At today’s hearing on Donald Trump’s claim of absolute immunity from criminal prosecution, the Republican-appointed Supreme Court majority appeared poised to give him what he most desires in the case: further delays that virtually preclude the chance that he will face a jury in his election-subversion case before the November election.
But the nearly three hours of debate may be even more significant for how they would shape a second Trump term if he wins reelection. The arguments showed that although the Court’s conservative majority seems likely to reject Trump’s claim of absolute immunity from criminal prosecution, four of the justices appear predominantly focused on limiting the possibility that future presidents could face such charges for their actions in office, with Chief Justice John Roberts expressing more qualified sympathy with those arguments. Among the GOP-appointed justices, only Amy Coney Barrett appeared concerned about the Court potentially providing a president too much protection from criminal proceedings.
The conservative majority appeared determined to draw a lasting line between presidential actions that could and could not be subject to criminal prosecution; Justice Neil Gorsuch at one point insisted, “We’re writing a rule for the ages.” But many observers fear that any grant of immunity, no matter how the majority tries to limit it, would enormously embolden a reelected Trump to barrel through constraints of custom and law in pursuing his self-described agenda of “retribution.”
“The Supreme Court may be inclined to split hairs, but Donald Trump is not,” Deana El-Mallawany, the counsel for the bipartisan group Protect Democracy, told me after the hearing. “The arguments today made clear that Trump seeks absolute unchecked power. Trying to rein in an imperial vision of presidential power like that with an opinion that draws fine lines would be akin to trying to hold water with a net.”
After today’s hearing, the hope that a trial could proceed expeditiously now “seems fruitless, and the question is whether the Court will issue an opinion that will provide expansive, albeit not unlimited, immunity, which would be a giant step toward rejecting the idea the president is not a king, a fundamentally anti-constitutional principle,” the former federal prosecutor Harry Litman, the host of the podcast Talking Feds, told me.
In claiming absolute immunity from criminal prosecution, Trump’s lawyers relied heavily on the 5–4 1982 Supreme Court decision Nixon v. Fitzgerald, which ruled that former presidents could face civil suits only for actions that could not be defined as official, even under a very broad definition of that term.
Although providing that expansive protection from civil litigation, the Court in that earlier case did not address whether the president should enjoy comparable immunity from criminal prosecution. The majority opinion dropped only fleeting and somewhat contradictory breadcrumbs about the Court’s view on criminal prosecution. At one point, the decision implied that the president deserves less protection from criminal charges. But later, the decision omitted criminal charges when it listed means other than civil suits that could hold a president accountable for his actions.
The three-judge panel on the Washington, D.C., Circuit Court of Appeals, in its ringing ruling earlier this year denying Trump’s immunity claim, concluded that the Nixon v. Fitzgerald limits on civil cases should not apply to criminal allegations against a former president. At the hearing, though, Roberts openly disparaged the circuit-court opinion for failing to provide enough protection to a president.
Groups of both constitutional-law scholars and historians of early America filed briefs to the Supreme Court arguing that there is no evidence that the Founders intended to provide the sweeping protection Trump is seeking and asserting that they had consciously omitted from the Constitution any grant of immunity to the president for official acts. “The President’s susceptibility to prosecution was an express theme of the ratification debates,” the historians wrote in their brief. “Critical figures in multiple [state ratifying] conventions converged on the same understanding: The President can be prosecuted.”
To varying degrees, the Republican-appointed justices seemed to accept the idea that former presidents could be prosecuted in theory, while devoting much of their question time to minimizing the circumstances in which they actually would be. Today’s hearing validated the predictions of legal analysts who told me earlier this week that the conservative majority would be drawn to a version of the Fitzgerald distinction immunizing the president against legal challenge for some circle of acts within his official responsibilities but not against acts that fall outside that boundary.
“I think they will do what they should do, which is they will hold that Nixon v. Fitzgerald applies to criminal as well as civil matters against the president, which means that Trump will get part but not all of what he wants,” Michael McConnell, the director of the Constitutional Law Center at Stanford Law School, told me before the hearing. “Nixon v. Fitzgerald distinguishes between presidential acts that are within ‘the outer perimeter’ of his presidential authority and acts that are private. I think it is clear that some of what he is being charged with falls into each category.”
If, as seems likely after today’s hearing, the Court majority seeks to establish such a distinction between some official acts that are protected and private acts that are not protected, it would virtually extinguish the chances that Trump will face a trial before the November election on the charges that he tried to overturn the 2020 election.
“Even if it’s pellucidly clear that the standard [for immunity] wouldn’t apply to Trump, I do think he likely would get another trip back up and down the federal courts, very likely dooming the prospect of a trial in 2024,” Litman said.
The longer-term implications of a ruling providing immunity for some substantial portion of official conduct, though, could be even more profound. The hearing suggested that the conservative Supreme Court majority is unwilling to consider, or simply unconcerned, that the real-world political context of a second Trump term could undermine any distinction it draws between presidential behavior that is and is not protected from criminal prosecution.
“As we heard today, Donald Trump is trying to take the most maximal approach to executive power,” El-Mallawany told me. “If the Supreme Court is willing to give an inch, then I think he’ll take a mile in a second term.”
Trump has already made clear that he views presidential authority as essentially unlimited. Responding to the dramatic hypothetical that Judge Florence Pan raised during the proceedings in the D.C. Circuit Court, Trump’s lawyer D. John Sauer said that a president could not be criminally prosecuted unless first impeached and convicted even if he ordered SEAL Team Six to assassinate a political rival.
At today’s hearing, Sauer again insisted that Trump could not be criminally prosecuted for killing a rival, selling nuclear secrets to an enemy, or even staging a coup unless he was first impeached and convicted. “They took assassinating an opponent and upped it to a full-bore coup,” John Dean, the White House counsel under Richard Nixon who helped expose the Watergate scandal, told me after the hearing.
If he wins in November, Trump would inevitably interpret the victory as a public endorsement, or at least acceptance, of his views about presidential power. And all signs suggest Trump has already concluded that hardly any elected officials in his party have the stomach to confront him. That degree of loyalty functionally eliminates the possibility that Congress could impeach him and remove him from office, almost no matter what he does.
As El-Mallawany told me, that means the reality facing the Supreme Court as it considers this case is that a second Trump term would come only after “defeat at the ballot box, impeachment by Congress, and self-policing by the party” are all effectively eliminated as prospective checks on Trump’s actions.
If, against that backdrop, the Court also chooses to weaken rather than fortify the last legal barriers against egregious presidential actions, Trump could easily conclude that he faces few practical limits on his authority. Given Trump’s baseline inclination to view his presidential authority as virtually unlimited, Dean said he didn’t think the Court could distinguish between protected and unprotected presidential actions in a manner that will constrain Trump’s behavior if he wins again.
“That’s why it is very troublesome for the Court to try to fashion some sort of immunity even with the core functions [of the presidency], because it’s all hypothetical and speculative at this point as to what it would mean, and lawyers have a wonderful facility for finding permission for actions that are not really permissible,” Dean told me.
Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, echoing such concerns, forcefully raised the risk in the hearing that broad immunity from criminal prosecution could leave a president “emboldened” to undertake illegal acts, because he would arrive in office aware that he was immune from criminal accountability. Maintaining the possibility of criminal charges, she argued, was essential to deterring a president inclined to misuse his or her authority.
But several justices in the conservative majority seemed more concerned, however implausibly, about the opposite risk. Justice Samuel Alito argued that opening a president to criminal liability would not deter illegal activity but actually increase the risk that he or she would break the law. In Alito’s somewhat head-spinning logic, a president who feared potential criminal prosecution after he left office would undertake illegal acts to stay in power and avoid that legal exposure.
After the hearing, the prospect that Trump would face trial before November seemed minimal. Barrett surprisingly joined Jackson in suggesting that while the courts sorted out which of a president’s official actions deserved immunity, a trial could proceed around the elements of Trump’s behavior that were clearly private in nature. However, four of the other Republican-appointed justices appeared entirely uninterested in that idea, and Roberts seemed more inclined to send the case back to lower courts.
As Harry Litman noted, those who went into the hearing wishing to preserve a preelection trial against Trump emerged from the proceedings reduced to hoping that the Court doesn’t eviscerate the possibility of criminal consequences for any president who breaks the law. Even a decision that allows Trump to delay any further criminal trials until after the election could look relatively small next to the consequences of a ruling that causes him to conclude that, if he wins again, the Supreme Court would lack the will to restrain him.
In 2015, PEN America, the organization devoted to defending free speech, chose to honor the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo at its annual gala. A few months earlier, Islamic extremists had murdered 12 people at the publication’s offices in Paris. The rationale for recognizing the magazine seemed airtight: People had been killed for expressing themselves, and PEN America’s mission is to protect people targeted for what they express. For some writers connected with the organization, however, this reasoning was not so obvious. Six of them boycotted the gala, and 242 signed a letter of protest. In their eyes, Charlie Hebdo’s editorial staff, including those recently killed, embodied a political perspective that was unworthy of plaudits. The magazine frequently mocked Islam (and, in particular, caricatured the Prophet Muhammad), and this was a form of punching down, insulting a population that, as the letter put it, “is already marginalized, embattled, and victimized.”
PEN America defended itself, the gala went on, and Salman Rushdie, a former president of the group and a writer who knows what it means to have his life endangered because of his art, was given the last word in a New York Times article about the brouhaha: “If PEN as a free speech organization can’t defend and celebrate people who have been murdered for drawing pictures, then frankly the organization is not worth the name.”
Rushdie, who helped found PEN America’s World Voices festival two decades ago, had no confusion about what the organization represented. Its role was not to take a position on the place of Islam in France or comment on the French state’s aggressive secularizing policies, which Charlie Hebdo’s editors had championed through their cartoons. No, PEN America was simply there to protect the right of artists to draw, of writers to write.
The clash over Charlie Hebdo felt, in the moment, like a blip. It was not a blip. The forces that demanded PEN America stand for more—that it fight for issues its members considered to be matters of social justice, as opposed to the squishier but essential liberal ideals of openness and dialogue—have in the past two months managed to bring the organization to its knees. Unsurprisingly, the events of October 7, and all that followed, were the precipitating cause.
This afternoon, PEN America announced that it is canceling its World Voices festival—this year was to be the 20th anniversary of the annual international gathering of writers that Rushdie conceived as a way to encourage cross-cultural conversation and champion embattled artists. A cascade of authors, either out of conviction or under pressure, felt they couldn’t take part. PEN America had already decided last week to cancel its literary awards for the year after nearly half of the nominees withdrew their names from consideration. And its annual gala, a black-tie fundraiser scheduled for the middle of May, also seems hard to imagine right now. The language of the protest, too, has reached new extremes, with the most recent salvo demanding the resignation of PEN America’s CEO, Suzanne Nossel; its president, Jennifer Finney Boylan; and its entire board. Everyone I’ve spoken to there is in a state of high panic and deep sadness.
The existential conflict surrounding PEN America—the letters and counter-letters, withdrawals and statements of principle—captures the enormous rupture on the left since Hamas’s invasion of southern Israel on October 7 and Israel’s deadly response in Gaza. Can an organization that sees itself as above politics, that sees itself straightforwardly as a support system for an open society, be allowed to exist anymore? For the protesting writers, this lofty mission represents an unforgivable moral abdication at a moment of crisis. But if they have their way and PEN America doesn’t survive, where will these authors turn when they need defending?
From my own reading of the various letters of protest, the main demand of the now dozens upon dozens of writers protesting PEN America is this: They want the organization to say the word genocide—for PEN America to declare that what Israel is doing in Gaza is a deliberate effort to wipe out the Palestinian people, and act accordingly. From the perspective of the protesting writers, this interpretation of what has transpired since October 7 is both irrefutable and cause for repeating the charge as loudly as possible. “PEN America states that ‘the core’ of its mission is to ‘support the right to disagree,’” reads the most recent open letter. “But among writers of conscience, there is no disagreement. There is fact and fiction. The fact is that Israel is leading a genocide of the Palestinian people.”
Plenty of arguments exist on the side of those who do not see what Israel is doing as genocide—and they are compelling even for people like myself who believe that Israel has acted recklessly and in a way that constitutes collective punishment. But the writers protesting PEN America do not seem interested in a conversation or scrutiny or trying to contend with what Israel’s post-October 7 motives might be. They seem driven instead by an understandably deep emotional response to a devastating death toll and, like the greater pro-Palestinian movement, have decided to use the word “genocide” as the most resonant way to describe a conflict in which, according to Hamas’s Health Ministry, more than 33,000 Palestinians have now been killed. It has given them a sense of righteousness that is impossible to contain within an organization built on the “right to disagree.”
To follow the volley of letters and responses from PEN America over the past two months is to get a close-up look at the growing irreconcilability of these positions. The first serious sign of protest came in a March 14 letter from a group of writers, including Naomi Klein, Michelle Alexander, and Lorrie Moore, who declared they would boycott the World Voices festival this year. Their stated reason was their unhappiness with what they took to be PEN America’s anemic response to the death and destruction in Gaza. They accused the organization of taking too long to call for a cease-fire and then, when it finally did, of demanding that it be “mutually agreed” (a reasonable phrasing given that, according to the U.S. State Department, it is Hamas that has rejected the latest cease-fire proposal). This was not “a clear call,” the writers said. Moreover, why had PEN America, they wanted to know, not joined the movement to boycott, divest, and sanction Israel? Sure, PEN America had put out a number of statements of concern about Palestinian writers and the worsening situation in Gaza (more than 40 statements, actually, since October 7), but where was the “action”?
The letter sought redress; it was not an attempt to burn it all down. And PEN America responded. In a letter that appeared a week later, the organization reasserted its mission without apology: “For some, referencing nuance is moral betrayal. For others, failure to do so is unconscionable. As an organization open to all writers, we see no alternative but to remain home to this diversity of opinions and perspectives, even if, for some, that very openness becomes reason to exit.” The response also included an unambiguous call for “an immediate ceasefire and release of the hostages,” an invitation for open dialogue with the protesters, and a commitment to increase the financial contribution to an emergency fund for Palestinian writers.
An excess of “openness,” the writers insisted in a response, was not their issue with PEN America; rather it was “a series of specific failures to act with urgency and substance in the face of ongoing war crimes, including a failure to use language to name these crimes as such under international humanitarian law.” To uncover what they saw as the bias behind this failure, the writers were calling for “a thorough review and examination of the conduct and performance of PEN America,” on the issue of Israel and Palestine. And they got what they wanted. On April 16, the organization announced to its staff the creation of a working group that would look back at the previous decade of statements on Israel and Palestine, and also make sure there was consistency in PEN America’s public remarks with regards to other conflicts, such as those in Ukraine, Iraq, Afghanistan, Myanmar, and Sudan.
But things continued to get worse. As PEN America geared up to announce the finalists for its awards, a large group of authors declared that they were taking their books out of contention. In a letter last week, Finney Boylan, a writer who became the organization’s president in December, tried to stanch the bleeding, calling Israel’s actions in Gaza an “abomination” (though not a genocide), arguing for the value of “conversation,” and lamenting that “some authors would rather silence themselves than be associated with an organization that defends free speech and dissent.”
Nothing seemed to convince the growing number of protesters. On April 17, those who had boycotted the awards delivered a letter, one which was then endorsed by the original group of writers protesting the festival. This one had none of the conciliatory tone of the original letter. It accused PEN America of propagating “ahistorical, Zionist propaganda under the guise of neutrality,” of “parroting hasbara talking points,” using the Hebrew word for “explanation” that anti-Israel activists associate with Israeli government spin. Nossel in particular was singled out as someone who apparently had “longstanding commitments to Zionism, Islamophobia, and imperial wars in the Middle East.” The letter was nasty, absurd in its histrionics, suggesting essentially that PEN America was in cahoots with the Israeli military. PEN America was guilty of no less than “complicity in normalizing genocide.”
The people at PEN America that I spoke with were left speechless by this letter, but also felt that it confirmed their perceptions of the protesters and their true motives—I understand, for example, why some who read the letter wonder whether the personal animus directed at Nossel is not just because she is the organization’s leader but because she is Jewish. The demand of these writers from the beginning, it now seemed clear, was not about the number of statements PEN America made about Palestinian writers and whether they matched the number made about Ukrainian writers. At question was language. And if PEN America was not willing to use the word genocide, then it existed on the other side of a bright red line, outside the encampment. The breach was complete. The organization now appears broken in ways that seem impossible to imagine repairing.
When I spoke to Nossel last week, before the news about the canceled awards ceremony and festival, she put a brave face on PEN America’s predicament and insisted that she was staying true to the organization’s mission. Nossel is a former State Department official and was the executive director of Amnesty International USA before joining PEN America as its CEO in 2013. “We see ourselves as guardians of open discourse,” she told me. “We really believe that we have to bring about a moment when these conversations can be had, and that, ultimately, the defeat of dialogue and the turning away from dialogue is something dangerous for our democracy. We don’t want to just throw up our hands.” The festival, she said, was supposed to exemplify this philosophy. One of the events now canceled was to be a panel on “The Palestinian Exception to Free Speech,” about threats to those who speak up for Palestinian rights. Recent statements put out by PEN America have criticized the banning of Students for Justice in Palestine on college campuses and the decision by USC to cancel the valedictory speech of a pro-Palestinian student.
The fundamental misperception at the center of this conflict is that PEN America sees itself as a free-speech organization, while the protesters see it as a channel to express their political views. I’ve read some of the letters addressed to PEN America from writers who decided to opt out of the festival—some after first saying they would participate despite the pressure—and there is a clear pattern: Many seemed worried about failing a political litmus test, that they would be throwing in their lot with the normalizers of genocide if they took part in a panel on translation or memoir writing. One letter from a prominent author who had chosen to withdraw mentioned “ongoing harassment.”
PEN America has grown enormously in the past 10 years, from an organization with a budget of $2 million to one with $24 million, and a staff that went from 14 to nearly 100 in that time. It has worked on a wide range of issues, from cataloging book banning to reporting on writers under assault in Latin America. Some of the people I’ve spoken with who have had leadership positions at PEN America have wondered, though, if an outsize focus on threats to free speech from the right has unwittingly contributed to the politicization and the current confusion about what PEN is supposed to be for. One of these PEN America insiders told me that he thought 90 percent of the issues the organization had been campaigning for could be construed as progressive causes.
The group’s free-speech absolutism may have become muddied in the process. “I would say that in the end, if we can get out of this situation,” this same person told me, “if we can find a way to come back to the preservation of the essential mission, which is to stand for free speech and free expression, and the proliferating nature of those demands and those challenges in a 21st century, and not be so exclusively wedded to our fights on behalf of the left, then I think we will have made a real step forward.”
Note that “if.” At the moment, momentum is on the side of the protest, which will claim the cancellation of the festival as a victory. It now seems entirely possible that PEN America may not survive this episode. But I wonder whether these writers really appreciate exactly who will be most hurt if they achieve their goal. How many organizations exist that raise tens of thousands of dollars to support translators and emerging writers? How many festivals bring to the United States creative people from around the world to talk about their art, to debate and discuss the harsh conditions under which they work? How many organizations keep track of imprisoned authors? Does it really make sense to jettison such an entity without first thinking through what its absence would mean, what a world without PEN, without a defense of expression, whatever form it might take, would actually look like?
Or maybe just listen to the voice of a writer like Aatish Taseer who turned to PEN America at a moment of need. The prime minister of India, Narendra Modi, offended by a critical article Taseer wrote in Time magazine, canceled Taseer’s overseas Indian citizenship (a special status accorded to Indians living abroad). This left Taseer “completely bereft,” he told me, unable to return to the country and see his family, including his grandmother before she died. He asked PEN America for help. “They pulled every possible lever they could on my behalf to try and bring attention to my case, and to try to bring about a change in my situation,” he said. “I’m sure that PEN has made missteps, but I would rather be able to influence the organization from within than trying to boycott it or shut it down,” he said. Given how much PEN America has done for him, the disappearance of such an organization, in spite of its imperfections, would be a “terrible loss.”
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Over the past decade, sleep has become better understood as a core part of wellness. But the stressors of modern life mean that Americans are getting less of it.
First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:
In the 1980s, when Rafael Pelayo was a young medical student setting out in the field of sleep research, people thought he was wasting his time. At that point, our culture was not so obsessed with the subject of rest. Now, he told me, people acknowledge that he was onto something—and insomniacs circle him “like sharks to blood” when they hear what he does for a living. Pelayo, a clinical professor at the Stanford Sleep Medicine Center, says that the “tide is changing” in how society values sleep. Over the past decade, how, and how much, we sleep has become a major health and wellness concern.
It’s a subject on Americans’ minds: Late last year, for the first time since Gallup began asking the question in 2001, a majority of surveyed American adults said they would feel better if they slept more; 57 percent of people surveyed said that they need to get more sleep, up from 43 percent in 2013, when the data were last gathered.
People’s self-reported quantities of sleep are also on the decline. Compared with a decade ago, fewer people report getting eight hours or more of sleep, and more people say they get five hours or less. Just 36 percent of women report getting the sleep they need—down from more than half in 2013.
As anyone who has lain awake at night knows, anxiety can affect sleep. That Americans say they are not sleeping as well as they reported in 2013 likely can be blamed in part on the stresses of the pandemic, Brynn K. Dredla, a neurologist and sleep-medicine specialist at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida, told me. “From a survival standpoint, if we’re under stress, our body thinks, Well, I have to be awake to deal with that stress,” she explained. Our brains have trouble distinguishing between acute danger, such as a bear attack, and chronic stress. “For us to sleep, we need to have a physically and psychologically safe environment,” she said. (A cold, dark, quiet room—with Instagram and news apps far away from the bed and the mind—doesn’t hurt either.)
Teenagers aren’t sleeping enough, and they’re experiencing high levels of stress—particularly teen girls. Blaming the ubiquity of the smartphone for bad sleep would be easy, but Pelayo finds that too simplistic—after all, we “had sleep issues way before the phones came out,” he noted. Teens aren’t getting enough sleep, Pelayo argued, in part because school tends to start at such an ungodly hour (he has advocated for later start times, a legislative effort that has gained momentum in states including California and Florida). It doesn’t help that adolescents are generally not great at recognizing when they are sleepy. Teens need a lot of sleep, Dredla explained, and sleep deprivation often makes them frustrated, which in turn “will lead to behaviors that actually can start promoting wakefulness,” such as napping or drinking caffeine. It’s not just teens—anyone can build up “sleep debt” and get into a cycle of sleeping poorly, stimulating themselves to stay awake, having trouble sleeping at night, and doing it all over again.
As sleep has become more central to Americans’ conception of wellness, companies have swooped in to try to package sleep as a luxury good. A cottage industry of products, including specialized pillows, apps, and pills, has sprung up in recent years promising to help people sleep better. Some simple pieces of technology—better mattresses, better cooling systems—have indeed enhanced sleep over the decades. But you don’t necessarily need to buy more stuff in order to sleep better. Savvy marketing makes people think the solution is complex, but at its core, the human body wants to sleep. “You were sleeping in utero,” Pelayo reminded me.
Of course, knowing this is not always enough to help a person struggling to get solid sleep. Pelayo advises that a good step for people having trouble sleeping is to wake up at the same time every morning. Forcing yourself to fall asleep is nearly impossible; if someone offered you $1,000 to fall asleep immediately, it might get even harder. But, he said, you can make yourself wake up consistently.
A good night of sleep consists of four factors, Pelayo explained: amount of sleep, quality of sleep, timing of sleep, and state of mind. That last one is key, he said—if you don’t look forward to going to bed, or if you dread waking up in the morning, you may have a very hard time sleeping. People tend to blame themselves when they don’t sleep well. He suggests that a better route for such people is to try to move past “that self-blame, because it’s not helpful. We want to figure out what’s happening.” It could be that you have a sleep disorder; many women, for example, develop sleep apnea after menopause.
Over the decades, Pelayo has watched sleep wellness become more valued, in parallel to many Americans beginning to internalize the benefits of eating healthy foods. “Waking up tired is like leaving a restaurant hungry,” Pelayo said. Though many Americans seem to feel that way these days, he retains hope. The good news about sleep? Everyone can do it. “It’s a fun gig as a sleep doctor, because most patients get better.”
An appeals court overturned Harvey Weinstein’s sex-crimes conviction in New York, where he has been serving his prison sentence. Since he was also convicted of sex offenses in Los Angeles, in 2022, his release is unlikely.
The Supreme Court heard arguments in Donald Trump’s presidential-immunity case, addressing the question of whether a former president can enjoy immunity from criminal prosecution for conduct related to official acts that took place during their time in office.
The Biden administration finalized a new regulation that would significantly reduce emissions and pollution from coal-fueled power plants by 2032.
Dispatches
Time-Travel Thursdays: For centuries, Jews were accused of preparing their Passover food with Christian blood. Yair Rosenberg investigates the dark legacy and ongoing body count of this ancient anti-Semitic myth.
Illustration by Ben Kothe / The Atlantic. Source: Getty.
Why Your Vet Bill Is So High
By Helaine Olen
In the pandemic winter of 2020, Katie, my family’s 14-year-old miniature poodle, began coughing uncontrollably. After multiple vet visits, and more than $1,000 in bills, a veterinary cardiologist diagnosed her with heart failure. Our girl, a dog I loved so much that I wrote an essay about how I called her my “daughter,” would likely die within nine months.
Katie survived for almost two years … [Her] extended life didn’t come cheap. There were repeated scans, echocardiograms, and blood work, and several trips to veterinary emergency rooms. One drug alone cost $300 a month, and that was after I shopped aggressively for discounts online.
People like me have fueled the growth of what you might call Big Vet. As household pets have risen in status—from mere animals to bona fide family members—so, too, has owners’ willingness to spend money to ensure their well-being. Big-money investors have noticed.
Illustration by The Atlantic. Source: Gary Shteyngart.
Listen. In the latest episode of Radio Atlantic, Gary Shteyngart details his “seven agonizing nights” aboard the Icon of the Seas, the largest cruise ship ever.
Analyze. In Taylor Swift’s “The Albatross”—a bonus track on her new album, The Tortured Poets Department—she identifies with the notorious bird from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem. Why does she see herself that way?
In Las Vegas last Friday, I watched a Godzilla-sized puppy give a tongue bath to some 18,000 people. The visual—accompanied by laughter, slack jaws, and modest plumes of vaporized weed—arrived roughly three hours into a performance by Phish, the storied band, which has now been around for 40 years. At the moment in question, the band was launching into a capella scatting and mouth noising—what fans recognize as a vocal jam. And of course we were at the Sphere, a glorious, $2.3 billion arena that asks and answers the questions: What if the Earth had a moon that was made entirely of screens? And what if we took a spaceship there and grooved on it?
There is a lot to say about the visuals projected onto the walls of this place and its seeming bioluminescence. But trying to describe what happens inside the Sphere when the lights go down has a lot in common with recounting a dream or the play-by-play of a psychedelic experience: It easily veers toward the self-indulgent, tedious, and cliché. How did it feel, man? Honestly, it was tight. Like, really tight. I scrawled some phrases in my notepad as the show was under way:
Like being inside a planetarium while it’s burning
Audience attacked by jazz UFOs
Floating, non-playable Sims characters flopping around the ocean floor
But that’s the obvious stuff. Although Phish was doing a commendable job dazzling our rods and cones with a 366-foot spectacle that the Sphere alone can deliver, they had cracked the code on something much more important: the venue’s sound system, which is equipped with wave-field-synthesis spatial-audio technology. (That’s a fancy way of saying that individual sounds can be projected to pinpointed locations in the room, from any direction.) Night one was a touch sonically disorienting. But by night two, the foursome was in sync with the building itself, energetically bobbing and weaving through orchestrated set pieces and diffuse, bowel-shaking improvisations. (Perhaps my brain’s temporal lobe just needed to acclimate.)
Phish, led by the frontman and guitarist Trey Anastasio, squeezed every drop out of this technology, which meant using the venue’s 1,586 fixed loudspeakers to bounce audio all around the room. What might feel like a gimmick in the hands of most acts hits different for Phish, whose music, as the critic Amanda Petrusich once aptly noted, unfurls “like a drop of food coloring squeezed into a bowl of water.” Anastasio’s lilting arpeggios wound around my head in Section 204 before skittering off toward the rounded heavens of the 400-level; an errant cymbal from the drummer, Jon Fishman, splashed at my left ear and disappeared, replaced by a rich grand-piano chord until, seconds later, a ride cymbal careened into my right ear as the jam reached a crescendo. It was sensory overload—but a good kind. The band, their production-design crew, and the Sphere itself had created a very specific recreational experience, like one of those immersive NASA flight-simulation modules; instead of flying a rocketship, it simulated doing just the right amount of psychoactive drugs during a concert.
Phish’s second night was my third experience inside the Sphere—which is arguably more Sphere consumption in a 12-month period than would be recommended for one’s limbic system. My first excursion, to see U2, stemmed from a deep, almost primal impulse to wash my eyeballs in 16K resolution. I wondered what the Sphere might tell us about screens—not just the 360-foot ones, but also the ones we keep in our pockets. U2 was, to a degree, ancillary to the experience: I wanted LED oblivion, and I got it. This accomplished, I expected never to return. What more could the Sphere offer me?
But I am weak. My Cro-Magnon brain thirsted for another pixel-induced dopamine hit. Plus, maybe I missed something. The Sphere positions itself as the “future of immersive entertainment”; perhaps there will one day be many Spheres dotting the globe. (A Madison Sphere Garden for New York?) Is this place an expensive laboratory to turn middle-aged Phishheads with substantial disposable income into crash-test dummies for this future? Is it just a residency for bands to relive the glory days? What is the Sphere for?
Phish’s four-night run offered hints. During “Wading in the Velvet Sea,” a slow, emotional ballad that kicked off the second night’s encore, the Sphere cycled through and then filled with photos of the band throughout its 40 years—in college; then awkwardly cradling their newborn children, playing to sold-out crowds, goofing off backstage, looking impossibly young; and then, just a touch more like a college-faculty jazz band. Dads who shred. Online, an observer quipped that it was Phish’s “Eras Tour” moment, a reference to Taylor Swift’s pop-culture mega-event. The band played a stacked set list each night, all but guaranteeing that those who came for the entire run would hear most of the band’s most famous songs live. But their stay was limited, ensuring that Phish’s Sphere term couldn’t be categorized as a last waltz, self-elegy, or living-museum situation.
The band appeared to treat it as the opposite: a new artistic frontier. The show’s director, Abigail Rosen Holmes, had worked with the longtime lighting director Chris Kuroda to build out a series of set pieces for the band that would work alongside Phish’s usual process of written songs that evolve into twisty, surprising improvisations. Unlike U2, who played a similar list of songs each night, set to the same visualizations, Phish’s challenge was essentially to get the $2 billion architectural marvel to jam in sync with the band. In interviews, Anastasio described a painstaking process of planning and rehearsal, layering in Easter eggs and brain-melting visuals that might be enough to make a Phish diehard experiencing their 300th show feel like they’re seeing something new.
Judging by the exclamations from two exultant, gyrating 20-somethings in the row in front of me on the first night, I’d argue the band succeeded. After assuring me that he was, in fact, not “tripping balls,” one of the men, who’d spent most of the second set alternating between staring agog at the building’s roof and yelling “YESSSSSSS” to nobody in particular, exclaimed, “This was like the first time again.”
Courtesy of Damon Beres
On night two, I sat in the 300-level, just above Rosen Holmes, Kuroda, and the dozen or so humans staffing various screens and soundboards. Their setup looked like a small mission-control hub preparing to launch a rocket, which, in a manner of speaking, it was. I watched the crew’s shadows from behind all night as they twirled knobs, tweaked sliders, and punched screens, bending this ridiculous building to the whims of the band onstage playing songs, some of which were written in a Vermont dorm room 40 years ago. At the end of the evening, during Anastasio’s dazzlingly complex and orchestrated “You Enjoy Myself,” the notes stopped and the house lights rose. This was the moment when time stood still and a massive dog appeared before us, closed its eyes, and pressed its tongue against the Sphere for a taste of its glorious pixels.
I’m not sure it was meant to be the evening’s revelatory moment, but I found it as such. I don’t know whether the Sphere is the future of live music—it’s very expensive, both to build and attend, and the venue’s path to profitability isn’t clear at all. But I do know this: The Sphere is a mountain, a rentable peak that a rarefied stable of performers can gain access to when they’ve climbed all the others available to them.
That’s a subjective descriptor, of course. A Grammy could be a mountain; so could a run at a venue like Madison Square Garden or Red Rocks, a sold-out tour, a Super Bowl halftime show, or a concept album. Some mountains are bigger than others. A musician friend of mine recently described Taylor Swift’s dominating success as akin to beating a game so thoroughly that she needed to go out and invent her own (thus the Eras Tour).
The Sphere, more than anything else, is a challenge for a specific kind of artist. “I mean, I can’t imagine what Beyoncé could do in a place like this,” Anastasio told CBS News last week. “She should come.” There’s so little overlap between Phish and Beyoncé—musically, stylistically, culturally—that seeing the two in the same sentence is a bit jarring. But both acts do seem to share a similar, relentless creative work ethic. Their mountains may look different, but the performers have things in common: an intense attention to detail and craft, an innate drive to scale and push their art ever upward. (See Beyoncé’s genius, radical 2018 Coachella performance, for example.)
Eventually, every artist runs out of mountains to climb, or—at the very least—needs a little help finding the high-test 92-octane fuel that can successfully power the creative engine that idles in their brain. Enter the Sphere: a mountain with no sharp edges. A garish, glowing Mount Everest in the middle of the desert.
This is Atlantic Intelligence, a limited-run series in which our writers help you wrap your mind around artificial intelligence and a new machine age. Sign up here.
In last week’s newsletter, I described artificial intelligence as data-hungry. But the technology is also quite thirsty, relying on data centers that require not just a tremendous amount of energy, but water to cool themselves with.
Karen Hao, a contributing writer at The Atlantic, recently visited one such data center in Goodyear, Arizona. Microsoft owns the facility, which may eventually use an estimated 56 million gallons of drinking water each year—“equivalent to the amount used by 670 Goodyear families,” Karen notes. No one’s at risk of going thirsty, but as Karen writes, “the supply of water in the region is quite limited, and the more that’s taken up by data centers, the less there is for, say, supplying tap water to new housing.”
I followed up with Karen to ask about AI’s growing demands on our environment. It’s still a matter of debate whether the technology is truly worth its immense costs, even as tech companies commit more and more resources to it. How should we be thinking about all of this? “Companies are laying down data centers faster than ever in the race to build generative AI, but there has been very little accounting of their impacts on the environment,” Karen told me. “There’s a narrowing window in which the public should be asking: Is this what we want? Once the facilities have been built, it will be much more difficult to reverse the decision.”
— Damon Beres, senior editor
Illustration by Erik Carter
AI Is Taking Water From the Desert
By Karen Hao
One scorching day this past September, I made the dangerous decision to try to circumnavigate some data centers. The ones I chose sit between a regional airport and some farm fields in Goodyear, Arizona, half an hour’s drive west of downtown Phoenix. When my Uber pulled up beside the unmarked buildings, the temperature was 97 degrees Fahrenheit. The air crackled with a latent energy, and some kind of pulsating sound was emanating from the electric wires above my head, or maybe from the buildings themselves. With no shelter from the blinding sunlight, I began to lose my sense of what was real.
Microsoft announced its plans for this location, and two others not so far away, back in 2019—a week after the company revealed its initial $1 billion investment in OpenAI, the buzzy start-up that would later release ChatGPT. From that time on, OpenAI began to train its models exclusively on Microsoft’s servers; any query for an OpenAI product would flow through Microsoft’s cloud-computing network, Azure. In part to meet that demand, Microsoft has been adding data centers at a stupendous rate, spending more than $10 billion on cloud-computing capacity in every quarter of late. One semiconductor analyst called this “the largest infrastructure buildout that humanity has ever seen.”
I’d traveled out to Arizona to see it for myself. The Goodyear site stretched along the road farther than my eyes could see. A black fence and tufts of desert plants lined its perimeter. I began to walk its length, clutching my phone and two bottles of water. According to city documents, Microsoft bought 279 acres for this location. For now, the plot holds two finished buildings, thick and squat, with vents and pipes visible along their sides. A third building is under construction, and seven more are on the way. Each will be decked out with rows of servers and computers that must be kept below a certain temperature. The complex has been designated partly for OpenAI’s use, according to a person familiar with the plan. (Both Microsoft and OpenAI declined to comment on this assertion.) And Microsoft plans to absorb its excess heat with a steady flow of air and, as needed, evaporated drinking water. Use of the latter is projected to reach more than 50 million gallons every year.
Would limitlessness make us better writers?: “AI embodies hypotheticals I can only imagine for myself,” Rachel Khong writes. “But I believe human impediments are what lead us to create meaningful art.”
Earlier this week, President Joe Biden signed legislation that could result in a TikTok ban if the app isn’t divested from its Chinese parent company. As Charlie Warzel writes for The Atlantic, this will be a more complicated process than it seems—particularly when it comes to the app’s powerful AI algorithm.
