Innholdsfortegnelse for Sep-29-14 i The New Yorker

STOPPING DRUG DEATHS As a doctor, I read with interest Ian Frazier’s piece about the opioid-overdose epidemic (“The Antidote,” September 8th). The antagonist drug he mentions, intranasal naloxone, is available to police, firefighters, and E.M.T.s, but, strangely, it is not readily available to physicians. No pharmacy or medical supplier I contacted carried or could get the intranasal form used in those kits. I would have to be registered as an affiliated provider of an existing overdoseprevention program, or attend a training session given by an E.M.S. I did both, but still was not provided with enough kits to routinely give to patients involved with opioids or to families of at-risk individuals. Frazier makes it clear that overdose deaths usually occur at home or in the company of others; practicing…

From two pieces of string and oil-fattened feathers he made a father.She made a mother from loss buttons and ocean debris. Lacking a grave, they embottled themselvesin a favorite liqueur, the pyx and plethora of clouds— with the heart striped and clear-cut, they rekindled the stars,created a glossary of seeds. Down the fire ladder, rung after fiery rung, they gather, salvage,fiddle about, curse and root, laugh themselves silly, en masse assemble a makeshift holy city. In the holy city,makeshift, they assemble en masse, silly themselves, laugh and root, curse the fiddle, gather salvage rungafter fiery rung as they ladder their fire down. A glossary seeded creates stars, strips clear the diamond-cut heart. They sold clouds, the plethora and pyx of liqueur. Favored themselvesembottled in grave lack, ocean debris, and loss…

You chop an onion, bone a breast, cradlean artichoke’s dense, thorny crown, you plucka chicken, a leaf, an eyebrow peddling luckwith love, you set a table, you seat, you ladleyour soup, you chomp an apple, you agitatethe linens. You agitate for justice. You pieceon chocolate, awaiting calls. You greaseyour skids. You rot. You rule. You fail. You rate.A verb intransitive is a claptrap thing.Dredge it in flour, you might as well. Let tenserun riot. You pinch spent bloom, craving bittersand Pimm’s when you could go a-rummagingthrough chives—those volunteers who in their densetufts at least know how to get together.…