Katy Waldman
xwaldie.bsky.social
Katy Waldman
@xwaldie.bsky.social
2.3K followers 550 following 18 posts
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Is something going on with lettuce in NY being rotten?
Reposted by Katy Waldman
Reposted by Katy Waldman
Today’s self-help books for working women abandon the pretense that they have anything to do with feminism, or even work. Instead, everything is content. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2025/10/27/how-corporate-feminism-went-from-love-me-to-buy-me
An actual hot take: Too many authors are afraid of editors watering down their voice or whatever and not afraid enough of editors letting you put any old slop on the page.
Reposted by Katy Waldman
“What We Can Know,” Ian McEwan’s 18th novel, takes place in the 22nd century, after a nuclear disaster. “Much of the novel’s charm lies in its re-creation of our era as seen from the future,” Katy Waldman writes.
Ian McEwan Casts the Climate Crisis as a Story of Adultery
His new novel, “What We Can Know,” imagines the historians of the twenty-second century, who long for the world that they’ve missed out on.
www.newyorker.com
Well, that’s lovely, thank you. Esp given the source. And thank you for explaining anime to me via the NYTM. That was delightful.
Josh! Thanks so much. (I disagree but am flattered.)
Reposted by Katy Waldman
Seeing ice cream cones during their spawning runs really takes your breath away. They’ll only do this once in their entire lives.
Ice cream cone manufacturing line.
Monday version of me here to re-up this post for all of your Monday selves!
I reviewed Helen Oyeyemi’s new new novel, in which a character divides herself by seven — one identity for each day of the week (Should we all try this?) www.newyorker.com/magazine/202...
Helen Oyeyemi’s Novel of Cognitive Dissonance
Kinga, the protagonist of “A New New Me,” has an odd affliction: there are seven of her.
www.newyorker.com
I reviewed Helen Oyeyemi’s new new novel, in which a character divides herself by seven — one identity for each day of the week (Should we all try this?) www.newyorker.com/magazine/202...
Helen Oyeyemi’s Novel of Cognitive Dissonance
Kinga, the protagonist of “A New New Me,” has an odd affliction: there are seven of her.
www.newyorker.com
While I’m self-promoting, this piece is in dialogue with an earlier piece about MAGA aesthetics and how Trump is a LLM regurgitating signifiers without understanding them www.newyorker.com/culture/crit...

bsky.app/profile/xwal...
Reposted by Katy Waldman
With media such as “28 Years Later” and “The Last of Us,” 2025 has been a bacchanalia of zombies. Katy Waldman writes about our cultural fixation on the walking dead.
Our Age of Zombie Culture
Zombies are the least eloquent monster. But they have a lot to say about us.
www.newyorker.com
I snuck a few of my "Anora" gripes into a piece about "Materialists" and the rise of the anti-Cinderella story
www.newyorker.com/culture/crit...
Reposted by Katy Waldman
Does Prince Charming still exist? A spate of media scrutinizing the one-percent—including “Materialists” and “Anora”—attests to the difficulty of romanticizing wealth and love.
The Rise of the Anti-Cinderella Story
A pair of recent films, Celine Song’s “Materialists” and Sean Baker’s “Anora,” turn the fairy tale on its head, with mixed results.
www.newyorker.com
Reposted by Katy Waldman
“I have wrestled with a Frey-like dread through the writing of this review—I’m afraid that I’ll describe his book and no one will believe me.” Read @xwaldie.bsky.social’s review of the cancelled author’s attempt to rebrand.
James Frey’s New Cancelled-Guy Sex Novel Is as Bad as It Sounds
With a status-obsessed comeback book, the author of the fabricated memoir “A Million Little Pieces” attempts to rebrand.
www.newyorker.com
Reposted by Katy Waldman
“Twist,” by Colum McCann, centers around the cables that relay computer data around the world, and what happens when a cable off the Ghanaian coast is severed. But the book doesn’t establish the human stakes of the repair, Katy Waldman writes.
Colum McCann’s Limp Novel of Digital Life
In “Twist,” the characterization is listless and the internet is just a series of tubes.
www.newyorker.com