Large Marginalia

Two foxes ran through our backyard last night and my husband turned to me and said “I bet they’re lovers” and now we can’t stop gossiping about the local wildlife

Jason Statham Asks Nothing of Me by Chloe Wilson a poem from the March 12, 2026 issue of The New York Review of Books (spread over 3 screenshots, unfortunately) And for this I'm grateful. The scene: I'm in my convalescent's nest—a corner of the sofa. Floral pajamas, oily roots. The pain refers into my shoulders, as they foretold. A flash of the anesthetist: This will feel cold. Your face will prickle. A male voice: She's out. Let's do this. Now, in the weeks between visits to the theater, I want nothing to do with human drama. Spare me the pathos, the redemption arc. What do I want? That's easy. Meataxe logic. Justice in its roughest approximation. I want boots crunching across broken glass, I want someone to throw themselves from a skyscraper onto a helicopter, I want atomic laws to be a surmountable inconvenience, and the plot incidental, motivations paper thin. Good merciful god, I want to watch things explode. Is a little gelignite too much to ask? And then cued up like a gift is the filmography of Jason Statham. I am touched

by the solicitude of the algorithm. One after another I consume them. I cannot get enough. Mafioso, secret agent, marine or criminal, it doesn't matter, in every incarnation he's the same, plus or minus kevlar, beret, turtleneck. I watch as he dispatches henchmen, wisecrackers, kingpins, I watch him plunge a harpoon into the eye of a prehistoric mackerel and am filled with something I recognize as tenderness— there is nothing in this world, shaky on its tectonic plates, as reliable as Jason Statham passing a sharp instrument through the soft tissue of his enemies. One nurse to another when they thought I was asleep: Check it out, her urine's blue. I think of my own grandfather who died with gangrene at the tips of his fingers, I think of his same tough-guy shtick: I'll cry tomorrow. I'll cry tomorrow, I say to myself in the bathroom mirror, or sometimes, There's no crying in baseball. It doesn't work, but never mind, Jason Statham is bare-knuckled or French-kissing or with a semiautomatic in each hand. He puts his fist through something pliable and I am dulcified. He asks nothing of me I cannot give, that I am not prepared to give, and for this I'm grateful. I remember my surgeon, tanned and personable, standing

Peru, saying Have you been? Have you stood on Machu Picchu? No, I said, but I've heard it's beautiful, though Jason Statham would have said it better. He'd have replied in the manner of a genuine geezer, spinning a toothpick between his teeth. When they pulled the drainage tube from my abdomen it felt alive, sliding like a python. I've never gasped like that before. I'm sorry, said the nurse, I'm so sorry. We looked at each other, equally horrified, the tube still in her hand. Whatever else they decide to excise, here is my promise: if I can't fight through this as casually as Jason Statham, I will at least imitate my favorite of his enemies. I will slip into anesthesia as though it were the Mariana. I will zip myself into a suit of deep gray neoprene and glide through this ocean, hostile, endless. The dark water will part in my presence. About the Author Chloe Wilson is the author of two books of poems and the short story collection Hold Your Fire. Her novel The Thornbacks will be published in Australia this year. (March 2026)

I cannot tell you how much I needed "Jason Statham Asks Nothing of Me" by Chloe Wilson.

www.nybooks.com/articles/202...

Lol, I am indeed and that’s next on my list!

The Beast in Me, Derry Girls

My dream job is unreliable narrator

joan from MAD MEN

she should have been allowed to kill one guy per season

So sorry, Jeff. I have so enjoyed following the story of your beautiful dogs over the years.

I’m 50 years old and I really thought I’d have a hairstyle by now

1. It was not an accident.
2. It was not a staffer.
3. While the president may have dementia his racism is not due to dementia.
4. He isn’t sorry. He means every racist thought he shares.
5. His base agrees with him.
6. He will do it again.
7. No one in power will hold him accountable.

Knowing what day it is is overrated

no one likes cold weather, but it is your best chance to see a field of horses wearing jackets

I've decided my holiday look is going to be "dying poet."

I would describe my style of posting as scrawling something dumb in crayon on cocktail napkin, folding it over several times, and then dropping it through a gloryhole as I walk away wearing really great shoes

I skimmed in and out of a shallow sleep last night with only blips of dreams but here’s one for you: Bath Bourguignon—7 hours over low heat marinating in red wine with carrots & mushrooms and afterward you go lay on top of some mashed potatoes

I am here to tell women you can have it all*

*endometriosis and adenomyosis

The Olivia Nuzzi and RFK Jr. Affair Is Messier Than We Ever Could Have Imagined Inside the most important, and also least important, story of our time

People are calling my lede here "appalling," "nightmare fuel," "actively evil," and "a desecration of the human spirit"

No! I’m so sorry. She was a beautiful good girl.

An associate told me that after a date he ended up back at the girl's apartment painting her wall. He said she had never painted a wall before so he was trying to help by showing her how.

I said, "My man, you got Tom Sawyer'd."

My husband, a teacher, said “today we had parent visitation, which makes them sound like an apparition…”

Tried searching “casual hairstyles for straight hair” and every one of them looked like a fucked-up bridesmaid updo. Searching “Standish Slow Horses” was much better.

So true!

Not the big story, of course, but it looks like Epstein typed his emails with his feet

McCall's pattern cover with three men in pyjamas

"Oh fuck, here comes Ted in his man-dress."

Meryl Streep waiting stealthily behind a glass door in Kramer vs Kramer.

How your phone looks at you while it monitors your weekly screen time.

You say that you condemn evil, but what if I told you that Satan is a small business owner

Picture it: Martin Short as Minnie Castevet and Cole Escola as Rosemary Woodhouse

Thank you! I’m sorry you went through all of that. What a nightmare. Tomorrow I see a gynecologist who said “Sure, try the cream. I don’t think it’ll help you but it certainly won’t hurt you.” He’s going to hear all about what happened.

I mention this because I could find NOTHING helpful on this topic when I was looking for it. 10% of women have endometriosis and way more have fibroids. And we’re all getting slammed with fantastical HRT promises everywhere we look. I want to put this out there in case it helps someone.

Imaging showed that my fibroids are now more than twice the size they were, and there’s another set of them growing on the outside of my uterus. Indoor/outdoor fibroids! In addition, my 15 year old c-section scar suddenly appears to have “scar endometriosis.” It’s kid of a nightmare.