(Source: newyorker.com)
In today’s Daily Comment, Steve Coll looks at the E.U. proposal to cull from the bank accounts of Greek Cypriots: “In its foolishness, the proposal exposed in plain light a strain of ugly discrimination—is it too much to call it racism?—that continues to run through German, Finnish, and other northern-European attitudes toward the Union’s southern debtors.” Continue reading: http://nyr.kr/102lydu
Photograph by Kostas Tsironis/Bloomberg/Getty.

For this week’s issue, Lauren Collins travels to France, where the actor Gérard Depardieu’s decision to become a Russian citizen and escape the Socialist party’s threatened tax increases is causing shock and turmoil: http://nyr.kr/12qc6pd
(Source: newyorker.com)
(Source: newyorker.com)
Landon Nordeman is heading to Europe to cover “Euromania,” a week-long tour of the medieval cities of Romania, culminating in the European Dog Show.
Follow @newyorkermag on Instagram for a week full of dogs, castles, vineyards, and other Transylvanian adventures.
“Asylum doesn’t work.”
Not for Greece, at least. The country has been saddled not only with unmanageable debts, austerity budgets, and German condescension but also with the frontline burdens of a broken European Union asylum and migration regime that combines high ideals with deep denial…
In today’s Daily Comment, Steve Coll looks at ‘The Other Greek Crisis’: asylum seekers in Greece: http://nyr.kr/P1nRbJ
Photograph by Moises Saman/Magnum Photos.
Richard Brody’s DVD of the Week: Ingmar Bergman’s 1953 drama “Summer with Monika”. Watch the clip above, and click-through for more from Brody on the film: http://nyr.kr/NzRi59
The time before that, I was lying in bed and found a lump on my right side, just below my rib cage. It was like a devilled egg tucked beneath my skin. Cancer, I thought. A phone call and twenty minutes later, I was stretched out on the examining table with my shirt raised.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” the doctor said. “A little fatty tumor. Dogs get them all the time.”
I thought of other things dogs have that I don’t want: Dewclaws, for example. Hookworms. “Can I have it removed?”
“I guess you could, but why would you want to?”
He made me feel vain and frivolous for even thinking about it. “You’re right,” I told him. “I’ll just pull my bathing suit up a little higher.”
When I asked if the tumor would get any bigger, the doctor gave it a gentle squeeze. “Bigger? Sure, probably.”
“Will it get a lot bigger?”
“No.”
“Why not?” I asked.
And he said, sounding suddenly weary, “I don’t know. Why don’t trees touch the sky?”