when she was in bed.. she knows that jesus watches over her. and he helped save her life. Whoops.” Given all that preceded it, the email seems almost harmless: a small insight into a mutual acquaintance, a shared joke, a brief moment of human contact.

After dinner there is a message from an enthusiastic person with poor English—“I was wondering if you re-saved my email”—who is coming to NYC and wants a chance to “hug” him. His pilot Larry talks about repairs to the rear strut of a Mercedes and confirms that he also sent Epstein a bill for his daughter’s college fees: “Yes sir, it is a new request for Taylor’s tuition at Syracuse for fall session.” (In 2017 his daughter got married at Epstein’s Zorro Ranch in New Mexico. Three days after Epstein was found dead in his prison cell, her wedding photographs were purloined and published by the Daily Mail.)

Late in the evening, Epstein picks up on a chain started earlier in the day by Boris Nikolic, a senior adviser to Bill Gates. On the previous Sunday, Boris had written to Epstein that he wanted to contact Staley’s brother, Peter, who became a leading AIDS activist after his own diagnosis in 1985: “I do need to talk to his brother few things,” Boris wrote, “including ACT UP for African epidemics. Also there is another issue (do not mention this)—I need to get David Geffen to a dinner with Bill. Will invite you and Jes as well—but need to get to Geffen first.” The thread seems to sum up how Epstein’s cohort used the goodness of others (and perhaps the love Jes Staley had for his brother) as powerful means of leverage.

“I am getting to geffen,,,” Epstein writes on the 19th. (There are no signs that he ever did, in fact, “get to” the billionaire Hollywood producer David Geffen.) “Your jon [job] is to tell dick to be extra nice to jes,, they have traded calls.” By “dick” he is referring to Richard Henriques, the CFO of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and when Boris replies, “with bill at think tank all day,” he is talking about the AfricaSan conference, at which the foundation announced a significant expansion of their sanitation program for the world’s poor.

Something happened on my fourth or fifth time looking at the email about “gods presence next to her when she was in bed”: the redaction was thin enough to guess at the letters of the email address. It looked like a name, “Habla” or maybe “Nadia,” followed by four numbers. Perhaps thirty seconds after discerning this, I had the address of Nadia Marcinko, which matched it perfectly: Nadja2102@yahoo.com. Marcinko, I discovered, is a trained pilot and model, and a named co-conspirator in the Palm Beach case of 2008, in the course of which she was accused by a victim of engaging in sexual acts with an underage girl, with or for Epstein, sometimes using sex toys.

Her correspondence with him started in 2004, and in 2005 a flight she takes from Slovakia was discussed in an exchange that mentioned “Eva” and “JeanLuc.” (Jean-Luc Brunel is an alleged trafficker.) Epstein expected her to “play” or “watch” him with other girls, and she promised she would “try to find girls” whenever they were in New York. In May 2006, she wrote, “I would leave now but I am giving the little girl a modelling lesson in her bikini tomorrow ;-),” and he replied, “i miss you and love you now…” By 2009, they were bickering like a couple on the verge of a breakup: “you were dressed in a disgusting t shirt and jeans, the dinner was disgusting , inelegant, badly presented laughable. and totally your doing. its that simple.” In 2010, she spat back, “You need professional help,” but she continued to be dependent on him. “Jeffrey, please, I just need answers regarding my apartment, money, car.”

Nadia wrote that she loved him too much to be just a friend, but by 2011, when he wrote to her about “jesus,” they had reached some kind of equilibrium. Later that year she discussed his Christmas present with his assistant Sarah, asking whether a bowl made from a human skull is “too much?” to which Sarah answers, “Never too much with JE. He loves that shit.” As public pressure mounted on Epstein, Nadia bonded with him over his treatment in the press, but she also demanded compensation for the “lost opportunities and humiliating consequences” she would have to deal with “forever.”

In 2018, she told him that she wanted to freeze her eggs and he replied, “ill pay.” He also asked after her girlfriend: “Girlfriend is good, brings me flowers & wants to try a sex party on Sat.” In 2019 she wrote, “just finished therapy…very interesting” and he responded, “where is my birthday video❓”

I find it hard to suppress a sense of melancholy about all of this. Then, I look at an exchange with Epstein from 2015: “I wasn’t planning to fly with him tmrw,” she wrote, “but if toys are involved, I may reconsider.” Epstein answered: “toys always available.” Later, when Epstein has to cancel, a redacted name responds, “Ok. I’ll stick with swiping for local toys.” I don’t know how someone might “swipe” for a toy. Perhaps I am naive, but it sounds more like a gesture made on a dating app. It occurs to me that “toys” here may be code for human beings. At this point I know it is time to get out of the library, confident in the knowledge that every abused, hurt, or simply poor and indebted person on the planet has another place online where they can have their worst fears confirmed.

July 19 winds down with a chat about the return flight with Larry, the pilot. But the night is not over for Epstein, who through the small hours talks with his staff about whether a stair runner he saw in Paris can be installed in the New York house. The emails roll into Wednesday: “You ok?” “are you awake?” “Where are you?” “She’ll be there at 8 am.” “I just landed in Ibiza with Prince!” Ghislaine Maxwell sends her latest travel itinerary: “Going toB st t and then mallorca rome sardinia lond Mustique barbados miami boston ny.” In the afternoon Epstein sends an appeal to the journalist Michael Wolff about Tina Brown, then the editor of the Daily Beast: “tina has asked Wayne Barrett to do an investgative piece. ? how do i appease her. this is crazy.” Wolff replies, “Let me think about Tina, she seems to have it in for you and there are lots of way to neutralize her.”

Turns out, there weren’t.

Let's Write about how evil Donald Trump is erasing history with executive orders

Franco-American History is being erased in Lowell, Massachusetts

Statue in Lowell MA, honors women who staffed the early mills.
On the Road author Jack Kerouac's mother was a Lowell mill worker. 

Videos about exploited 19th-century mill workers- most of them were French-Canadian immigrants, have been removed from Lowell National Historical Park following President Trump’s executive order. By Renée Loth Contributor, Updated March 6, 2026

The following things happened in Lowell in the 19th century: Girls as young as 10 worked 12-hour days, six days a week, in hot, unhealthy textile mills with little ventilation. The harsh conditions led the mill workers to organize the Lowell Female Labor Reform Association, which pushed for a 10-hour work day. Its newspaper, The Voice of Industry, took strong stands against war and slavery, and many workers stood in solidarity with the enslaved Africans who harvested the cotton spun in those very mills.

Apparently Donald Trump doesn’t want you to know about all of this, because in accordance with his executive order “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History,” two videos about the mill workers shown at the Lowell National Historical Park have been removed.

“Lowell: The Continuing Revolution” is one of the two missing films (still available online if not on the park website). It’s a standard overview of the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution, mostly supporting the narrative of benevolent mill owners and young women happy to be liberated from farm drudgery to earn their own money. But the film does describe the air in the mills as “swarming with lint, leaving the workers susceptible to lung disease,” and says that owners looking to optimize profits regularly cut wages, leading to strikes. 

Since the US Interior Department’s directives enforcing Trump’s order compel the National Park Service to “flag for removal” any materials that “inappropriately disparage Americans past or living,” the educational videos had to go.

“Every American should be alarmed that this is happening,” said Kristin Sykes, Northeast regional director of the National Parks Conservation Association, an independent guardian of the parks. “We’re just starting to see this whitewashing, and we could see much more.”

The association is among the plaintiffs in a recent lawsuit filed by the group Democracy Forward in federal district court in Boston, challenging Trump’s authority to alter American history by executive fiat. Advocates worry that cultural institutions will begin to self-censor in order to stay out of the administration’s crosshairs. 

In a recent visit to the park, Sykes said a guide told her the films were being “updated.”  The expunged videos in Lowell are just part of a sweeping attack on the country’s cultural heritage, targeting stories about slavery, civil rights, climate change, and anything else disliked by this president. The range of threatened material is breathtaking, including 80 items at the Selma to Montgomery National Historic Trail in Alabama. A rainbow flag was removed from the Stonewall National Monument in New York City, which commemorates the struggle for LGBTQ rights. In Maine, signs about climate change and Native American rights were removed from Acadia National Park. Not even gift shop items are exempt.

A separate order required that QR codes be installed at national historic sites, encouraging visitors to report any “negative” material they might perceive. The idea was to unleash an army of cultural vigilantes seeking out divisive topics to erase from the national memory. But, oops, ❗ most of the initial comments received through the QR code criticized park funding cuts and the administration’s efforts to rewrite history.

The courts have tried to put a stop to some of the more egregious revisionism; in addition to the Democracy Forward suit, last month a federal judge ruled that a dismantled panel discussing the nine enslaved people at George Washington’s home at the Independence National Historical Park in Philadelphia must be restored. The judge, appointed by Republican president George W. Bush, quoted George Orwell’s dystopian “1984” and said Trump did not have the right to “disassemble historical truths.”

Why does it matter if a couple of videos about 200-year-old industrial history are removed from the Lowell national park❓

For Robert Forrant, a professor of labor history at the University of Massachusetts at Lowell, the stories are searingly relevant today. “We’re diminishing the history of working people,” he said. And without a shared understanding of labor’s hard-fought rights, he said, “it’s easier to ride roughshod over them.”

Indeed, in his second term Trump has slashed funding for occupational health and safety and equal employment agencies, forced labor department workers into early retirement, and, under the guise of national security, stripped collective bargaining rights from hundreds of thousands of federal workers. For this administration, the less Americans know about the organized struggle for workers’ rights — including government workers — the better.

Because one thing the evil Trump administration does understand: Knowledge is power.

Let's write about Jeffrey Epstein and his perverted obsession with Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

What Jeffrey Epstein Didn’t Understand About Lolita❓

Hint❓...Everything. By Graeme Wood published in The Atlantic.

Anybody who flew on Jeffrey Epstein's private 727 jet he named his "Lolita Express" had to know what they were being exposed to. But Jeffrey Epstein adopted the name anyway because he apparently wanted his comrades in sex trafficking to believe an illusion that they were just enjoying a weird fantasy.

Author of the novel Lolita

But, as Graeme Wood describes in this essay, Jeffrey Epstein would never associate with the low class Humbert Humbert, a fictional French literature professor who was sexually obsessed with the 12-year-old Dolores "Lolita" Haze and the narrator of the novel Lolita.

Obviously, Jeffrey Epstein never actually read the novel Lolita, but surely he was obsessed with young girls and likely fantasized using the book as a ruse, because it is considered to be literature (so to speak- like sewerage eventually becomes water., but it is still yucky.)

Geoffrey Berman, former District Attorney for the Second District of New York (SDNY) before Donald Trump fired him, wrote in his book "Holding the Line", about how the pedophile Jeffrey Epstein's house was loaded with books and one oddity he was able to disclose is how multiple pairs of reading glasses were found laying on many tables in Epstein's Manhattan house. In other words, Epstein wanted visitors to believe he was a serious reader. (It was a ruse.)

This opinion essay by Graeme Wood is likely the closest The Atlantic has ever gone into publishing pornography, in a literary way, of course. 

One of the minor annoyances of being an incorrigible pervert is that you risk having your own bookshelf testify against you. 

Some spines are better turned inward. A pederast might hide away Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, in which a middle-aged German author ogles a lithe young Polish boy. 

A hyper-literate rapist should camouflage his copy of A Clockwork Orange with a more consensual dust jacket. It is therefore curious that the late financier and convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein—who died in jail in 2019, while awaiting trial on charges of trafficking minors—flaunted his supposed love of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. The book, first published in France in 1955, is so closely identified with pedophilia that it spawned not one but two words, Lolita and nymphet, for girls whom grown men find sexually tempting. Rather than take the obvious advice—Under no circumstances advertise your obsession with Lolita—Epstein apparently did the opposite.

The Epstein files released by Congress include photos of a young woman or girl, with Lolita’s horny opening lines clumsily inscribed on her skin in fine black ink. Lolita crops up here and there in the documents released a few weeks later, too. The journalist Michael Wolff, who was working on a profile about Epstein, wrote that he kept a copy of Lolita, and no other book, on his bedside table. (I believe Berman's account differs from what Wolff disclosed. Berman's investigation documented many books throughout the house)

Wolff added that Epstein “is, beyond the joke, a great Nobokov [sic] fan.” When a fact-checker wrote to Epstein to confirm these details, Epstein forwarded the message to Wolff, with a note suggesting that he would not cooperate with the checking process: “nfw,” as in no fucking way. In the end, the profile was never published.

Whether or not he kept a copy by his bed, we know that Epstein owned a first edition and ordered The Annotated Lolita for his Kindle in 2019, 43 days before he was arrested. 

As to the claim that Epstein was a “great Nobokov fan,” the only possible response is: nfw. He may have wanted others to believe he was, and he may also have tried to impress certain people with polite conversation about the book—maybe the kind of people who do not know how to spell Nabokov, or who wanted his money too much to call out his superficiality. 

The novel makes a cameo in his 2018, correspondence with the Harvard English professor Elisa New, wife of the hapless Larry Summers, whose poetry project he funded. “I’m going upstairs to hunt for my copy of Lolita,” New says in an email, seemingly at Epstein’s urging. She then suggests that Epstein read Willa Cather’s My Ántonia, writing that Cather’s novel has “similar themes to Lolita in that it’s about a man whose whole life is stamped forever by his impression of a young girl.” The titular girl in Lolita is a 12-year-old who is kidnapped and serially raped by a much older man. To compare Lolita to My Ántonia in this way is a bit like saying Moby-Dick and Deliverance are both stories about fishing trips.

Still, I doubt that Epstein ever read Lolita, or that he understood it if he did. The book’s pleasures are intense but not erotic, and not congruent with Epstein’s essentially philistine taste. Like Nabokov’s great novel Pale Fire, Lolita is about an intelligent writerly type who is not intelligent enough to realize that he is also completely nuts. It accesses levels of pathos that a psycho like Epstein would struggle to appreciate.

We know from his emails that Epstein purchased an eclectic array of nonfiction, including books on finance, power, and sex, plus random books that might endear him to the powerful men in his orbit. These orders were not all lowbrow. He bought Norman Mailer’s fiery but cerebral anti-feminist polemic The Prisoner of Sex and a Don DeLillo novel, Zero K. 

Among the down-market acquisitions he made were installments of the Flashman series—think James Bond, but more bumbling and Victorian—and of The Man From O.R.G.Y., a pulpy 1960s, spy-sex romp for readers who considered Pussy Galore too subtle. 

I found excerpts online: They were so lame and dated that, may God forgive me, I actually felt bad for Epstein. A mega-millionaire is spoiled for company, with outstanding people and experiences available for purchase or rent. To prefer the solitary consumption of a novel with lines like “I was strumming her little passion switch like a banjo player mad with palsy” is beyond pitiful. It shows a simultaneous unfamiliarity with both human sexual response and bluegrass music.

Reading escapist crap now and then does not preclude reading great prose at more serious moments. But, if your literary tastes favor the dashing heroism of a spy, a lover, a man of mystery and intrigue—and I suspect that Epstein could read fiction only in this vicarious way—then Lolita is a comically bad choice. 

Humbert Humbert, the narrator, is unhinged and obtuse. The novel is a joke on him. The actors cast by Hollywood to play Humbert in the two movie adaptations of the novel, James Mason and Jeremy Irons, give a sense of the type: Both are known for playing reptilian creeps, even more grotesquely mismatched for an American tween than the average adult man would be. Humbert is one of the most odious and self-absorbed creations in all of literature. He is a rapist, a murderer, a world-class deflector of blame. (Maine Writer...hmmmm, sounds like Jeffrey Epstein's personal friend,😏 ya'think❓)

(“It was she who seduced me”), and a pompous piece of child-molesting Eurotrash. Come to think of it, that he can express himself so well—with the linguistic ingenuity, come to think of it, of Vladimir Nabokov, is a scandal. 

Much of Lolita's plot follows this continental sophisticate and Lolita as they drive across America in a “jalopy,” shacking up in motels and passing vulgar roadside attractions. (Epstein, by contrast, was too much of a snob to debase himself with terrestrial travel. He flew private, in a 727, known unofficially as the “Lolita Express.”)

In the end of the novel, however, is even more hateful to someone with Epstein’s predilections. Humbert meets his ex-nymphet again when she’s 17. Lolita has grown distant—which is to say, she has grown up—and has sexually emancipated herself from Humbert, though she still wants his money. Now married and pregnant, Lolita has become unattractive to Humbert, and to some extent Humbert has become unattractive to himself, even remorseful about his crimes against her.

To these indignities (the aging of his lover, the seedy motels, the discovery that he is a worm), Humbert adds one more, perhaps the only one with which Epstein could sympathize. At the novel’s end, he refers back to the reason for his writing all of this down in the first place: He is in jail awaiting trial, and these are his notes. Before he can face justice, he will be dead of a heart attack, and Lolita herself will die in childbirth. Note the irony in the plot (a childhood stolen by an adult, and an adulthood lost to a child) and also in the parallel to Epstein, who, like Humbert, cheated justice through an early demise.

Epstein could, I suppose, have seen himself in Humbert, understood Humbert all too well, and simply not regarded him as loathsome. Epstein was, after all, Epstein, and did not inhabit the same moral universe as you and I do. It is a dark thought: Epstein curled up alone under the covers, studying his nightly installment of the novel because he recognized the lust and moral frailty and could not get enough of it. This Humbert fellow—so relatable.🤢 A pompous lecher, "Wow, just like me"❗For that to be the case, Epstein would have needed a capacity for self-deprecation and insight into his own perversity. No evidence for these traits exists.

More likely, Epstein confused Lolita for some kind of Booker Prize–level version of Penthouse Forum, which is a stupid error. The opening lines, the ones written on a female body in the Epstein-file photo, are more autoerotic than erotic, with Humbert self-pleasuring at the thought of his own mouth (“Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth”).

Reading Lolita as erotica would be a further irony, because in making that category error, he would have been aligning himself with the book’s early moralist critics. “Highbrow pornography,” The New York Times’ Orville Prescott wrote when the book came out in America, noting that even the French had banned it. I suppose it would be unfair to ding a reviewer in 1958, when smut was scarcer, for seeing pornography in all the wrong places, and mistaking this very unsexy book for titillation.

But, just as the notion that Epstein read and understood Lolita is implausible, the alternative—that he read the novel and got off on it—is almost too gross to contemplate.

But just as the notion that Epstein read and understood Lolita is implausible, the alternative—that he read the novel and got off on it—is almost too gross to contemplate.

To find Lolita sexy would not only mean finding child-rape sexy. It would also mean finding Humbert Humbert sexy. And that is a level of perversion probably beyond even Jeffrey Epstein.

This article appears in the February 2026 print edition of The Atlantic,with the headline “What Jeffrey Epstein Didn’t Understand. About Lolita"

P.S. Glad I newer bothered to read Lolita but I appreciate Graeme Wood's timely book review. 

Let's write about the gothic classic novel "Rebecca"!

 One of my favorite mystery novels read when I was a teenager is now available free on Kindle.

Published in Parade by Nina Durwin:

Rebecca! 1938, Book Voted ‘Best Novel of the Century’ is Now Free on Amazon: The gothic masterpiece, once named the best novel of the century, is now free to read on Amazon. 

"Rebecca" was adapted into a now-classic film by director Alfred Hitchcock. IMDb 1940 Laurence Olivier, Joan Fontaine and George Sanders

One of the most enduring novels of the 20th century just became even more accessible. 

English author Daphne du Maurier photographed at her home, circa 1977 . 

Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier’s haunting 1938, gothic classic, is currently free to read on Amazon for Kindle Unlimited subscribers, giving a new wave of readers the chance to discover or revisit the story that has captivated audiences for generations. 

A 1938, National Book Award-winner and Anthony Award-winner for Best Novel of the Century, Rebecca remains one of literature’s most atmospheric and psychologically gripping works.

The novel follows a young, unnamed narrator who impulsively marries the wealthy widower Maxim de Winter and moves to his grand estate, Manderley. But once inside its sprawling halls, she quickly realizes she is living in the shadow of Maxim’s late first wife, the glamorous and enigmatic Rebecca. Though Rebecca is dead before the story even begins, her presence lingers everywhere: in the house, in the staff, and in Maxim himself. As secrets begin to unravel, du Maurier slowly transforms what first feels like a romantic fairy tale into a tense psychological mystery. Themes of jealousy, identity, class and obsession pulse beneath the novel’s famously eerie prose. Its unforgettable opening line, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again,” remains one of the most iconic first sentences in literary history. 

The book’s impact only grew when Alfred Hitchcock adapted Rebecca into a film in 1940. Starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine, the movie won the Academy Award for Best Picture and cemented the story’s place in cinematic history. Hitchcock’s moody, suspense-filled interpretation introduced the tale to an even wider audience and helped define the gothic thriller genre on screen.

More recently, Rebecca experienced something of a cultural revival. Taylor Swift referenced the novel in a recent interview, sparking renewed interest among younger readers who may be discovering du Maurier’s work for the first time. The book’s themes of memory, insecurity and living in someone else’s shadow continue to resonate nearly 90 years after its publication. Now, with the novel available to read for free on Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited, there’s never been a better time to step inside Manderley’s gates. Just be warned: once you enter, it’s hard to leave.
(Wow, still have a copy of this novel on my book shelf, will make a point to re-read!)