Journalism

Like the North Star in the night sky, Queen Elizabeth II was a fixed point, something by which to orient yourself. She was six weeks older than Marilyn Monroe, three years older than Anne Frank, nine years older than Elvis Presley—all figures of the unreachable past. She was older than nylon, Scotch tape, and The Hobbit. (The Atlantic)

In his last days as prime minister of Britain, Boris Johnson conducted a farewell tour of the country. Possibly he expected something like the accolades his beloved Roman generals were given—a small arch in his honor, say—or at least a few angry Gauls walking miserably behind his chariot. Instead he went to a field in southwest England and stared at a hole in the ground. (The Atlantic)

Joan of Arc dared to take on the traditionally masculine role of soldier and commander. In her day, everyone wondered: Was she holy—a saint, a sacred being, a vessel of enlightenment—or merely a woman? Four centuries later, the Globe is asking the same question. (The Atlantic)

Thirty-seven, I decided, was old enough. Even here in Britain, that is an advanced age to begin learning to drive, but somehow, I had never gotten around to it. And so I found myself, one morning last fall, trying to master the exact sequence of foot movements required to hit something called “biting point.” (The Atlantic)

A quick question. If someone is yelling “repent” at you in the street, are they more likely to be (a) a religious preacher or (b) a left-wing activist? (The Atlantic)

This is a long, hot summer in Britain, and 150,000 people are choosing our next prime minister. (The Atlantic)