December 1, 2025 At Work Catching Up with Helen Fielding By Rosa Lyster Photograph by Romy Curran. Bridget Jones made her first appearance in February 1995, complaining amiably about her publishing job and obsessing over her rakish boss in a diary column in London’s Independent newspaper. “Last Tuesday, at the Cheapskate’s Wine Guide launch, weeks of flirtation appeared to climax. When the others were boring on about Stephen Fry […] Daniel moved behind me and murmured, “So … will I see you?” and then, more quietly, “I mean … see you?” – so horny.” The writer of the column, Helen Fielding, had already published one novel, Cause Celeb, but it was Bridget—a worrier, a charmer, an expert at having a good time—who would make Fielding famous. The diaristic column, published anonymously at first, was a smash hit. Readers responded immediately to Fielding’s vivid portrait of single life in nineties London. Her novel Bridget Jones’s Diary—whose structure and characters were based loosely on those of Pride and Prejudice—was published less than a year after that first column, and Bridget became a kind of generational touchstone, a beloved figurehead and a lightning rod for critique. Fielding, who was thirty-seven, originally from West Yorkshire, and still working at the newspaper, meanwhile became almost as famous as a writer can get. What is so striking, reading those very first columns thirty years on, is that it’s all there, right from the beginning: the levity and humor, even the influence of Austen. (Even before Fielding named her heroine’s love interest after Mr. Darcy, Bridget was moodily watching the BBC adaptation of Persuasion and concluding that she was Anne Elliot.) We can see Bridget’s combination of self-awareness and obliviousness, her cheerful resignation about the possibility of behaving like an idiot again sometime soon. Her voice is so instantly recognizable that one might forget that she didn’t always exist, that Fielding made her up, one day in the nineties. I caught up with Fielding about her writing life and the years since those early columns. She has gone on to write four more books—three more Bridget Jones novels and one standalone spy novel—and to work on the wildly popular film adaptations. Over Zoom, we talked about the role Austen has played in her work, her penchant for and methods of social observation, and what it’s like to have an alter ego. She is thoughtful and funny, with a finely tuned sense of the absurd. INTERVIEWER Did you always know that you were going to be a writer? HELEN FIELDING Words were the thing felt I had a facility with. I knew what to do with them, which I didn’t feel with a lot of other things—cooking, driving, anything practical, I wasn’t very good at. But I always wrote, starting when I was very small. I remember I put the word immobilized in an essay and a teacher at school wrote, “Whose word is this?”—implying that my parents had done my homework. I used to read a lot. Just anything. I liked words and all my family were all very funny, so we were always fooling around and making jokes. I grew up in the industrial north, it was quite sooty and dark. I’d read Jackie Collins and think, Oh, if I was a writer, I could have a swimming pool and be free and not have to go to work and I could go live somewhere hot. INTERVIEWER How do you write? Do you write every day? FIELDING I will if I’m in full-on mode. With a novel, there are some phases where you’re just thinking and gathering material and then it’ll get a momentum. I tend to do an old-fashioned working day, about ten till six. I don’t work in the evenings, and I don’t work on the weekends, so my mind knows, Okay, it’s time to do the writing now. When you get deep into a novel, into a flow state, it’s really nice and you don’t want to stop doing it. But before you get to that point, it’s harder. I always feel a bit unsettled if I’m not writing regularly—it’s like I haven’t got my handbag or something. Read More
November 26, 2025 Dispatch Homeward Bound: On Pigeon Racing By Oliver Egger All photographs by Oliver Egger. Just as the sun begins to peek over the flat horizon of Coon Rapids, Iowa, 1,383 pigeons fill the sky. The birds pour out as a single winged mass from the rows of flung-open coops on the transport truck. They rise and circle higher into the morning air. Strong gusts from the south-southwest soon scatter them into hundreds of solitary black dots across the slabs of clouds. They could fly anywhere. They could head north to go swimming in the cool rush of the Middle Raccoon River. Go southwest to inspect the quality of lampposts in Omaha. Or simply land on and rest in one of the maples below. But each pigeon, as if pulled by a magnet, turns due east. They flap their wings as fast as they can until they disappear over the horizon—all heading toward Chicago, all heading home. Or so I heard. While the pigeons were being released on that morning of Friday, October 17, in a field in west-central Iowa, I was nearly four hundred miles away, sitting in a dinky Sheraton Hotel near O’Hare Airport for the board meeting of the annual convention of the American Racing Pigeon Union (ARPU). The ARPU is the largest pigeon-racing organization in America, with 6,650 members, but this summit on expanding vaccine accessibility for their birds, boosting youth participation, and updating pigeon tracking software was before an audience of no more than fifteen, which, as one hour became two, dropped to a die-hard five. As a man in a USA trucker hat rose to ask the board about their pigeon lobbyist (yes, even they have one), the hundreds of airborne pigeons were locking on to the exact coordinates of the home lofts—scattered in backyards and garages within a fifty-mile radius of this hotel—where they had been raised. As they soared over cube-cut farmland, scanning for hawks with their orange eyes, they had no idea that fifty thousand dollars were at stake, that the humans that raised them were anxiously waiting for them to swoop in, or that they were competitors in the convention’s main event: the yearly ARPU combine. No, they were just trying to get home. Read More
November 25, 2025 Rereading On Private Dreams of Public People By Toye Oladinni Andy Warhol, 1967. New York World-Telegram and Sun photograph by Ed Palumbo, via Wikimedia Commons. Library of Congress collections, public domain. “I keep having horrible nightmares that blood is coming out of my mouth,” Candace Bushnell confessed to the dream analyst Lauren Lawrence in the early 2000s. Bushnell’s column Sex and the City was then the basis for one of prime time’s most popular shows. Through her alter ego, Carrie Bradshaw, Bushnell and her lifestyle were adored by millions. Lawrence didn’t interpret that dream in the way you or I might; her reading may have been colored by her own adulation. Terrifying? No: the dream is “hot and gutsy.” The gore pouring out Bushnell’s mouth is a blessing that means her writing is “pure and true” and, happily for her career, its nightly recurrence implies she will “never be drained of her creative juices.” This is all fantastic news but there’s one issue: The dream is obviously a nightmare. Lawrence never addresses Bushnell’s subconscious horror. As far as she’s concerned it might as well not exist. The dream is one of dozens collected in Lawrence’s 2002 coffee table book, Private Dreams of Public People. There’s a paradox here: once they are mass-published, of course, the dreams are no longer private, but the allure of the exposé is the compilation’s main selling point. Despite its origins in the phantasmagoric, Private Dreams follows a clear format. Each celebrity is placed into a category (“Society Dreamer,” “Beautiful Dreamer,” “Entrepreneurial Dreamer”). Each dream is followed by Lawrence’s analysis. Lawrence, who has a M.A. in psychology, built a career on public dream interpretation, as the dreams columnist for the New York Daily News and on an A&E show called Celebrity Nightmares Decoded. Lawrence solicited the dream entries directly from stars like Paris Hilton, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Lady Lynn Forester de Rothschild, Cyndi Lauper, Kate Moss, and the vice-presidential runner-up Joseph Lieberman. Donald Trump turned her down. (“I don’t have time to sleep let alone dream,” he says in the Declinations section. “I’m too busy building back my empire.”) To these she adds some dream descriptions clipped from Vogue, Elle, and, for Martin Luther King Jr., the History Channel. I was never quite clear on how Lawrence got close enough to America’s A-list to pull the book off, but a late, casual reference, in an analysis of one of her own dreams, to being “driven around town in my Rolls-Royce” and doing “substantive damage to my husband’s American Express card” fills in some of the blanks. In 2002, the list price of Private Dreams—now out of print—was thirty-five dollars, but in the introduction, Lawrence promises something priceless: The book will surpass the “paparazzi phallic lens … intent on mating with the intangible inner being of fame.” It will actually allow us to “get into bed with the celebrity mind and nestle with its glittery, klieg-lit unconsciousness.” Read More
November 24, 2025 Home Improvements My Illegal Revenge Pool By Lisa Carver Photographs courtesy of the author. I was married to a moody millionaire Parisian and I was trying to stay with him—I still loved certain things about him, and I loved everything about my stepchildren and the French way of life. But it was hard. My husband wanted to be who he was, and he wanted a happy wife. Not easy to have both at once! I did all these things—got on Zoloft, got a dog, went to spas and Belize and the opera—to make me so-o-o happy it would last through his tirades. He knew he was a monster—he was an honest man—so he did things to help too. He built a cabin outside our home in France for me to go be alone in to recover, and he gave me money to put down on a dilapidated hundred-and-twenty-five-year-old house in Pittsburgh for me to go be alone in and recover even farther away from him. Read More
November 20, 2025 First Person Postscript to an Open Marriage: On Lily Allen’s West End Girl By Jean Garnett Lily Allen. Photograph courtesy of Jean Garnett. “Who is Madeline?” asks my daughter. We’ve been singing that new Lily Allen song all morning—“Da da da da da da da who’s Madeline?”; we can’t get it out of our heads. How should I answer? Madeline seems to be a woman with whom the singer’s husband is having an affair? Then I’ll have to explain what an affair is. And wait, affair isn’t the word, since Allen and her husband had an open marriage, though the song tells us he’s “broken the rules” of their arrangement with Madeline … Anyway, I’m not going to try to explain nonmonogamy to a seven-year-old. By a stroke of genius, I hit on the right answer: “I don’t know.” My daughter seems to need no further clarification on the issue, but I’m realizing that I do, actually. That is, I want to understand why for some reason, despite Allen’s deft and amusing sketch of this Madeline person as a vacuous, woo-woo home-wrecker, I feel a certain sympathy with her. I care about Madeline, about her desires and her right to pursue them without being villainized. West End Girl, Lily Allen’s first album in seven years, is a pop marital memoir chronicling the dissolution of Allen’s partnership with the actor David Harbour in the wake of their agreement to try out nonmonogamy. I get why people are in raptures over this record. There’s a certain phoenix-from-the-ashes satisfaction in seeing a romantically wounded, no-longer-young woman artist explode back into the spotlight with a series of sexy, delectable bops: we love that for her. There’s the earworm indelibility of Allen’s tunes that has my kid humming them while brushing her teeth, the charm and humor of her lyrics, and the generosity of her voice, which confides in us like a friend: we love her for that. She’s very lovable. Does it follow that her husband, and his “Madeline,” must be hateable? Because, whether Allen intended it or not, that appears to be one takeaway here. West End Girl has been described approvingly as a revenge album, and the consensus among fans seems to be that Allen sure got Harbour’s ass good, that in the process of transmuting her pain into art she has served him a much-deserved pillorying. Remind me why he deserves this? It does sound from the lyrics like there was dishonesty on his part, but his original sin, in the story of Allen’s record, is that he open-marriaged her. Read More
November 19, 2025 History Chateaubriand, Writing of a Worthless Time By François-René de Chateaubriand Antoine-Jean-Baptiste Thomas, Louis XVIII Receiving the Duc d’Angoulême on His Return from the Spanish Campaign, December 2, 1823, 1823, oil on canvas, 30.1 x 42.7″. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. François-René de Chateaubriand (1768–1848) was born in Saint-Malo, on the northern coast of Brittany, the youngest son of an aristocratic family. After an isolated adolescence spent largely in his father’s castle, he moved to Paris not long before the French Revolution. In 1791, he sailed for America but quickly returned to his home country, where he was wounded as a counterrevolutionary soldier, and then emigrated to England. The novellas Atala and René, published shortly after his return to France in 1800, made him a literary celebrity and brought him to the attention of Napoleon—a leader whom he at first admired and then, once he saw the dark side of his despotism, came to despise and criticize in print. In the excerpts below, from the third volume of his Memoirs from Beyond the Grave, Chateaubriand recalls the arrival of yet another new political order in the form of the Bourbon Restoration. He had long advocated restoring the Bourbons to power, but the reality of their rule—above all the continued suppression of civil rights and government censorship of the free press—incurred Chateaubriand’s wrath. —Alex Andriesse CHANGING OF THE WORLD Paris, 1839 To descend from Bonaparte and the Empire into what followed is to descend from a mountain into an abyss. Didn’t everything end with Napoleon? Should I even speak of anything else? What character can be as interesting as he? Who and what are worth considering after such a man? Only Dante had the right to associate with the great poets he met in the regions of the other world. How can I be expected to speak of Louis XVIII in lieu of the emperor? I blush to think that I am now obliged to drone on about a throng of scrawny creatures, to whose species I belong—dubious nocturnal beings who played their parts on a stage from which broad daylight had fled. Read More