Without a premature claim to any kind of sagacity—that is, with all due humility, I begin to understand the epigraph to J. Salter’s final novel.

I thought it would be a fun exercise, as a means of assessing this activity over these last few months, to assign Pokemon types to each piece we published.

It can’t all be true, or as bad as they make it. But there’s no plumb, exactly, for these things.

The new issue is hot off the presses. It smells ripe, it wears leather, and it will get angry if you walk behind it.

Such as, I keep misreading these preceding instances of the term “a****-g****” as “agnès-varda.”

Supposing maybe this is all anybody ought to be asking.

It is considered unprofessional. It feels bad. It is a bad look. How is writing supposed to feel, supposed to look?

But we’re ready to set sail for summer, and we hope these pieces, this review-in-review, have persuaded you that we’ll be here again in three months, in a year, in a decade, bailing and assessing the course.