An Alpine wildflower meadow in the Swiss Alps below the Matterhorn near Zermatt, Switzerland. (Tim Graham via Getty Images)To our veteran subscribers—and to our many newcomers—welcome, again, to The Free Press (formerly Common Sense). We’re excited you’re here. We hope you enjoy the essay below by Amanda Fortini as much as we do. For more, please check out our new website. And thank you so much for making our work possible. — BWIn my early twenties, I attended an art party at a converted warehouse loft in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Among a roomful of scenesters about a decade older than me, I felt unworldly, underdressed, self-conscious, so I went into a bedroom to sit on a pile of coats and think. There, I met a graying man attired as a Wildean dandy—purple coat, lace cuffs—who seemed to have had the same idea as I did. We perched on the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder, and talked. “I like you,” he announced after a while. “You’re the only person at this party who isn’t pushing a concept.” I think of that moment all the time these days, when every person, every story, seems to be pushing a concept of some kind. When…
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Real Life Does Not Fit The Narrative
