The New Yorker’s Days as Something to Look Up to Are Over

Patrice Greanville

Call it selling out. Or simply sleaze mixed with a fair dose of self-preservation, that is, operational cowardice. Wanting to keep those cushy sinecures and the comfy life of a cultural arbiter with all the influential social perks flowing.  Putting career above principle. The outcome is the same. With The New Yorker joining the imperial lynch mob on Syria, and bamboozling its audience (or attempting to) with hit pieces unworthy of the paper they are printed on, it's clear this magazine is no longer what it once claimed to be: the titanium standard for good cultural journalism.

By running imperial shill Joshua Yaffa's insidious screed, Russia’s “Madman” Routine in Syria May Have Averted Direct Confrontation with the U.S., For Now, and similar pieces, at a moment when humanity stands on the edge of the abyss of nuclear war, or at least an unthinkably devastating Word War 3, not to mention endorse the further sociopathic mutilation of a nation brutally  attacked and already devastated by a conglomeration of powerful bullies, the New Yorker editors relinquished their enviable place in journalism's high brow precincts and toppled their own publication off of the pedestal it sat, virtually unchallenged, for many years. The evidence below is eloquent.  It's over.  They don't deserve it.

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