FirstSentence

Last Sunday, a ninety-four-year-old man appeared outside my door.

As New Yorkers know, Woody Allen is one of its more ubiquitous citizens—at courtside in Madison Square Garden watching the Knicks, at Michael’s Pub on Monday evenings playing the clarinet, on occasion at Elaine’s Restaurant at his usual table.

When I was a boy, I had a religious-school teacher named Mr. Spector, whose job was to confront us with the peril we presented to ourselves

Lingering in the lobby after watching Blue Jasmine, I overheard lots of praise for the film’s actors—but none of the wild admiration that the film itself has elicited from critics.

How do you please Lorne Michaels?

“What you got there, then?”

“DO you mind the smell of smoke?” asked Lorin Stein, the whippet-thin editor of The Paris Review, on a recent Wednesday night in his tidy art-filled loft of an office, quite possibly one of the last workplaces in Manhattan where indoor smoking is considered acceptable.

The defense offered up by Anthony Weiner—or shall we call him Carlos Danger, a name he apparently chose for online encounters?—to revelations of new sex messages, sent to a woman not his wife, is as needy and scratchy as his entire presence on the political scene.

Exactly what year it was I can no longer recall—probably 1927 or ’28—there was an extraordinarily hot September, which hung on even after school had started and we were back from our Rockaway Beach bungalow.

The Panamanian authorities impounded a rusting North Korean freighter on a voyage from Cuba toward the Panama Canal and back to its home country, and said the ship was carrying missile system components cloaked in a cargo of sugar.

Woody Allen's Annie Hall explores new dimensions of the persona Allen has constructed in movies, on the stage, and even in a comic strip.

I’m not going to tell you that you should write every single day, nor am I going to list out reasons that would make my arguments general enough for everyone.

I asked if he ever talked about it.

According to Wikipedia, the Tampa International Airport is a public airport six miles west of downtown Tampa, in Hillsborough County, Florida.

“The idea was fairly simple, though complex in the making: for those of us in big metropolitan, light-polluted areas like Chicago who can’t see the night sky very clearly, we wanted to travel to this beautiful, dark section of rural Nevada and then bring the stars back with us, capturing a full night sky to be played back, in real time.”

After seeing “World War Z,” I walked through Times Square, and, as I made my way to the subway, I wondered why the movie—which is, after all, just a very expensive zombie flick—had excited and disturbed me so much.

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