Have a Terrible Time Traveling? Good! You’re Supposed To

Somebody Please Buy The World Some Damn Medicine

The Language of Money

John Lanchaster wrote a novel called Capital, set in London before and after the 2008 financial crisis. As one would imagine, he learned a lot about finance in the writing of it. He has a very Billfold-y piece in this week’s New Yorker about decoding the alienating language of money: “It is potent and efficient, but also exclusive and excluding.”

Concerning the Moral Obligations of the Wealthy

Tear Down This Paywall: The New Yorker Opens Its Archives

The Things You Own, Own You: Fitbit Edition

Everything I Need to Know I Learned Before Kindergarten

The Woman Who Would Smuggle You Stateside For $35,000

In Requiem for a Snakehead, Patrick Radden Keefe writes a quick and fascinating profile of Cheng Chui Ping, aka Sister Ping, for The New Yorker. Sister Ping, who died of pancreatic cancer in federal prison last week, operated a “sophisticated immigration-smuggling ring” that brought thousands of people from Southeast China to the U.S. She is a hero, a villain, or both, depending who you ask:

Feeling Weird About Being a Video Game Millionaire

For The New Yorker‘s Elements blog, Simon Parkin talks to some of the beautiful weirdos whose indie video games made them millionaires, often overnight. A lot of them feel really conflicted about it. Or depressed! Or afraid. Or just guilty.

Mavis Gallant’s ‘Hunger Diaries’

Beloved short story writer and Canadian ex-pat Mavis Gallant died on Tuesday at 91, at her home in Paris.

Mavis left her job as a journalist and moved to Paris to write when she was 28 years old. She published her first short story in the New Yorker when she was 29, and then traveled around Europe writing fiction. Word is, though, she always dreamed of being a pregnant blogger who was rejected from all the MFA programs she applied to. I know! I was as surprised as you are.